The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(86)

This second prologue was followed by the invasion of England by Scythians and then a comic interlude in which the cobbler, Strumbo, was pressed into military service by a captain of Brutus' army. It reminded Mal uncomfortably of his own situation; indeed this whole play made him uneasy. Surely a story of invasion and war was not a happy choice for a diplomatic visit?

Judging by the expression on Kiiren's face, he was indeed somewhat perplexed by the play. He frequently turned to his guests with questions, and Lord Brooke was eager to be of service in showing off his broad knowledge of history and mythology, which was perhaps the reason Effingham had invited him. Mal wondered what had moved the admiral to patronise a theatre company in the first place, as he seemed to have little interest in the dramatic arts. Simple ambition perhaps? Queen Elizabeth had been very fond of plays before her husband's death drove her into seclusion.

After a particularly long explanation of the geography of England and its relation to the homelands of the Trojans and Scythians, Lord Brooke fell to coughing, and a servant pressed a goblet of wine into his trembling hands.

"You should not have come out in this inclement weather, Brooke," Effingham said.

"It is a mild ague, nothing more," Lord Brooke wheezed. He took out a small bottle and tipped some of the contents into his wine.

Kiiren held out his hand, and the bemused Brooke passed him the bottle.

"Don't taste it, it could be poison!" Mal cried.

Everyone stared at him. Effingham sprang to his feet.

"Are you accusing my guest of trying to kill the ambassador?" The admiral's weather-beaten features were flushed with rage.

On stage, the actors fell silent, and everyone turned to stare at the lords' gallery.

"No, my lord." Mal fell to one knee and bowed his head, cursing inwardly.

"Please forgive our man Catlyn," Kiiren said, bowing low to the admiral and his party. "It is my error, being curious."

"Apology accepted, of course, Your Excellency."

Effingham sat down again, gesturing for the play to continue. Mal felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up. Kiiren motioned for him to return to his position on guard.

"This medicine, Lord Brooke," the ambassador said, "you take it often?"

"Whenever the ague returns," Brooke said, and drank his wine down in one draught. "Bought it from an apothecary in Venice. Very learned folk, the Turks, for all their barbarity. Why, think you can do better?"

Effingham turned pale, and an awkward silence descended on the party.

"I commend your apothecary," Kiiren said. "We did not know trade in our herbs had spread so far, or their virtues had such renown."

Lord Brooke muttered something under his breath. Effingham burst into laughter.

"Hoist with your own petard, Brooke," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That'll teach you to try to best the skraylings at their own game!"

At that moment, thunder rumbled and the goddess Ate reappeared to narrate the prologue to Act Three. Mal took advantage of the distraction to retreat to his lookout post at the far end of the gallery. What had he been thinking? That Brooke would risk poisoning himself on the minuscule chance the ambassador would take an interest in his medicine? Leland had been right. He should think less and apply himself to the job he was hired to do.

After about an hour, the theatre door opened and several serving men left, complaining loudly about the crush within. Coby watched them from her vantage point across the lane.

"Run out of beer already?" the doorman asked them as they trooped away.

"Aye. And that skrayling brew as well."

"Better get plenty more, then," he shouted after them. "There's nigh on three thousand thirsty folk in there. The more you sell, the happier old Henslowe will be."

Coby leapt up. This was her chance. She strolled away down the lane, but as soon as she was out of sight of the theatre doors she backtracked towards a nearby inn which she knew belonged to Henslowe. Sure enough, the serving men were there, knocking back pints of ale to quench their own thirst before getting back to work.

"Master Henslowe told me you needed more help supplying the theatre crowds," she said to the innkeeper. "He promised me sixpence."

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" The man squinted at her in suspicion.

"I'm a friend of Ned Faulkner, Henslowe's copyist."

The innkeeper laughed, showing several missing teeth.

"Good luck to you, then, lad," he said. "Faulkner's lackey or no, that'll be the hardest sixpence you earn all year."

When the men from the theatre had finished their break, Coby lined up with them outside the brewhouse door. Someone passed her a crate of beer, which she balanced on one shoulder. With a bit of luck, she could walk straight in past the doormen and they would never see her face.

Leaning against the pillar at the end of the gallery, Mal felt rather than heard a knock on the connecting door. He opened it a crack.

"Master Catlyn?"

"Hendricks!" he said, breaking into a smile at the sight of a familiar face. "What brings you here?"

The boy looked graver than usual, and he glanced warily around.

"There is something I must tell you, sir, in private."

"Then it must wait," Mal replied. "We cannot speak privily here. I am on duty."