The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(87)

"Please, sir, this is very urgent," Hendricks said in a low voice. "It's about your brother."

"Which one?"

"Sandy."

Mal's heart lurched. This was too much of a coincidence. After a brief glance towards the ambassador, he beckoned the boy inside. The audience were roaring with laughter at a comical fight between Strumbo and his wife; even the ambassador and his guests were paying too much attention to the antics on stage to notice a visitor.

"Is something wrong?" he asked Hendricks, leaning close to make himself heard. "Is he – Is he dead?"

"I– I don't know, sir. I don't think so."

"All right. Tell me everything–" He held up his hand and glanced pointedly at the ambassadorial party. "Tell me in your own tongue. Speak slowly, and use simple words I can understand."

The boy cleared his throat.

"I come from your friend, Ned," he said in Dutch. "Two wicked men found him, said they would hurt him if he did not tell them about you and your brother."

"Ned is hurt?"

"Only a little. But they used him to steal your brother away."

"Steal?" Mal asked. He knew the word well, though he had only heard it used in the context of looting.

"Yes, sir."

Mal made the sign of the cross. Sweet Mother of God, Ned, what have you done?

"When?"

"Yesterday morning."

Whilst we were far away at Nonsuch. Very convenient. But the implications of that line of reasoning did not bear thinking about…

The comic scene ended, and Kiiren looked round at last.

"What is happen? Who is this?"

Mal bowed low, and gestured to Hendricks to do likewise.

"Nothing of import, sir, merely a servant come to ask if we need more refreshments."

He took a shilling from his pocket and gave it to Hendricks.

"Here's for your trouble, lad," he said in a loud voice, then added in an undertone, "Wait for me outside the theatre."

"Thank you, sir," Hendricks replied brightly, though his eyes were filled with concern. Bowing again to the lords and gentlemen, he left the gallery.

Mal spent the rest of the play in an agony of frustration, scarcely able to stay still. The clamour of the crowd was no more than a murmur in his ears, the drama onstage hollow puppetry devoid of meaning. One thought alone raged back and forth in his mind like a wounded bear: the bastards who had done this would suffer, and soon.

Coby didn't sit and wait for the play to end. First she ran to the nearby Mirror and made her excuses to Master Naismith.

"I have a chance to meet the ambassador and find out what he thought of the Admiral's Men," she added, after her initial apologies.

"Not tonight," Master Naismith said. "By skrayling tradition, the judge of a drama contest must withdraw from company after the performance, to meditate upon what he has seen."

"But–" She racked her brains for another excuse. "Master Catlyn has need of me. If I can continue to be of service, I might get to speak to the ambassador tomorrow."

"Very well then. This shabby crew need to practise without their leading strings for a while. Get back to the Rose, but do not stay o'erlong."

She thanked him profusely and ran back to the other theatre. The Rose was situated in the old gardens of the brothel of the same name, which was also owned by Henslowe. Access to the theatre was via an archway piercing the brothel, there being no lanes or alleys interrupting the continuous row of stew-houses on this stretch of Bankside. She could hardly stand around on the street here, lest she be mistaken for either a prospective customer or a male varlet. Instead she took herself along the riverbank to Falcon Stairs, where she could at least feign to be waiting for someone.

As it was, she was propositioned at least thrice before the play ended and the audience began pouring out onto the street. Her disguise might not be a complete defence, but she dreaded to think how much worse it would have been, were she dressed as a girl. No wonder the city fathers forbade women to wear men's clothes; if her sisters knew how much freedom it might win them, none would willingly don skirts again.

Theatregoers swarmed out of the narrow archway like ants from a nest, covering Bankside in a mass of noisy, sweating humanity. Fearing to be lost in the crush, Coby crossed the street and walked back towards the Rose, flattening herself against the buildings as much as possible. Better to be mistaken for a whore than be trampled or cast into the river.

After what felt like an age, the flow of people eased from a torrent to a trickle, and she spotted a coach standing outside the Rose with four mounted skraylings as escort. More skraylings, armed with long staves, issued from the theatre exit, and behind them came the ambassador in his blue robe, with Master Catlyn towering above him.

The swordsman helped the ambassador into the coach, then looked around for Coby. Catching his eye, she hurried over.

"Get in the coach," he said in a low voice.

"Sir?"

"Just do it, will you?"

She did as she was told, cowed by his sudden grim demeanour. His anger was understandable, she told herself, and not directed at her. She knew well that feeling of panic at being separated from one's family.

The ambassador frowned at her as she got in, and looked questioningly at Mal.