The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(88)

"This servant accompanies us?" he asked.

"Forgive the subterfuge, Your Excellency," Master Catlyn said, climbing in after her. "It may be your custom to spend the evening in seclusion, sir, with no talk of the theatre –" Mal glanced meaningfully at Coby "– but I need to confer with my informants if I am to protect you."

The coachman flicked his whip and they rattled off. For a while it was all Coby could do to keep her seat. The little vehicle bounced over the cobbles like a pebble skimmed across a pond; if its purpose was to shake its passengers senseless, it was doing a good job. After a while she began to get the rhythm of the movement, however, and she was able to observe the ambassador more closely.

He was very different from the other skraylings she had seen in London, even allowing for the magnificent robes and lack of tattoos. Most skraylings were polite to the point of coldness; they kept their eyes averted and showed little emotion apart from rare flashes of anger. This one gazed about in open curiosity, and even smiled at her in sympathy when she nearly fell from her seat into the footwell of the coach.

"I am Outspeaker Kiiren," the skrayling said, inclining his head.

"Jacob Hendricks, of Su–" She caught herself, just in time. "Of Berchem, in the Low Countries."

She glanced at Master Catlyn, but he was staring out of the window, a muscle working in his jaw and his left hand clenched white-knuckled over the pommel of his rapier. Her elation at seeing him again was turning to lead in her stomach. She wanted to reassure him that she would do anything to help – but not here. Besides, what could she do that Master Catlyn could not manage himself, and ten times better at that?

For the rest of the journey she diverted Ambassador Kiiren with tales of her homeland. He was particularly interested in the dykes and dams, though she struggled to explain how they worked; she had been too young when her family fled to England.

"There is great city in New World with canals," Kiiren said, "but this holding back of sea is unknown to us. I like to see it one day."

"So would I," Coby replied. All this talk of her homeland had brought back so many memories.

The coach rattled under the gatehouse of the Tower, and a chill of fearful anticipation washed over her, knowing she was now inside the dread fortress where so many good people had been imprisoned and executed. Some bad ones, too, like wicked Queen Anne. No wonder the place was said to be haunted.

They came to a shuddering halt outside a half-timbered building in the outer ward. Coby shook her ringing head, half falling out of the coach behind the ambassador and Master Catlyn. She followed the party up a short dog-leg flight of steps to the building's entrance, uncomfortably aware of the skraylings' curious eyes upon her. She wondered if any of them had seen her at the guild house with Master Naismith and thus suspected her of spying for Suffolk's Men.

Ambassador Kiiren retired to his private apartments for the evening, and the skrayling guards gathered in the dining chamber to await supper. Master Catlyn showed her through a door in the corner into a small octagonal room with walls of bare whitewashed stone. The air was thick with dust motes and smelt faintly of smoke. A charcoal brazier, cold and full of ashes, was the only furnishing.

"Tell me everything you know," he said, closing the door behind him.

She stood in the middle of the room, arms clasped behind her back, and began to relate the morning's events: Master Parrish's insistence on speaking to her, the visit to his lodgings, and Ned's account of the men who had pressed him into the service of an unknown master. When she came to the part about Mistress Faulkner's death, he placed his palms either side of one of the small windows and rested his forehead against the glass.

"And Ned has no idea where they took Sandy?" he asked, his voice cracking on his brother's name.

"None. I'm sorry, sir."

"Will he give himself up?"

She shrugged.

"He is not safe, either way." Master Catlyn pushed himself away from the window and came to stand before her. "There is something more I need you to do."

"Of course, sir." She gazed up into his dark eyes. Anything…

"You know where Seething Lane is, off the near end of Tower Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Run to the house of Sir Francis Walsingham and tell his servants I need to speak to him immediately, here in the Tower."

Coby stared at him. If Master Catlyn was so intimate with the Queen's private secretary, that could only mean one thing. Her mind ran back over everything she had told him in the past few weeks. Had he been spying on Suffolk's Men all along? Was all this somehow connected to the attacks on the theatre?

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Do not fear for your friends. I have no love for Walsingham or his methods."

"But you work for him."

"Yes."

"Can you not go to him yourself, sir? I am sure he will not listen to a mere errand boy."

"I must not leave here, not until something can be arranged."

"I don't understand."

"Someone has taken my brother captive. A man who looks exactly like me. And the ambassador trusts me with his life."

"Oh."

"Quite." He went back to the door. "Wait here for a moment."

He returned a few minutes later with a letter, unaddressed and sealed with a plain blob of wax.