The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(9)

The western gatehouse provided accommodation for patients whose families were willing to spend a little extra on their keep. Like the eastern gatehouse it had rooms on the ground floor which opened into the gateway itself, and several chambers above. Originally interconnecting, these had been subdivided to create a corridor with locked doors to either side and a narrow window at each end. The lodgings were a little more comfortable than the main ward where the meaner inmates were kept, but it was a melancholy place nonetheless.

After a few moments Mal's eyes adjusted to the gloom and he spotted a woman of middle years coming out of one of the rooms, accompanied by a pale-faced girl of about fourteen. Their aprons were smeared with filth, and the girl carried a brimming chamber-pot.

"Mistress Cooke?" he called out. "I'm here to see my brother."

"O' course, sir." She fumbled through the bunch of keys hanging from her belt. "I was just in there a few minutes ago, happily for you. All cleaned up, he is, sir."

The chamber was about the size of the one in which Mal had been shut up at the Tower, though without the luxury of a fireplace or glazed windows. The only furnishings were a narrow cot bed against one wooden side-wall and a rickety table bearing a small pile of books. The rushes on the floor had long since been trampled into a layer of matted filth that stuck to the soles of Mal's boots.

"Sandy?"

The pale figure curled up on the cot bed did not move.

"Sandy, it's me, Mal."

He went over to the bed. Mistress Cooke's idea of "clean" was a sweat-soaked shirt which clearly had not been changed in days, and the same breeches her patient was wearing last time Mal visited. Sandy's feet were bare and filthy, the toenails grown long, and his black shoulder-length hair was matted into elf-locks. Well, all of that could be remedied, at least. Having expected no better treatment in his absence, Mal had brought some of his own spare clothes and shoes this time.

"Bring me hot water and towels," he told Mistress Cooke. "And a pair of shears."

The matron looked offended but eventually complied. Neither the towels nor the water turned out to be particularly clean.

"Before you go," he said, "I would also like the keys to my brother's shackles. I cannot change his clothing as he is."

"Oh, you mustn't unchain him, sir. Master Charles was quite insistent about that."

"Charles gave him into my care. I pay the bills now, I will do with him as I see fit. And you will give me the keys."

Grumbling, Mistress Cooke removed a small iron key from the ring and handed it over.

"On yer own head be it, sir," she said and hurried out, locking the door behind her.

"Sandy?" Mal put the bucket of water down by the bed. "Sandy? They've gone now."

"I'm not here," Sandy whispered. "You can't see me."

He was right, then. The warders had been allowing paying customers in here.

"It's all right, Sandy," he said, "there's no one here but me. It's Mal, your brother."

"Brother?" Sandy sat up suddenly. The chains joining the iron manacles slithered into his lap.

"Yes, your brother, Mal."

He took up the shears and began trimming his brother's hair and beard, taking care to keep the blades well away from Sandy's eyes. One sudden seizure and… He drew a deep breath and forced himself to continue. At last it was done. He ruffled Sandy's hair, sending a last few severed curls tumbling into the rushes.

"There, now you look yourself again."

Sandy smiled back, his features a gaunt mirror-image of Mal's own. Same black hair, same straight nose and narrow jaw, same dark eyes – no, not the same. Not any more. It was as if a stranger looked out at him, a stranger who wore his twin's shape like an ill-fitting suit of clothes. But if he were possessed, it was by no demon any priest had been able to drive out.

Mal unlocked the shackles around Sandy's wrists and ankles, wincing at the sight of the chafed and blistered flesh. He bound the wounds with clean bandages then set about stripping off his brother's filthy clothes. Sandy began to shiver.

"Come on, you big baby, it's not that cold," Mal said with a smile, and dipped a bit of flannel into the tepid water.

"My brother is coming," Sandy moaned, staring past Mal and pointing. "He is coming for me."

"Yes, I'm coming for you soon, to take you away from here." He took the thin, cold hand in his own. "But there's something I have to do first. A job."

"I was all alone." Sandy's eyes focused on him at last. "You're not him. I see him in my dreams. Old, so old…"

"Father?" Their father was dead. If he were still alive, none of them would be in this mess.

"No. I told you." Sandy pulled his hand away. "My brother."

Mal frowned. Their elder half-brother Charles had been no more than thirty when they last saw him. Sandy must be thinking back to his childhood.

"Charlie's gone, Sandy, he left us here in London." You in this hell-hole and me in whatever job will earn me enough to keep you from dying in here. "He's not coming back."

"Not coming back?"

"No. There's just me now."

He helped Sandy dress, then gently replaced the shackles. Sandy whimpered as the metal closed around his limbs and Mal feared he would struggle, but after a moment Sandy fell silent and lay down on the bed once more.