The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(97)

Mal frowned. He knew feelings against aliens in the city sometimes ran high, but having avoided the skraylings as much as he could, he had seldom witnessed it at first hand.

"You've had problems at the theatre?" Mal asked.

"Nothing serious," Naismith said. "One troublemaker who was dismissed as soon as he was found out. My other men are trustworthy, I can assure you, sir."

Mal nodded. "I fear the general populace are not."

"All too true, alas."

"I therefore think it unwise to put the ambassador within easy reach of anyone with a grudge against the skraylings."

Naismith sighed. "You wish us to perform at one of the royal palaces," he said.

"No."

"Oh?"

"I do not want any… conspirators to feel they have the better of us," Mal said. "The play will still be put on at the Mirror, but with utmost care for the ambassador's safety."

The actor-manager looked relieved, and patted his ledger absentmindedly. "Of course, we will do whatever is necessary."

"Can you show me around the theatre this afternoon?"

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

At that moment a bell rang, and Naismith got to his feet.

"That will be dinner," he said. "Please, come this way."

He led Mal into the front room of the house, a small diningparlour with smoke-darkened panelling. A worn oak table took up most of the space, with a chair at the head and benches either side. Hendricks, who had been standing behind the nearer bench with head bowed, turned and looked up as they entered, and gave Mal an almost imperceptible nod. So, the hearing was over already.

"Please." Naismith gestured to the place at his right hand, opposite Hendricks.

A few moments later Mistress Naismith joined them, and Betsy brought in a large pie with steam rising from the slashes in the pastry. A fishy aroma filled the parlour.

"Eel pie," Naismith said with a broad smile, and tapped the side of his nose. "My wife's mother's secret recipe."

They said grace and sat down to eat. After serving the pie, Mistress Naismith kept up a steady stream of small talk whilst they ate. In the course of the next half-hour, Mal learnt far more than he ever wanted to know about the comings and goings on Thames Street.

"Are you not hungry, Master Catlyn?" she asked as she refilled her husband's goblet. "You've hardly touched your pie."

"It is delicious, truly, fit for the ambassador's table. My thoughts were… elsewhere."

"Ah, what it is to be young and in love," she replied.

"Sorry?"

"When a young man is so distracted, there can be but one cause. A girl."

Hendricks' knife skidded on his plate, making a hideous screeching noise and splashing gravy across the table.

"Where are your manners, boy?" Naismith barked, leaning across and giving him a clip around the ear.

Hendricks flushed scarlet and muttered an apology. The rest of the meal passed in near-silence, and though Mal tried once or twice to catch Hendricks' eye, the boy remained intent on his own dinner. In any case, an open discussion of the morning's events would have to wait until Mal could catch him alone.

After the plates were cleared away and Mistress Naismith had taken her leave of them, Naismith pushed back his chair and belched contentedly.

"A fine wife, that," he said. "Very fine."

Mal murmured an acknowledgment. The pie had been very good, though it might as well have been bread and water for all that he could taste it in his present mood.

"God a' mercy." Naismith belched again. "Alas, I cannot walk all the way to Bankside in this heat. Hendricks, be a good lad and take Master Catlyn to look about the theatre."

"Yes, sir."

He flashed Mal a grin that went unnoticed by his master. They made their farewells and set off towards London Bridge.

"How did it go?" Mal said at last.

"Master Faulkner was freed on bail." Hendricks described the hearing in brief. "Do you think," he added in a low voice, "Kemp will take the bait, sir?"

"We can but hope," Mal replied.

They walked on in silence, Mal running over the few known facts for the thousandth time and wishing they would miraculously fall into a pattern, like a winning hand of cards. They did not. He let out an involuntary grunt of frustration.

"Sir?"

"Nothing," Mal replied.

The city drowsed in the midday heat, its air heavy with the stink of sweating humanity and their refuse. A few citizens made their way listlessly across London Bridge: porters pushing handcarts laden with goods, bored matrons drifting from shop to shop with even more bored maidservants in tow. In a narrow gap between the buildings that lined the bridge, a cloud of blowflies buzzed around a beggar who might have been dead or merely asleep, though either way he would not be allowed to remain there long.

Mal hoped they would not bump into Ned in Southwark, though no doubt he was lying low with Parrish. Tomorrow, when the actor would perforce be at the theatre – that was when Kemp would strike, if he had any wits. And there was nothing Mal could do about it.

They arrived at the theatre at last, and Hendricks led the way around to the back door.

"This will have to be locked during the performance," Mal said, eyeing the door. "We want no one creeping in unnoticed."