The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(98)

"Of course, sir."

They went through the tiring room, now made ready for the performance tomorrow. Trestle tables had been set out under the back window with wig stands and hand mirrors ready for the actors to apply their makeup, and some of the props and less-valuable items of costume hung from pegs on either wall. They walked out onto the stage and Mal surveyed the galleries. After a moment's consideration he vaulted down into the yard, took the stairs two at a time and went along the lower gallery to the lords' room.

It was much like the Rose, with a simple latched door between it and the rest of the gallery. Even if that were bolted, someone could lean or climb around the dividing wall, or simply take a shot from the yard. Not protection enough, not by a long way.

He glanced over at the minstrels' gallery above the stage. The central section was some four or five yards from the main galleries on each side, and cut off from them by solid walls of wattle and daub. Enough to deter or delay an assault, at least in public.

"How do you get up there?" he shouted down to Hendricks.

The boy beckoned him back to the stage, and led him through the tiring room to a stair leading upwards.

"This was where you were sleeping when Wheeler came in," Mal said, as they emerged into the office.

"Yes, sir. Through here is the gallery."

He opened a pair of folding doors, and Mal walked out onto the narrow space overlooking the stage. It was common enough for the richest patrons to buy seats up here, where they could be seen by all, but the ambassador had insisted he should have the same view as the rest of the audience. This time Mal would overrule him. More than one life was at stake now.

As they walked back through the box-office, he noticed the two practice staves propped up in a corner. Perhaps there was another way to work off his anxiety.

"Care for a fight, Hendricks?"

? ? ? ?

They sparred on the stage, and for a while it was as if the last few weeks had never happened. Coby realised how much she had missed their time together, back when there was nothing more urgent to think about than the next fighting move.

"You have not forgotten your lessons, then," Master Catlyn said when they stopped for breath.

"No, sir. I've practised them alone, and run through them in my head when I could not practise." And imagined much more. If she were not already red-faced from the exertion, she would surely be blushing now.

"Very good," he said, leaning back against one of the pillars and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "Any more of that beer?"

"Sorry, sir," she replied. "I think Master Rudd took the last of it home with him, and the supplies for the audience won't be delivered until tomorrow."

He grimaced at the news and pushed himself upright in one fluid movement. A ray of sunlight flashed on the silver pommel of his dagger, bright against the black livery.

"Sir?"

"Mmm?"

"I'd like to learn how to fight with one of those," she said, pointing to the dagger.

Master Catlyn blinked against the bright light. "Why? I warned you, did I not, that the best thing to do in a knife fight is run away?"

"I know, sir, but–" she looked around the empty theatre "– we are up against desperate men. Men who nearly killed Master Faulkner, and might try to kill anyone else who stands in their way."

"All the more reason to run."

"And what if I cannot?"

"All right," he sighed.

She stared at him. "You aren't going to try to dissuade me?"

"You've made up your mind. Now you get to live with your decision." He gestured to the knife on her belt. "Hand it over."

It was an ordinary ballock knife, a nine-inch single-edged blade, suitable for use at table as well as in a fight. He examined it carefully, then handed it back. The familiar tool felt strange in her hand, a friend turned foe.

Master Catlyn smiled thinly. "Changed your mind yet?"

"No."

"All right then." He drew his own dagger, then to her surprise laid it on the floor at the foot of the pillar. "Come at me."

"Sir?"

"Do it."

She advanced, blade held overhand at chest height.

"Level with the floor, dammit," Master Catlyn growled. "Elbow out. You want to gut your enemy, not yourself!"

She adjusted her stance. The knife was heavy in her hand, its wooden grip slick with sweat. She struck, but in an instant he caught her right wrist in a reverse grip, grasped her elbow with his other hand and twisted her arm behind her back.

They repeated the move several times, and each time he disarmed her. On the final pass, he kept the knife.

"Right, now you try."

She took a deep breath and held her ground, letting him advance. She went for his wrist but her arms were too short, the blade came too close to her body and she faltered.

"Again. This is a fight, not a courtly dance."

They tried again, but her right arm ached from being twisted behind her back and her movements were too slow.

"Again."

On the third attempt she managed to grab his wrist and tried to twist his arm, but he was far too strong for her. Eyes locked, they contended for the knife for several heartbeats before he glanced sideways. Without thinking she followed his gaze. Almost casually he twisted his arm from her grasp, leaving her off-balance. She stumbled against him, and hot pain bloomed across her belly.