The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(11)

"Sandy. Short for Alexander. I will remember."

Kiiren squatted in front of the chest and lifted the lid. For a moment he just crouched there, his hands grasping the front of the wooden box tightly, then he moved a pile of linens aside and pulled out a string of silver ingots. They rang like festival chimes, a cheery sound at odds with Kiiren's solemn mood.

"You can exchange these for English coins at the guildhouse," Kiiren said, handing them over.

Erishen looped the cord over his head and tucked the ingots inside his doublet.

"You will also need to cut these." Kiiren reached up and touched his braids. "Sit down, I will see to it."

Erishen knelt on a mat whilst Kiiren fetched an obsidian blade from the chest. Skraylings had little need of razors, since they grew no facial hair, but their healers had many uses for the slivers of black stone and Kiiren had been obliged to trade for one after he complained once too often about Erishen's beard. Erishen winced at the tearing sound as each braid was severed. It felt like Kiiren was cutting them close to the scalp; he would be as crop-headed as a girl at this rate.

At last it was done, and Kiiren put the severed locks aside.

"Will you burn them?" Erishen asked, running his fingers through his shorn locks. He felt naked with his head so bare.

"I thought I might make a keepsake from them, as humans do," Kiiren said softly. He went back to the chest and took out a small leather pouch decorated with tiny white shell beads. "Take this also."

Erishen took the pouch from him, loosened the neckstrings and peered at the contents. His eyebrows rose.

"Use it only at need," Kiiren said. "I had hoped to keep you here until all danger was past, but–"

"You think Jathekkil was not working alone?"

"I think it is best not to make assumptions."

"Thank you, amayi." Erishen pocketed the pouch.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, then Erishen held out his arms and enfolded the skrayling in a gentle embrace. This was not the first time they had been parted, nor would it be the last. He laid his cheek against Kiiren's hair, which was nearly as short as his own.

"You're leaving the island too," he murmured.

Kiiren shifted in his arms and looked up. In the dim light of the tent, his eyes were like a hunting cat's: pupils round and black as obsidian spheres, irises topaz-dark. "How did you know? Did you spy on the qoheetanishet?"

"No," he said with a smile, "but you would not give me up so readily unless you had plans that did not include me."

Kiiren looked abashed. Erishen bent to kiss his brow. Dear, innocent boy. It is always so easy to get the truth out of you.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked, letting a plaintive note creep into his voice.

"All summer, perhaps."

"You are going home?"

"No, not so far." Kiiren stood on tiptoe and whispered a name in Erishen's ear.

"I do not know the place."

"No, but your brother does."

Erishen grinned at him. Perhaps his amayi was not so innocent after all.

England was still in the grip of winter when they arrived in Southampton. Mal, never the best of seafarers, hired horses for an overland journey to London rather than spend another day on a cramped and freezing ship. At Coby's insistence he bought a cloak for Sandy and riding gloves and woollen caps for them all in Southampton before they set off, and was vastly grateful for them himself before they were halfway to Winchester. Even at noon, patches of hoar-frost lingered in the shade, and the horses' breath steamed in the still air.

They spent their first night at the Dragon in Petersfield, after a gruelling day's ride along roads slick with ice-puddles. In the inn yard Mal dismounted stiffly then held the reins of Sandy's horse, ready to catch his brother if he fell.

"I was riding horses long ere you were born," Sandy muttered. "Though this body is out of practice, I confess."

"Hush!" Mal stepped closer. "Do not let anyone hear you talk like that. Or do you wish to be locked up in Bedlam again?"

Sandy narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Mal suppressed the urge to cross himself. Back on Sark he had begun to hope that Kiiren was wrong and Sandy was cured after all, but this was almost worse than the raving. At least in Bedlam he had been his old self between attacks. This Erishen was a stranger in his brother's skin.

When they entered the inn, the locals stared and muttered into their ale. Mal hoped it was only surprise at seeing identical twins, and not darker suspicions. Both he and Sandy favoured their French mother too well in their looks: an advantage for an English spy in France, a liability here in England.

Mal paid for a private room on the upper floor, big enough for the three of them. There was one large bedstead and a servant's palliasse, a wash-stand with a cracked basin, and a couple of pisspots.

"Not exactly the best welcome back to England," Mal said.

"We've stayed in worse," Coby said, peeling back the bedsheets. "That inn outside Paris, for one."

"Don't remind me. I think I was picking lice out of my breeches for a week."

He threw his saddlebags down and sat on the edge of the bed to let Coby pull his boots off. She wrinkled her nose at the state of his stockings.

"I'll go and ask for hot water to be sent up, shall I, sir?" she asked, setting the boots to the floor.