The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(13)

Sandy pulled a face. "They have requested Kiiren's services as outspeaker, so they can mount another expedition."

"But he isn't a member of their clan."

"No," Sandy said, "but as an outspeaker, it is his duty to–"

"–to be a 'vessel for words, nothing more'," Mal said. "Yes, I remember."

"So what do we do?" Coby asked.

"We tell Walsingham and let the Privy Council decide," Mal said. "We are intelligencers, not politicians. Like Kiiren, we are simply vessels for words."

CHAPTER IV

Ned stirred the pottage again and lifted the ladle, blowing away the wisps of steam that rose from the surface. After a moment he took a cautious sip and grimaced. Too much rosemary, his mother would have said, but at least it gave the thin broth some flavour. He put the ladle down and set about laying the table. Gabe would be back from Shoreditch soon, and he was always ravenous after a day's work. Ned smiled to himself. They'd settled into quite the domestic routine in the last two years, like an old married couple. It was a reassuring counterpoint to their other, secret lives, as informants in the pay of Sir Francis Walsingham.

Footsteps sounded on the garden path and Ned looked up, expecting the door to be flung open by a bright-eyed but weary Gabriel. Instead the owner of the footsteps halted and knocked, in a pattern he had not heard in many months. He all but ran to the door.

"Mal!"

His old friend grinned back at him, then engulfed him in a rib-crushing, horse-stinking embrace. Memories stirred, and old desires with them, but Ned pushed the thoughts aside. Their lives had gone separate ways long ago.

"God's blood, it's good to see you again," he said when Mal finally released him. "What are you doing back in England, anyway?"

"Someone's got to keep an eye on you. Sandy, you remember Ned, don't you?"

"Ned Faulkner. Good to see you again."

Mal's brother bowed in that stiff way the skraylings had. Still as mad as a March hare, then, but not by the looks of it in a vengeful mood. And at least he was speaking English again.

"And my servant, Coby Hendricks." Mal gestured to the slender figure at his side. The boy had grown, but was still as beardless as a eunuch. Perhaps he was a eunuch. That would explain a lot.

"How could I forget?" Ned replied. "Well met, Master Hendricks. So, how long are you here for?"

"Not long." Mal took a coin out of his purse and tossed it towards Hendricks, who caught it with practised ease. "I don't suppose Ned here made soup enough for five. Get a pie from Molly's ordinary; I doubt she'll have any meat this time of year, but ask anyway. And don't eat it all on the way back, hollow-legs."

The boy grinned, sketched a bow to his master and left.

"So…" Mal swung one long leg over the kitchen bench and sat down near the fire, "what's the latest news from London?"

Ned stood with his back to the hearth, hands clasped in the small of his back like a boy reciting his lessons.

"Frobisher's dead; caught a bullet besieging some Spanish fort in the Netherlands. They brought him home, but he died in Southampton."

Mal nodded.

"You knew him?" Ned asked.

"Only by reputation. Go on."

"Some Jesuit fellow, Southwell, was arrested late last year." Ned watched his friend for a reaction, but saw nothing suspicious. Not that he was about to betray Mal's Catholic sympathies to Walsingham, but it never hurt to keep your eyes open. "Been in the Tower since then, under Topcliffe's tender care–"

"He confessed," Mal said with a grimace.

"What do you think? Anyway, he's up for trial next week. Sentence is a foregone conclusion, of course."

"Of course. Anything else?"

"Just the usual: another half-arsed plot on Her Majesty's life, thwarted by her loyal servants…" He tried not to look smug; somewhat unsuccessfully, it would appear. "Oh, and–" He glanced at Sandy. "Your skrayling friends have been quieter even than usual."

Mal leaned closer. "Has there been trouble?"

"No, not that. But they're seldom seen on the streets or at the theatre. They come out of their camp to do business, and go back again as soon as it's over." He cocked his head. "You're not surprised."

"It's all of a piece with my own news–"

The back door flew open, bringing a gust of icy air that sent sparks flying up from the fire, and Gabriel strode into the kitchen. The actor's thin cheeks were flushed with the cold and his cloak dripped half-melted snow into the rushes; he removed it in a swirl of forest-green wool and hung it on a peg by the door before turning to greet their guests.

"Catlyn!" Gabriel embraced Mal, and then his brother. "Good to see you both again."

Ned went to shut the door, only to have it pushed open again by Hendricks. The boy muttered an apology and stamped his boots on the threshold. Crossing to the table he took a small pie from under his cloak and set it down.

"Salt cod and onion, sir," he said. "It was the biggest I could get for the money, I'm afraid. Molly says it was such a bad harvest, flour is nearly twice the price it was last year."

Mal looked at Ned for confirmation, and he nodded glumly.