The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(20)

"I suppose we'll be sharing, then," Ned said cheerily, leaning on a bedpost. "There's scarce room to use a pisspot, never mind set out a cot bed."

Mal grunted an affirmative, stifling a belch. Raleigh's supper had been so generous, it was easy to forget there were food shortages back in London.

"Just like the old days," Ned went on. He pulled off his boots and threw himself down on the bed. "If only my old mam could see me now, sleeping on a feather bed in a royal palace…"

"Ahem."

"What?"

"You're supposed to be my manservant, remember?"

Ned stuck out his tongue.

"In public, perhaps." He propped himself up on one elbow and looked Mal up and down appreciatively. "Or would you like me to undress you… my lord?"

Mal gave him a withering look, turned his back and began unbuttoning his doublet.

"Did you discover aught useful?" he called over his shoulder.

"Not much. Plenty of gossip about Lady Dorothy; she and Northumberland do not get along, and there's some doubt as to whether they've even consummated the marriage yet."

"Servants' tittle-tattle, and naught to our purpose," Mal replied. "Go on."

Ned listed a few more rumours, none of them of any great interest. Mal finished undressing and crossed to the tiny washstand, where a number of toothsticks stood in a pewter beaker. He picked through them, looking for the least well-used one.

"Is that all?" he said, when Ned fell silent.

"Just one thing. Though it's probably nothing."

Mal turned back to the bed, toothsticks forgotten.

"Tell me."

"Walsingham's dying–"

"I know that already," Mal said, getting into bed. "Tell me something I don't know."

"So guess who's courting his daughter in secret."

"Who?"

"Blaise Grey. Duke of Suffolk, as he is now."

"What?" Mal stared at him. "But if Grey marries Lady Frances–"

"She'll be a duchess. It's a good match for her, especially as she's older than him."

"Is that all you can think about? If Grey marries her, he'll have access to all Walsingham's papers. He'll find out everything. The intelligence network, the ciphers… all our secret dealings, here and in France."

"It's only a rumour."

Mal stared up at the carved canopy. This was all he needed. Bad enough to lose his mentor, but to have his affairs put into the hands of the man who had tortured him and Sandy… and now he would be leaving England in two days, not to return for months. He muttered a string of curses, then blew out the candle and lay down with a sigh. There would be no sleep for him this night.

Walsingham kept asking him the same questions over and over. Why wouldn't he stop? He should know by now that Mal didn't have the answers. The questions didn't make sense anyway. Mal looked up, squinting; his eyes refused to focus, as if they did not want to see. No, not Walsingham. It was Grey in the spymaster's black robe and skullcap.

"I'm afraid this may be a little painful," Grey said, holding up an obsidian blade.

"No!"

He blinked, and his interrogator's features changed again, to the sallow complexion and hooded eyes of Josceline Percy.

"So what are you doing here?" Percy drawled. He gestured around them, and Mal realised they were no longer in Walsingham's study. They stood on a rutted track, hemmed in by drystone walls. Night was falling, or so Mal thought at first.

"What were you doing here, Erishen?" a voice whispered in his ear. "What did you find out?"

He spun around but there was no one there. The walls were gone too, leaving him exposed in a vast expanse of dark grass. Overhead the sky swirled in hues of pewter and lead as if a storm were brewing. This was not a dream any longer – or at least, not just a dream. This was the night realm of the skraylings, an almost-place beyond the waking world. When he had been here before, it had always been at the instigation of Kiiren or Erishen, but who was it this time?

Jathekkil.

He dared not say the name aloud, but even the thought of it sent ripples across the dreamscape.

"Not he," the whisper came again. "Did you think my amayi was alone?"

"Who are you?"

His invisible tormentor only laughed.

Ned woke with a cry as something hit him in the face. Mal's arm. He scrambled out of the way as his bedfellow thrashed in his sleep. The moon, not long past its full, streamed in through the narrow window to reveal Mal's twisted features.

"Who are you?"

The cry was loud enough to wake the household. Ned launched himself across the bed and clamped a hand over Mal's mouth. Mal struggled for a moment, then his eyes snapped open.

"Hush!" Ned tightened his grip as Mal writhed underneath him. The movement made him suddenly, inappropriately aware that only a layer of sweat-soaked linen separated their flesh, and he eased backwards a little. Now was not the time. "You were having a nightmare."

Mal nodded, and Ned cautiously removed his hand.

"Guisers," Mal hissed. "Here."

He looked around wildly, as if expecting to see them lurking in the shadows.