The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(23)

Coby put the cup down and began to pace the floor. Lady Frances could prove a valuable ally, could perhaps even teach her how to behave in a more womanly manner. There was only one thing for it. She would visit Goody Watson on the morrow and buy a gown for herself. No, not tomorrow. She would wait until Mal left for Venice, the better to surprise him on his return.

Sandy slept more soundly that night, knowing both he and Mal were safe from the guisers. In the morning he delayed longer than usual before removing the spirit-guard; he wanted to say farewell to his brother in his right mind, not through the mist of skrayling memories that filled his thoughts during daylight hours.

By the time he had reached this decision, Mal was out of bed and sorting through the chest at its foot.

"What are you doing?" Sandy asked, throwing back the covers.

"What do you think?" Mal pulled out a pile of underlinens and began sorting through them. "Why does the laundress never send stockings back in matching pairs? I swear there's another man out there with an identical set of odd ones."

"There's something we need to talk about."

"Oh?" Mal looked up, then appeared to notice his brother was still wearing the spirit-guard. He closed the lid and came to sit on the bed. "What is it? Nothing's wrong, I hope?"

"No." Sandy shook his head. "At least, not yet."

He tried to find the words. Erishen would be able to explain it better, but Erishen might not put it right.

"It's… this voyage," he said at last. "It's dangerous, isn't it?"

"All sea voyages are dangerous. But yes. I'm going a long way away, to a far-off land where I have few friends."

"So you might not come back. You might… die."

"Yes."

Sandy nodded. "Erishen doesn't like that."

"Well, neither do I."

"You don't understand. Erishen wants to be reborn as a skrayling. He… I am not sure he can do it, if we die apart. If your half of our soul is lost."

"If I die wearing this earring, you mean. My soul bound in iron, like those skraylings we found."

"Yes."

"And if I do not? Will I have to face the devourers?"

Sandy looked away. He had no answer for his brother.

"It seems to me," Mal said slowly, "that Erishen is doomed either way."

"I know," Sandy whispered.

Mal put an arm around his shoulder.

"We are no worse off than we ever were. Far better, in fact. If you had died in Bedlam in shackles, Erishen would have been destroyed for certain. Now, at least he has a chance. And I have no intention of dying in Venice, or anywhere else. Not yet."

Sandy hugged him, blinking back tears. "I believe you, brother."

He reached behind his neck, unfastened the spirit-guard and let it fall into his lap. The world shifted, the ordinary surroundings of the bedchamber now unfamiliar, the man before him too pale of skin and dark of eye.

"Erishen?" Mal said softly.

"Our fate is in your hands, rehi. Do not fail us."

It was a mere four miles from Southwark to Deptford, a pleasant enough walk on a bright spring afternoon. Mal strolled along the Kent Road, eager to be off at last despite his dislike of travelling by sea. Coby walked at his side, uncharacteristically silent, whilst Sandy trailed just behind them, stopping to examine every new sight by the way. Ned and Parrish brought up the rear.
"This reminds me of being on tour with Suffolk's Men," the actor said. "Though 'tis far more pleasant."

"Aye," Coby said, emerging from her reverie. "No heaving the wagon out of potholes every half-mile, nor walking all day only to sleep in a barn at the end of it."

"With Naismith's snoring to keep us all awake. May God rest his soul."

Coby fell silent again. Mal knew the girl blamed herself for Naismith's death, even though it had been the work of anti-skrayling seditionists. He draped a companionable arm around her shoulder. She looked up at him with tired grey eyes and seemed about to say something, but evidently thought better of it.

As they passed Deptford Strand, Ned pointed to a handsome timber-framed house backing onto the river.

"Isn't that where Marlowe was murdered?"

Mal halted, curious. So this was where his fellow intelligencer had met his end. Hardly the low tavern of popular rumour, it looked to be a respectable establishment, a rooming-house or perhaps a private ordinary where a gentleman of modest means could hold a dinner for his friends. Or his enemies.

"Something wrong, sir?" Coby asked as they set off again.

"Just this chill morning air. I've become too used to the warmth of Provence."

Beyond the Strand lay the King's Yard, where the navy berthed its ships. A forest of masts, bare as winter trees or laden with snowy sails, showed above the warehouses and boat-sheds of the dockyard. Mal wondered if the Ark Royal was still there, a sleeping giant waiting out the spring gales before venturing back into the Atlantic. He did not relish the thought of sailing on such a large vessel. Even on his short dock-bound visit with Ambassador Kiiren, the navy's flagship had rolled disconcertingly in the river swell. He didn't like to think of what it would be like at sea.

The Falcon rode at anchor in the mouth of Deptford Creek, a short way further downriver. The galleon was not so large as the Ark Royal, but its clean lines spoke of greater speed and manoeuvrability. Mal counted eight gun ports along the near side, in addition to the smaller swivel-guns on poop deck and fo'c's'le. Creamy white sails flapped lazily in the rising wind, ropes rattling against the canvas.