The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(26)

The prince strode through the crowd, face dark as a thundercloud. Petitioners clutched their papers to their chests as he passed, but even the most desperate had more sense than to importune his future monarch in such a mood. A few moments later the councillors emerged from the chamber in twos and threes. Coby recognised the Earl of Essex, and that short, almost hunchbacked figure with him must be Robert Cecil, the Queen's private secretary. Unlike the rest of the council, the two men looked rather pleased.

The crowd began to disperse, some trailing after the Privy Councillors, the rest resuming whatever business had been interrupted by the prince's passage. As Coby stepped down from her vantage point, she saw an all-too-familiar figure leaving the council chamber.

Blaise Grey was a good four inches taller even than Mal, though he stooped a little these days, leaning on a silvertopped cane that rapped on the tiles in counterpoint to his footsteps. He resembled his father more than ever, though his curly hair was a lighter shade of honey brown. Coby froze. Last time she had brought news to Grey, he had struck her and then apologised for his burst of temper. A man of such mercurial, choleric humour as Grey needed treating with caution.

"Catlyn." Grey looked Sandy up and down. "I thought you'd sailed with Raleigh?"

Before Sandy could reply Coby stepped forward, scarcely believing her own temerity.

"A rumour put about to confound our enemies, Your Grace," she said. "Master Catlyn has far more important business in England."

"And you." Grey glared at her. "You are the ungrateful whelp who nearly got my father killed."

"N… no, Your Grace. It was the work of Huntsmen sympathisers. The man responsible was caught and hanged."

At the mention of Huntsmen, Grey's expression changed. "What do you know of the Huntsmen?"

"More than you, I think," Sandy said. "And I am willing to help you, if you will help me."

Grey gave a short laugh. "Why should I believe you, when you would not speak under duress?"

"I had nothing to gain then. Would you have spared me if I had told you?" When Grey made no answer, he went on. "I can translate your father's notes."

"What do you mean?"

"My… That is, I saw you with certain papers, covered in skrayling writings."

Coby breathed a sigh of relief. She thought Sandy was about to bring up her own role in all this; she had no desire to attract Grey's wrath a second time.

"They were written in Aiyalura," Sandy went on, "an ancient tongue of the skraylings."

"What nonsense. They look nothing like any skrayling writings I have seen."

"That is because you have only seen Vinlandic. Does the script of the Moors resemble that of the Christians?"

Grey considered, tapping one finger on the silver head of his cane.

"You seem very knowledgeable about these foreigners and their outlandish tongues, Catlyn. Anyone would think you had been working with them all along. Is that why Leland appointed you?"

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Why should I trust you? You could claim it says whatever you please, and I would be none the wiser."

"Very true. But since you do not go forward with it yourself, you will be no worse off than before."

The duke's eyes flicked towards Coby, then back to Sandy.

"Come to Suffolk House after 4 o'clock." He turned on his heel and limped away before either of them could frame a reply.

"What are we going to tell Mal?" Coby muttered as they walked back through the corridors of Whitehall Palace. "He'll have apoplexy when he learns you've made a deal with his mortal enemy."

"My brother is not here to find out – and you will not tell him. Ever. Now, let us enjoy the rest of the day. I still have a mind to see the city."

Their tour did not take as long as Coby feared, since the theatres were closed until Easter and Sandy had no interest in the hangings, bear-baitings or other bloodthirsty entertainments enjoyed by most Londoners. She left him at the skrayling guild-house trading news with Kiiren's kinfolk whilst she slipped away on her own errands, then when the clocks tolled four they set off for Suffolk House together.
They were admitted immediately and led through the main courtyard to a suite of rooms on the upper floor. Coby stood in the middle of the antechamber, making a swift inventory of possible exits and weapons, whilst Sandy drifted over to a cabinet where fine china and silverware were on display. The apartment was not so grand as the reception chamber Coby had seen on a previous visit, but nonetheless designed to show off its owner's wealth and taste.

A few minutes later Grey himself appeared, bearing a small book bound in red leather. Coby recognised it as the one he had been perusing when she went to Ferrymead House to rescue Mal. Sandy accepted it graciously and began flicking through the pages, his brow creased slightly as he read. If it had been Mal, Coby would immediately have guessed there was something wrong. She was careful to keep her own expression blank, however. After a moment he looked up.

"This is in a very old dialect," he said to Grey. "It may take me a few days to translate it properly."

Grey nodded curtly. "Very well. But do not think to cozen me; I expect results by the end of the week."

Sandy returned the book to its owner, and they made their obeisances and left.