The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(9)

Coby bowed her thanks and followed the elders across the heath. Thankfully they did not speak to her further, though they exchanged a few words in Vinlandic. She thought she caught the word senlirren, which she knew meant "outspeaker", since it had been Lord Kiiren's title in London.

They followed a small stream to where it disappeared over a lip of stony ground into a narrow defile. The southeast-facing hollow was already as dark as night, lit only by a fire over which a large pot bubbled, giving off an enticing savoury smell. Mal and Sandy were hunkered down by the fire; they both got to their feet as the elders approached, and bowed. The skraylings returned the gesture, then without another word ducked into Kiiren's tent.

"Where on Earth have you been?" Mal asked Coby, draping an arm about her shoulder. "You nearly missed supper."

They sat down opposite Sandy, who stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, seemingly oblivious to their presence. Coby studied him discreetly as they waited. Last time she had seen Sandy Catlyn, he had been in the grip of whatever fiendish enchantment the late Duke of Suffolk had inflicted on him in that cellar. He appeared sane enough now, though he was still quiet and withdrawn even compared to his brother.

A few moments later Kiiren and the elders emerged from the tent.

"Please forgive me, Catlyn-tuur," Kiiren said to Mal. "I am called away on clan business. Please, enjoy your supper without me. I will return in the morning."

Kiiren embraced Sandy, then the four skraylings departed in silence.

"I wonder what that was all about," Coby said, watching them leave.

Mal told her about his conversation with Kiiren. He said nothing about their findings on Corsica, however, and Coby guessed he had not yet broken the bad news to Sandy. She wondered if the ambassador had known any of the dead skraylings.

"Then Lord Kiiren was right," she said when Mal finished. "Whatever this other clan are up to, they expect him to help."

Across the fire Sandy tasted the pottage, nodded to himself in satisfaction, and ladled some into a wooden bowl.

"We will have to share," he said, passing it to Mal. "Kiiren and I have only the two."

Mal handed the bowl and a spoon to Coby. The pottage was thick and salty, made with mussels and the fat yellow corn the skraylings brought with them from the New World. After a few greedy mouthfuls she remembered her manners and passed it back to Mal.

Whilst she waited for her next turn, she took off her shoes and put her feet as close to the fire as she dared. The flames had died down, but the damp wood still popped and spat occasionally. She wriggled her toes, frowning at the hole in one stocking.

"I suppose you two have had a lot to catch up on," she said as Mal passed the bowl back.

They shrugged in unison. Mal grinned, but on catching Sandy's eye he sagged, expression grave again. Coby bent her head over the soup bowl. Well, that went really well. She racked her brains for a subject that might provoke more than a shrug.

"Perhaps you can help me with something, in the morning," she said to Sandy.

Both men looked at her quizzically.

"Master Catlyn has been teaching me to fire a pistol," she went on, "but I can barely hit a target once in five shots. I thought that if I could understand how the bullet moves, I might be able to improve my aim."

Sandy sighed. "Alas, I can no longer read half the books I brought from England, and I forget much of what I read before. Kiiren's healing has… changed me."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He smiled. "There may be other ways I can help you. Some adjustment of the gunpowder mix–"

"No!"

Mal put a hand on her arm. "It's all right. There's no need to change anything. You just need more practice with the pistols."

He took the bowl from her unresisting hands and she wrapped her arms about her knees. Learning to fire a pistol had been easy enough, but every time she loaded it she thought of the adulterated flash-powder that had made the stage cannon explode, killing her previous master. She suspected this was the reason Mal made her continue with the training, to inure her to such thoughts, like making someone get back on a horse after falling off. Knowing it was for her own good didn't make it any easier.

She couldn't blame Sandy, of course. Why should he know about the fire at the theatre? He and Mal had seen so little of one another since they rescued him from Suffolk's clutches. What the brothers needed was more time together.

"I would like to come to England with you," Sandy said, as if reading her thoughts.

She looked up, startled. Could he do that? If Mal could dream of things that really happened, anything was possible.

"You overheard?" Mal said. "Then you know Kiiren said no."

Sandy smiled. "He said no to you taking me. He did not say I cannot go of my own will."

"All right. If you think he'll agree, we'll ask him in the morning."

? ? ? ?
Mal woke to discover that Coby had hogged the blanket in the night, leaving his back exposed. He sat up, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. Perhaps a few fencing drills would loosen him up a bit and get the blood flowing again.

He scrambled out of the tent on hands and knees and stood to stretch in the icy morning air. Across the slate blue sea, a distant line of mist marked the coast of France. Skraylings might not be welcome there, but as long as Sandy behaved himself he should be quite safe. Safer than in England, at any rate. Jathekkil might be out of the game for a while, but there were other guisers in England who might wish to take up his cause against the Catlyn twins. No, best to complete their business in London as fast as possible and then put a few hundred miles between themselves and their enemies. In the meantime, he needed to keep his wits sharp and his blades sharper.