The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3) by Anne Lyle
PART ONE
“Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrowed,
For he’s disposed as the hateful raven:
Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,
For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolf.
Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?”
William Shakespeare, Henry VI pt 2
CHAPTER I
Mal reined in his mount and rested his gloved hands on the saddlebow, letting the gelding snatch a mouthful of new spring grass from the roadside. From here he could see the whole of London laid out below him, from the crumbling splendour of the Tower in the east to the gilded turrets of Whitehall Palace in the west, with Southwark a grubby stain on the farther bank of the Thames.
“See? I told you we weren’t lost. Stretch your legs if you like. I won’t be a moment.”
Sandy said nothing, only stared at the city as if he could close the distance by sheer force of will. Which admittedly he could, if he wanted to.
“And don’t go disappearing on me,” Mal added in a low voice. “I don’t need you affrighting half of London by using your magics in broad daylight.”
“I am not such a fool as that. Brother.”
“Well. Good, then.”
He dismounted and strolled over to the nearest bush. A hawthorn, vivid green leaves bursting from the bud, clusters of white flowers already open. In his mind’s eye he saw the design inked into his left shoulder: a roundel of flowers and thorns, a reminder of the sacred grove back in Vinland where skraylings went to die and be reborn… No. Pissing on a hawthorn was sacrilegious whichever way you looked at it. He moved further into the thicket, where a great clump of holly stood like a fortress within a curtain wall of gorse and brambles. Did everything on this godforsaken heath have thorns? He unbuttoned his breeches and sighed, breath frosting the air.
A voice from the road behind him. And not Sandy’s. Mal hurriedly refastened his clothing and padded back to the road, drawing his rapier silently.
“Hold! Or…” The man with a pistol to Sandy’s head looked from one to the other, taking in their identical dark wavy hair and neatly trimmed beards. “Or your brother’s a dead man. He is your brother, right?”
“Twins, as you see,” Mal said, letting the tip of his rapier droop towards the ground as if on the verge of surrendering it. The fellow looked desperate enough to kill: hollow of cheek and with scabby red skin showing through his ripped and filthy finery. Stolen from other victims, no doubt.
“So if I shoot him,” the footpad said, “do you die as well?”
Mal shrugged. “I’m not eager to test that hypothesis.”
“Oi, don’t you try and maze me with no fancy Latin.”
“Actually,” said Sandy, “it’s Greek. From–”
“Shut up!” The pistol began to shake. “Shut up, the pair of you. Hand over the chinks. Now. And that pretty pigsticker. Bet it’s worth ten times what you’ve got in your purse.”
“You’ve a fine eye,” Mal said, throwing his rapier onto the ground about halfway between them. The curving lines of the hilt flashed as they caught the afternoon sunlight. That gave him an idea…
“And the knife,” the footpad said. “Come on, I can see the hilt sticking out behind your back.”
The dagger joined its mate on the grass.
“Get on with it!”
Mal hefted his purse for a moment then tossed to the footpad in a high arc. The fool went to catch it with his free hand – and looked straight up into the sun. Sandy stepped aside and Mal ducked forward, snatching up the rapier and lunging in a single fluid movement that ended with the point of his blade pressing into the tender flesh under the man’s chin.
“Once you pull the trigger,” Mal said, “it’ll take at least two heartbeats for the powder to ignite and the gun to fire. How many do you think it’ll take for me to open your veins?”
The footpad’s throat worked as he weighed the relative consequences of speaking and staying silent. After a moment he lowered the pistol.
“Drop it on the ground,” Mal told him. “Carefully.”
He did so, never taking his eyes off Mal. Sandy stepped behind him and took the man’s head in both hands. The footpad whimpered and squirmed in Sandy’s grasp, and his eyes rolled back in his skull.
“What are you doing?” Mal strode over and laid a hand on his brother’s arm. “I told you–”
Sandy released the footpad, who fell to the ground in an untidy heap.
“–not to use magic openly.”
“There is no one here to see us.”
“There’s him. Assuming you haven’t killed him.”
Mal sheathed his sword and crouched beside the man, taking hold of his jaw and turning his head from side to side. Drool trickled out between the slack lips, but the footpad appeared to still be breathing.
“You know I can’t do that,” Sandy replied.
“Do I? I’m not certain what you’re capable of any more.” Mal retrieved his fallen purse and straightened up.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid of becoming like me.”