The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(117)

Coby exchanged glances with Mal. The old man’s wits were sharper than his eyesight, that was plain.

“You said yourself, magister, that I am not a clever man.”

Lambert’s mouth quirked. “So I did.”

Mal walked over to what was probably a desk, hidden under drifts of paper.

“Your astronomical studies look to be a good deal advanced since I was last here,” he said. “Are you acquainted with Thomas Harriot?”

“And now we come to the truth of the matter, eh?” Lambert eased himself round in his chair to watch Mal sifting through the papers. “I’ve corresponded with Harriot a little since he came back from the New World laden down with new-fangled devices and wild ideas. You know he claims there are spots on the sun? Blasphemous nonsense.”

“Don’t worry, magister, I’m not here to enquire into your orthodoxy.”

“No? That’s how you fellows proceed, is it not?”

Mal sighed and put down the document he had been perusing. “I shall be blunt, Master Lambert. I’m looking for a man named Matthew Shawe, an acquaintance of Thomas Harriot. And yes, I seek him on the King’s business.”

“Shawe… Shawe…”

“He is an alchemist, among other things.”

Lambert started. “Matthew Shawe, you say? Could it be…?”

“What?”

“A Matthew Shawe is the headmaster of Anglesey Priory School, the one I was telling you about.”

“He is?” Mal turned to Coby. “That could well be our man.”

“Excuse me, Master Lambert,” Coby said, “but you mentioned you had boys from the Priory school here at the college.”

“Yes, one or two. Why?”

“I think we should talk to them,” Mal said. “If they’re still here.”

“As it happens there is one, but he’s no longer a student. Sad case.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Lost his wits, poor fellow. We thought perhaps whoever was paying his college stipend would take him back in, but then the money dried up. It was as if he had been disowned.” Lambert shook his head. “We found him a position among the college servants rather than see him turned out to starve.”

“I’d still like to talk to him, if I may,” Mal said.

“Of course. You’ll have to wait until he’s finished in the kitchens, but perhaps you’d care to dine with me in the meantime?”

“I’d be honoured, sir, but I fear our business is very urgent. I’d like to see the boy now.”

“Very well, if you must,” Lambert muttered. “But much good it may do you.”



“I hope you don’t mind waiting here, sir,” the porter said, showed Mal and Coby into an office at one end of the kitchens, “only Master Lambert thought it might alarm young Martin to be summoned to his lodgings.”

“Of course,” Mal said.

He sat down at the desk, where the college account ledger lay open. Out of habit he perused the recent entries: a late payment of a buttery bill from the end of the Easter term; deliveries of flour from the first wheat of the harvest, twelve dozen eggs from one of the college’s farms in the village of Cherry Hinton, a side of beef from a butcher in King’s Ditch. Nothing suspicious there.

Footsteps sounded in the passageway and the servant reappeared with a young man of twenty or so, bone-thin and stinking of woodsmoke and grease from his labours in the kitchens. Martin stared at the floor, work-reddened hands clasped before him. Mal gestured to the servant to leave them.

“You’re Martin, the kitchen lad, aren’t you?” Mal said gently.

The boy made no answer. He reminded Mal a great deal of Sandy back in Bedlam, at once oblivious to his surroundings and yet alert and on edge, if expecting a beating any moment.

“I won’t hurt you,” Mal said. “I just want to ask you a few questions. About the time before you came here. When you were at the school, Anglesey Priory.”

Martin began to shake. “Don’t take me back there, sir. I don’t want to go back.”

“I’m not here to take you back. I just want to know–”

Martin shook his head and flailed his hands before his face, like a man trying to shake off a troublesome wasp, before lapsing once more into immobility. Mal looked to Coby in mute appeal. Perhaps someone nearer his own age could elicit some sense?

“Martin…” she began.

“Aye, Martin,” he muttered. “That’s what they called me. Like the little bird in the eaves. Black and white; day and night. Except there’s no day or night there, no sun or moon.”

Mal stared at the boy.

“You’ve seen the dreamlands?”

Martin looked up at last. He stared at Mal for several heartbeats, then his blue eyes rolled upwards in their sockets. Mal dashed forward and caught him before he fell. He lowered the boy to the floor. Martin was twitching and moaning, rather like Sandy in one of his fits.

Coby hunkered down at Mal’s side.

“I think it’s pretty clear what we’re up against,” she said. “Guiser magic.”

“Yes, but what kind?” Mal replied. “He’s just a normal boy. Unless Sandy was wrong.”