The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(120)

“I know. Leave one pistol unloaded, if you must, and use it only to threaten. But charge one with steel shot and powder, just in case.”

They walked in single file down the path, Mal and Sandy going first as they had done on the road. Coby winced at every crack of twig underfoot; sneaking around muddy alleys was much easier than this.

Distracted by worrying about where to put her feet, Coby almost collided with Mal, who turned and raised a finger to his lips. The wood thinned out ahead, revealing a jumble of ruined walls half-submerged in ivy and brambles. The remains of the former priory, dissolved around seventy years ago. Coby frowned. There was nothing here to hide from.

Then she saw him: a boy of sixteen or so, pale as death, walking glazed-eyed amongst the ruins as if in a dream. The boy skimmed his hands over the brambles, heedless of their scratching, until blood dripped from his palms. He wandered in what they assumed was the direction of the school, then turned and retraced his steps like a sleepwalking sentry. After a few moments he passed through a gap in a waist-high wall and disappeared into the ruins. She glanced at Mal, who shook his head and mouthed one word. Wait.

The boy repeated his patrol twice more. The next time he went into the ruins, Mal beckoned them all close.

“What was that?” Gabriel hissed.

“Another of Shawe’s victims?” Coby said. “It looks like Martin’s not the only madman they’ve created.”

“Still, it gives me an idea,” Mal replied. “Parrish, wait here. Sandy, the spare spirit-guard, if I may?”



Mal crouched by the entrance to the ruins, his brother at his side. On the opposite side of the broken doorway Coby crouched likewise. Mal flicked his fingers at her, urging her further back. She nodded and obeyed, until she was hidden in the shadowed undergrowth. He turned his attention back to the path and took hold of the other end of the spirit-guard so that it hung between his hands like a garrotte.

Slow, erratic footsteps approached. Mal tensed, ready to spring up. As the youth stepped out through the doorway a bleating noise came from Coby’s direction, like a lost lamb calling for its mother. The boy’s head whipped round and he halted. Took a step towards her.

Mal leapt to his feet and threw the string of steel beads around the throat of the boy, who cried out briefly before Sandy could get his hand over his mouth. Mal cursed and snapped the clasp of the spirit-guard shut.

“Not another sound,” he hissed, drawing his dagger and putting it to the boy’s throat.

Coby emerged from the bushes looking dishevelled.

“Tie his wrists,” Mal told her. “Now, lad, how many of you are there at the house?”

The boy’s eyes darted from Mal to Sandy and back.

“What? Who are you? Where am I?” He made a whimpering sound in the back of his throat. “Sweet Jesu, what have you done to my hands?”

“The iron must have dispelled whatever enchantments were put on him,” Coby said. She bent and began cleaning his scratched palms with her handkerchief.

“Or he feigns very well,” Mal said. “Sandy, can you get anything out of him?”

His brother shook his head.

“Not with this on,” he said, gesturing to the spirit-guard.

“Well we can’t very well take it off him.” Mal took hold of the boy’s jaw and turned his head to one side. “What’s this?”

He frowned at the blue crystal dangling from the boy’s left earlobe. It looked remarkably like the one he had found in Shawe’s workshop.

“Well, if we ever doubted this was the right place…”

“What’s it for, do you reckon?” Coby asked.

“Some kind of spirit-guard that doesn’t impede their own magic, perhaps?” Mal replied. “I dare say we’ll find out soon enough.”

He seized the boy’s elbow and marched him back to where Gabriel was waiting.

“Take care of this one. Gag him and bind him further if need be, but whatever you do, don’t remove his necklace.” He ushered them back towards the clearing. “Come, we have to be quick, before he’s missed. It can’t be long until suppertime.”

“What are we going to do?” Coby asked, trotting by his side.

He grinned at her. “What we do best.”



“Catlyn?”

Kit blinked and looked up. He had been left alone in the dormitory whilst the other boys had their lessons, and after much pacing and fretting about Sidney he had finally settled down for a nap, thinking to save his strength for an escape before nightfall.

“Is it time for supper?”

“Not for you.” One of the older boys – Flint, he thought his name was – was leaning over him. “We have more important business. Get up.”

Kit did so, heart fluttering in his throat.

“Is this the test?” he whispered. “I thought that wasn’t until tonight.”

For an answer, Flint threw a bundle of something at him.

“Put that on.”

It was a pale woollen robe with no fastenings, just a hole to put your head through and long sleeves that came down to Kit’s knuckles, as if it had been made for a taller boy. It dragged on the floor a little too, and he had to lift it like a girl as he followed Flint across the dormitory to the stairwell and pattered down the cold steps on bare feet. Flint opened the door at the far end of the dining hall and ushered Kit through.