The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(121)

Even though it was not dark outside yet, the great chamber was lit with dozens of candles, illuminating a low bench draped in dark blue velvet that stood in the centre of the room. Master Fox stood at one end, holding a brass bowl from which rose thin wisps of smoke; Master Shawe stood at the other with a knife whose blade glinted like frozen night air. Kit halted. What was all this?

“Come, acolyte, and be reborn into our brotherhood,” Master Shawe intoned. “Lie down, and waken as an immortal.”

“I… I’m not sure I want to be immortal,” Kit said, backing towards the door.

But Flint was there, blocking his way. Kit looked up into his grey eyes and swallowed. If a hulking fellow like Flint could do this, so could he. He turned back to the bench.

“What must I do?” he said, trying to sound brave.

“Lie down.” Master Shawe indicated a cushion at the end of the bench nearest to him. “And close your eyes.”

Kit obeyed, nearly tripping on the over-long robe as he climbed onto the bench. It was hard underneath the crunchy layer of velvet, harder even than the beds upstairs. He hoped this wouldn’t take long.



Mal adjusted the hang of his rapier under the black scholar’s gown so that it wouldn’t be too visible from the front. His beard and hair were stiff again with the white greasepaint; not a perfect disguise, but it would have to do. Shawe had not seen him in years, and none of the pupils except Kit and his friend knew any of them, or so he hoped.

“Ned, Gabriel, I need you to stay here and keep watch over my brother. He’s going to distract any dreamwalkers looking for us whilst Coby and I talk our way into the house and find Kit. Be ready with the horses for when we return.”

“And if you don’t?” Ned asked, hugging his metal hand to his chest.

“Then you leave without us. Flee the country, as you did before. No–” Mal held up his hand “–no arguments. There’s no use us all dying.”

He embraced his brother. “If I find Kit and can open a passage back to you, I shall.”

“We may not need to. He may be strong enough now–”

“We can’t count on that. Nor do we know what forces Shawe can muster. Devourers may be only the half of it.”

He released Sandy and bade farewell to his other friends, then beckoned to his wife. Her woollen cap was pulled down low over her eyes to shadow her features, though not enough to conceal the fake bruise that Gabriel had painted around one eye and down across her cheekbone. She turned her back to him and he fastened her wrists together with loosely tied cord.

“Ready?” he murmured in her ear.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He led the way towards the schoolhouse, stomach churning. So close now, he could almost sense Kit inside the building ahead, but surely that was just his imagination. He hadn’t taken off his spirit-guard yet, and in any case Kiiren’s soul still slept, so how could he?

The house loomed ahead of them, outlined against the hazy blue sky of a summer evening. Lights burned in the main wing at ground level, a whole row of windows glowing against the shadowed stone. The near wing was unlit, giving no clue as to the whereabouts of its occupants.

No one accosted them as they approached the side door. Mal knocked quietly and waited, one hand beneath his gown ready to draw his dagger, the other on Coby’s shoulder. After a few minutes the door opened and a boy of about twelve peered out at them. A pair of horn-rimmed spectacles were perched on his snub nose and he wore the same blue earring as their captive, but otherwise he looked much like any schoolboy or apprentice.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked.

“I wish to see your headmaster about this saucy knave–” Mal shook Coby “–he sent me for a pupil.”

“Master Shawe is at work. Please come back in the morning.”

“I shall do no such thing,” Mal replied, elbowing the door aside. “I will see him this very minute.”

The boy opened his mouth to shriek a warning but stopped when Coby produced a pistol and aimed it at his head. The unloaded one, Mal assumed. Still, it had the desired effect. The boy turned pale and stepped backwards.

“Good lad. And don’t think of alerting your master any other way. Now, may we come in?”



Something rattled overhead, and Kit opened his eyes again. Master Fox was swinging the brass bowl on a chain, like the things the Papists used in their church services. The smoke swirled down around Kit’s head and made him cough.

“Close your eyes,” Master Shawe said again.

This time Kit had no choice but to obey; the smoke was making him feel sleepy and it was so much easier to just close his eyes. After a moment he realised someone was speaking, close to his ear. It sounded a bit like Latin, or perhaps Greek, but he did not know the words. He really should have paid more attention in lessons…

He blinked, and there he was, back in the classroom at Greenwich Palace with the other boys. Neville gave him an icy look as he walked to the front of the class, and Kit wondered why the other boy had been called up instead of him. When he looked closer, though, he realised that the figure kneeling before Master Weston wasn’t Neville at all. It was his own father, stripped to the waist, with bloody welts covering his back. Kit reached out a hand to touch him and he turned round, but it was Uncle Sandy, not his father.