The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(16)

“A mistake I will not make again,” Mal replied. He hunkered down, just out of Selby’s reach. Even in his present enfeebled state, the man might still be desperate enough for a last attack.

“Shall I tell you what I told my friends about you?” Selby said with a sly smile.

“Everything you’ve said here is a lie. I have no wish to hear more such.” Mal drew his dagger.

“I told them… Aaah!” Selby gasped as the dagger blade slid between his ribs. His smile faded to a look of hatred, then of panic as he realised Mal had not withdrawn the dagger.

“I’ll just leave it there for a while, shall I?” Mal said, getting to his feet. He retrieved the unused slop-bucket, turned it upside down and sat on it. “This time I want to make sure you are absolutely, certainly dead. For all time.”



It was but a short walk from the Tower to Saint Katherine’s Stairs, and from there an equally short journey by wherry to the skrayling camp on the opposite bank. The camp was busier than Mal had seen it for a long time: several small boats were moored on the riverward side of the stockade, and the gates were wide open, albeit still guarded.

“Kuru-an rrish.” He made obeisance in the skrayling fashion, holding his hands palm forwards at his sides and turning his head to present his bare throat.

“Kaal-an rrish, Catlyn-tuur.”

“Adjaan-tuur is here?”

One of the guards inclined his head and waved Mal through the gate. Mal thanked him and made his way through the camp, ignoring the inquisitive and sometimes admiring looks he got from some of the inhabitants. Since meeting Adjaan he had come to understand why human males looked feminine to skrayling eyes, but it was still disconcerting.

The outspeaker herself was not in her cabin today. Eventually Mal found her seated under a beech tree at the other end of the camp, watching a group of skrayling men play a fast-moving ball game that looked like a cross between tennis and football. Adjaan hardly seemed to notice his arrival; her eyes were fixed on the players, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Mal sat down quietly next to her and waited.

After a few more tense passes, one side erupted in cheers, which Mal supposed meant they had won the game. The losers abased themselves and walked away, whilst the winners approached Adjaan. She scanned them all for several moments, and at last pointed to one of them and snapped her fingers.

The young skrayling flushed beneath his tattoos and bared his fangs in a grin. His team mates dispersed, their shoulders drooping in disappointment. Adjaan beckoned her chosen one forward and said something to him in low tones. He nodded and left, with a cocky swagger to his gait that Mal had never seen before in a skrayling. At last Adjaan turned to him.

“Kaal-an rrish, Catlyn-tuur.”

“Kaal-an rrish, Adjaan-tuur.”

“Did you enjoy the game?” She craned her neck, her eyes following the young skrayling as he disappeared between the tents.

“I… Yes, I suppose so. Though I cannot remember the rules.”

Adjaan made a face. “Do not tell my kinfolk, but neither can I. Still, one cannot argue with tradition, eh? Not when the outcome is so pleasing.”

Mal recalled something that Kiiren had once told him, about the skraylings using games and competitions to choose mates. Was that what had just happened here?

“You are well?” Adjaan asked, breaking into his train of thought. “And Erishen and Kiiren-tuur also?”

“Ah, yes, thank you, honoured one,” he said, struggling to bring his thoughts back to the matter in hand. “Or at least, so I believe. I have not heard from Sandy – I mean Erishen – for a few weeks, but my wife sent his greetings in her last letter. And Kit too.” He smiled to himself, remembering the inky scratch vaguely resembling a K at the bottom of the letter, guided by an adult’s hand.

Adjaan nodded. “You are here on dreamwalker business.”

So much for the pleasantries. “Am I so easy to read?”

“Yes.”

There was no polite answer to that. Mal had to remind himself that this was not his old friend, but a stranger who had taken over his role within the clan.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Let us get down to business.”

He told Adjaan about Selby: his capture and interrogation, and the unfortunate removal of his irons for a brief but unknown period.

“Careless,” Adjaan said. “You should have brought him to us for questioning.”

“That would have been… difficult. The Huntsmen would never have willingly handed him over to you.”

Adjaan muttered something under her breath. Mal wasn’t sure the skraylings understood the concept of swearing, but the outspeaker’s words had not sounded polite.

“And now you expect my people to… how do you say it? ‘Clean up after you’?”

“Of course not, honoured one. But I thought your dreamwalkers might have observed something.”

“When did this occur?”

“Yesterday, a little after sunset.”

Adjaan took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Mal waited. And waited. He was tempted to remove his own spirit-guard and try to follow her into the dreamlands, but suspected that would not be considered polite.

Eventually Adjaan’s eyes snapped open again.

“There was something, just the other side of the river.”