The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(17)

Mal’s heart sank. “What kind of ‘something’?”

“Njaaren could not be certain. Our patrols pay little attention to what goes on in the city itself, unless it appears to be a direct threat to us.”

“Please, honoured one; any information could be valuable.”

“Yesterday Njaaren saw a white light flare and dance amongst the souls within the Tower, and when it was gone, so were some of the others.”

“What others?”

“The off-duty guardsmen. They had woken.”

“That could just have been devourers,” Mal said with a shudder. He had once been chased across the dreamscape by the creatures, and seen them crash into the other dreaming minds around him, leaving nightmares in their wake.

“True. If this guiser was being hurt, as you say, the hrrith would have been drawn to him, and may have disturbed the sleep of the others. Or…” The skrayling gestured helplessly.

“Or it could have been Selby himself,” Mal said.

“Yes. It would depend upon his skill, of course. You are sure the senzadheneth here are young and inexperienced?”

“For the most part, yes. Jathekkil…” Mal forced out the name of his enemy. “Jathekkil turned to dream-magic only as a last resort, after he had failed to learn what he wanted from me through more… mundane means. I have no reason to believe that any of the others are markedly more skilful than he.”

“Then it seems unlikely he could have impressed a strong enough compulsion on any of the guardsmen.”

“A compulsion to do what?”

Adjaan shrugged again. “To do whatever he needed.”

“Like, tell the other guisers?”

“Yes. A simple image of the truth might suffice. If it was strong enough to make the man speak of it to those who might want to know.”

Mal swore under his breath, earning an icy look from the outspeaker.

“Thank you for your help, Adjaan-tuur,” he said, getting to his feet. “I will leave you to your meditations.”

He left the camp deep in thought. If only he had been able to call on the skraylings to fence Selby in, none of this would have happened. But he doubted they would have agreed to it, and in any case it would surely have attracted the attention of the others. No, the plan had been a good one, given the tools at hand. He would simply have to rethink his next move.





CHAPTER V



Ned perused the printed sheet, chewing at his moustache. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the apprentice, Jack, who had brought him the piece. The lad looked fit to wet himself with fear.

“Well,” he said at last. “It’s better than your last attempt.”

“Yes, sir. T-t-thank you, sir.”

“But see here.” Ned laid the sheet down on the table. “The spacing on the first word is all wrong. You want a number three ‘A’ on a word like that, then the ‘W’ will fit all snug against it. You have to take extra care with the capitals, or it looks a right old mess.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try, sir.”

Ned handed him the sheet. “Do it again. And start with an empty frame this time. You’re going to have to reset nearly every line anyway, once you’ve got that first one right.”

Jack scurried away, the offending sheet clutched in his hand. Ned sighed. He had no idea what the other apprentices had been telling the boy – some gruesome but all-too-believable story about how their master had come to lose his hand, perhaps – but he appeared terrified of Ned. Perhaps Jack’s father beat him too often, or without reason. That sort of thing could make a boy fearful, if it did not make him a bully in his turn.

The doorbell jingled, and he looked around. A man in a sergeant’s steel gorget and kettle helm stood in the doorway.

“Good morning, officer,” Ned said, as calmly as he could manage. “What can I do for you?”

“Edmund Faulkner?”

“Yes.”

The sergeant stepped further into the shop, making way for half a dozen of his men. So many. What did they think he had done?

“You four.” The sergeant gestured to his men. “Take the back room. Round up everyone you can find. Journeymen, apprentices, the lot. Bradley, Moxon, start gathering up the evidence.”

“Evidence?” Ned stepped between the soldiers and the door to the workshop. “Evidence of what?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Sedition. Treason. The usual stuff.”

“But…”

“Out of my way, little man.” The soldier pushed him aside.

Ned swung his right arm wildly, catching the man on the jawline with his brass-and-steel fist. The soldier swayed back a little then recovered his balance.

“You little–”

He aimed a punch for Ned’s temple, but Ned was gone, ducking away and heading for the door. Something hit him from behind, and the next thing he knew, he was lying face down on the floor with one of the soldiers on top of him.

“I’m flattered, mate,” he groaned, “but perhaps another time?”

The soldier grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the splintery planks. Ned hissed in pain, forcing himself to lie still.

“Right, get him up,” the sergeant barked. “I want this place cleared and locked up within the hour.”