The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(31)

“If you say so.”

It was hard to reconcile this merry child with the solemn ambassador he had known. There were times he almost forgot that Kit was not his own son, so natural did he seem with his adoptive mother. He wondered how deeply Coby would mourn – how they both would – when Kit grew up and left them, as he must do eventually. For all Grey’s congratulations, they did not truly have a son and heir, not yet. Mal only hoped he had managed to get her with child this winter. She had not said anything so far, but perhaps she would not want to tell him until she was certain herself, and such things took time. Or so he had been led to believe. That was women’s business, and he had only the haziest of ideas how things went once the man’s part was done.

Thoughts of his wife sent him in search of her. With this break in the weather he had no more excuses to delay his journey south, and good reason to go. Food supplies were running low, and every ounce of flour and cheese and bacon had to be accounted for if they were not to starve before spring. The sooner he left, the sooner he would cease to be a burden on the household.

He found her in the kitchen, supervising the cooking of supper. Coby wiped her hands on her apron and left the cook to finish making the pastry.

“Can I help you, my lord?”

He smiled; ever the model of a dutiful wife in the servants’ presence. If only they knew what mischief the two of them had wrought together in the past! He led her through the servants’ hall and into the dining parlour, where they would not be overheard.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he told her. “The road is as clear as it’s likely to get this side of Easter, and it’s bound to be fairer going once I get out of the Peaklands.”

“Must you?” She slid her arms about his waist and laid her head upon his chest. “It feels like only a moment since you arrived.”

“You know I have to,” he replied, embracing her.

She looked up at him, her grey eyes bright with unshed tears. “Then we shall come with you. Kit’s old enough now that no one is likely to question the exact month of his birth.”

“I have to be sure it’s safe first. Our enemies could still be waiting for me.”

“But you’ll write, won’t you? I shan’t sleep for worrying that you’ve been arrested, or worse.”

“I promise,” Mal said, and sealed the vow with a kiss. “And I’ll send for you all as soon as I can. Better in Southwark under the eye of the skraylings, than a week’s ride away.”



The journey back to London took rather longer than a week, on roads thick with mud and slush and pocked with holes big enough to swallow horse and rider both. When Mal finally saw the smoke of the capital rising above the trees, relief threatened to overwhelm caution, and it took all his willpower not to urge Hector into a canter down the last stretch towards Bishopsgate.

Getting into the city was not the immediate problem, he reassured himself. Even if his description had been circulated after the Marshalsea incident, surely after six months the guards would have forgotten it? In any case, he was so bedaubed with mud that even his friends might not recognise him. No matter; there were plenty of bath-houses in Bankside where he might steam away the filth from his skin and the chill from his bones.

He guided Hector through traffic that rapidly thickened as it was funnelled into the suburb that lay outside the walls, past taverns and shops and the forbidding bulk of Bedlam. This close to the gate, he felt less certain of anonymity. He had travelled through here often when Sandy was locked up in the hospital, and long-serving guards might just remember his face, even if it took a while to attach a name to it. He pulled his cap down lower and slumped in his saddle, trying to look inconsequential but not furtive.

“You there!”

Mal’s heart twisted against his ribs for a second, but he willed himself not to give any outward sign of alarm. A glance from under the brim of his hat revealed that the object of the gatekeepers’ attention was a merchant whose wagon was scoring deep ruts in the mud.

“Got something extra in there, have you?” one of the men asked, lifting the canvas sheet lashed over a stack of barrels.

“Have you seen the shitty state of these cobbles?” the merchant replied, brandishing his hat. “It’s a wonder I haven’t lost a wheel. What do I pay my tolls for, if the parish doesn’t maintain the road?”

“Then you won’t mind paying double to help fund the next work crew, will you, sir?”

Mal left them to their arguing and slipped past, tossing a coin into the toll-collector’s box. One line of defences breached; now there was just the rest of the city between himself and the relative safety of Southwark.



He half-expected the Sign of the Parley to be burnt down or damaged, but apart from the crude boarding-up of the shop windows on the ground floor, the building was much as he had left it. He let himself into the house. Dear God but it was a dreary place without his friends and family to brighten his homecoming! The kitchen stank of vinegar where the beer barrel had leaked and dripped its contents on the floor, and the upstairs rooms were hardly any better. He went into his bedchamber and pulled back the sheets on the bed, wrinkling his nose at the damp, mouldy linen. He would have to hire a maid to clean and air the place if his family were to live here.

He deposited his saddlebags and rapier on the chest at the foot of the bed, retrieved the package containing the alchemist’s rod, then set off for the skrayling camp on foot. The bath-house would have to wait. After a week on the road with nothing to do but think over what he and Sandy had found, he was eager to move on with his investigations.