The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(61)

“Rough night?” Mal said, leaning on the bedpost.

“Wearisome. For hours I could not sleep, try as I might–” Sandy gestured vaguely towards the small brazier where he burned the dream-herb “–and then when I did, I tried to patrol the city but was led astray by…”

He broke off, his grave expression turning Mal’s breakfast to lead in his stomach.

“Devourers?”

“No. Something different. A presence, no more. Familiar, but hidden from me. I followed it for a long time, but could not find it.”

“Perhaps it was Prince Henry,” Mal said, sitting down on the end of the bed. “I hear he’s come up from Hampton Court for his birthday celebrations.”

“Perhaps.” Sandy untangled himself from the sheets and went over to the basin to wash his face. He paused, hands cupped over the water. “What of your news?”

“Who says I have news?”

“I heard it in your voice, when you called out to me.” He splashed his face and rubbed a flannel over his bare limbs.

“No news,” Mal said after a moment, “but an idea. I was clearing out the pantry – you know the rats got in whilst we were away? – and it occurred to me. I don’t need to see a rat to know where it’s been.”

“You’re chasing rats now?”

“No, Shawe. We don’t know where the man is, but we know damned well what he’s up to.”

“Alchemy.”

“Exactly. And wherever he is, he can’t very well stroll down to the village green and buy… I don’t know, a dozen alembics and a pound of quicksilver, can he?”

“I suppose not,” Sandy said, shooing Mal off the bed so he could strip the sweat-soaked sheets.

“So–” Mal scrambled to his feet “–we just need to find out who Shawe’s supplier is here in London, and where the goods are being sent.”

“We?”

“Well, me. Unless you really want to help.” He tried to keep his tone neutral; two could cover the ground better than one, but his brother wasn’t exactly trained in intelligence work, nor could he be relied upon to be subtle.

Sandy wasn’t fooled.

“No, I have plenty to do here,” he said, bundling up the sheets. “If we could keep a maid for more than a few weeks at a time…”

“You’re the one that scares them away,” Mal said, backing out of the room. “Don’t work too hard, all right? I’ll be back before supper.”

He wandered into his own chamber, thoughts already preoccupied with how he was going to go about his search. Glass-blowers – that was the place to start. Shawe would be needing more glass rods like the one Mal had found in the workshop, and other vessels besides. The question was, what should be his own story? He sorted through his wardrobe and chanced upon the dark green silk doublet he had worn in Venice, the night he had met Olivia. Perfect.



His quest led him to the eastern end of Southwark where all the noxious industries were situated, well downwind of the rest of the suburb. As he made his way past a row of tanneries Mal pressed a perfume-drenched handkerchief to his nose, glad for once to be playing the foppish courtier. Barrels half-full of piss stood outside each building, an invitation to the suburb’s male inhabitants to add their own contributions to the trade’s raw materials.

Mal turned down a side street, broader than most if only to allow the passage of supply wagons. One blocked his way now, laden with heavy sacks that were being carried into a workshop. The sign over the door showed a bottle and goblet.

“You there!” Mal waved his handkerchief at one of the labourers. “Move this wagon immediately. I wish to visit your master.”

The man hurried to obey, and after a few moments the wagon creaked forward a few yards to let Mal pass.

The front shop was almost as crowded as the street, piled with crates of beer bottles, perhaps waiting to be loaded onto the same wagon once it was emptied. Display shelves with wooden rails along the front showed off a selection of the workshop’s wares: more bottles, mostly in green and amber glass; small flat sheets, some made up into lanterns or examples of window panels; goblets that mimicked the finer work of Venetian craftsmen for those who could not afford imported glass.

“Can I help you, sir?”

A man of middle years, coarse-featured from daily exposure to the heat and fumes of his trade, stood in the inner doorway. He wore a heavy leather apron covered in scorch-marks and thick gauntlets of the same. The flinty smell of hot glass drifted through the door, reminding Mal of the abandoned workshop at Shawe House.

“I’m here on behalf of my good friend Sir Walter Raleigh,” Mal said. “He has developed an interest in alchemy, and wishes to purchase alembics and suchlike.”

The man sucked in air over his uneven yellow teeth. “Costly work, sir, and I haven’t done anything of its like in a while. But if Sir Walter could provide sketches, I’d be glad to oblige.”

“Then you don’t supply other alchemists?”

“Between you and me, sir–” the glassblower looked around conspiratorially “–most of these alchemist fellows never pay their bills. They may talk of turning lead into gold, but mostly they seem to turn it into debt.”

Mal bristled. “Sir Walter Raleigh is a Member of Parliament and a wealthy man, sirrah, not some charlatan peddling false hope to the gullible.”