The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(64)

“Going somewhere, gentlemen? Perhaps you’d like to leave those heavy purses. They’ll only weigh you down.”

Mal drew his rapier. “Get behind me, Percy.”

The hooded men drew their own blades: rapiers like Mal’s, flashing bright gold in the lantern light. Not footpads, then, for all their talk of robbery. Had Percy led him into a trap? Mal cursed his foolishness in thinking that the Northumbrians had happened upon him by chance.

He drew his dagger, using the movement as a distraction whilst he engaged the man to his right, slipping his blade beneath the other’s guard. The man cried out and attempted to attack, but Mal leapt to the left, parrying the swordsman’s incoming blade with his dagger. A rapid counterthrust with his rapier and one of the villains lay bleeding on the cobbles.

He heard the clash of blades behind him but had no time to pay further attention as his right-hand foe was joined by another. A left-hander. The two of them fought side by side, so close they were practically arm in arm, weaving a net of steel that threatened to overwhelm Mal in moments. The tip of a blade slipped past his guard and skewered his upper sleeve, slicing the skin just below his armpit. Damn, but they were good! No hired ruffians or idle courtiers, these… What the hell was Percy up to? Mal backed away, expecting to bump into Percy, but found himself alone in the centre of the courtyard.

“Put up your sword, sir.”

The voice came from behind him.

“And if I do not?” Mal called over his shoulder.

“Then the lordling here will be joining his ancestors.”

Mal turned to see Percy held tight by the third remaining man, a glint of steel beneath his too-high chin. The young nobleman was deathly pale, his eyes pleading. Mal laughed.

“You can kill him for all I care.”

He turned back to his two assailants. If this was some scheme of Percy’s, the villains would not kill their master, and there was still a chance he could fight his way out. If it were not, he was rid of one candidate for Jathekkil’s amayi and could focus on the other. He crouched in a fighting stance, daring the hooded men to attack again.

This time they moved apart, trying to engage him from both sides so that he could not choose but to ignore one of them. He backed towards a doorway to limit their angle of attack. The man on the left lunged, overreaching himself. Mal sidestepped again and brought the pommel of his dagger down on the man’s wrist, simultaneously thrusting his rapier through his opponent’s unprotected ribs. The man clutched at his chest as the narrow blade withdrew, blood bubbling from his lips.

A strangled cry from the other side of the courtyard, and the remaining bravo turned tail and fled down the alley. Mal turned to see Percy, a blood-bright dagger in his hand, his former captor sinking to his knees and clutching his side. Percy wiped his blade on the man’s doublet.

“Much use you were!” Percy slammed the blade home in its sheath and grimaced at Mal. “‘Kill him for all I care.’ I should have you arrested, you traitorous cur.”

Mal paused in the act of wiping his own blade clean. The young nobleman looked shaken, though whether through frustration at a thwarted plan or genuine fear of death, it was hard to say. This had been a trap, all right, but not necessarily one of Percy’s making. Perhaps Olivia’s? Dark alleys and assassins were her stock in trade, after all. What better way to get rid of them both at a stroke than to use Percy as her bait and have her hirelings turn on him too when his job was done?

“Come, let’s find your companions,” he said to Percy. “Then I think I shall go home. I’ve had enough entertainment for one night.”





CHAPTER XVII



“The skrayling is here, my lord.”

“About time too.” Grey took up his cane and rose from his seat, face set as if determined to conceal any pain. “We’ll see her in the privy closet. Have a fire laid, and refreshments brought up.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The duke limped over to a bookcase and ran his fingers over the spines of a row at eye height. Mal suspected he was trying to ease his cramped limbs without seeming to do so.

“What do you suppose this is all about, Catlyn?”

“They must have found out about Olivia. Though why Adjaan would insist on meeting us here at the palace and not at the camp, I have no idea.”

The privy closet was a small panelled chamber on the upper floor, perfect for discreet meetings. A single narrow window admitted some daylight, though on a dull October morning like this, that was little enough. Adjaan was standing by the fireplace, ignoring the hard wooden chairs that were so ill-suited to skrayling anatomy. She wore dark blue robes similar to the ones Ambassador Kiiren had worn to official ceremonies, though more sombre, and a single short braid threaded with turquoise beads hung over her left ear. Erishen’s memories stirred in the back of Mal’s mind; this was a Vinlandic custom, to mark the birth of a child. Those beads would be added to the child’s spirit-guard when he or she was older.

“Suffolk-tuur, it is an honour to meet you at last,” Adjaan said, bowing in the English manner.

“Likewise,” Grey replied, taking a seat by the fire. “May I ask, to what do we owe such an unprecedented visit?”

Adjaan lowered herself carefully into the other chair, leaning forwards so as not to put pressure on her tail bone.