The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(68)

“Catlyn? May I come in?”

Mal hesitated. Well, he had wanted to speak to Josceline Percy in private. He just hadn’t expected Percy to come to him.

“Very well.” He stood back and opened the door to admit his visitor.

The younger man looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Stubble darkened his jaw either side of a once-neat beard, and his skin was as grey and clammy as a day-old corpse. Mal closed the door behind him and leant back against it, arms folded.

“So, what brings you here at this time of night, sir? Is there some bad news about Prince Henry?” Feigning ignorance would not fool Percy for long, but Mal wasn’t about to admit to anything he didn’t have to.

Percy crossed to the table, poured himself a cup of wine and took several large gulps. A little colour returned to his face.

“This is all your fault,” he said, glowering at Mal.

“Mine? Why, what have I done?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, Catlyn. I know what you are. And I think you know what I am.”

“You are weary and distraught, sir. And who would not be, after such a day?”

“Such a day indeed. You brought this upon us–”

“I? You blame me for today’s accident? It was not I who suggested letting the princes joust.”

“No. It was that… creature.” Percy took another swig of wine. “The one you unleashed upon us.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh I think you do. I’ve heard all about what happened in Venice. You made a powerful enemy, and now he’s here for revenge.”

“Ah. You mean Bartolomeo Pellegrino?”

“Yes, I mean Pellegrino.” Percy approached until he was almost nose-to-nose with Mal, his wine-scented breath puffing up into Mal’s face with every syllable. “It’s your fault he’s here, so what are you going to do about it?”

“Why should I do anything? It looks to me like he’s doing my job for me.”

“Your job?”

“Ridding the kingdom of you usurping villains.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment his lips drew back in a snarl like a dog’s. Mal held his breath, expecting the guiser to fly at his throat, but at last Percy regained his composure.

“And what do you think he’ll do when he’s finished with us? Leave you and your brother in peace and go back to his little republic?”

“I was rather hoping the two sides would wipe one another out, and save me the trouble,” Mal said, feigning more confidence than he felt. The possibility of having to take on the victor of this civil war was not appealing.

“Pellegrino betrayed us both, you know. You were supposed to die in that alley, and me with you.”

“Then it’s lucky for you I know how to handle myself in a fight. My lord.”

They locked eyes, and Mal’s fingers itched to draw his blade, but killing Percy now would only be doing Olivia a favour. After a long moment Percy breathed out heavily and took a step backward.

“Think about what I have said, Catlyn. I have money, and powerful friends.”

“Is that a threat, sir?”

“Or an invitation. Depending on your answer.”

“Then I will bid you goodnight, sir,” Mal said, moving aside and putting a hand on the latch. “I’m sure your beloved prince will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

Percy pushed past him.

“If he dies,” Percy said in a low voice, “I will personally hunt you both down, you and your brother, and tear that abomination Erishen’s soul from your screaming bodies.”

Mal said nothing, only opened the door and ushered him out with a curt bow. He waited for several moments, listening to Percy’s footfalls fade down the stairwell, then quietly slid the bolts into place and went to refill his own cup. His hands shook just a little as he poured the wine.





CHAPTER XVIII



The prince did not die, thank the Lord, but his household remained at Whitehall for the rest of the year, as did his mother’s. No news had come from the glass importer about the shipment of alchemical equipment, so Mal was able to spend a few quiet weeks with his family once more. Ned and Gabriel arrived from Sark at last, and the house rang with laughter and the raucous singing of bawdy French ballads, though Mal caught Ned looking grave whenever Parrish left for a rehearsal.

“Don’t fret,” Mal told him, “the guisers have worse things to worry about these days than you and me. Olivia’s arrival has thrown them into complete disarray.”

“And what happens if – when – she brings them all under her thumb?”

“We came close to beating Ilianwe before,” Sandy said, looking up from his book. “With the skraylings’ help, we can defeat her for certain.”

“The skraylings don’t want to help us,” Mal reminded him. “They’d rather sit back and watch us fight it out.”

“Are you boys arguing again?” Coby stood in the kitchen doorway, dressed in her best gown and clutching a ruff in one hand. “Where’s my goffering iron? And why aren’t you all dressed yet? It’s a good half an hour to the palace and the play starts at five.”

Mal scrambled to his feet and headed upstairs, glad to get out of the conversation. The thought of their enemies uniting under Olivia was too horrible to contemplate, and yet he could not see any way to prevent it, short of allying himself with Percy against her. And that cure was even worse than the disease. At least a play would be a distraction for an hour or two.