The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(85)

The guard shrugged.

“Send a message to the stables. I want that horse found and brought to me, immediately.”

“The chestnut, or the other one?”

“Both.” When the guard did not make a move to obey, he added, “Now. Or must I report your negligence to my lord the Duke of Suffolk?”

“No, sir. Right away, sir.” He ducked into the gatehouse for a moment before setting off down the causeway.

Mal turned back to Sandy. “Go home, and let Ned know what’s happened. I’ll be back before curfew, God willing.”

“I should–”

“There’s nothing you can do. Kit will be as safe in there as anywhere. Please, Sandy.”

His brother said nothing; the taut line of his mouth and the distrustful look he gave Mal made words unnecessary. After a moment he turned and walked away. Mal let out a long breath. He had more important things to deal with than Sandy’s sulks.

In the time it took for the guard to return with the horses, Mal had managed to persuade his fellows to provide paper and ink to write a letter to Coby. There was nothing to seal it with, of course, and he dared not send anything too obviously ciphered, so he wrote a simple but heartfelt message wishing her well and praying that he would see both her and Kit soon. He handed it over, along with a few coins to speed it on its way.

“There you go, sir,” the first guard said, passing him Hector’s reins. “And here’s the other one you was asking about.”

“This is it? You’re certain?”

The second horse was a sturdy grey nag, dwarfed by Hector. Mal looked it over, noting its well-worn shoes and the sores in the corners of its mouth where the bit had rubbed.

“A hard-worked beast.”

“Aye, sir. The stablemaster says he would never have let a mangy beast like that go out in the King’s coronation procession.”

“Good. Now we shall find our man,” Mal said with a smile. “He may have killed himself, but he forgot one rather large witness.”

“Oh?”

“Every horse knows its way home. I intend to let this one loose, and follow it.”

He mounted Hector, leaned over the pommel of his saddle and gave the nag a slap on its rump. It made no move. He slapped it again. The horse turned and looked at Hector. Mal sighed. Of course. It would not want to take the lead with a larger, more dominant animal around. He dismounted and handed Hector’s reins to the guard.

“Keep him here, will you? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With a prayer to Saint Michael that the creature wouldn’t outrun him in the crowded streets, he led the nag a little way down the street and gave it another slap on the rump. It whinnied and broke into a trot. Mal jogged along behind it, ignoring the strange looks he got from passers-by.

“You’re going to have to run faster than that, my lord!” a man shouted, to uproarious laughter from his companions.

The nag led Mal about half a mile westwards then turned right, heading up Gracechurch Street towards Bishopsgate. Mal laboured after it, breath grating his throat, cursing his idleness these past few years. Time was he would have thought nothing of such a chase; now he was sweating and panting like an old man.

Thankfully his tormentor slowed as it approached the gate, finding its way blocked by the guards.

“Let it through,” Mal wheezed as he jogged up. “We’re on the King’s business.”

The gate guards stepped aside, and the chase began again. The street beyond was near empty, and the nag’s steady trot increased in pace. At least the road was flatter here. Mal broke into a run, hoping that this burst of speed meant the beast was nearing home.

Sure enough it slowed after another quarter of a mile and trotted up to the gates of a livery stable. Mal stumbled to a halt, his heart sinking. It was as he feared. This was a hired horse. Most likely the assassin had given a false name and the trail would go cold. Still, he had to try.

By the time he reached the stable, a groom had taken hold of the grey nag’s bridle and was leading it into a stall.

“You looking for a mount, sir?”

Mal turned to look at the man who had addressed him: a short, red-faced ostler in a greasy jerkin, stinking of his trade.

“That one,” he wheezed, pointing a shaking hand at the nag.

The ostler looked Mal up and down. “I think you’ll need a bigger beast than our Rosie, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Rosie? Is that the creature’s name?”

“Aye, sir. Good little thing, steady pace, tireless. Why, what are you wanting a horse for? Would have thought a gentleman like you would keep his own, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“It’s not for me. I’m Sir Maliverny Catlyn, here on the King’s business. That horse was used in an attack on the King this morning.”

The ostler turned pale. “I heard the news. Anything I can do to help the King’s justice, my lord, anything.”

“I need to know who hired that horse last.”

“I heard it was a skrayling what shot His Majesty,” the ostler said. “Haven’t had any of those coming here in years.”

“The assassin may have stolen the horse, but we need to know from whom.” Much as he wanted to set the story straight and exonerate the skraylings, now was not the time.