The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(92)

Ned gathered up the documents nearest Mal as fast as he could. The brass-and-steel fingers of his right hand clattered uselessly against the tabletop, and he cursed under his breath.

“Sorry,” Mal said. “Well?”

“Yes, I’ve found something. And it’s more bad news, I’m afraid.”

“Why does this not surprise me? Go on.”

Ned put down the rain-spattered papers and picked out a sheet he’d put aside. “You might recognise the names and signatures on that one.”

Mal took it from him with a raised eyebrow and scanned the first few lines.

“Dear God in Heaven.”

“I told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t even remember dealing with Palmer. Mind you, it was six years ago, and there were a great many papers to sign when I came back to England. Not just the deeds to the estate; there were all of Sandy’s affairs to sort out as well.” He sighed and sat down by the fire. “This doesn’t look good. If it gets out, Northumberland will have me on Tower Hill before you can say ‘habeas corpus’.”

“We could burn it,” Ned said. “No one would have to know.”

“As a last resort, perhaps. No, hold on to it, and we’ll see if we can make an alternative case to distract attention from that particular connection.”

“That won’t be hard.”

“Oh?”

“Palmer was a scrivener-notary.” When Mal looked blank, he added, “They’ve got exclusive rights to deal with contracts and suchlike within the City of London. Lots of mercantile clients, foreign traders especially. A man like Palmer would probably have spoken half-a-dozen languages: French, Spanish, Portuguese, Tradetalk…”

“Skraylings.”

“Skraylings.” Ned gestured to the documents scattered across the table. “Nearly a quarter of his dealings involved skrayling merchants, one way or another.”

“But why would a man who chose to make it his business to deal with the skraylings go and dress up as one and shoot the King?”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, so they say. Perhaps he’d had enough of them.”

“Or perhaps he was a Huntsman, or one of their sympathisers.” Mal shook the document with his name on it. “I had to deal with Palmer because he was one of my brother Charles’s chosen agents. What if Charles singled him out because they had common interests, so to speak?”

“That doesn’t help your case, though, does it?”

“Quite the opposite,” Mal replied glumly.

“So what do we tell Grey?”

“Damned if I know.”

Ned sank his head in his hands. “Time was I could have forged something, neat as you like. Now…” He gestured with his false hand.

“Don’t blame yourself. Whoever set Palmer on this course knew exactly what they were doing.”

“The guisers?”

“Olivia. Whoever was responsible for the earlier attacks on you and me – whether Percy or one of his allies – they were unsubtle to say the least. This new conspiracy relied on finding the one person in London who makes a plausible link between me and a plot to kill the King, and then convincing him to blow his brains out.” Mal sprang to his feet with a curse. “Damn it, the woman probably even wagered on the possibility that I would become involved in the matter. Which means that we have to be very careful what we do next, or we could find ourselves in worse trouble than we are already.”

“Worse? What’s worse than being executed for treason?”

Mal made no answer, only gathered up the papers with a distracted air.

“What about you?” Ned asked, hoping for better news than his own. “Any chance that the horse was stolen and the assassin wasn’t Palmer?”

“Nothing,” Mal said, slamming the stack of documents back down on the table. “I made enquiries in all of Palmer’s old haunts, but no one’s seen or heard of him since before the coronation. Perhaps I should ride out tomorrow and talk to some of his associates outside London.”

“What about Sandy?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he could go and talk to the skraylings, couldn’t he? If anyone can get the truth out of them, surely it’s your brother.”

“A capital idea! I’ll speak to him after supper.” Mal pulled up a stool at the table and selected a quill from the inkstand. “In the meantime, I’ll compile a summary of your findings and we’ll take it to Grey in the morning.”



The sun was sinking behind him as Erishen walked the length of Southwark towards the guild-house. People passed on either side, their faces set like stone. It had been three days, and still there was no good news of the King’s recovery. It was strange to him, to think of a person gone forever with no chance of rebirth; the Christian heaven seemed a poor recompense for being exiled from life.

As he neared the guild-house the mood of the passers-by changed. They hurried along the street with heads bowed and eyes on the ground, as if they could make themselves invisible by not seeing anyone. He turned the corner and halted, staring.

The windows of the guild-house were boarded up – hastily, by the looks of it – and the front door was dented as if someone had taken a small battering ram to it. Excrement was smeared on the boards and on the whitewashed walls, and the sign hanging above the door had been ripped down. Even as he watched, a man walking past made an obscene gesture towards the building then crossed himself.