The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(93)

Erishen glanced up at the first floor windows. These had not been boarded over on the outside, of course, and the glass in them was mostly smashed and missing, but the inner shutters had evidently kept out most missiles. Some of those had been on fire, judging by the scorch marks. Erishen waited, and after a few moments one of the shutters opened a crack. He caught a glimpse of a tattooed face before the shutters closed again.

He waited several more minutes, whilst humans passed him and stared. Eventually the grille in the front door of the guild-house slid open, and he hurried across the street.

“Erishen-tuur?” a voice hissed.

“H?.”

“Come in, quickly!”

The door itself opened and he was hauled inside, tripping over the threshold. It slammed shut again behind him; just in time. Something slammed into it from the outside, followed by a hammering and muffled shouting.

As Erishen’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to make out the faces of nearly a dozen skraylings, tattooed lines stark against their pale skin.

“Erishen-tuur, what are you doing here?” one of them asked in Vinlandic.

“I was going to the camp to speak with Chief Merchant Sekharhjarret.”

“Have you not heard? Sekharhjarret is dead.”

Erishen stared at his kinsmen, but they all bobbed their heads in confirmation.

“Dead? How?”

“The humans attacked the camp, the night after their clan leader Robert was hurt. Sekharhjarret went out to try and calm them, but one threw a stone that struck him on the head and he died the next day.”

“I should go.”

“Please, stay, Erishen-tuur. The humans saw you come in; they know you are our friend and will hurt you.”

“I need to warn my brother–”

“Tonight. We can protect you in the dreamlands as we cannot on the streets.” Seeing Erishen hesitate, he added, “And if you cannot reach him, you can leave here before dawn, while the humans sleep.”

That was true enough. It would mean dodging the night watchmen, but they were old and feeble. Safer than risking the streets in daylight.

“Very well.”

They led him through the atrium and the now-empty trading hall, up the stairs into one of the wings that faced away from the street. The windows here were intact, at least on the side facing the courtyard.

“How long have you been here?” Sandy asked.

“Since the day of the attack. Some of our merchants were outside the Tower to cheer on the new leader, but they fled in boats.”

“Did they see the killer?”

“No, there were too many humans in the way. But we have heard the stories, that it was one of us who did it. This is a lie.”

“I know.” Sandy told them what he had seen at the house in Seething Lane. “Do any of you know a human named Palmer? He is a scribe and contract lawyer.”

They shrugged. “We deal with many humans. We seldom note their names apart from the principal merchants.”

“No matter–”

“What is going on here?”

Erishen looked round to see an aged skrayling in crumpled robes peering at him. “Greetings, honoured one.”

“Who let this human into our stronghold? And how does he know our tongue?”

One of the younger skraylings took him by the elbow. “This is Erishen-tuur, honoured one, come to offer his respects.”

“Does he bring an offer of peace as well?”

“Alas, no, honoured one.” He looked at Erishen. “At least, there has been no talk of peace yet.”

“Hah, you youngsters! Stories first, business later, eh?”

“Business cannot be conducted without a sound understanding of the situation,” Erishen put in.

“We understand the situation well enough. Blame has been put upon us, like the goat in the Christian story, and now we must prepare to leave.”

Erishen looked round at all of them. “You are giving up so easily?”

“We are not warriors, you know that. It is fortunate the humans have not yet managed to set fire to this house of wood, but I think that is only through fear it would destroy their own homes as well.”

“And what about the renegades? Do you abandon your watch over them? Abandon your English friends to their rule?”

The old skrayling made a placatory gesture. “We do not wish to see the Unbound rule any human nation, but what can we do once they have turned the people against us?”

“You believe this is their work, not that of other humans who hate you, such as the Huntsmen?”

Several of the skraylings flinched at the hated name.

“Yes,” the elder said. “We do. Though how it was contrived, we cannot say. The killer was not one of the Unbound, of that we are certain.”

“How?”

“We did not all stand idly in the street waving our handkerchiefs. Our patrols roamed the dreamlands as always, in anticipation of some attack against Elizabeth’s son. They saw nothing untoward.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Erishen looked at the gathered skraylings. It was true that they were not warriors, at least, not as the English understood it. There were skirmishes from time to time, back in Vinland, but the few deaths that resulted were mostly accidents. Fighting to kill was not the skrayling way.