The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(94)

“I want to go back,” he said. “When you leave this land, take us with you. We are your kin–”

“You are stranger-born, like the others,” the elder said. “It is not permitted.”

Erishen fell to his knees and tipped his head back, baring his throat in submission. “Please, honoured one… at least take my amayi. He does not deserve exile.”

“And whose fault is it that he now suffers this fate? You and your brother interfered with his mission and got him killed. You yourself broke our laws when you came to this land, and chose the path of the renegade.”

Erishen had no answer to that, since it was all true.

“And yet,” the elder went on, “you have suffered a great deal at the hands of the renegades, I am told. They burned your home and tried to destroy you, is that so?”

“Yes, honoured one.”

The elder sighed. “I cannot promise you will be welcomed home, but if you are able to come to our ship before we sail, I will see you conveyed out of the reach of your enemies. What happens after that may be out of my hands.”

“Thank you. My brother and I will be eternally grateful.”

“Now, leave us. There is much to do before we go.”

“Honoured one.” The leader of the young skraylings made an obeisance. “We invited Erishen-tuur to stay until the streets are empty, that he may leave unnoticed.”

“Very well.” The old merchant turned away. “He may stay until midnight. Let him meditate upon his foolish actions until then.”



Mal was woken in the night by Sandy’s return from the skrayling guild-house. He listened in growing despondency to the news and resolved to report to the Privy Council immediately, in the hope of stopping this persecution before it went any further. After a swift early breakfast he saddled Hector and set off for the palace.

The wheels of state turn slowly, however, and the sun was approaching its zenith before a liveried servant arrived to announce that the council were ready to see him at last. He was escorted from the antechamber, across an inner courtyard and into the atrium of the Council Chamber itself, the guards’ pole-arm butts clicking on the stone flags in time with the thud of their booted feet, until they came to a sudden halt before a pair of dark oak doors carved with the royal arms. Two more guards stood at attention either side; they opened the doors, and Mal was ushered inside.

The room beyond was not vast, but the space from the doors to the table at the far end seemed to stretch endlessly away from him. One of the men seated behind the table coughed. Mal remembered himself and bowed, low enough to show his respect for Prince Arthur, whose red hair was the only patch of colour in the sombre company. At the prince’s right hand sat the short hunched figure of Sir Robert Cecil, the Secretary of State; on his left was the Lord High Admiral, Lord Howard of Effingham; and on the admiral’s left the Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas Egerton. The fifth member of the council was very like to Effingham in age and looks, though his silver beard was even longer; Mal guessed him to be Baron Buckhurst, the Lord High Treasurer. If Gabriel’s report was correct, Olivia now had the prince under her thumb, but there was still hope she had not bewitched all of them.

Mal stopped a respectful distance from the polished table, his hands clasped behind his back, head up but eyes respectfully lowered. Sweat trickled down his back, and not only from the sticky heat of a July afternoon. The silence stretched out before him as the five men passed documents between themselves, reminding him of the Venetian Grand Chancellor and his secretaries. At least here he was not in imminent danger of torture. Not yet.

Cecil coughed and tossed aside the sheet of paper he had been reading.

“A very thorough investigation, Master Catlyn.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must have worked through the night to assemble such a long list of names from Palmer’s paperwork.”

“I had assistance. My colleagues in Lord Grey’s service–”

“Ah yes. Still, such a pity.”

“Pity?” Mal’s stomach lurched.

“Yes, to spend so many hours on such a fruitless exercise.”

“I do not think it fruitless, begging your pardons, sirs. It opens up many avenues of enquiry–”

“Do you presume to tell us how to conduct the administration of the realm, Master Catlyn?”

“No, sir, of course not.” Was the prince in charge here, or Cecil? As Secretary of State, he had taken over many of Sir Francis Walsingham’s responsibilities, if not his spy network.

“As I was saying, a fruitless exercise.” Cecil leaned across the table, fixing Mal with his dark eyes. “I put it to you that Nathaniel Palmer is an innocent party in this. A decoy. You say it is he who fired at the King and then took his own life?”

“Aye, sir.”

“A dreadful slander against an upright citizen, is it not? What cause have you to connect Palmer with the assassin?”

“His horse, sir. I followed it–”

“I read the report. A livery horse, open to hire by any that wants it. Is that right?”

Mal bit back the urge to point out that this too was in his report. “Aye, sir. And Palmer was the last to hire it.”

“And this is the whole of your evidence against him?”

Mal hesitated, but he could not say any more without incriminating himself.