Putting aside the empty bowl he took out his next assignment from Baines, but his eyes would not focus on the grid of letters. Damn Walsingham, for trapping him in this conspiracy. How long was it going to take, anyway? A chill ran over his skin despite the closeness of the evening air. Leland had not said when the ambassador was due to leave. What if he stayed in England indefinitely?
On the other hand, twenty-four shillings a week would be enough to get proper care for his brother, away from that dreadful place. Mistress Faulkner might know a reliable woman who would look after Sandy, especially if he continued to improve. And it would be most fitting for the skraylings to pay for what they had done.
With a smile he kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed. Some good was going to come of this after all.
The dream began as it always did, in darkness and cold. Mal was riding through trees, the wet leaves brushing his face. Around him, others were riding too, the only sounds the steady tread of hooves and the snorting of horses reined in. No jingle of harness – it had been muffled before they left – and no conversation. Mal looked around for his brothers. Sandy was a few yards away, separated from him by a couple of other riders; Charles was indistinguishable from the other masked men in the dark.
On they rode in silence, uphill and down and up again until the trees gave way to bracken and scattered birch, and finally to heather and gorse and clumps of rough grass. The constellation of Orion burned high in the northern sky. It was a week after the twins' sixteenth birthday, and only a few days until they were due to go up to Cambridge.
In a hollow by the side of the road, a camp fire flickered. The riders broke into a canter, then a gallop. He could see them to either side of him, hooded figures all alike, now carrying flaming torches. Across the moors they galloped in near silence, as smoothly as on a beach, never stumbling or slowing down. The distant glow drew nearer. Three wagons, drawn into a U-shape, with a fire between them. The silhouettes of men moved against the flame, running in panic. There was a faint crack of musket fire, then they were there, riding around the camp so none could escape. Crossbow quarrels thudded into earth, wood, flesh. Screams rent the air.
A few of the men dismounted, swords drawn. The rest assembled at the open end of the U, watching and waiting. All that could be heard was the moaning of the wind. Then there was a scuffle in one of the wagons, and two riders appeared, dragging a third figure between them. Firelight danced across a tattooed face, turning it into a demonic mask. With quiet methodical movements, the riders tied the skrayling to the wheel of one of the wagons.
Mal glanced at Sandy, who had managed to evade his escort and rein his mount in next to his brother's gelding. Sandy's eyes were wide and white-rimmed behind the slits of the mask. He did not have to speak for Mal to know exactly what he was thinking. Mal shook his head. Even if they could somehow out-ride these men, they would never find their way home in the dark.
One of the men pulled something out of his doublet. He grabbed the skrayling's jaw and wrenched it open. Mal tried to look away, but something nudged him in the ribs. A pistol.
"Art craven, little brother?"
Mal's breath caught in his throat as the skrayling screamed. There was a roar from the riders. The one in the black hood took something in his left hand and threw it to the nearest rider, then bent back to his work. Another scream. Mal was glad he couldn't see from here, but he could hear well enough to imagine it. Then everyone was dismounting, and the men closed in on the skrayling. Mal turned away, trying to shut out the animal sounds.
Someone grabbed Sandy and pulled him off his mount.
"Come on, lad, it'll be thy turn soon."
The voice was answered with coarse laughter.
"Leave him alone!" Mal shouted at them.
Sandy began to make a strange whimpering sound in the back of his throat.
"No, no, please–" Sandy screamed. "Sula, aneimaca! Eicorro niwehi mall?! De! De! Amayi!"
The riders drew back, crossing themselves.
"The beast has unleashed a demon amongst us," one of them cried, drawing his dagger as he pushed his way into the knot of men surrounding the skrayling. The creature's screams ended in a gurgling moan. Sandy collapsed to the ground and curled into a ball, still whimpering.
Mal slid down from his horse. He knew he was the only one who had understood any of the strange words his brother had babbled. It was the secret language they used to speak together as boys, until their father caught them and whipped them black and blue. Something about "people coming", Sandy had said. Was he trying to warn the riders, or their victim?
Mal tried to get around the gelding to where his brother lay, but someone caught him by the arm.
"What about this 'un?" his captor asked the leader.
"Blood him."
"Aye, ye mun blood at least one," said someone else. "He's not one of us until he's blooded!"
He tried to turn and run away, but his path was blocked by the broad expanse of an oak trunk. He looked around and down and discovered he was tied to the tree, belly against the rough bark, naked but for the low boots skraylings wore. No, oh no…
"Amayiiii!"
Suddenly he was surrounded by three or four of the humans, towering over him in their slit-eyed hoods like carrion birds. Cold hands clawed at him, colder steel tore his flesh, burning like brands… White-hot pain exploded at the base of his spine, then his spirit fled into the howling darkness–
Mal awoke with a cry, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt himself all over. No wounds, no broken bones, nothing but the familiar scars of battle, long healed. He let out a shaky breath and looked around, half-expecting to see Sandy at his side, cheeks smeared in dried blood.
The cold half-light of an overcast dawn seeped through the shutters. In the distance a mastiff howled. Southwark. Ned's house. Home. He kicked off the sweat-soaked sheets. Where was Ned when he needed him? He wrapped his arms about his knees and bowed his head.
"Sancte Michael Archangele, deduc me per tenebras. Ferro tuo viam illumina…"