CHAPTER XVII
Coby stood on the balcony, watching the rain pour down into the theatre yard. The actors had finally gone home to their suppers after spending the entire day in rehearsal. They seldom had the luxury of such lengthy preparation, but with the contest only days away, Master Naismith was doing everything in his power to ensure they were as ready as their patron desired. The actors seemed to have forgotten the business with the poem already, and even Master Parrish was back with the company as if nothing had happened. Master Naismith was not so complacent, however, and had bade Coby stand watch again, even though it was the Lord's Day tomorrow.
Well, tonight she was not going to sleep in the open gallery and get rained on, that was for certain. Not when there was a snug box-office to sleep in, and no one around to gainsay her. Why carry the cushions down to the gallery, when she could make her bed right here?
She went inside, shrugged out of her doublet and shoes then, after a moment's indecision, pulled up her shirt and began unlacing her corset. Though she had grown accustomed to wearing the constricting garment, it still itched on warm, humid nights like this, and she was glad to put it aside for a while. After all, it wasn't as if anyone was here to see her. Comfortable at last, she tucked her shirt back into her hose, stretched out on the cushions and closed her eyes.
Their departure from the Tower was heralded by a low rumble of thunder, and moments later the heavens opened. The little gull-headed boat that ferried them across the river offered no cover from the weather, and Mal found himself wishing for one of the royal barges with its canopied seats. The guards seemed untroubled by it, however, and bent their backs to the oars without complaint.
By the time they reached the south bank of the Thames he was soaked to the skin and shivering in delayed reaction to the flogging. One of the guards pounded on the gates with his staff until they opened, and the ambassador's party splashed across the little drawbridge. Walkways made of wooden planks raised a few inches above the ground criss-crossed the encampment, bridging runnels that guided the rainwater back into the moat. Apart from themselves and the gate guards, the camp could have been deserted, all its inhabitants having apparently retreated to the shelter of their tents.
Mal assumed he and Kiiren were being led straight to the enormous pavilion that rose in the centre of the encampment like a mother hen over her brood of chicks. Instead the guards turned aside at the last moment and escorted them to an otherwise unremarkable-looking tent. In size it was not unlike the ordinary soldiers' campaign tents he was accustomed to, about a dozen feet across and slightly higher than a tall man, though it was round instead of square. Next to the tent stood a large shrub of a kind Mal had never seen before, with enormous drooping oval leaves that were just beginning to turn yellow. Somewhere nearby a slow, mournful melody was being picked out on a stringed instrument. He felt like he had crossed the seas to the New World and entered the skraylings' own country.
One of the guards pointed at Mal's feet. "No shoe," he said.
When Mal had removed his boots, the guard held up the tent flap and gestured for them to go inside. Mal made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer, then ducked through the entrance in his stockinged feet.
The tent was lit with the same lightwater lamps that the skraylings had used at the Tower. Panels of azure-blue silk hung from the sides of the tent, catching the lamplight on their glossy weave. Each panel had a different design on it, though what they were intended to represent, Mal could not make out. On one side of the tent stood a low table and some kind of enclosed brazier which gave out a welcome heat.
The tent smelt strongly of tobacco smoke, mingled with the dry musk of skrayling and another scent Mal could not place. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact he was dripping rainwater onto the expensive Turkish rugs that covered the floor. Kiiren began stripping off his wet clothes and was soon down to singlet and breeches.
"Please to take off your shirt and sit."
Mal peeled off the wet, blood-stained garment he had hastily donned before their departure from the Tower, wincing as the fabric parted company with the weals on his back.
"I am sorry you could not be tended more soon," Kiiren said, taking a bundle of linens from a skrayling who had appeared at the tent flap.
"It's nothing," Mal muttered. He was just glad to be out of that place.
The light shifted as Kiiren knelt down behind him and raised a lamp to examine his wounds. The skrayling's hissing intake of breath sent waves of shame through him. Mal had witnessed plenty of men flogged during his time in the army, but he guessed Kiiren had never seen anything like it before. He longed to make some jest, break the tension, but the words stuck in his throat.
Something ice cold touched Mal's back and it was all he could do not to cry out.
"What is that?" he gasped. A sharp woody scent began to fill the tent.
"Ashaarr."
Mal wondered if that was the name of the stuff in the bottle, or if Kiiren were trying to hush him. He braced himself as he heard the slosh of liquid again. But where the stuff had first touched his shoulder the pain was already fading, to be replaced by a pleasant warmth. He breathed shallowly, trying not to flinch away every time Kiiren dabbed the searing fluid on another cut. Eventually all his wounds were salved, and Kiiren corked the bottle and put it aside.
"We must cover these," Kiiren said. "You English are so dirty."
He began winding a smooth bandage around Mal's torso.
"Are you angry with me, sir?" Mal asked, trying to take his mind off Kiiren's closeness. The skrayling's breath was hot on his raw back.
Kiiren sighed. "Not with you. With – Leland, and Ingilandeth. Unkindness to one of our clan is unkindness to all."
"But–" Mal twisted round. "I am not of your clan."
"You are one of us." Kiiren reached out and traced the line of Mal's cheek, his eyes never leaving Mal's own. "You are touched by Erishen, I can feel it."
Mal willed himself not to pull away. "Is this… Erishen your god?"
"He is light of my soul," Kiiren whispered.
Mal swallowed.
"Whatever you think, sir," he said, as politely as he could, "you are wrong."
Kiiren lowered his hand. "I fear so." He picked up a heap of folded cream wool and held it out towards Mal. "Please to put this on."
Mal took the robe gratefully and, turning his back on the skrayling, stripped off his wet hose and stockings. The garment was very like the one the ambassador wore in the evenings, after he changed out of his ceremonial robes. Mal felt a little self-conscious wearing it, but at least it was dry and warm.
The tent flap opened again. One of the skrayling guards who had accompanied them back from the Tower crouched there, his eyes lowered in respect. He spoke briefly to Kiiren, who beckoned to Mal.
"Come, it is time."
He handed Mal a pair of sheepskin moccasins, then ducked through the tent flap.
"Time for what?" Mal asked, hopping after him with one moccasin on.
Four of the guards waited outside, this time with a canopy to hold off the rain, and Mal and Kiiren were escorted to the central pavilion. Inside, it was packed with skrayling men of all ages, from youths of perhaps fourteen or so to silver-haired elders. The central area was empty; around its periphery, tall wooden standards stood at intervals, hung with three or four of the coloured lamps, whose light turned the skraylings' tattooed features into tiger masks of black and silver.
"Wait here, Catlyn-tuur," Kiiren said as they reached the inner edge of the ring of skraylings.
"What's going on?" Mal asked.
"Elders of clans wish to know what happen today, and why we are here," Kiiren whispered.
The young ambassador walked into the centre of the open space, and the crowd fell silent. He began his account of events, pointing northwards at intervals. Mal caught the occasional name here and there, mainly "Leland". Judge Scarheart, Chief Merchant Greatyard and the other elders seated in the front row of the crowd asked many questions. Kiiren's account went on for a lot longer than seemed necessary to describe such a simple incident.
At first Mal could not make head nor tail of what was going on, then he realised it was not so different from the debates at university. If one ignored the words and watched the expressions and gestures, it was possible to make out the general intent, if not the detail.
Kiiren appeared to be on the defensive, as if he were trying to justify his decision to leave, but without a sound argument to back it up. Mal began to think he had been wrong about Kiiren's status; throughout the debate, participants referred back to the judge, as if seeking his expert opinion on a point of contention.
Eventually Kiiren came over to where Mal was sitting and held out his hand, gesturing for him to rise. Mal followed him into the centre of the circle, wondering what this was all about. Suddenly the ambassador seized the shoulder of his robe and pulled it down. Mal glanced at him in alarm.
"Do you neked," Kiiren murmured in Tradetalk, smiling.
Mal let the robe fall to the ground, so that he was wearing nothing but his linen drawers. Kiiren untied the knots holding the bandages in place. As the strips of linen fell around Mal's feet, those of the crowd sitting behind Mal gasped. The ambassador put a hand on Mal's shoulder and turned him gently so all could see.
"Was that necessary?" Mal muttered to Kiiren, clutching the robe to his chest, as they returned to the front row of the crowd and sat down.
Kiiren smiled apologetically. "Our people must see what is done, so they understand why we leave."
Judge Scarheart now took the floor. This time Mal did not even try to follow the discussion. He sat, eyes downcast, whilst Kiiren rewound his bandages, trying to ignore all the stares the two of them were attracting. He felt totally out of his depth, alone amongst a people whose customs made no sense to him. Men who took on the role of women; an ambassador who was at once revered by his people and yet as humble as Our Lord… He caught himself at this blasphemous thought. He must not allow himself to be led into heresy and damnation by a skrayling, no matter how charming.
The skraylings fell silent, then one by one they began to remove their necklaces, placing them on the ground at their feet. Mal glanced at Kiiren, but the young ambassador was too intent on his own part in this apparent ceremony. Once the crowd was still again, Judge Scarheart began chanting, low and soft. Others took up the song and soon the tent reverberated with their joined voices, rising and falling like waves on the shore. Memory stirred, and a terrible loneliness swept over him. Without thinking he reached up and removed the earring, placed it in his lap…
He was there, under the strange starless sky, but he could no longer see the moor with its distant lights. A wall of mist surrounded him, not quite close enough to touch. Shapes swirled within it, and he thought he heard voices, but when he turned to locate the speaker he found only an echoing silence, like the memory of words just spoken.
He ought to be afraid, the creatures were still out there, he was sure of it, but somehow he knew the mist protected him. Together we are strong, the mist voices seemed to say.
"Who are you?" he shouted, but no sound reached his ears.
A brighter patch of mist weaved back and forth in front of him, as if examining him. He was reminded of the blinding light from before, only this time it was veiled, a pearly glow like the moon behind clouds. The light retreated, and he plunged into the mist after it. The light flared around him, engulfing him, drowning him in shining water like the skraylings' lamps. He cried out – and woke with a start in the musty dimness of the little tent.
Kiiren was kneeling by the brazier, watching him intently.
"Wha' happened?" Mal mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his face. He felt as if he'd woken from a long fever.
"You took this off," Kiiren said, handing him the earring. "That was not wise." The force of the reprimand was rather spoilt by the gleam of delight in his eyes.
Mal fastened the heavy pendant in place. "I don't understand."
"You will," Kiiren said. "Now, you must sleep."
He placed a hand on Mal's shoulder as if to urge him to lie down. Mal's breath hissed between his teeth as his raw back protested at the touch.
"Please forgive," Kiiren said, inclining his head to the side in obeisance. "I did not think – I mean no hurt."
"It's nothing." Once again he was taken aback by the young skrayling's peculiar mix of friendliness and humility.
When Kiiren had gone he stripped off the robe and lay face down on the pallet, covering his lower half with a blanket for modesty's sake. There were no pillows, so he pulled a cushion over and rested his head on it. He closed his eyes. His mind still buzzed with the memory of the dream. If it had been a dream. Though it must be well past midnight, he did not feel the least bit sleepy. Not sleepy at all…
Coby was woken by sounds from the tiring room below. Footsteps? She groped for the cudgel, her heart pounding. Surely she had locked and barred the doors before coming to bed; at least, she thought she had. No, she was certain of it. How then had someone got in?
The footsteps sounded on the stairs now. She pulled the cloak over her head, hoping not to be noticed in the shadows. If a thief were after something, it was better she spied on him and reported to Master Naismith later. She lay there, hardly daring to breathe. Yellow light, as of a candle or lantern, outlined the door at the far end of the office. The footsteps halted, and the door opened to reveal the face of a devil.
She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. The devil advanced into the room, holding the lantern so that its hideous blood-red face was lit from below like the fires of Hell. Its eyes glinted, and the hooked nose cast enormous shadows on the walls and ceiling. Coby moved her hand very slowly to the little wooden cross that hung on a cord around her neck.
The devil went from one chest to the next, unlocking each and examining the contents. At last he found what he wanted. Coby's heart skipped a beat. It was the chest containing the actors' sides. Master Naismith did not trust the hired men with even a fraction of his new play, and insisted that all copies were returned to the chest after each rehearsal. Pieced together, they could be made into a complete manuscript.
"Lodge," she muttered under her breath and got to her feet. The playwright was probably drunk again.
"Who's there?" the man growled.
He set his lantern down on the nearest chest, reached under his cloak and brought out a snaplock pistol. Never take on a man armed with a blade, Master Catlyn had told her. Or a gun, she added mentally. On the other hand, unless she fancied jumping over the balcony, there was nowhere to run from this particular devil.
After a moment she let the cudgel fall. The noise was loud as a pistol shot in the empty theatre, and in the long silence that followed, Coby realised no one would hear them and come to her aid. The intruder apparently came to the same conclusion.
"Make one more move and I shoot." He cocked the pistol with his free hand, then thumbed the flash pan open.
She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. If this was Lodge, he had grown a pair since Coby last saw him. Come to think of it, this man was too tall to be Lodge, and his mask could not quite hide the bald patch gleaming above a circle of mousy brown hair.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she asked.
"That's none of your business, Hendricks."
So, he was an acquaintance, just not the one she had supposed. An actor, perhaps, or one of the workmen? His voice was familiar but, distorted as it was by the mask, she could not immediately identify him.
"Open the chest," the intruder said, stepping back slightly and gesturing with the pistol.
She crossed the room slowly, not wanting to come within arm's reach of the man. Most of all she had to keep from getting between him and the lantern, lest the transparency of her shirt betray her. Reaching the chest, she crouched and raised the lid. Neat stacks of pages lay where she had left them earlier that day, bound into sets with string. The handwritten lines seemed to blur before her gaze.
"Now, take out all the sides for The Queen of Faerieland."
She had been afraid the masked man intended to burn the contents of the chest, and perhaps the entire theatre, but if he were interested only in the new play, that suggested his motivation was monetary. The question was, what would he do with her once she had done everything he asked?
"If you are going to take these away with you," Coby said, trying to keep her voice steady, "it would be easier if I rolled them up into a document case."
She stood slowly and gestured towards the desk behind them, where there was indeed a cylindrical leather case. As she had hoped, the masked man turned without thinking, and she snatched up a nearby stool and hit him across the back of the head. He went sprawling across the floor, dropping the pistol. Coby stood over him, trembling with relief, but he did not move. She prodded him with the toe of her shoe. Out cold – or dead. Right now she was not sure she cared which.
There was no rope in the box-office, but a foray to the attic produced some offcuts from the fitting of the trapdoor and hoist mechanism. She bound the intruder hand and foot, and only then did she dare roll him over and remove the mask.
It was John Wheeler, the new hireling. Planning to sell them out to the Admiral's Men, no doubt. Well he could await Master Naismith's wrath. Grunting with effort she dragged the unconscious man over to a supporting timber and secured him with a further length of rope. She examined the back of his head, but his skull seemed unbroken and there was only a little bruising where she had hit him. He also had a lump on his forehead where he had hit the floor. At least he was not dead, though this knocking men out was getting to be a bad habit.
She got dressed, feeling vastly safer in the reassuring embrace of canvas and lacings, and settled down with a flagon of small ale to watch over her captive. Much as she wanted to run back to Thames Street and alert Master Naismith, there was nothing for it but to wait here. The wherrymen went home at curfew, and the city gates wouldn't open again until dawn.
The thought came to her that if the villain was the man hired to replace Catchpenny, he might have killed Catchpenny to gain a place in their company. She shivered despite the heat. If she had known she was taking on a murderer, she might have been more cautious, and that in itself could have got her killed. She picked up Wheeler's pistol and examined the intricate mechanism. She didn't know much about guns, but surely a pistol needed to be primed with powder and loaded with shot? This one looked as clean as the day it was made. An empty threat, then; Wheeler had not had any murderous intent this time. That was a relief of sorts. But she had acted on impulse, risking her life for what? A few sheets of paper, and those a mere copy of the original that Master Naismith kept safe at his home. The actor-manager might praise her bravery in capturing their would-be thief, but she did not think Master Catlyn would agree. She sighed, and put the pistol down on the desk.
After about an hour Wheeler regained consciousness and began to struggle against his bonds.
"Wha–? Where am I?" he slurred.
"You don't remember?"
Wheeler shook his head, and winced.
"You're at the Mirror," she told him. "I caught you breaking into the box-office and trying to steal the sides for the new play."
"I – There were rehearsals."
"Yes, all day. Everyone went home for supper this evening."
"I don't remember," he groaned.
"You don't remember going home?"
"No. Where am I?"
Coby sighed. Perhaps she had hit him too hard after all, and knocked his wits awry.
"At the Mirror. Why were you stealing our manuscript?"
He looked up at her with unfocused eyes.
"You're that Dutch boy who works for Naismith. What are you doing in my house, and why am I tied up?"
"You are at the theatre," Coby said through gritted teeth.
"Am I?" He looked around, puzzled. "What am I doing here?"
"That's what we'd all like to know," she sighed.
It was useless; she would not get any sense out of the man tonight. Picking up an armful of cushions she went out onto the balcony and closed the doors behind her. The rain had cleared the sky, and stars twinkled in the cloudless black. She lay down, pulled the cloak over her head to muffle the sound of her captive's shouts for help, and prayed for dawn.