"My apologies, I did not mean you."
He swept out of the chamber, still muttering imprecations under his breath.
"Your Excellency, should I alert Sir Francis Walsingham?" she called out after him.
Kiiren stopped dead in his tracks. "No. We can trust no one with this."
"But–"
He fixed her with cold yellow eyes and she shrank back a little.
"We will say Catlyn-tuur is sick after fire and I tend him," the ambassador said. "No one, not even Leland-tuur, will risk anger of Queen Elizabeth by doubting my word."
"There must be something I can do."
"This is not human business. Please, go back to your friends and leave this to me."
He strode up the steps to his chamber and disappeared inside. Coby bit back tears of fury. How could the ambassador be so kind one moment, and so cold and arrogant the next? He was just like other skraylings after all. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her shoes. Master Catlyn was out there, and she was going to find him if it was the last thing she did. On impulse she picked up his sword belt, rapier and dagger, and wrapped them in a cloak. They were no use to him here, and if she did find him, he might be glad of some cold steel between him and his enemies.
With a last glance back at the closed bedchamber door, she made her way out of the ambassador's apartments and through the outer ward to the gates of the castle, which stood open in the cold light of early morning. Torches still burned in the gateway, casting a warm yellow glow against the mist rolling in off the river. Coby stepped aside into the shadow of a tower, strapped the sword belt around her waist and then wrapped the cloak around her for warmth. The rapier was heavy, and so long that its tip scraped on the ground unless she kept her left hand pressed against the hilt. She began to walk more quickly, praying the guards would not notice.
The ambassador was right about one thing: she still had friends, and they owed Master Catlyn a debt of honour. She would show the skraylings this was human business after all.
Mal jerked awake to the sound of keys rattling. He got to his feet, groping for his rapier hilt. Too late he recalled he had removed his weapons before settling down next to Hendricks.
The door opened, and a heavily built man wearing blue and white livery and armed with a quarterstaff came into the room, looking around warily as if expecting an attack. He eyed Mal with puzzlement, then stepped aside to let his companion past: a plump-faced, pretty girl of about sixteen, carrying a plate of bread and a flagon. As she came into the room, Sandy stirred and sat up. The girl screamed and dropped the plate.
"Oi, what's this?" the retainer shouted, swinging the staff in an arc before him.
Mal ran at him, but the man was too fast. He jabbed the end of the staff at Mal's breastbone, knocking the wind out of him, and backed out of the room with an oath. The door slammed shut before Mal could reach it, and a key scraped in the lock.
Mal pounded on the door, more out of frustration than any hope that it would be opened again. He turned and leant back against it, breathing gingerly against the ache in the centre of his chest. Sandy was kneeling on the floor, gnawing at a hunk of fallen bread like a starving man.
"I don't suppose they brought enough for two," Mal joked, then realised it was the truth. The girl had screamed because she had not been expecting two prisoners. Which suggested he had not been brought here by Sandy's captors.
He squatted next to his brother and examined the thick metal bands about his wrists. Bronze, not iron. Strange, to make gyves of the stuff, unless… Kiiren had said that lodestone protected against evil spirits, and anchored the soul to the body. Did iron do something similar? Mal stared at his brother and made the sign of the cross. That… thing inside him had reached out across the bond between them and used witchcraft to twist Mal's dreams to its own ends.
He went back to the window. The palace on the far riverbank was silhouetted against the rising sun, and Mal had to shield his eyes from the reflections off its many gilded onion domes. A pale stone building with dozens of slender towers and chimneys: not the sprawling red-brick complex that was Hampton Court; nor was it Greenwich, which faced north and stood at the foot of a steep hill. Richmond, then. So whose house was this? Who was so powerful that he would dare traffic with demons under the very nose of Prince Robert?
Ned was dozing in a tangle of warm sheets when the knock came at the door. Not Baines again, surely?
"Master Parrish?" a high voice piped. "Master Faulkner? Are you in there?"
Damn. Hendricks.
"Hang on!" he shouted, scrambling out of bed and pulling on his drawers.
He opened the door and ushered the boy inside. Hendricks took one look at Ned and turned away, blushing, to gaze fixedly at a playbill nailed to the inside of the door. The paper was yellowed with age and torn around the edges, and the ink blurred from damp, but the title was still clear: "The Tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage, written by Christopher Marlowe".
"Is Master Parrish…" The boy hesitated. "Did he get out safely?"
Ned rummaged in the laundry basket for a not-too-filthy shirt, sniffed one, threw it on the floor, and eventually settled for yesterday's. It smelt faintly of the charnel house, but it would have to do.
"He's well. Gone to buy–" He looked up and froze, shirt forgotten. "Why are you wearing Mal's sword? What's happened?"
"Master Catlyn has been spirited away," the boy replied, hugging his ribs and looking as if he was about to burst into tears.
"What? I thought he went back to the Tower with the ambassador."
"He did. And I… He asked me to go there, to tell him about the fire."
"You were there when it happened?" Ned asked. "Who was it? And how in Christ's name did they conjure him out under the noses of the beefeaters?"
"Conjure is the right word," Hendricks replied. "He was stolen away by magic. Skrayling magic."
"God's teeth!" Ned crossed himself. "You're not jesting, are you?"
Hendricks shook his head. He seemed about to say more, but footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. Before Ned could stop him, Hendricks had thrown the door open.
"Master Parrish!"
Hendricks flung his arms around the startled actor, who tossed a warm loaf in Ned's direction then returned the embrace.
"Faith, what's all this?" Gabriel murmured, looking askance at Ned over the boy's shoulder.
Ned shrugged in reply. Voice shaking, Hendricks repeated the story he'd told Ned.
"Ambassador Kiiren says they are both away west of London," he added, "in one of the royal palaces or perhaps near it."
"Why should we believe that?" Ned replied. "If skrayling magic stole Mal away, the ambassador could be in on it."
"I don't think so," Hendricks said. "He seemed very upset."
"Upset at having his schemes discovered, more like."
"Enough!" Gabriel glared at him. "Come, let's break our fast and decide what to do about this."
Ned finished dressing and they gathered around the small table, perched on an assortment of stools and chests. After a couple of abortive attempts to sit down whilst wearing the rapier, Hendricks eventually unbuckled the sword belt and laid it on the bed.
"Near one of the palaces, eh?" Gabriel said, pouring three tankards of small ale. "Doesn't narrow it down a lot."
Hendricks made no reply, only picked at his bread. Ned smiled to himself. So, it was as he had suspected. Mal might deny any interest in boys, but there was something between those two, if only on Hendricks' side. God knew Mal's ambivalence had never stopped Ned from dreaming.
"Could be Molesey Prior, near Hampton Court," Gabriel went on. "Or Syon House. Essex is a friend of Northumberland, and we all know what they say about the Percys."
"You think the wizard earl has discovered the secret of skrayling magic?" Ned asked.
"Could be."
"My lord Suffolk might know," Hendricks said in a small voice.
"Suffolk? Yes. Ferrymead Park borders the Syon estate. If not the duke himself, then perhaps his servants know some gossip."
Gabriel got to his feet, brushed crumbs from his doublet and put on a soft velvet cap that covered most of his singed hair.
"Going somewhere?" Ned asked.
"I think we should pay our respects to our patron, don't you, Hendricks?"
The boy obediently rose and went to open the door, though not without a longing glance back at the rapier on the bed. Ned drained his tankard and made ready to join them.
"Not you," Gabriel said.
Ned opened his mouth to protest, but Gabriel silenced him with a kiss.
"I need you to make yourself useful, love," he murmured, and produced a purse from his pocket. "We'll need transport upriver, and perhaps the means to break a man out of bondage."
Ned took the money and weighed it thoughtfully in his palm.
"I reckon I know just the man."
Mal sat down on the end of the bed. Sandy was sleeping again, his features relaxed for the first time since Mal's arrival. Trying to move silently so as not to disturb his brother, Mal examined every inch of the room. There had to be some way out of this trap.
They had not yet shackled him, which was his main advantage. Perhaps they were counting on the fact that he would not try to escape alone, and with Sandy in tow he would have little chance against their enemy's henchmen. A quarterstaff might be a good weapon to subdue a madman, but he didn't doubt they had other more deadly arms beside. His own life doubtless meant nothing to them, whatever their plans for Sandy.
He mentally inventoried the contents of the room and each item's possible uses. It did not take him long. Their accommodation had deliberately been stripped of most of its furniture and all of its bedding, probably to prevent Sandy from taking his own life.
The most promising weapon was the piss-pot, which could be used to hit the guard over the head, should he turn his back, or its contents could be thrown in his face to blind him. The bed and its mattress could be pushed up against the door to prevent anyone entering. That would not be much use unless he could find another way out. He examined the windows carefully. They hinged outwards, blocked by bars set into fresh mortar. If he had a knife or even a belt buckle, he might be able to poke it through the gap and dislodge them eventually, but he had neither. Not that time was likely to be on his side. The servants must have reported to their master by now; indeed he had expected Sandy's captors to come straight up here and demand to know how Mal had got in. Unless no one in authority was here right now.
A country house in Richmond, an absent master, and a manservant in blue-and-white livery. The cards fell into a pattern, though it was not one he had expected. Walsingham had it right: Blaise Grey was the rotten fruit to draw in the wasps, whilst the father stayed aloof and loyal to the Crown. But were they working with the Huntsmen, or against them? Either the father was a hypocrite, or the son; and Mal could not decide which of them he trusted least.