"What time is it?"
"About one of your hours before sunset."
"And where are my friends?"
"Gone back to English ambassador's house, I believe."
Mal pulled back the bedclothes, fought his way through the gauzy drapes and strode over to where his clothes had been laid out neatly on a chair. Let Kiiren stare if he wanted to; he must have seen everything already.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to Berowne's." Mal pulled on his drawers and tied the waist-string. "You can't keep me a prisoner, you know."
"At least stay tonight, and rest some more. Please."
Mal paused. In truth he was not as well recovered as he would like. His muscles still ached despite the skrayling medicine, and he doubted he would pass Kiiren's test yet.
"Very well." He stuck his head through the neck-hole of his shirt. "But no more sleeping draughts. I need a clear head tomorrow."
Kiiren ducked his head in acknowledgement, though Mal noted he did not actually say yes.
He was left to finish dressing on his own. No weapons, but then he had come unarmed. Nor were these all his own clothes; he guessed his brother had exchanged their doublet and hose, the better to fool Berowne. At least they were a better fit for one another these days, though Sandy was still a little narrower across the shoulder. Too much time spent indoors instead of out fighting.
He went over to the window, which looked out onto the street at the side of the palazzo. It was not far down to the ground, and an adjacent windowsill gave easy access to a chimney-breast with convenient footholds. As soon as he had his strength back, he would be out of here in a matter of moments.
They followed Charles down the street, through an archway and along an alley to a plain door with tiny barred windows either side. Charles fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and gestured for them to go inside.
"You first," said Ned.
Charles led them through a narrow damp-smelling passageway and up a flight of stairs with treads of worn red brick. The upper chambers were no better than the ground floor, with mouldering plaster and uneven, creaking floorboards. Stained mattresses and blankets piled here and there hinted at absent inhabitants, poor working men who only came back here to sleep. Charles stopped at a door with peeling green paint and unlocked it.
"Welcome to my palazzo, gentlemen," Charles said with a bow, and ushered them inside.
The chamber was only slightly less shabby than the rest, but at least had a proper bed and a window looking out over a narrow canal. Charles lit a tallow candle and motioned for his brother to sit down on the only chair in the room. In truth it was barely fit for firewood, though the faint sheen of gilding here and there suggested it had once been a rich man's possession.
"Thank you, I prefer to stand. I will not stay long." Sandy hugged his ribs, shivering a little. "You said you were trying to protect me, that you had seen things."
Charles began unbuttoning his doublet. Now that they were no longer running through the twilit streets of the city, Ned could see the family resemblance in the shape of the brow and the set of the mouth. Charles was fairer in colouring, though, with mousy brown hair, straight as a plumb-line where the twins' was inclined to curl, and a pale English complexion despite the sunny climate. His beard was full and untidy, as if he seldom bothered to visit the barber, and his clothes were more than a little threadbare. He matched the house rather well.
"I know your brother blames me for what happened that night, but it were necessary," Charles said, his native accent coming through. "The reason I wanted you and Maliverny to join the Huntsmen is that we need as many good and true men as we can get, for our secret war against Satan and his devils."
"Secret war?" Ned stifled a laugh as Charles glared at him.
"Aye. Thanks to the likes of me, the likes of you never get to hear on it." Charles peeled off his sodden doublet and draped it over the windowsill. "We Huntsmen get all the blame, though we are but martyrs to a righteous cause."
Righteous cause, my arse. The Huntsmen broke the law, and not just by riding hooded and masked.
"Mal and I never asked to join. We were tricked, coerced…" Sandy broke off, shuddering with more than cold.
"Wait a moment," Ned said. "You are all Huntsmen? You and Sandy and… and Mal too?"
"You mean they never told you?" Charles smiled thinly. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Ned Faulkner. A friend of your brother."
"Which one?"
"Does it matter?"
"You said something about devils," Sandy put in. "Is that what you think the skraylings are?"
"There's far worse things than skraylings," Charles said. "Nightmare creatures, fast and deadly, that lurk in the dark–" He stared at Sandy. "You've seen them."
"Only in dreams."
Charles pulled up his wet shirt. "Did I dream these?"
Ned stared. Four or five silvery lines, as wide as a man's finger and nearly a foot long, ran across the pale skin over Charles' ribs.
"How…?"
"Happened when I were a lad, just after my own welcome into the Huntsmen." He stripped off the shirt and hung it from the mantel to dry, weighting it with a couple of earthenware bottles. "Father's men heard rumours. Sheep killed in places where no wolf had been seen in a generation. Children… missing. A gang of us went up into the hills, tracking it. Only me and him came back."
"I don't remember any of that."
"You two were naught but babes in arms," Charles said.
"No thanks to you," Sandy said. "If you had not murdered me, this might not have happened."
"What? Murdered you?" Charles laughed. "You look right lively enough to me."
"You murdered me. You and your friends, that night in the hills."
Charles looked at Ned. "Did you just let him out of Bedlam?"
Ned swallowed. Strictly speaking, he had indeed played a part in freeing Sandy from the asylum. "N… no, he's been free of that filthy den for over a year."
Sandy advanced on his brother. "What did you do with my necklace?"
"What necklace?"
"The clan-beads you stole from my corpse."
"He thinks he's a skrayling reborn," Ned said. "And since you're a Huntsman by your own confession, I think he blames you for it."
"You're both mad," Charles said, backing away. "Alexander, you are sick of mind, you need help–"
"My necklace," Sandy growled, seizing Charles and pinning him against the wall.
"I sold it." Charles gazed up into his brother's eyes. "Please, Alexander, I'm sorry…"
"Who did you sell it to?"
"Bragadin. Giambattista Bragadin."
Ned laughed. "Bragadin? He's dead."
Sandy turned to glare at him. "Dead?"
"Saw him killed myself."
"If you are lying–" Sandy pressed harder, grinding Charles' head against the rough plaster.
"I'm not, I swear on our father's immortal soul."
"If you are lying," Sandy went on, "I will come back and haunt your dreams. The creatures you spoke of are nothing compared to what I can do."
Charles blanched, and seemed to shrink inside his own skin.
Ned laid a hand on Sandy's arm. "Come on, you've got what you wanted. Let's leave him be."
Sandy let his brother go, but his face was still as hard as stone.
"I should turn you over to the elders for your crime," he said.
"And I should report you to the city authorities," Charles replied. "They have hospitals here too, you know, for the sick of mind. Out in the islands of the lagoon, where you can't escape."
Sandy went for Charles again, but Ned got between them.
"Enough, the pair of you!" He dragged Sandy bodily to the other side of the room and pulled him close enough to whisper.
"We have to tell Mal," he said. "If this has anything to do with…" He broke off, not wanting to give anything further away in Charles' presence.
Sandy allowed himself to be led away, though he looked over his shoulder one last time as they left the shabby chamber. Ned muttered curses under his breath. Next time, Hendricks could look after the madman and he would stay at home with Gabriel.