The Sign of the Parley stood in one of the many new streets that had spread southwards from Bankside as the suburb’s population soared. A timber-framed gatehouse with workshops either side fronted onto the street, with behind it a small courtyard, and the owners’ house beyond that. The sign that gave the establishment its name – a mailed fist clutching a roll of paper – hung over the gateway; a jest of Ned’s, but one that always gave Mal a pang of guilt. If he had not taken him to Venice, Ned would never have lost his right hand to the devourers. The brass-and-steel replacement designed by Coby was poor compensation for a man who had formerly earned his living as a scrivener, hence Mal’s sponsorship of Ned to become a master of the Worshipful Company of Stationers and his purchase of this house-cum-workshop in which his friend could practice his new trade.
The print shop had closed up for the day, so Mal let himself in by the wicket gate. As he crossed the yard a blonde head poked out of the upstairs window. Mal broke into a smile – the very man he sought. If anyone could dream up a few fictional weaknesses to present to Grey, it was a playwright.
“Catlyn!” Parrish called down. “How went your enterprise?”
“Middling well. But I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry, I have business with the Prince’s Men tonight. Is tomorrow soon enough?”
“Tomorrow will do. Where’s Ned?”
“In the shop, I think. He’s been working late on a rush job.”
Mal saluted him and went through the back door of the shop. Immediately his nose was met by the sharp bitter smell of ink and the vanilla must of paper. He picked his way around the stacks of pamphlets and boxes of type and eventually found Ned at his desk in the office. The younger man looked up from his ledgers and broke into a grin.
“Good news, I hope?”
“When is there ever good news in our line of work?” Mal replied. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Burbage got wind of a half-arsed copy of Romeo and Juliet doing the rounds, so he wants us to have an official version to sell in its place. I’ve been manning the press on our other jobs so we can get it typeset in time.”
He yawned and flexed his ink-stained left hand. The right rested motionless on the ledger, the edges of its intricate brass joints shining like molten gold in the lamplight.
“You deserve a beer,” Mal said. “And I need one.”
“All right. I’m about done here anyway.”
Mal followed Ned across the yard to the kitchen. The fire had been banked for the night, but Mal lit a spill from the embers and touched it to a candle stub whilst Ned moved about the darkened room with the ease of familiarity.
“So,” Ned said, bringing two leather jacks of beer to the kitchen table, “what’s afoot?”
Mal told him about Grey, everything except the instruction to report on the other agents. Ned interrupted from time to time, often with questions that Mal had no answer to, and cursed Grey at regular intervals. At last the tale was done and they sat in silence, drinking their beer.
“You reckon there’s any way we can get out of it?” Ned got to his feet and went to refill their tankards.
“Working for Grey? No, I doubt it. Besides, this could be the very chance we’ve been looking for.”
Ned looked up from the beer tap. “How so?”
“Right now we only know one guiser’s identity for certain. Prince Henry, the Duke of Suffolk as was.”
“Blaise’s father.”
Mal nodded. “Coby said that Grey had a substantial collection of his father’s paperwork, not just that book Sandy stole. And now we have an ally within his very household.”
“It’s a good start. But wasn’t the book useless?”
“Aye, but there could be other evidence: letters from their fellow conspirators, perhaps even a diary. But getting our hands on that will take time. In the meantime, I need you to redouble your efforts.”
“I’m doing my best, Mal–”
“I know, but if Grey gets his hands on Walsingham’s papers, that could be the last we see of them. I can stall him for a while, tell him I need them in order to compile the reports he wants, but after that…”
“All right. One of my journeymen has a nephew looking for an apprenticeship, so I dare say I could take a bit more time away from the presses.”
“Thank you.” Mal drained his tankard. “I’ll do what I can to help, but I don’t have your eye for handwriting, you know that. And if I don’t get up to Derbyshire before the summer’s out, my wife will have my guts for lute-strings.”