The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (31 page)

  They were shown into an antechamber, and after a short wait the ambassador was announced. Tall doors decorated with bronze bas-reliefs swung open and Mal followed Kiiren into the chamber beyond.

  If he had not already been perspiring from a long ride in the sun and the anxiety of meeting his monarch, Mal would have broken out into a sweat the moment he stepped through the doors. Though the palace's many windows caught and held the midday heat, fires blazed in both great hearths of the audience chamber. A thick layer of rushes covered the marble floor, sprinkled with drifts of yellow bedstraw flowers. No courtiers thronged here to wait upon their monarch, only a handful of servants, silent and watchful.

  On a dais at the far end of the audience chamber stood twin thrones, The left was empty save for a narrow coronet ringed with ruby crosses and clusters of pearls; on the right sat Elizabeth. The sixty year-old Queen was her own death mask, a thick layer of white ceruse rendering her features immobile. She wore a gown of plain black damask with cuffs of tarnished silver thread and a cartwheel ruff that framed her face in what had perhaps once been a flattering manner. A wig of tight redgold curls made an incongruous splash of colour above her sombre attire; a double rope of enormous pearls was her only adornment.

  Mal walked towards the dais behind the ambassador, gaze lowered. His booted feet bruised the tiny yellow petals, releasing their honeyed perfume. As Kiiren bowed in a courtly manner, Mal sank to one knee and remained there, eyes on the floor. A mouse stared at him from the shadow of the dais, jet-bead eyes glinting in the firelight, then it scuttled away.

  "Ambassador." The Queen's voice was still sharp, accustomed to absolute obedience; only a faint quaver betrayed her age.

  "Majesty."

  "How did you like the fair?"

  So much for the pleasantries. Mal wondered how quickly news had reached her. Probably the same night, which meant the Queen had been waiting a day and a half to hear this story at first hand.

  "It was most entertaining, Your Majesty," Kiiren replied. "Seeing our people together, as one – it remind me of home."

  "Ah, your home. We have heard much from our advisers about the wide lands of the New World, its richness, and our great good fortune in attracting your friendship. And now we are honoured by an ambassador. Tell me, Your Excellency, which prince do you represent?"

  "Prince, Majesty?"

  "There is some leader amongst your people, a chief or potentate or king?"

  She gestured regally, taking in the portraits of her ancestors lining the walls.

  "There are many leaders, Majesty," Kiiren said, "and many peoples. I speak only for Shajiilrekhurrnashet, as most numerous of all clans of Vinland to visit your shores."

  "The other clans and nations do not wish to send their own ambassadors?"

  "Perhaps in time they shall. I do not know their minds."

  The Queen laughed sharply. "Would that I had so little care for the plans of my enemies."

  "The other clans are not our enemies, Your Majesty," Kiiren replied.

  "Then you are indeed fortunate, Your Excellency." She peered more closely at him. "You are not like the others. Are there as many different races amongst the people of the New World as of the Old?"

  Kiiren shrugged. "There are
hurraqeth
, who are my people, and many nations of your kind, though they are darker of skin and black of hair. No others."

  "Hmm." The Queen turned her attention to Mal. "I understand it was your idea to divert the ambassador to Bartholomew Fair, Master Catlyn."

  Mal risked a glance upwards, into heavy-lidded bronze eyes as watchful as a hawk's.

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "To what end?"

  "Sir James is not so well acquainted with the ambassador as I am, Your Majesty. I knew His Excellency would not think well of us if he saw the way we treat those sick in mind."

  "You refer to Bethlem Hospital."

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "You think Sir James did wrong in this matter?"

  "In arranging a visit to Bethlem?"

  "In punishing you for disobeying orders."

  "No, ma'am. I would have done the same in his place." Had done the same, on campaign. It was the only way to maintain discipline amongst the lower ranks. He was only glad he had never had to order a man's death.

  "You consider yourself as skilled a diplomat as your father?"

  Mal blinked at this change of direction. The Queen was as unpredictable a questioner as Walsingham.

  "No, Your Majesty."

  "Very wise. A diplomat who caused this kind of… upset would not hold his post for long."

  "I am of course yours to command, Your Majesty. I will resign my commission forthwith, if that is your desire."

  "Hmm."

  "Majesty." Kiiren bowed again. "Please forgive my loyal companion; it is my fault alone. I should have more respect for customs of my hosts."

  The Queen leant forward slightly, her eyes moving from one to the other of her visitors.

  "It seems you have made a powerful ally, Master Catlyn."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Since no hurt has been done, we are willing to overlook this incident – if the ambassador is agreeable."

  "Of course, Majesty," Kiiren said in grateful tones.

  "It would be a great comfort to our enemies to learn that our two nations were at odds. We will not give them that satisfaction."

  "Your Majesty is very wise."

  "Now, leave us. We are wearied by all this talk."

  The Queen rang a small bell that hung at her side, and a hidden door in the panelling opened. A lady-in-waiting hurried into the audience chamber, bearing a tray of refreshments. Her eyes widened at the sight of the skrayling.

  They made their exit, stepping carefully backwards across the crackling rushes until they were out of the royal presence. Mal heaved a great sigh of relief as the doors closed.

  "Your people are very fortunate to have so great a queen," Kiiren said, smiling.

  "Yes, we are," Mal replied. "England shall not see her like again."

  He did not add that his people would not think themselves truly fortunate until they had a king once more.

 

Ned went straight home after crossing the river. He wanted to stay on Bankside and see if he could make out which way the coach headed next, but he saw Kemp watching him like a hawk as he disembarked and thought better of it. The less he knew, the better. But even that might be too much.

  His feet led him towards the Mirror at first, unconsciously seeking the comfort of Gabriel's presence, but as he reached Gravel Lane he changed his mind. He would not be at all welcome if the actors were rehearsing, and if they were not, there was no point in going. Perhaps he should try Gabriel's lodgings, or Naismith's house? Then again, Hendricks had made it pretty clear he was not welcome there either. And whilst Armitage and Kemp were busy enough for the present, there was no telling what they would do when they returned to London. Either Ned had finally outworn his usefulness, or they had some new villainy in store for him. Well, he would not oblige them either way.

  There was only one thing for it: he had to get his mother away from here. They had cousins down in Sussex; they could hide out there and Kemp would never find them. How they would shift for themselves in the country, he had no idea, but it had to be better than this. With the thought of perhaps never seeing either Mal or Gabriel again gnawing at his guts, he made his way through the back garden and into the kitchen.

  His mother was bent over the fire, stirring an iron pot hanging on a hook. A savoury aroma rose with the steam, making Ned's stomach growl.

  "Sit down," his mother said. "I got a nice ham-hock from the butcher's this morning, and there's soup–"

  "Mam, we should leave. Now."

  He took down the shopping basket from its peg and began filling it with supplies: bread, cheese, a jar of newly pickled onions, and several bottles of beer. After a moment's thought he added a carving knife and a small roasting-spit.

  "Leave?" Mistress Faulkner put the lid back on the pot with a clank and sat down at the table. "What are you talking about, our Ned?"

  He looked around the kitchen distractedly. What else did they need?

  "We have to leave Southwark, Mam."

  She cocked her head on one side.

  "Have you been getting into trouble again, my lad?"

  "It wasn't my fault." He put the basket down with a sigh.

  "It never is."

  She patted the bench beside her, and he sat down reluctantly.

  "If your father was alive," his mother said, "you wouldn't have to scrape around for a living with them actors. I always knew they'd lead you amiss one day… Well, no use crying over spilt milk, eh?"

  "I suppose you're right, Mam."

  He leant his head against hers, and she put her arm around his shoulder. Her fingers were cold through the thin linen of his shirt, and her breath sounded even more wheezy than usual. How could he ask his mother to go tramping the high roads like a beggar at her age?

  "O' course I'm right." She ruffled his greasy hair. "Now, get yourself some supper and stop worrying."

 
 
 

After the audience with the Queen they rode straight back to the skrayling encampment and Kiiren excused himself, saying he must report to the elders. A servant brought a plate of spiced rice scattered with strips of fried meat and chunks of vegetables, and a jug of
aniig
. Mal picked at the food, pondering the day's events. The fragile alliance between England and Vinland hung in the balance, and he had been the one to disturb the scales by switching his allegiance between the two. Who was this Erishen, that the mere possibility of his existence could rule the fate of nations?

  Kiiren returned after about an hour, looking grave.

  "Clan leaders say we must go on with visit and do nothing more to offend Queen Elizabeth," he told Mal. "I am to tell you to obey Leland in all things."

  So sudden a capitulation? The clan leaders must have been very persuasive. Perhaps they feared the loss of profits if the Queen cancelled her extravagant celebrations.

  "And you?" Mal asked him.

  "It is not my place to gainsay our leaders. I am… vessel for words, nothing more."

  Mal was not convinced by Kiiren's explanation. Something was going on, some matter of skrayling politics he could not begin to grasp. He had assumed the ambassador had been sent by some greater authority back in Vinland, and the merchants here in England were no more important than the guild masters of London in determining their nation's policy abroad. Now he was not so sure. Perhaps he should not be surprised that the merchants were the ultimate authority amongst the skraylings. But where did that leave Kiiren, and why were they so deferential to him one moment then overruled him the next?

  Returning to Horseydown Stairs, they boarded the little gullheaded boat and were rowed to the Tower by six of the skrayling guards. It seemed they were expected, for the water gate had been raised and they quickly passed into the little pool underneath St Thomas's Tower. Mal could not help but recall his first, ignominious arrival here, only two months ago. Then he was a nobody, a landless, penniless gentleman with few prospects; now he was an employee of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and companion to one of England's most powerful allies. The thought gave him a warm glow of satisfaction. For the first time since he had learnt of Charles' flight and their family's ruin, he allowed himself to hope that better times were ahead.

  At the top of the steps, Leland was waiting with a group of gentleman warders in scarlet livery.

  "Welcome back, Your Excellency," Leland said, smiling broadly at Kiiren, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

  "Thank you, Leland-
tuur
," Kiiren replied. "Judge Sekaarhjarret wish to say he hope we put this
tuqanishet,
this… misunderstanding, behind us, and go forward in friendship."

  "Yes, of course. Her Majesty is most anxious our people remain allies."

  I bet she is, Mal thought. If we turn the skraylings away, the French will be in the New World like a shot.

  "I've had fires lit in your rooms," the lieutenant went on. "Can't have been pleasant, camping out in that downpour. Mind you, could be worse. I remember when I was a youngster, campaigning in Ireland…"

  Leland escorted the ambassador to his lodgings, rattling away about his military career. He had not for a second acknowledged Mal's presence.

 

Leland eventually left them in peace, and servants brought a light supper of cold meats, cheese, oatcakes and hot spiced wine. Whilst the skraylings gathered around the dining table Mal lingered in the bedchamber, eager to be alone for a while. The fact that he had spent the best part of two days surrounded by hundreds of skraylings was only just beginning to sink in. Not long ago that would have been the stuff of his worst nightmares. Now… He was surprised at how calmly he had taken it.

  For want of anything better to do, he rummaged in his saddlebags for his soldiering kit. The river-crossing in the rain had not done his sword belt and scabbard any good, and he had been too distracted by the sudden turn of events to attend to them. He uncorked the bottle and upended it against a wadded rag, then set about rubbing oil into the dark leather, following the grain in gentle strokes.

  If Kiiren had not been at the council meeting, things would have been different, of that he was certain. There was something reassuringly familiar about the ambassador, something on the edge of memory, like the music he had heard on that first reconnoitre outside the stockade. Was Kiiren indeed a great deal older than he looked, as his words at the banquet suggested? Had Mal met him, perhaps as a child, and forgotten about it? There had been visitors to Rushdale Hall, sometimes important ones, but he was certain no skraylings had been amongst them. He wondered, not for the first time, if his father had been a Huntsman and introduced Charles into their company, the way Charles had done with him and Sandy. He hoped not.