The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (2 page)

“Soon?” Mal sat down cross-legged on the near side of the table. “We have been in Derbyshire all winter.”

Adjaan cleared a space on the corner of the table and set down the jug. “How old are you?”

“We will be thirty years old in November,” Mal said.

“Not these bodies. How long have you walked in the worlds? Five hundred years? Six?”

“About that,” Sandy said. “I was born in the Ninth Cycle–”

“Then a few turns of the moon is but a moment, yes?”

She took out three cups of translucent porcelain and filled them.
Aniig
, Mal realised, the herbal brew favoured by the skraylings, though he had never drunk it hot before. At least not in this body, as Adjaan would no doubt be quick to point out.

“To answer your question, honoured one,” Sandy said, taking a cup, “we are here with good news of our findings in the north.”

“Or lack of findings,” Mal put in.

“You found no
hrrith
?”

“None. If our brother Charles ever hunted the devourers, as he claimed, they are long gone.”

“They were there once,” Sandy added. “I saw his scars. But my brother is right, they are long gone.”

“Well, that is good news.” Adjaan cupped her
aniig
in her hands but did not drink. “I would not like to think of those creatures roaming any land, especially not the home of our good friends the English.”

“We are still good friends?” Mal asked.

“Of course.” She gestured to her cabin. “I would not have come all this way if we did not wish to continue in friendship with you.”

She smiled, showing even white teeth, but something about her expression did not convince Mal.

“And is that all your news?” she went on. “It seems a long way to come, to say you have found nothing.”

“Well, since we no longer have aught to do in the north,” Mal said, “we thought we might be of help here.”

“Indeed.” Adjaan continued to smile, but her tone was icy.

Mal put down his cup. “The guisers are our enemies as well as yours, honoured one. And I have vowed to drive them from England.”

“You? A
kiaqnehet
?”

The word meant broken soul, abomination. Mal ignored the insult. Their mission was more important than petty squabblings over skrayling dogma.

“My brother has been teaching me. How do you think we determined there were no devourers – no
hrrith
– in our lands?”

“Show me.”

“Now?”

“Why not now? It will be quiet; even your enemies are unlikely to be around at this time of day.”

She motioned to Sandy, who stood up and began closing the doors of the hut. Mal laid his hands in his lap and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. No, not forcing. That would not work. He breathed again, focusing on the play of light and colour behind his eyelids, letting his imagination draw pictures. The colours rippled and flowed past him, so that he felt as if he were running down a narrow alley with high walls on either side… A moment later he stepped out onto the familiar open plain of the dreamlands, twilit and silent.

“A little clumsy,” said a voice at his side, “but better than I expected.”

He turned to see Adjaan, and Sandy beyond her. She was as tall as them both now, or perhaps they were as short as her; it was hard to judge size in this featureless place.

The dreamlands were not entirely empty, of course, not even at this hour. A scatter of golden lights on a nearby slope marked the city full of humans, and closer at hand the paler glow of skrayling dreamwalkers, some resting, some circling the compound.

“We patrol day and night,” Adjaan said. “Not a soul enters or leaves this compound without me knowing.”

“How far do they range?” Sandy asked.

“Not far. Our purpose is to guard our own people, not yours.”

Mal crouched and ran a hand through the cold, colourless grass. The earth – if such you could call it – felt different here: more alive, or perhaps less substantial.

“So, you feel it.” Adjaan nodded in approval.

“What is it?” he asked, straightening up.

“The price of staying in one place too long.”

She snapped her fingers in his face. Mal blinked – and opened his eyes to the blue-green light of the skrayling lamps. Adjaan gave a hissing laugh.

“You will need better self-control than that, Catlyn-
tuur
, if you wish to fight our enemies.”

Mal picked up the cup of
aniig
and sipped the cooling liquid. Adjaan reminded him of his fencing-master, never satisfied with his pupils’ rate of improvement.
He only wishes you to reach your full potential.
Easy for father to say. He wasn’t the one hobbling down the stairs like an old man, hamstrings protesting from an afternoon of naught but footwork.

“Catlyn-
tuur
?”

Mal blinked again, and realised Adjaan was addressing him.

“Sorry, honoured one. You are right, I need better control.”

She smiled, more kindly. “Fortunately Erishen-
tuur
is remarkably adept for a
kiaqnehet
. And the renegades are fewer than we feared.”

“You’re sure?”

“We can never be sure, but yes. By my reckoning there are no more than a handful in and around the city.”

Mal leaned forward. “Who are they?”

“Alas, that I cannot tell you. Jathekkil we know, of course, though he is as yet too weak to be a danger.”

“Prince Henry.” The Queen’s four year-old grandson hosted the soul of their old enemy Jathekkil, formerly incarnated as the late Duke of Suffolk.

“Indeed. Doubtless he has an
amayi
, but if so they are being very discreet; at any rate we have not been able to confirm it.”

Mal nodded. Skraylings did not marry but some took life-mates,
amayiä
, who watched over them during the vulnerable years before and after reincarnation. Erishen and Kiiren were just such a pair; he should not be surprised that Jathekkil had a companion too.

“There is one who spends a great deal of time at the palace and seldom leaves London,” Adjaan went on. “It could be he. And there are one or two who come and go, or perhaps several.”

“Then we have a good chance at success.” Mal was unable to suppress a grin of triumph.

“You have a chance, yes.”

“And the skraylings will help?”

“We will prevent any more of our people from joining their ranks, and our patrols here will discourage activity in your capital, but more than that I cannot promise. Our position here is fragile enough; if those in power knew what was truly occurring in their peaceful kingdom…”

“Of course, honoured one. Discretion is paramount.” Ever since the trouble in Venice there had been more and more reports of witch-hunts, some as far afield as Germany and Scotland. He had no wish to bring such horrors to his own country. “Even so, the aid you describe will be invaluable.”

They drank their
aniig
in silence for a few moments.

“And what will you do when the
senzadheneth
, the guisers, are gone?” Adjaan asked, just as the silence threatened to go on too long for courtesy.

“I had not looked that far ahead,” Mal lied, putting down his cup. “But now that you mention it… We are ourselves renegades, in a sense. We would gladly surrender to the elders’ justice, to be reborn among the skraylings if we can.”

“You and your brother are
kiaqneheth
. Surely you understand that this is not possible?”

“Jathekkil thought it was,” Sandy said. “By killing one of us–”

Adjaan made a dismissive gesture. “Even if it could be done, it would not avail you. The penalty for taking human form is destruction, you know that.”

“And what of our
amayi
, Kiiren? Must he too be condemned for our sins?”

Her topaz eyes narrowed. “Outspeaker Kiiren is not lost?”

“No, honoured one,” Mal said. “He has been reborn in human flesh, as we were–”

“
Kiiren senzadh
.”

The distaste in her voice made him wince, but he pressed on nonetheless.

“Yes, honoured one. We brought him back with us from Venice. That is, we took him as far as my estate in Provence, and my wife has charge of him now. But with all the trouble in France, she has decided to bring him here to England despite the dangers.”

“Oh? And what business is he of mine, this human child of yours, this…” she looked from one twin to the other “…guiser?”

“It was not his wish to break our laws, honoured one,” said Sandy, “any more than it was mine. He is young, scarcely more than a century in this world, and does not deserve exile. Please, let him go back to our homeland and rejoin our people.”

“And why should I allow this? As a favour to you, who unleashed
hrrith
in the streets of Venice and dashed all our hopes of an alliance with that city?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then you cannot be disappointed when I refuse.”

Mal bowed his head in submission. There was no point arguing the matter, not now. Perhaps if the outspeaker were allowed time to consider…

“Come on, Sandy.” He got to his feet. “We should be going. The
Hayreddin
will be arriving soon.”

Sandy opened his mouth to protest, but Mal took hold of his brother’s hand and used the skin-to-skin contact to send thoughts of reassurance and urge him to silence. Sandy’s eyes widened at this unexpected display of power. After a moment Mal felt an answering wave of agreement tinged with pride. He smiled and bade the puzzled outspeaker farewell.

“Don’t worry,” Mal said in a low voice as they led their horses out of the compound. “I haven’t given up yet.”

“But Kiiren–” Sandy looked contrite. “I mean Kit… It’s not safe for him here.”

“You think he would be any safer on Sark? Or back in Vinland? The guisers here in England aren’t our only enemies; they have Christ knows how many allies and would-be recruits among the skraylings. He’ll be safer with us, at least for now. When he is older perhaps we can petition the skraylings again.”

Sandy halted, twisting his mount’s reins absentmindedly between his hands.

“You’re right.” He looked up and gave Mal a watery smile. “I’m glad Adjaan said no.”

Mal patted his brother on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go and bring him home.”

CHAPTER II

By the time they reached Botolph’s Wharf, the
Hayreddin
was riding at anchor, her sails reefed against a stiff breeze blowing up the Thames. Hailing the captain, Mal jogged up the gangplank with more enthusiasm than he had ever boarded a vessel in his life.

“Catlyn!” Youssef embraced him, then stepped back to hold him at arm’s length. “You look pale. These northern climes do not suit you, I think.”

“You look as hale as ever, you old rogue,” Mal replied. “Well, there might be one or two more grey hairs in your beard, but it’s hard to be certain among so many.”

Youssef gave him a friendly buffet on the arm.

“I could say the same of you, friend.” He glanced at Sandy. “I suppose you gentlemen want to see your family?”

Not waiting for an answer, Youssef led them down to the tiny cabin where Mal and Ned had once stayed on the journey to Venice. The Moor inclined his head in silent invitation. Mal reached out a shaking hand and opened the door. Immediately his eyes lit upon the one face he had been seeking: his wife, Coby. Her expression brightened and she leapt to her feet, slipping into Mal’s arms like a hand into a glove. He pressed his cheek against her headdress, wishing he could bury his face in her pale hair that always smelt of chamomile and woodsmoke, but it did not do for a married woman to go bareheaded, especially on a ship full of men.

Sandy pushed past them with scarcely a word of apology.

“Where is my
amayi
?”

Susanna, their Venetian nursemaid, curtsied and gestured to a sea chest that had been turned into a makeshift cot. Kit lay sprawled on a blanket, thumb in his mouth, dark lashes fluttering as he slept. Mal smiled down at him for a moment. Strange how like Sandy and himself the boy looked, despite not being of their blood. Kiiren had chosen well.

“We’ll take a wherry over to Southwark,” he said, “and stay at Ned’s–”

“No.” Coby twisted in his arms and looked towards Sandy, who had scooped up the sleeping child and was cradling him as tenderly as any mother. “We should go straight to Rushdale Hall. Tonight.”

“What’s the matter?” He cupped her chin in one hand and gazed into her sea-grey eyes, resisting the temptation to probe her thoughts. He was not his brother.

“I don’t want anyone to see Kit. Not yet.”

He drew her out into the passageway and closed the door behind them.

“Is there something wrong with the boy?” he asked in a low voice.

“No, nothing. But we don’t want the guisers to guess he’s–” she looked around, as if suspecting spies even here “–who he is, do we?”

“I suppose not.”

“So it’s best they believe he was born in Provence, after we were married, and not in Venice.”

“I still don’t understand. How would they know?”

She sighed. “If he was born in France, he would be scarcely a year and a half old now, not nearly two.”

“So?”

“So a child of his age grows quickly. Someone might notice that he’s very forward for his supposed age, and put two and two together.”

“Oh.”

“In a year or so, a few months here or there won’t matter so much. But right now…” She shrugged.

“You think of everything, don’t you?”

“Someone has to.”

“And what about Susanna?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do we have a Venetian nursemaid, if he was born in France?”

Coby stared up at him, crestfallen. “I didn’t think of that.”

“No matter, my love.” He kissed her brow. “Where we are going, they scarce know a Frenchman from a Turk.”

He ushered her back into the cabin.

“Sandy, wait here with the womenfolk. I’ll be back before curfew with a coach and our luggage.”

He snapped a bow to the ladies and made his way back to the quayside. Perhaps he could hire a coach at the livery stables where they had left their horses, though he would still have to go back to Southwark to get his and Sandy’s belongings. He set off up the street, eyes flicking from one passerby to the next. Any of these people could be a guiser spy, but what could they report back? That he and his brother had met a ship out of Marseille? Perhaps with a few well-placed lies, their enemies could be fooled into thinking they were leaving for France…