Ink and Steel (29 page)

Kit turned once at a footstep behind him, wary of a sense of being watched, but he saw only a few figures. Another lantern-decked carriage rattled over the cobbles, forcing one pedestrian against the wall.
Probably just Morgan watching me through her damned Glass
. Matched bays drew the coach—a two-in-hand—and the gelding on the near side had one white sock on a hind foot, which flashed in the lanternlight along with the footman's livery.

Oh, that's just too much of a coincidence
. Kit stepped up his pace, eyes trained forward. But of course it wasn't a coincidence at all. He had been following Chapman. And Chapman had been enroute from supper and conversation with his friends and fellow playmakers to meet his patron.

His patron, who had been Kit's patron as well. And friend. And more. Thomas Walsingham.

The June night was warm, the air humid enough that it felt as if Kit walked through veils of silk that clung and slipped. He followed the slowing carriage as he had followed Morgan, one footstep and then another. But this was thoughtful rather than blind obedience.
The meaning comes in the silences. Momentum comes from the instant before the foot Leaves the ground.

The white-footed gelding stamped as his mate jostled him, tugging the rein as the coachman drew them in. Kit heard the creak of leather, the rattle of iron-shod rims on stone. Someone hallooed Chapman; a lantern flickered.

Kit laid one hand on the wall and watched from the shadows, as if turned to stone.
Or salt
, he thought, as the coach door opened.
I could wish that. A pillar of salt, to melt in the endless London rain and flow down the Thames to the ocean. Like a river of tears—

Oh, stop it, Marley. That's not even an original image.
And still he could have wept at the contrast between what he felt, now, suddenly, that had been so long stepped upon—and the desperate, thoughtless, compliant passion that had marked his loves in Faerie.
Loves? How couldst even thou have mistaken
that
for
love
, Kit Marley?

More to be ashamed, for he knew what love was.

It was the thing that held him now, a breathless kind of clarity that kept him in the shadows, waiting for one last glimpse of the man whose life and home he had shared before—

The footman moved to assist a tall, ginger-haired woman in a flat-fronted French gown down the iron step. Kit's breath lay like pooled lead in his chest as she lifted her skirts and set her pattened feet upon the cobbles with a clack.
Audrey Walsingham.
She stepped away, gliding toward Chapman, who leaned on his cudgel as if it were a cane and swept a thoroughly creditable bow.

The carriage door stayed open, the footman at attention. Kit heard Chapman's murmur, Mistress Walsingham's tinkling laugh as he steadied her toward the palace.
Leave,
Kit thought, and came a half step closer to the carriage lights.

Long legs in silk hose, a well-turned calf strong from time spent on horseback. The hair was dark by lamplight as
he
grasped the rail and stood, settling his doublet with a shrug of muscled shoulders, but Kit knew it would gleam with copper highlights in the sun. The footman stood aside as Thomas Walsingham descended, swinging the door shut with a casual gesture that brought Kit's heart into his throat. He stepped forward again, and halted his motion in midair.
What art thou imagining thou mightst do here, Marley? Apologize for thinking Tom conspired with thy killers? Explain that Frazier and Poley Lied, and thou thyself never practiced against the Queen? Throw thyself at his feet and kiss the stones between his shoes? Beg him to take thee home to Chislehurst and swive until thou bleedst, stay from Faerie and die in his arms Like a selkie kept from the sea, while the lovely Audrey cossets and possets thee?

It had a certain appeal, like Dido leaping into the flames, like Cleopatra up to her elbows in a basket writhing with asps. Kit set his foot in the print he had lifted it from, and stayed in the shadows, his right hand closing on the collar of his doublet as to tug it open and cool his throat.

Such a small motion to so betray him.

Tom must have caught the gesture from the corner of his eye. He turned like a splendid stallion, nostrils flaring, six inches of steel flashing in the carriage light as his right hand gripped and half drew his sword. “Who goes?”

A low voice, not loud enough to turn the heads of Chapman and Audrey, but enough to bring the footman around to flank his master. Kit smiled in recognition of the caution.
Yes, Tom. Get the Lady in the gates along with her escort. You stay and handle the trouble, and she none the wiser. Besides, the palace is close enough to rouse to a cry of murder in the street. But that could be embarrassing if it were a false alarm, couldn't it?

He glanced over his shoulder as Tom and his man came a few steps closer. The coachman kept a tight rein on the stamping bays, but he turned to look, and Kit knew there was a loaded pistol in a box behind his seat. The way was deserted on either side, except for the figure who had dodged the carriage—some distance away and hurrying forward with running footsteps—and Chapman and Audrey, who would be out of casual earshot by now. A cross street lay a few steps away: Kit could turn, fly, and be gone before Tom glimpsed his face—

“What is thy name, villain?”

“Not a villain.” Kit took two short steps forward, to the edge of the lanternlight, and tugged his hood back with his thumbs. The gesture revealed his sword, and showed his hands well away from it, and Tom's grip on his own hilt slackened.

And then Walsingham's jaw dropped, and the knuckles grew white again.

“Rather a gentleman, Tom.”

By his expression, the footman didn't know Kit.
One small mercy.
Tom's jaw worked, but no sound emerged.

Kit couldn't spare a glance for the figure now running toward them. “Tom, you must know. Frazier lied to you. I never did what he said—”

“How do you know what he said?”

Kit jerked his chin at the candlelit windows of the palace. Tom's face grew so pale Kit could see by lanternlight. And Will Shakespeare drew up ten feet away, wobbling with the force of his stop, his arms widespread for balance as if he had suddenly realized he was about to run between two armed men. “Master Walsingham,” he said softly.

Tom shot him a level, almost mocking look. Kit knew it, and breathed a little easier. “The playmaker Shakespeare. I take it you knew about this?”

Will nodded. Tom took his hand off his sword and turned to the footman. “Jenkins, see that Master Chapman and my wife understand that I will be delayed. Perhaps as much as an hour.”

“Sir.” Audible relief filled the man's voice as he took himself away from matters he did not understand and vanished in pursuit of his mistress.

“Now,” Tom said. “Into the carriage, for lack of a tavern. Pity, for I am very much in need of a drink, but I can't stand talking in the street with a player and a dead man.”

Kit tried not to notice how Tom's eyes lingered on his face. He turned his head to hide the scarred side, but could not stop a shiver when Tom took his elbow and almost lifted him into the coach. Will slipped on the step, but Tom steadied him too, and Will shrugged and smiled his apology.

Kit flinched at the misstep. He prodded the ache in his chest, and knew. Murchaud was right.
I can't stay here.

They took their seats and Tom rapped on the coach roof. Wheels rattled on the cobblestones, the carriage swaying on its straps. “Where are we going?” Will asked.

“There and back again,” Tom answered. “Twice, if we need more time.”

Kit laughed. “You haven't changed.”

“You have. Ingrim told me the Queen ordered your death. Through Burghley. Poley showed him a writ, and had him burn it.”

“Would Ingrim know a forgery?” Kit rubbed his eyepatch.

Tom shrugged, leaning forward to speak over the creak and clatter of the coach. “He should. There's testimony, too—”

“Do you believe it?”

“When Her Majesty more or less forbade anyone to examine your death, and pardoned your killers, what else could I do? Tell me you're no agent of Spain, or the Romans. Or James of Scotland. Tell me where you've been. The Continent? It has been kind to thee. Thou hast not aged a day. Tell me thou art loyal, in thine own voice, Kit, and I'll believe it.”

“I was loyal to the Queen, and the Queen gave me my life,” he answered. “And then she returned to me mine oath. And now I am—”
A free man.
“—beholden to another. But faithful in my dealings with England, I vow.”

Tom glanced at Will, who had withdrawn into a corner. He watched without speaking, making himself small. “And how does Master Shakespeare come into the ciphering?”

“I followed Kit,” he said, folding his arms over each other as if he were cold. Kit felt him shiver, where their shoulders brushed. “He trailed Chapman from the Mermaid.” A searing glance told Kit that he would have some explaining to do for his carelessness. “I had stepped outside to catch George and remind him of somewhat, and—”

Tom smiled, and Kit knew he was deciding to let his actual question go unanswered. Kit cleared his throat. “Tom, I can trust you?”

“As a brother,” he said, and squeezed Kit's leg above the knee. Kit watched his face, and saw no flicker of deception.

“Very well,” Kit said. “This will take longer than a coach ride. How much has Sir Francis told you?”

In the half-light of the swinging lanterns, Tom's face grew grim. “Not enough, apparently.”

Kit nodded. “He's dying, Tom. For certain. And Burghley too.” He lowered his voice. “And Her Majesty grows tired.”

“Her Majesty has reason.”

“They are old,” Kit said, knowing that the words carried every trace of treason that his enemies could have wished. The coach's jolting seemed ready to drive his spine through his skull, but he kept on, though Tom sat back as if to increase the distance between them. “There's a reason your Ingrim put a knife in mine eye. Duped by Skeres and Poley, or conspiring with them, there's time enough for that later. There's a reason Oxford and Essex move against the Queen. The old Queen must have an heir.”

Will's elbow banged against the side of the coach. “They
are
old. And we are young. Comparatively speaking.”

“Fellows!” Tom's shock was evident.

“Listen.”

And somehow, Tom did.

Kit drew a breath, but Will cut him short, surprising Kit with the depth of his understanding. “When Burghley and Sir Francis are gone, their successors can be thee and me, Master Walsingham. And Robert Cecil, and Thomas Carey's son George. Or they can be our enemies. Men like Poley and his masters.”

“Baines. And the Spaniard.”

“What of the Queen? And the—” Tom stopped himself before he said the unfavored word,
succession.

Kit shrugged. “In any case, you must step into Sir Francis' shoes. And quickly.”

Tom turned his face into the light. It illuminated his silhouette, limning lips and nose and brow in gold. “He's barely now begun to warm to me again, Kit. We did not speak o'ermuch after your—”

—murder
.

“Mend it soon,” Will said. “Or not at all.”

“That bad?”

“We must sire our own conspiracy.”

Kit could see Tom tasting the word.
Conspiracy
. He realized with shock that threads of silver wound Tom's hair. “Kit, and what of thee?”

Kit closed his eyes on pain, knowing the answer. Knowing what it had to be, as soon as Will had effortlessly picked up the thread of his thought, and explained it. Known from the way Will had tailed him so deftly that Kit—
Kit
—had barely even known he was watched, and how Tom had put Audrey and Chapman out of harm's way without taking time to think.
I am dead in this world. Everything I could do, they can do better.

Than Like Sir Francis
.

“Tom, your man Frazier
was
duped?”

Tom's lips twitched. He nodded once, his eyes focused on Kit's scar.

“I am commanded elsewhere,” Kit said.
You'LL outlive it
.
Outlive all your Loves and hates, and when your mortal span is past—
“Thou wilt not see me again. Nor shalt thou, Will, I warrant. But I leave my Queen in capable hands.”

“Kit—”

Two voices as one, and the tone of them warmed him even as he shook his head. “I am commanded elsewhere,” he repeated. “And so tonight I shall give you everything I know.”

Kit laid the palm of his right hand on Will's mirror and pressed forward against a sensation as if jellied mercury flowed to admit him. He glanced over his shoulder at Will and at Tom Walsingham standing beside him, fixing the two men's faces in his memory. They had kissed and clipped him as brothers, and that embrace was a sort of hollowness resting on his skin.
Dead men must trust the Living to get on with their business, I suppose.

“I'll write,” Will said.

“I don't think I shall reply.” Kit looked away before Will's expression could change. “Tom, give my love to your wife.” He pushed through the mirror. He emerged in the corridor between the curtains that flanked the Darkling Glass, tendrils of crystal loathe to resign their grips.

No sooner had his boot touched the tiles than he bowed his head, startled, and dropped a knee, his silver scabbard-tip clinking and skipping. The Mebd stood over him: he had almost stepped into her arms. A scent of roses and lilacs like a breeze from a June garden surrounded him; he lifted the embroidered hem of her robe to his lips, heavy cloth draping his fingers. “Your Majesty.”