The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (21 page)

“Well. Good. But how are we to explain it? It’s one thing for us to visit as part of the prince’s retinue, but this is the princess’s household. Men who linger here once their business is done are likely to become the subject of scurrilous gossip.”

Sandy frowned. “I am Kiiren’s
amayi
, and Kit’s uncle. They cannot keep me from him.”

“Why are you so anxious all of a sudden? I thought you said Kit would be safe from the guisers now that he’s old enough to wear a spirit-guard.” As safe as any other member of our family, at any rate.

“He is. But…” Sandy looked away.

“You think it might affect him badly, like it did you.” Being fettered in iron had soothed Sandy’s fits at first, but had only made them worse in the end. Though the noxious atmosphere of Bedlam could hardly have helped. “That was different. You and I were… are… incomplete souls. Broken.”

“Perhaps.”

The front of the cavalcade had reached the palace gates and was slowing down as everyone shuffled back into line. Mal kept a close eye on his brother, not wanting to get into an argument with any of the more senior courtiers about precedence, but Sandy had withdrawn into himself and didn’t speak again until they had passed through the gates.

“I wish people wouldn’t stare at us.”

To either side, the grounds had been laid out in elaborate knot gardens. At this time of day they were empty but for the gardeners, who had left off clipping the box hedges and deadheading the roses to kneel as the prince rode past.

“Everyone used to stare when we were boys. Don’t you remember?”

“Some of it, now and then. Mostly in dreams. But Kiiren said I had enough bad memories to deal with, without digging for more.”

“Some say it is better to flush them out, like lancing a boil.”

“Would you cut out a scar and expect it to heal more cleanly the second time?”

Mal rolled his left shoulder self-consciously, feeling the pull of scarred flesh above his collarbone. Another trophy of their escape from Ferrymead House. “Perhaps not.”

At the main entrance they all dismounted and an army of stable-boys ran out to take their horses. Prince Robert, near the head of the line, had already disappeared into the palace, leaving his entourage to mill around in confusion. Mal took Sandy by the elbow and led him towards the nearest door.

“Let’s see if we can find Coby and Kit ourselves,” he said. “I know they have apartments in the north wing, on one of the upper floors.”

Coby was not in her apartments, and Kit was asleep, so Mal left Sandy with him and went off in search of his wife. This was only the second time he had been to Richmond Palace, and he hoped he remembered the way to the royal presence chamber. The previous time he had been quaking in his boots, summoned in haste after his return from Venice to report to the Prince of Wales. A nerve-racking ride through the countryside under close escort, only to have to cool his heels for hours in an antechamber until Robert returned from the hunt. And then to learn that not only did the prince not intend to punish the twins for their various misdemeanours, but wished to knight Mal for his services to the crown.

The guards straightened their backs as he approached the double doors at the top of the stairs though more, he suspected, to try and intimidate him than out of respect. He walked straight past them without so much as a glance either side, through the antechamber – empty but for a maid rebuilding the fire – and paused at the doorway, where he was announced by a startled herald.

“Sir Maliverny Catlyn, of Rushdale!”

Mal stepped into the presence chamber, quickly taking in the princess seated at her embroidery frame, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. His eyes caught Coby’s for an instant, and his heart quickened. He thought he saw an answering blush rise from her collar, but courtesy drew his eyes back to the princess. There was no sign of Robert or the other male courtiers; no doubt they were washing off the dust of the road and slaking their thirsts. Mal bowed, catching sight of his own scuffed and begrimed boots, and wished he had thought to do the same.

“Your Highness.”

“Master Catlyn. How good of you to come and see me so promptly on your arrival.”

“The court is much duller for the absence of its brightest jewel,” he replied. The formulaic praise was sour on his tongue, but the middle-aged princess smiled nonetheless.

“Sit with us a while, sir. We were just enjoying a recital by my newest treasure, a castrato all the way from Italy.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

A servant brought forward a stool, and he settled down. His position was frustratingly far from his wife, but since she sat on the other side of the throne, they could exchange a glance or two without his having to turn his back on the princess. It would have to suffice for now.

A Dutch harpsichord had been placed on a table, and two figures stood by it: a woman at the keyboard, and a man by her side. More than that, he could not make out for the bright sunlight streaming in through the enormous windows that occupied almost the entire far wall. The lady at the harpsichord began to play, and a few bars later her companion joined in, singing a countermelody with words in Italian. A chill ran down Mal’s spine. That voice. An image rose in his mind, of a darkened garden lit by glass lamps hanging from the trees, and a beautiful woman in an ivory silk half-mask, playing a lute. Olivia dalle Boccole. It was all he could do not to leap to his feet and denounce her on the spot, but a glance at Coby revealed that she was completely unaware of the danger. Perhaps he was mistaken. The singer was a eunuch, so of course his voice was high like a woman’s, and he was singing in Olivia’s native tongue, so of course he sounded a little like her. Mal forced himself to breathe slowly. Sandy’s anxiety at visiting the neighbourhood of their former torment was catching.

When the song ended all the ladies clapped. Mal joined in belatedly, his hands still so tense they scarcely felt like his own.

“Mistress Catlyn tells me you play the lute,” Princess Juliana said, when the applause had died down.

“Alas, I have not played much these past few years, Your Highness. I would sound foolish indeed after such a fine performance.”

“You are too modest, sir, just like your wife. But never fear, I shall not press you. Music should be a cause for joy, not dread.” She beckoned to the singer. “Come, let me introduce you to my servant, Bartolomeo Pellegrino, all the way from the choir of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome.”

The young man approached the throne and bowed curtly. Mal rose from his seat but froze on the verge of returning the courtesy. He had been right all along. Dark olive skin, full lips, and eyes the colour of jade. Olivia, brazenly disguised as a young man. Remembering himself he completed the gesture before the ladies could notice. Olivia on the other hand had not missed his hesitation. Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

“A pleasure to meet you, Signor Catalin.”

“And you. Sir.”

Coby shot her husband a look of concern. The others surely hadn’t noticed it, but after five years together there was no mistaking the tension in his voice. His expression was guarded and he did not look her way, but she saw his left hand moving where it rested on his sword hilt: two taps of his index finger, two taps of the middle finger, over and over.
Enemy sighted
. She got to her feet.

“Your Highness, may I beg your indulgence? My husband is no doubt weary from his ride, nor has he seen his son in many weeks, and I think Susanna will have roused Kit from his nap by now.”

“Of course, my dear.” Princess Juliana rose. “Perhaps later I will have the pleasure of a dance, sir, if you will not play?”

“I look forward to it, Your Highness.”

He held out his arm, and Coby slipped her hand around his elbow as they walked out of the room.

“I was going to warn you,” she whispered as they crossed the antechamber.

“Not here,” he replied.

She fell silent, resisting the urge to look back over her shoulder. So, Mal had instantly guessed that Bartolomeo was a spy. But how?

The walk up to her apartments felt like it lasted an age, so anxious was she for answers. She kept glancing up at her husband, but his eyes were fixed straight ahead, his face pale. Coby’s stomach roiled.

“Bad news?” she asked, the moment the outer door closed behind them.

“The worst. Our young Italian friend downstairs is none other than Olivia dalle Boccole.”

“The courtesan?” She stared at him, aghast.

“Yes. Well, not a courtesan any more, of course. But still a guiser.”

“How did she get away from Hennaq?”

“How should I know? All that matters is that she did, and she’s here.”

Sandy leapt up from the window seat. “Ilianwe, here?”

A vivid flash of memory: amber eyes gazing up at him, white petals stuck to their bare skin. Ilianwe was Olivia’s soul-name, as Erishen was Sandy’s – and his own. She had taught him dreamwalking… and much else.

“So it appears,” Mal replied, hoping his wife hadn’t noticed his discomposure. “And plotting revenge on the two of us, no doubt.”

“What do we do?” Coby asked.

“You and Kit cannot stay here,” Mal told her. “It is no longer safe.”

“The Princess of Wales will think it very strange if I leave her service so soon. She may not even permit it.”

“You are a married woman. If I say you must leave court, you must obey.”

She frowned at him.

“In law, I mean,” Mal said, putting an arm around her shoulder. She shrugged him off.

“I can be of more use to you here,” she said. “If I leave, how do we spy on Olivia? You and Sandy can hardly stay here, especially with me gone.”

“Then we will all stay here,” Sandy said.

“No,” Mal replied. “Someone has to keep an eye on Prince Henry. And we still have not discovered his
amayi
.”

Sandy made a noise of reluctant agreement and went to sit cross-legged on the rug near his nephew, who was stacking wooden bricks with fierce concentration.

“I shall take Kit back to London,” Mal said at last.

“What? No.” Coby crossed the room and stood between her husband and their son.

“He will be safer there, with Sandy and me, than he could possibly be here. Olivia is vastly more powerful than any of the English guisers. In any case, soon he will be old enough for schooling. You must untie his leading strings sooner or later, my love.”

“If you take him, Olivia will be suspicious. She will wonder why we are hiding him from her, and perhaps guess who he is.”

“There is one way,” Sandy said. “I have held back from it, but…”

“What?”

“I can make him forget who and what he is. He will just be another little boy, as I was.”

“You can do that?” She looked down at Kit, who had stopped his play and was watching the adults with curiosity.

“Only with one so young. His soul is barely half-awake as it is.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Mal said. “How could you wish your fate on anyone?”

“This is different. He is whole, unbroken. And I will be there to help him when we no longer need him to hide.”

For long moments no one spoke.

“Do it,” Coby said softly.

Sandy knelt and whispered something in the skrayling tongue, then pressed his forehead to Kit’s own. The boy’s eyes closed, and after a while he gave a little gasp. Sandy released him, and Kit went back to playing with his toys as if nothing had happened.

Coby went to put a hand on Sandy’s arm, but he turned away and went to stand staring out of the window.

“Well, that’s that,” Mal said. “Now, no more sadness. I have not ridden all this way for only a fleeting visit. Tonight we shall have a private supper together, and tomorrow you can show me the gardens.”

“You just want to scout out secret ways into the palace,” Coby said, trying to sound petulant and failing utterly.

“There, I knew that would put a smile on your face.” He took her hands in his. “We can pretend it’s the old days, just for a while.”

She smiled up at him. “Yes, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Mal threaded his way through the maze of courtyards and passages at the rear of Richmond Palace. He had still not had a chance to talk to the spy Lady Frances had spoken of, and he knew not how long the prince would want to stay at Richmond. If the hunting was poor, Robert might leave within the week. Mal had tried to arrange a rendezvous earlier, but Princess Juliana had held him to the promise of a dance and it was nearly midnight before he could get away. Coby had her own duties when the princess retired for the night, which left him with half an hour or so to fulfil his mission.

The service buildings had fallen silent, all the servants snatching a few precious hours’ sleep before the whole great machine of court protocol started up again. The perfect time for a secret tryst. Mal slipped across another passage junction and out into a courtyard. Raindrops fell from the eaves into the hollows that millions of their predecessors had worn in the flagstones; the only other sound was the scuff and splash of Mal’s boots as the flags gave way to equally ancient cobbles.

Lost in thought he turned a corner – and found himself face to face with the one person he did not wish to meet. Olivia. The former courtesan bowed and gave him an ironic smile.

“It has been too long, Signor Catalin,” she said in that low husky voice that made the blood stir in his veins despite himself.

“Three years? I would hardly call that too long.”

She tipped her head to one side. “I suppose it is but the blink of an eye to our kind.”

Mal couldn’t help glancing around. There was no one within sight, and all the windows in the surrounding walls were closed against the autumn chill.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, perhaps a little more abruptly than he had intended. Dammit, she knew just how to get under his skin.

“I grew lonely,” she said, with a pout. “You abandoned me, if you recall. Betrayed me.”

“I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” she hissed. She paused, as if reconsidering. “But it matters not. Thanks to you I have found a new home, with many companions to choose from.”