The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (24 page)

The man sucked in air over his uneven yellow teeth. “Costly work, sir, and I haven’t done anything of its like in a while. But if Sir Walter could provide sketches, I’d be glad to oblige.”

“Then you don’t supply other alchemists?”

“Between you and me, sir–” the glassblower looked around conspiratorially “–most of these alchemist fellows never pay their bills. They may talk of turning lead into gold, but mostly they seem to turn it into debt.”

Mal bristled. “Sir Walter Raleigh is a Member of Parliament and a wealthy man, sirrah, not some charlatan peddling false hope to the gullible.”

“My apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to offend you or Sir Walter. As I said, I’d be more than happy to oblige in whatever he needs.”

Mal turned on his heel and walked out of the shop, leaving the glassblower to stammer further apologies in his wake.

There were a few other glass workshops in the district, but none proved any more fruitful than the first. It appeared that alchemical equipment was even harder to obtain than Mal had first thought. But if Shawe was not buying London-made wares, he must either be having them made elsewhere, or perhaps importing them. Mal took a wherry across the Thames and resumed his search amongst the merchant venturers of the City of London.

“Alchemical vessels?” The shopkeeper squinted at Mal over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, we do import them on occasion, sir. Very expensive indeed, though, I must warn you.”

Mal glanced around the showroom, where a king’s ransom in fine glass twinkled in the light of carefully placed candles. Sets of decanters and matching goblets, each on a silver tray, covered a pair of marquetry-work display tables; empty candelabra dripping in glass beads stood among them or hung from the beams above. Behind the counter a row of wooden stands displayed ropes of manufactured pearls that would fool all but the keenest eye, pendant earrings of the same, and brooches studded with false gems of all colours.

“Venetian?” he asked. Some of the glass was a deep blue colour, like the
siiluhlankaar
crystals. If this trail went cold, perhaps he could find out who imported such rare minerals and trace Shawe that way.

“Naturally, sir. Shipped all the way from Murano, lovingly packed in lambswool and sawdust.”

“So, you can obtain what Sir Walter requires?”

“Most assuredly, sir, though it may take a while. Our last shipment is already spoken for.”

“I see. The wizard earl, I suppose?”

“My lord the Earl of Northumberland is a client, yes.”

“Well of course.” Mal fished a gold angel out of his purse and laid it on the counter. “But there must be many breakages on the way from Venice. Perhaps you cannot always fulfil my lord earl’s orders. And if so, might we lay a deposit against that chance?”

The man ignored the coin, but a faint smile curved his lips and his hands twitched on the counter’s edge as if longing to snatch up the bribe. So, money was assuredly the way to this fellow’s shrivelled heart.

“We always order more than he requests, sir, for that very reason.”

“Then it must chance that by good fortune you are sometimes left with a full shipment.”

“It has happened, yes. An item or two to spare, certainly.”

Mal slid another coin across the table. The shopkeeper’s hands tensed and his eyes flicked rapidly towards the gold on the counter every few seconds as if expecting it to disappear. It was all Mal could do not to laugh in the man’s face.

“Well, then. Perhaps if we are thus fortunate, you can divert any leftovers to Durham Place on your wagon’s way to Syon House.”

“Oh, we don’t deliver to Syon House any more, sir. At least, not the alchemical wares.”

“No?” Mal sniffed his handkerchief, affecting an air of indifference, though his sinews ached like a man readying himself to charge into battle. At last, a clue to Shawe’s whereabouts.

“No. That was the peculiar thing.”

He paused and licked his lips. Mal took out a third angel. Damn, but this was proving to be nigh as expensive as alchemy itself!

“About a year ago,” the shopkeeper went on, “my lord earl gave instructions that further shipments were to be delivered to the Three Horseshoes in Aldgate Without. I assumed they were to be taken north, perhaps to Alnwick Castle itself.”

“Most likely,” Mal said, setting down the last angel next to its fellows. “Well, never mind. I’m sure Sir Walter can make it worth your while to send a delivery to the Strand as well.”

“Of course, sir. It would be a pleasure.” The shopkeeper opened his ledger and selected a pen from the inkstand. “Do you have a list of the items required?”

Mal made a show of searching his pockets.

“Damn, must have dropped the wretched thing in the street. I swear I had it when I set out.”

“No matter, sir. Send a letter at your earliest convenience, and I will advise you when the consignment arrives.”

“Much obliged,” Mal said, and took his leave. The whisper of coins sliding across wood sounded behind him as the shopkeeper gave in to temptation at last.

Aldgate Without, eh? It was certainly on the northern edge of the city, but surely Bishopsgate would make more sense if one were heading for the Great North Road. Wherever Shawe was lurking, Mal would put good money on it not being Alnwick Castle.

The landlord of the Three Horseshoes proved far cheaper to get information out of. He described the two men who came with a wagon to collect Shawe’s goods, but did not know where they came from, only that they left by the Great Cambridge Road. That left the whole of East Anglia as a hunting-ground, but on the other hand if Northumberland had another shipment on its way, perhaps Mal would not have to wait too long to follow it to its destination. He left the landlord under the misapprehension that he worked for Northumberland himself and was looking into an alleged misuse of funds, and swore the man to secrecy in the matter.

With naught else to do until that ship came in, he made his way to court. There was still the issue of Jathekkil’s
amayi
to deal with: Lady Derby might have been eliminated from the running, and young Howard’s continuing absence told against him, but that still left Rutland and Percy. He could not afford to seek them out too directly, however, in case they became suspicious. He therefore resigned himself to a tedious afternoon of drifting around Whitehall Palace, from bowling green to tennis court to hall and back, until he fell into suitable company.

As the day wore on, the skies darkened and Mal’s humour with them. So far there had been no sign of either Rutland or Percy, and all he had to show for his afternoon’s labour was a full bladder and a light head from too much drinking. Only the thought of the coldness of his empty bed kept him from going straight home to Southwark and leaving his quest until the morrow. He paused in the shadow of a doorway to take a piss and tried to decide where to go next. He could visit Prince Arthur’s lodgings, but if he got sucked into another game of cards with Southampton he’d be lucky to still have an estate in the morning.

“And that was when I realised she was his sister!”

Raucous laughter echoed down a nearby passageway. Mal halted mid-stream, hardly able to believe his luck. Judging by the accents, the men heading this way were none other than Josceline Percy and his northern cronies. He began fastening up his breeches.

“Not putting you off your stroke, are we?” one of them shouted at Mal as they drew nearer.

Mal turned and made a clumsy bow, as if rather drunker than he felt. In truth it made his head spin a little, so that his queasy grin was not entirely feigned.

“No, sirs, I was quite done.”

The men stepped out of the passage entrance into the light of a lantern. Their leader was indeed Jos Percy, little changed from the pale-faced youth Mal remembered, apart from a creditable attempt at a beard. His companions were other younger sons of noblemen, by the look of them poorer even than Mal but no doubt boasting an ancient lineage he could never match.

“Why, if it isn’t Sir Maliverny Catlyn, toast of the court.” The way Percy emphasised the word “toast”, it was all Mal could do not to challenge him to a duel on the spot. The burning of Rushdale Hall had no doubt given Mal’s enemies a good deal of amusing gossip behind his back.

“You are too kind, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. Unable to resist, he added, “I see you have a new pomander.”

Percy frowned down at the silver bauble pinned to his doublet. Mal had thrown its predecessor into the muck of a London gutter during their last encounter.

“Do you know, I’d forgotten all about that…”

For a moment Mal feared Percy would order his companions to take the price of the old one out of his hide, then the earl’s brother laughed, a girlish giggle that grated on Mal’s already jittery nerves.

“But that was long ago, when we were both young and foolish, eh, Catlyn?”

“You were young, sir,” Mal slurred, “and mayhap I was foolish.”

“There you go!” Percy slapped him on the arm. “Come, we’re off to Bankside. What say you join us? It’s on your way home, is it not?”

“Aye, it is.”

“Where is it you’re lodging these days, Catlyn?” one of Percy’s companions asked. “In the George?”

“Not far away. Off Long Southwark, behind a printer’s shop. The Sign of the Parley.”

Was that a flicker of guilt in Percy’s eyes? Hard to tell in this light.

“Splendid!” Percy said, throwing his arms around two of his companions’ shoulders. “To Bankside!”

Mal followed in the younger men’s wake with only half an ear to their chatter. If this lot were heading for Bankside at this time of night, it meant only one thing: he was faced with a choice between abandoning a perfect opportunity to get close to Jos Percy, or spending the evening at a brothel. Even if he somehow managed to avoid sampling the services on offer, his wife would never forgive him. He cursed Percy silently and hurried after the Northumbrians towards Westminster Pier.

“Where are we going?” Mal said as they disembarked at Falcon Stairs. “The Rose?”

“Somewhere far more select,” Percy told him, taking Mal’s arm in his.

They strolled along Bankside as far as the bull-baiting ring, then turned down a narrow side street. Where gardens and fishponds had once stood, new houses had sprung up, crowding out the diamond-studded sky. Every other building appeared to be a tavern or a brothel – or both. After a while Mal realised they were alone.

“Where are the others?” he asked, letting his free hand drift towards the hilt of his rapier.

Percy looked around. “What? Oh, you know Scrope; can’t pass a pretty girl in the street but he has to stop and talk to her. And then Ewer has to outdo him in boasting…” He sighed theatrically. “They’ll catch us up. Come, it’s just down here.”

He led Mal down a short alley towards the light of a lantern, and a moment later they emerged into an empty courtyard surrounded by closed doors and shuttered windows.

“Well, this can’t be it,” Percy said. “Perhaps it was left, not right…?”

He turned to leave, and yelped as four hooded men stepped out of the shadows around them.

“Going somewhere, gentlemen? Perhaps you’d like to leave those heavy purses. They’ll only weigh you down.”

Mal drew his rapier. “Get behind me, Percy.”

The hooded men drew their own blades: rapiers like Mal’s, flashing bright gold in the lantern light. Not footpads, then, for all their talk of robbery. Had Percy led him into a trap? Mal cursed his foolishness in thinking that the Northumbrians had happened upon him by chance.

He drew his dagger, using the movement as a distraction whilst he engaged the man to his right, slipping his blade beneath the other’s guard. The man cried out and attempted to attack, but Mal leapt to the left, parrying the swordsman’s incoming blade with his dagger. A rapid counterthrust with his rapier and one of the villains lay bleeding on the cobbles.

He heard the clash of blades behind him but had no time to pay further attention as his right-hand foe was joined by another. A left-hander. The two of them fought side by side, so close they were practically arm in arm, weaving a net of steel that threatened to overwhelm Mal in moments. The tip of a blade slipped past his guard and skewered his upper sleeve, slicing the skin just below his armpit. Damn, but they were good! No hired ruffians or idle courtiers, these… What the hell was Percy up to? Mal backed away, expecting to bump into Percy, but found himself alone in the centre of the courtyard.

“Put up your sword, sir.”

The voice came from behind him.

“And if I do not?” Mal called over his shoulder.

“Then the lordling here will be joining his ancestors.”

Mal turned to see Percy held tight by the third remaining man, a glint of steel beneath his too-high chin. The young nobleman was deathly pale, his eyes pleading. Mal laughed.

“You can kill him for all I care.”

He turned back to his two assailants. If this was some scheme of Percy’s, the villains would not kill their master, and there was still a chance he could fight his way out. If it were not, he was rid of one candidate for Jathekkil’s
amayi
and could focus on the other. He crouched in a fighting stance, daring the hooded men to attack again.

This time they moved apart, trying to engage him from both sides so that he could not choose but to ignore one of them. He backed towards a doorway to limit their angle of attack. The man on the left lunged, overreaching himself. Mal sidestepped again and brought the pommel of his dagger down on the man’s wrist, simultaneously thrusting his rapier through his opponent’s unprotected ribs. The man clutched at his chest as the narrow blade withdrew, blood bubbling from his lips.

A strangled cry from the other side of the courtyard, and the remaining bravo turned tail and fled down the alley. Mal turned to see Percy, a blood-bright dagger in his hand, his former captor sinking to his knees and clutching his side. Percy wiped his blade on the man’s doublet.

“Much use you were!” Percy slammed the blade home in its sheath and grimaced at Mal. “‘Kill him for all I care.’ I should have you arrested, you traitorous cur.”