The Merchant of Dreams (14 page)

“Be quick about it,” Coby said, following Sandy out of the back door. “I doubt I can delay Master Catlyn.”

Though it was nearly dark, the curfew bell had not yet rung and the suburb’s streets were still busy. Coby kept glancing over her shoulder as they hurried along St Olave’s Street, expecting to see armed men in the duke’s blue-and-white livery in pursuit.

The skrayling guild-house stood on the corner of Bermondsey Street, at the easternmost edge of Southwark. From the outside it looked much like any other mercantile establishment in London, except for the skrayling writing on the sign over the door. Coby had been here once before, on theatre business with Master Naismith. For a moment she saw again the actor-manager lying dead at her feet and smelt the acrid tang of flash-powder, and a cold weight of melancholy settled on her heart.

The main hall of the guild-house was much as she remembered it, though quieter owing to the late hour. Sandy approached one of the benches and spoke in Vinlandic to the skrayling merchant seated there. The skrayling put down his counting blocks and gestured to one of his colleagues. Sandy went over and repeated his question. The second skrayling inclined his head in a gesture Coby had come to recognise as one of cautious agreement, and they proceeded to talk in low tones. Not that she could have understood them, even if they had been talking loud enough. She thought she heard Lord Kiiren’s name mentioned at one point, but it was impossible to be certain.

Sandy pulled a string of silver ingots from his doublet and handed them over to the skrayling, who examined them and then counted out a heap of silver coins of various sizes. Sandy scooped them up into a purse, bowed to the merchant and came over to Coby.

“Our business here is done,” he said. “The ship leaves on tonight’s tide, though we should be aboard before curfew. I think it is safer if we stay hidden here in the guild-house until then.”

Coby nodded, relieved at the short delay. It would give Gabriel time to catch them up, and yet was soon enough for them to escape Grey. Or so she hoped. Her prayers had been answered so far, but God’s plans were seldom so straightforward.

The hour passed, and still there was no sign of Gabriel.

“We have to go,” Sandy said, getting to his feet, “or we may miss the tide.”

“What about Gabriel?”

“He is a grown man, is he not? He will have to fend for himself.”

“But–”

“It was you who insisted we flee to France. Have you changed your mind?”

“No.”

Coby picked up her belongings and followed him out of the guild-house. No sign of the duke’s men, thank the Lord, but no Gabriel either. Unless… A figure shrouded in a red hooded cloak was making its way towards them in the wake of a group of labourers. Eventually the labourers turned down Bermondsey Street, leaving their companion behind. Coby embraced Gabriel briefly, then Sandy led them across the wooden bridge at the end of the street and out onto the downs where the skrayling camp stood.

Surrounded by streams and a wooden palisade, the camp was forever isolated from the city. However it seemed to Coby that there was less smoke rising from within than last time she was in London, and fewer lights glowing amongst its trees. Perhaps it was just the cold weather keeping the skraylings subdued, but she remembered Walsingham’s comments. If the skraylings and their silver stopped coming, things would go badly for England.

They did not enter the stockade but continued round to Horseydown Stairs on the banks of the Thames, where a small gull-prowed boat waited to take them out to the ship anchored further downriver: a typical skrayling carrack, broad in the waist, two-masted and sturdy to weather the Atlantic crossing. The trip to France should be a Sunday afternoon’s stroll in comparison.

Soon their little boat was bumping against the timber side of the ship, and they climbed the rope ladder to the deck. Sandy was greeted warmly by a stout skrayling whose amber-and-turquoise-beaded hair marked him out as a person of status. They spoke briefly in Vinlandic, then Sandy introduced his companions.

“This is Trader Hennaq,” Sandy added in English. “He is brother to Chief Merchant Hretjarr, and a distant cousin of Kiiren.”

Hennaq bowed to each of them, then beckoned to one of his men, who gave Sandy a round glass lantern that glowed a cool blue-green. Lightwater. He passed it to Coby.

“This vessel does not normally carry passengers,” he said, ushering her towards an open hatch. “I am afraid we will have to take shelter in the hold.”

“I’ve had worse accommodations,” she said, climbing down into the darkness. “Anyway, it’s a short enough crossing to Calais. We’ll be there in a few hours at most.”

She found a hook to hang the lantern on and settled down on a pile of sacking. Best to get some sleep, if she could. The more miles they could put between themselves and Grey once they landed, the better.

Despite her best intentions, Coby did not fall asleep straight away. What if Grey caught up with the ship before it sailed, or managed to blockade it? She lay awake listening to the creak of timbers, until at last the nameless vessel began to move. How the skraylings could possibly navigate in such darkness she did not know, but perhaps their cat-like eyes could see as well by night as humans could by day. Distracted by these musings, she at last drifted off to sleep.

When she woke the hold was empty of her companions, but she could hear voices overhead. She pulled on her shoes and hurried up the ladder onto the gun-deck. And stumbled to a halt, her companions forgotten.

In the pitch blackness last night she had not noticed the guns, but now with the late morning sun shining down through the hatch they were an extraordinary sight. Though shaped much like English cannons, they were not of bronze or iron but some peculiar glassy stuff that gleamed with an unearthly opalescence. As for the shot, it consisted of equally strange spheres of what appeared to be glass, partially filled with a liquid that sloshed around inside. What use they would be in battle, she could not imagine. They looked like they would sooner explode than trouble an enemy.

Shaking her head over these strange artillery, she climbed up to the deck. The sun was high in the sky, or as high as it got this early in the year. To the west lay the Kent coast, with its ploughed fields rising gently above the shoreline. A blur on the eastern horizon must be France. At this rate they would be at Calais long before dark.

“Good afternoon, sleepy-head!” Gabriel called out to her.

She went over to join him at the rail.

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” she asked.

“And deny the skraylings the pleasure of your snoring? Not likely.”

She pulled a face at him.

“Careful, the wind might change, and then you’d be stuck like that,” he said. “Would you like some breakfast? Hennaq seems well-supplied; there’s cornbread, some kind of fish fritters, and plenty of
aniig
.”

He produced a plate and jug, seemingly out of nowhere, and Coby sat down on the deck with her back against the gunwales. The fritters were cold and a bit greasy, but she wolfed it all down and licked her fingers clean. Gabriel leant back on the rail, watching her with an amused smile.

“What’s so funny?” she said at last.

“Not very ladylike, I must say.”

“What?” She felt herself flush. “What business is that of yours? I thought you’d given up female roles.”

“
I
have.” He grinned again. “Have you?”

She jumped to her feet.

“Have you been rummaging through my belongings?”

“You brought a great deal of baggage on board, much more than you arrived in London with. That made me curious.”

She looked around in case anyone was listening. Few skraylings spoke English, but Tradetalk was similar enough for them to pick up the gist of many a conversation. Fortunately the crew were all some distance away and busy at their posts.

“And?”

“And it occurred to me, as it apparently has to you, that if we are to be sure of evading Grey then a few disguises may be in order.”

Coby forced herself to breath slowly. “You’re right. I should have told you earlier.”

“That you’re a girl?”

“No, I meant the disguises. Where’s Sandy, anyway?” she said, hoping to change the subject.

“Off talking to the captain, I believe. So you’re not a girl, then?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Well, Ned always was prone to lie about such things.”

“Ned? How did he find out?” she muttered, more to herself than Gabriel.

“Oho, so it is the truth!” Gabriel looked smug. “Does Walsingham know how easily you confess your secrets?”

Coby sighed. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know?”

“Are you accusing me of spreading gossip?”

“Well, have you?”

“No, of course not. I know how to keep a secret. Besides, I’m hardly in a position to lecture any man on how he should live a virtuous life. Or woman, for that matter.” His mischievous grin faded, and he leant closer. “So, does your master know you’re a girl? Mal, I mean.”

“Mal’s known for a long time,” she replied. “Since before we left England together.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Suit yourself,” Gabriel replied with a shrug. “It’s no business of mine.”

“You seem to have made it your business.”

Gabriel sighed. “Let us not quarrel, my dear. We are in the same boat, you and I, if you’ll forgive the pun. Placed in peril of our lives by the actions of yon holy fool.”

Coby nodded. She couldn’t blame Gabriel for being scared and angry, not after what had happened yesterday.

“There is something I would like to ask you, now that you know.” She cleared her throat. “You used to play women’s parts, and then when you were too old for that, you managed to change over to men’s roles. It must have been difficult.”

“It was, at first. I had to unlearn everything I had been taught about acting. How to walk, how to speak, even how to think of myself.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“A little, perhaps. But I had no choice. It was that or starve. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“You’re thinking of giving up your male disguise for good.”

“Perhaps. But I’m scared. I know it’s the right and proper thing to do, but…”

Gabriel put his arm around her shoulder.

“I’m sure you’ll make the right choice in the end. But perhaps the moment for choosing has not yet come.”

She nodded, biting her lip. What use was there in being a woman, if Mal was not around? She was safer as she was, and far better able to keep an eye on his brother for him.

“I think we should get under cover,” Gabriel said. “I can see a squall blowing in from the north.”

They spent a dull afternoon in the gloom of the hold, then as night fell a sailor brought them a lamp and a dish of stewed beans and corn for supper. At length the rain eased off, and Coby went back up on deck, hoping to see the lights of Calais. Only impenetrable blackness met her eye. Most likely they had been blown off-course, and would have to make land further south. Perhaps Hennaq would take them to Le Havre, where they could get a boat up the Seine to Paris. Mal had friends there, or at least allies. She went back down to the hold and settled into an uneasy sleep.

Next morning they were invited up to the captain’s cabin to take breakfast. Coby looked around curiously as they entered. The carpenters had done their best to mimic the inside of a skrayling tent, lining the walls with cabinets on whose doors were carved elaborate patterns of intersecting triangles like the ones on the merchants’ tunics. Spherical bottles of lightwater hung from the ceiling in nets, casting a watery blue glow. Captain Hennaq rose from his cushion to greet them.

“You have good night?” he asked.

“Great good, thank you,” Coby replied.

They sat down to eat. This morning it was a sweet yellow porridge and some kind of bean dumpling rolled in chopped nuts. She wondered if the skraylings were keeping Lent, or if they usually carried no meat on their ships. Dried vegetables would certainly keep better, or at least not go rancid.

“I want to thank you, captain,” she said in Tradetalk, “for agreeing to take us to France in our hour of need.”

“It is my pleasure,” Hennaq replied, pouring
aniig
for them all. “Erishen-tuur told me you are fleeing the wrath of our enemy Grey.”

“Your enemy?”

“Aye. His father was the leader of the Huntsmen, was he not?”

Coby inclined her head. A convenient fiction to explain his involvement in the attack on the Catlyn twins. Jathekkil’s true motives could not be revealed without endangering them all.

“Are we near Le Havre yet?” she asked. She had no idea how far away the port was from Calais, nor how fast this ship had travelled in the night.

“We are not going to Le Havre,” Sandy said.

“Where then? Cherbourg?”

“I have decided to take you home, to… Nar-say,” Hennaq said.

“You mean Marseille? That is a great voyage, and far out of your way.”

“Not so far, perhaps. And safer for you.”

Coby doubted it, but did not gainsay him.

“Grey may send men after you by land, may he not?” Hennaq went on. “And they may thus happen upon you, alone on the road.”

“Yes, this is true.”

The skrayling gestured around him.

“Here, you are not alone. And since he does not know you are on my ship, how can he find you?”

Gabriel frowned at her and she translated for him.

“He has a point,” Gabriel said in a low voice. “We are none of us great fighters like Mal.”

“I have my pistols, and you your cudgel,” she whispered back.

“Against men armed with steel? I do not fancy our chances.”

Coby rose and bowed. “Thank you, captain. We are grateful for your protection.”

“And you may repay the favour when we near the end of the journey,” he said, baring his teeth slightly. “I am minded to treat with the lords of Corsica for the bones of my countrymen.”

Coby took a sip of
aniig
to hide her discomfiture. She had no intention of returning to Calvi; the lords of the citadel would probably arrest her on sight. But that was an argument for another day. It would be some weeks before they reached Corsican waters, and by then they would be nearly home.