The Merchant of Dreams (4 page)

“But you came anyway.”

Mal put down his cup. “I came to see you as often as I could, when… when we were both in London. Do I need a reason to visit here?”

Kiiren reached out and put a hand on Mal’s arm. “Do not be offended, Catlyn-tuur. We live apart here and are not accustomed to company. We are both made disagreeable by it, I think.”

Ever the ambassador
. Mal lowered his eyes and let his hands fall into his lap.

Kiiren turned the conversation to less prickly matters, like the best way to cook mussels, and after a few minutes Sandy excused himself and went outside to start building a fire for supper.

Keeping half an eye on the tent-flap in case Sandy returned, Mal told Kiiren about their discovery on Corsica.

“Why would they do such a thing?” he asked Kiiren when he was done. “To live as a slave is terrible, I know, but–”

“It is not this life they feared, but next.”

“I thought you skraylings didn’t believe in Hell – or Heaven.”

“Next life in this world. As humans.”

“As guisers.”

“Yes. It is not just against our law, but against our beliefs. Skraylings are skraylings, humans are humans; that is how it should be.”

“Could they not choose to just… die and not be reborn?”

“Perhaps. Not all are reborn, even if they wish to. But to die in fear and pain brings…” He shook his head. “I do not know English word. Perhaps you have none.”

“English word for what?”

“Creatures that haunt dreamlands, lurking in shadows.”

“I know the things you mean.” He shuddered. He well remembered the creatures he had seen – or rather not seen. They lurked on the edge of vision, filling their victims’ hearts with the terrible certainty that to look upon them was to go mad. “I don’t think we do have a word for them.”

“
Hrrith
, they are called in Vinlandic. It holds meaning of hunting, and hunger, and emptiness beyond death.”

“That’s a lot to put into one small word,” Mal said. “Hunting and hunger, eh? Perhaps we should call them ‘devourers’.”

It felt good to pin them down with a name. Naming a thing gave one power over it, in the old stories his nurse had told him.

Kiiren nodded his approval. “You remember Erishen’s murder, how his soul – your soul – fled into the darkness, seeking haven from
hrrith
.”

“They would have destroyed Erishen. Devoured his soul.”

He wished they had, then none of this would have happened. Erishen’s soul would not have tried to take refuge in unborn twins, and he and Sandy would both have been whole and sane and spared this damnation.

“Erishen would have truly died that night,” Kiiren said, echoing Mal’s thoughts. “If his murderer had not first stolen his spirit-guard.”

“Like the earring you gave me, back in London.” He fingered his left earlobe, though he had not worn the pendant for some months. “That’s why Ruviq is still alive. He lost his clan-beads, or threw them aside on purpose, and so he dared not take his own life.”

“Yes.”

The coals settled in the brazier with a sigh, making him start.

“What about the outspeaker?” he asked. “What was he doing on that ship?”

“I do not know. Mine is not only clan here, and since I took over care of Erishen, I have little time for worldly business. I am not privy to elders’ counsel any more.”

“And now?”

“Now I will have to serve my people, if they need me.”

“And what about Sandy? He still needs you.”

“He is much recovered. Better even than I had hoped.”

This was his chance. He drew a deep breath. “I want to take him home, to Provence. He has spent too long amongst strangers; he needs to reacquaint himself with the manners of his own kind.”

“He is already amongst his own kind.”

“So you say. But Erishen or no, he is still my brother. Still one of my people, as well as one of yours. And…” He lowered his voice. “And if anything happens to me, he is sole heir to my estate.”

“You do not intend to marry your girl Hendricks, then, and make children?”

“I–” He stared at Kiiren. ‘How did you know?”

“I have made much study of your people. I know man from woman, even if many of my companions do not. And like her, I am both in spirit.” He grinned. “Besides, she does not smell like man.”

“I should hope not,” Mal replied with a laugh. Then he recalled Kiiren’s earlier question. “No, we are not betrothed, nor even lovers. She will not give up her male garb, and French law is very harsh on the subject of masculine love.”

“But she is woman, not man.”

“And for that transgression also, she could be punished. Even if we were to move back to England, it would not be simple…”

Kiiren clicked his tongue. “My people were wise not to ally themselves with France. I think we would not be welcome there.”

“That is as may be, but it has nothing to do with my brother,” he said, unwilling to let the subject drop now he had dared to broach it. “May I take him back with me, at least for a while?”

Kiiren’s mouth curved downwards, and he shook his head. “I am sorry, my friend. I think this is not good time. Not yet.”

“Then my business here is done,” Mal said, getting to his feet. “I will seek passage to London in the morning.”

CHAPTER III

Coby strode through the dusk, hoping she had chosen the right direction. She could hardly return to the skrayling camp in the middle of a funeral.

The wind rustled the gorse bushes, and the last rays of the setting sun caught the tips of their thorny branches, gold and… lilac? She turned, and saw three figures striding across the rough ground towards her. Skraylings, carrying coloured lanterns. She was not keen to speak with them, but they appeared to be heading towards Lord Kiiren’s camp, and at least with them to guide her she wouldn’t have to worry about getting lost and falling off a cliff. She waited patiently for them to catch her up.

The three skraylings halted a few yards away and raised their lanterns, peering at her through the gloom. She thought she recognised one of them from the crowd at the wrestling match, but she couldn’t be certain. All three had iron-grey hair and wore the elaborately patterned tunics and jewelled hair-beads of senior merchants. The swaying lamplight distorted their tattooed faces, and for a moment Coby could almost believe the story that they were born from the bark of trees.

“You go Kiiren?” one of them asked.

“Aye.”

He gestured somewhat to his left. “Here. We too go.”

Coby bowed her thanks and followed the elders across the heath. Thankfully they did not speak to her further, though they exchanged a few words in Vinlandic. She thought she caught the word
senlirren
, which she knew meant “outspeaker”, since it had been Lord Kiiren’s title in London.

They followed a small stream to where it disappeared over a lip of stony ground into a narrow defile. The southeast-facing hollow was already as dark as night, lit only by a fire over which a large pot bubbled, giving off an enticing savoury smell. Mal and Sandy were hunkered down by the fire; they both got to their feet as the elders approached, and bowed. The skraylings returned the gesture, then without another word ducked into Kiiren’s tent.

“Where on Earth have you been?” Mal asked Coby, draping an arm about her shoulder. “You nearly missed supper.”

They sat down opposite Sandy, who stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, seemingly oblivious to their presence. Coby studied him discreetly as they waited. Last time she had seen Sandy Catlyn, he had been in the grip of whatever fiendish enchantment the late Duke of Suffolk had inflicted on him in that cellar. He appeared sane enough now, though he was still quiet and withdrawn even compared to his brother.

A few moments later Kiiren and the elders emerged from the tent.

“Please forgive me, Catlyn-tuur,” Kiiren said to Mal. “I am called away on clan business. Please, enjoy your supper without me. I will return in the morning.”

Kiiren embraced Sandy, then the four skraylings departed in silence.

“I wonder what that was all about,” Coby said, watching them leave.

Mal told her about his conversation with Kiiren. He said nothing about their findings on Corsica, however, and Coby guessed he had not yet broken the bad news to Sandy. She wondered if the ambassador had known any of the dead skraylings.

“Then Lord Kiiren was right,” she said when Mal finished. “Whatever this other clan are up to, they expect him to help.”

Across the fire Sandy tasted the pottage, nodded to himself in satisfaction, and ladled some into a wooden bowl.

“We will have to share,” he said, passing it to Mal. “Kiiren and I have only the two.”

Mal handed the bowl and a spoon to Coby. The pottage was thick and salty, made with mussels and the fat yellow corn the skraylings brought with them from the New World. After a few greedy mouthfuls she remembered her manners and passed it back to Mal.

Whilst she waited for her next turn, she took off her shoes and put her feet as close to the fire as she dared. The flames had died down, but the damp wood still popped and spat occasionally. She wriggled her toes, frowning at the hole in one stocking.

“I suppose you two have had a lot to catch up on,” she said as Mal passed the bowl back.

They shrugged in unison. Mal grinned, but on catching Sandy’s eye he sagged, expression grave again. Coby bent her head over the soup bowl. Well, that went really well. She racked her brains for a subject that might provoke more than a shrug.

“Perhaps you can help me with something, in the morning,” she said to Sandy.

Both men looked at her quizzically.

“Master Catlyn has been teaching me to fire a pistol,” she went on, “but I can barely hit a target once in five shots. I thought that if I could understand how the bullet moves, I might be able to improve my aim.”

Sandy sighed. “Alas, I can no longer read half the books I brought from England, and I forget much of what I read before. Kiiren’s healing has… changed me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He smiled. “There may be other ways I can help you. Some adjustment of the gunpowder mix–”

“No!”

Mal put a hand on her arm. “It’s all right. There’s no need to change anything. You just need more practice with the pistols.”

He took the bowl from her unresisting hands and she wrapped her arms about her knees. Learning to fire a pistol had been easy enough, but every time she loaded it she thought of the adulterated flash-powder that had made the stage cannon explode, killing her previous master. She suspected this was the reason Mal made her continue with the training, to inure her to such thoughts, like making someone get back on a horse after falling off. Knowing it was for her own good didn’t make it any easier.

She couldn’t blame Sandy, of course. Why should he know about the fire at the theatre? He and Mal had seen so little of one another since they rescued him from Suffolk’s clutches. What the brothers needed was more time together.

“I would like to come to England with you,” Sandy said, as if reading her thoughts.

She looked up, startled. Could he do that? If Mal could dream of things that really happened, anything was possible.

“You overheard?” Mal said. “Then you know Kiiren said no.”

Sandy smiled. “He said no to you taking me. He did not say I cannot go of my own will.”

“All right. If you think he’ll agree, we’ll ask him in the morning.”

Mal woke to discover that Coby had hogged the blanket in the night, leaving his back exposed. He sat up, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. Perhaps a few fencing drills would loosen him up a bit and get the blood flowing again.

He scrambled out of the tent on hands and knees and stood to stretch in the icy morning air. Across the slate blue sea, a distant line of mist marked the coast of France. Skraylings might not be welcome there, but as long as Sandy behaved himself he should be quite safe. Safer than in England, at any rate. Jathekkil might be out of the game for a while, but there were other guisers in England who might wish to take up his cause against the Catlyn twins. No, best to complete their business in London as fast as possible and then put a few hundred miles between themselves and their enemies. In the meantime, he needed to keep his wits sharp and his blades sharper.

Drawing his rapier he adopted a
seconda guardia
stance, blade at chest height and horizontal with the ground, left hand raised defensively, weight on his forward foot. Footwork first: forward, then back. Again. Now with the blade: forward and lunge – and back. As formal and controlled as a courtly dance, and as well-practised. One should be free to study one’s partner, without having to give a thought to the steps…

A rattle of stones to his left sent him whirling about, sword raised, but was only Sandy coming up from the beach with a string of brown eel-like fish. Mal quickly sheathed his blade.

“Breakfast,” Sandy said, grinning.

He knelt and gutted the fish and threaded them on sticks, whilst Mal fetched dried bracken from the canvas-covered store behind the tent and laid a fire. Coby emerged a few minutes later, yawning and combing her fingers through her pale hair.

“Did someone mention breakfast?”

Soon the fish were giving off a mouthwatering aroma. Sandy left them to keep an eye on the cooking and returned after a few minutes with cornbread and a jug of
aniig
. Mal couldn’t help but notice that Sandy had now put aside his skrayling garb and was dressed in his old clothes, the ones he had been wearing when Mal rescued him from Suffolk. The faded doublet was tight across the shoulders where Sandy had filled out in the past year and a half.

“Is that a good idea?” Mal asked him. “Kiiren won’t be happy if he thinks I put you up to this.”

“I am the elder by many lifetimes. I go where I will.”

Mal had no answer to that. It was too easy to forget he was talking to an ancient skrayling, not the brother he had known since childhood.

“I should warn you,” he said slowly, “when we get to England, we’ll be staying in Ned Faulkner’s house.”