The Merchant of Dreams (11 page)

“Catlyn.” Grey looked Sandy up and down. “I thought you’d sailed with Raleigh?”

Before Sandy could reply Coby stepped forward, scarcely believing her own temerity.

“A rumour put about to confound our enemies, Your Grace,” she said. “Master Catlyn has far more important business in England.”

“And you.” Grey glared at her. “You are the ungrateful whelp who nearly got my father killed.”

“N… no, Your Grace. It was the work of Huntsmen sympathisers. The man responsible was caught and hanged.”

At the mention of Huntsmen, Grey’s expression changed. “What do you know of the Huntsmen?”

“More than you, I think,” Sandy said. “And I am willing to help you, if you will help me.”

Grey gave a short laugh. “Why should I believe you, when you would not speak under duress?”

“I had nothing to gain then. Would you have spared me if I had told you?” When Grey made no answer, he went on. “I can translate your father’s notes.”

“What do you mean?”

“My… That is, I saw you with certain papers, covered in skrayling writings.”

Coby breathed a sigh of relief. She thought Sandy was about to bring up her own role in all this; she had no desire to attract Grey’s wrath a second time.

“They were written in Aiyalura,” Sandy went on, “an ancient tongue of the skraylings.”

“What nonsense. They look nothing like any skrayling writings I have seen.”

“That is because you have only seen Vinlandic. Does the script of the Moors resemble that of the Christians?”

Grey considered, tapping one finger on the silver head of his cane.

“You seem very knowledgeable about these foreigners and their outlandish tongues, Catlyn. Anyone would think you had been working with them all along. Is that why Leland appointed you?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Why should I trust you? You could claim it says whatever you please, and I would be none the wiser.”

“Very true. But since you do not go forward with it yourself, you will be no worse off than before.”

The duke’s eyes flicked towards Coby, then back to Sandy.

“Come to Suffolk House after 4 o’clock.” He turned on his heel and limped away before either of them could frame a reply.

“What are we going to tell Mal?” Coby muttered as they walked back through the corridors of Whitehall Palace. “He’ll have apoplexy when he learns you’ve made a deal with his mortal enemy.”

“My brother is not here to find out – and you will not tell him. Ever. Now, let us enjoy the rest of the day. I still have a mind to see the city.”

Their tour did not take as long as Coby feared, since the theatres were closed until Easter and Sandy had no interest in the hangings, bear-baitings or other bloodthirsty entertainments enjoyed by most Londoners. She left him at the skrayling guild-house trading news with Kiiren’s kinfolk whilst she slipped away on her own errands, then when the clocks tolled four they set off for Suffolk House together.

They were admitted immediately and led through the main courtyard to a suite of rooms on the upper floor. Coby stood in the middle of the antechamber, making a swift inventory of possible exits and weapons, whilst Sandy drifted over to a cabinet where fine china and silverware were on display. The apartment was not so grand as the reception chamber Coby had seen on a previous visit, but nonetheless designed to show off its owner’s wealth and taste.

A few minutes later Grey himself appeared, bearing a small book bound in red leather. Coby recognised it as the one he had been perusing when she went to Ferrymead House to rescue Mal. Sandy accepted it graciously and began flicking through the pages, his brow creased slightly as he read. If it had been Mal, Coby would immediately have guessed there was something wrong. She was careful to keep her own expression blank, however. After a moment he looked up.

“This is in a very old dialect,” he said to Grey. “It may take me a few days to translate it properly.”

Grey nodded curtly. “Very well. But do not think to cozen me; I expect results by the end of the week.”

Sandy returned the book to its owner, and they made their obeisances and left.

“Is there something wrong?” Coby asked as they made their way back to Southwark.

“It is in a language I do not recognise,” Sandy replied.

“What?” Coby halted, heart sinking. “You can’t translate it?”

“I can transcribe it, and then perhaps someone else can be found to translate it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The document is written in the Aiyaluran script, but the language is not Aiyalura as I had thought. There are many languages in the New World, and I know only a few of them.”

“And if we can’t find anyone else who knows this tongue?”

Sandy shook his head. “There must be a solution. I did not come all this way for nothing.”

Sewing a coif and hemming other pieces of linen for kerchiefs took Coby until well after nightfall, and she fell into her bed too exhausted to worry about the morrow. It was full light when she woke, and she dressed hurriedly and ran down to the kitchen, fearing that Sandy might have left without her. Instead he was stirring a pot of barley gruel over the fire and whistling a strange melody.

“You’re cheerful this morning, sir.”

Sandy put down his spoon and straightened up.

“Last night, whilst I slept, I remembered,” he said. “I remembered where I had seen the language in the duke’s book.”

“Where?”

“It is Latin.”

“Latin? But why Latin?”

“I think it is intended as a cipher; a cipher within a cipher, in fact.” He passed her a sheet of paper, which she recognised as the copy of Grey’s notes she had made from memory to show Mal. “Imagine for a moment that you are a scholar well-versed in Latin. What would you make of that?”

“It’s nonsense,” she said. “Just squiggles.”

“Indeed. And whilst the ‘squiggles’, as you call them, mean something to me, the words do not.”

“But you and Mal both went to school,” she said. “Do you not remember your Latin?”

He took the sheet of paper back, looked at it, and sighed.

“Kiiren could not heal me completely. I am… in two pieces. As I am now, I am Erishen, and can read this script, but not the language. And if I were to put on a spirit-guard again, I would forget how to read the script. Now do you see why it is a double cipher?”

“No one can read it,” she said, with a shiver of excitement. “Not Christians, and not skraylings. Only guisers. If they’ve been to school, of course.”

“Exactly. And being drawn to power, they will seek out any opportunity to gain knowledge. Latin is essential for any learned man, is it not?”

“So what do we do?”

“We will have to transcribe the original, of which this is but a crude imitation. I will read out the words to you, as best I can, and you will write them down.”

“But I don’t know Latin.”

“Just do your best to represent the sounds in your English letters, and we will hope to make sense of them later.”

“I’ll try.”

She made her way back upstairs, deep in thought. If they were to go back to Suffolk House, perhaps she could turn the situation to her own advantage. Grey might not be willing to confess to a liaison with Lady Frances, but there were other ways to glean intelligence. Time to put her skills to good use.

This time they were shown into a book-lined room on the ground floor of Suffolk House and Grey was not present, only a middle-aged man in dark blue servant’s garb with a gilded unicorn badge on a chain about his neck. Coby’s heart sank.

“Master Dunfell,” she said, bowing. She turned to Sandy.
Please let him remember he’s supposed to be Mal
. “Sir, I don’t think you were introduced to the late duke’s secretary, were you?”

“We met at the theatre,” Dunfell said with a sniff. “Briefly.”

To her relief Sandy inclined his head in acknowledgement and managed a polite bow.

Dunfell went over to the desk and opened an unlocked cupboard, from whence he took a sheaf of blank paper and some uncut quills. He set them down next to the enciphered book and fussed with the inkwells.

“His Grace instructed me to provide you with all the materials you may need,” he said. “Dinner will also be provided, in the servants’ hall. I will send someone to fetch you at 1 o’clock.”

“Of course, sir,” Coby said. “Thank you, sir.”

Dunfell favoured her with a brief, icy look and left without another word.

“He doesn’t like you,” Sandy said.

“He asked me to spy on Mal, back when I worked at the theatre. I’m afraid I disappointed him.” She picked up a quill and searched on the desk for a pen knife. “What are we going to do about the book, sir? Lord Grey expects a translation.”

“We will make the true transliteration first,” Sandy replied, “then if need be I will invent something to satisfy Grey.”

It took them a good hour to transcribe the first page, by which time Coby’s head was aching. This was more difficult than any cipher Mal had taught her.

“May we rest a while?” she asked Sandy, flexing her cramped hand. “I have business of my own here.”

“Oh?”

“Your brother’s business.” It was enough of the truth for now. “Please, stand watch at the door, will you?”

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see. Just cough loudly if you see anyone coming, all right?”

She unbuttoned her breeches, ignoring Sandy’s curious gaze, and thrusting a hand into her drawers retrieved a small canvas roll about four inches long and an inch thick. She untied the cord holding it closed then with a practised flick of the wrist unrolled the bundle across the desk, revealing a set of miniature skeleton keys, perfect for opening desk drawers and other small locks. Smiling to herself she set to work.

The locks were old and of a simple design, but rather stiff. She cursed her ill luck in having no oil to ease the movement, but it would only leave telltale stains anyway. Instead she patiently probed the wards until she found a skeleton key that fitted, then twisted with all her might. After a few moments’ grimacing and cursing, the key turned in the lock.

The desk drawers contained a number of letters addressed to the duke, but none in the same hand she had seen on the letters of introduction written by Lady Frances. If Grey were indeed pursuing the lady, either their negotiations had not reached the stage of exchanging love-letters, or he kept them somewhere more private than his library. An absence of evidence was not evidence of absence, Mal had often told her. Still, it eliminated one line of enquiry.

Just then the bell rang for dinner. Coby carefully rolled up her lock-picks and stowed them in her drawers, along with the folded sheet of transliteration. Best not to leave it lying around for inquisitive servants like Dunfell to find, or the game would be up.

After dinner they returned to the library and Coby retrieved the sheet of paper from her codpiece. Sandy took a beaded pouch from his pocket and shook the contents onto the table. It was the skrayling necklace that Mal had said protected him from the guisers as he slept. Sandy fastened it about his neck and drew a deep breath. His features softened, as if another soul looked out of his eyes. Not Erishen, but Alexander Catlyn once more. Her throat tightened in sympathy for Mal.

She swallowed and looked away, pretending a sudden interest in the contents of the bookshelves. Her mother had taught her to read and write – a useful skill for a tradesman’s wife, and an essential one when Coby had worked in the theatre – but reading for pleasure was a luxury she had never picked up the taste for it. She drifted around the library, running her fingers over the leather bindings.

Sandy coughed. She looked round, but he had gone back to his reading. She made another circuit of the room. Another cough.

“Sorry, am I distracting you, sir?”

“Only a little.”

She went and stood by the window. The library was positioned about halfway along the southernmost range of buildings, where its tall windows could catch the best of the daylight. From here she had a fine view of the gardens sloping down to the river, the palace of Whitehall and beyond that the delicate stonework of Westminster Abbey. Spring sunlight glittered on the water and warmed the panes of glass that separated her from the outside world. She watched the boats heading downstream towards the sea, and wondered where Mal was, and what he was doing. Being seasick, no doubt. She smiled to herself and tried to pretend it was only the dazzling light that made tears well in her eyes.

“No. Oh no no no no no.” Sandy leapt to his feet and backed away from the desk as if the book were about to burst into flames. “No. No that.”

“What’s wrong, sir?”

Sandy muttered something in a garbled mixture of English and Latin.

“Here, let me take that off,” Coby said, remembering Mal’s warning. “You’ve been wearing it far too long.”

She thought he was going to fight her off, but he stood meekly and allowed her to remove the spirit-guard. Just in time she thought to pull up a chair as Sandy’s knees gave way.

“Sir, are you ill?”

Sandy was as white as a sheet, and looked as though he was going to faint. Coby ran to the door and called for a servant.

“Quickly, fetch some wine! My master is unwell.”

She returned to Sandy’s side and hurriedly stowed the necklace in her pocket, then took his left hand in her own. His flesh was cold and unyielding as marble.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered, though it was not the man before her she was apologising to.

A few moments later the servant arrived with a flagon and a silver cup. The look he gave Coby as he left suggested he thought she might run off with it if not watched.

She filled the cup and held it out to Sandy. When he did not respond, she lifted it to his lips and urged him to drink. He took a sip, and then another.

“Erishen?”

Dark eyes turned upon her, solemn and thoughtful.

“I have found what I sought,” he said. “And now I wish I had not.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is not just any guiser’s journal. This is a copy of a much older document, a record of the journeys made by the Birch Men, five hundred years ago.”