Looking up he saw Ned standing at the curtained entrance, staring at them, and realised what this must look like. He almost pushed Hendricks away, but checked himself. He owed Ned nothing. Let the wretch think what he liked, at least for now. It was up to the girl to tell the others, if and when she was ready.
At last all was arranged, and there was nothing left but to make his farewells. He shook hands with Gabriel and Ned. The latter winked at him, irrepressible as always. Last of all he turned to Hendricks. After a moment's hesitation she slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him briefly, then retreated in embarrassment.
"God be with you, Catlyn," Gabriel said.
Mal inclined his head in thanks, pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the open deck. The light was fading fast, and the crowds had dispersed to their homes. A wherry bobbed close to the barge's prow, with two royal guards in the stern, partisans held stiffly at attention. As Mal stepped aboard he recognised Baines at the oars. The intelligencer gave a slight shake of his head, and began to row.
Mal looked back towards the barge. He was glad that Kiiren had found what he came here for, but his joy would be short-lived. As soon as it could be done, Mal would have that creature driven from Sandy's body, and all would be well again.
Mal was escorted through the maze of Whitehall Palace to a modestly furnished parlour far from the great chambers of state. Walsingham was seated at the head of a polished oak dining table, his gaunt features luminous as alabaster in the candlelight.
"Well, Master Catlyn," Walsingham said when the guards had left. "You have stirred up quite a hornet's nest this day."
"That was not my intent, sir."
"No?"
The spymaster gestured towards the door. Mal turned to see Baines shooting the bolts into place. His gut tightened in fear, and for an instant the dizziness brought on by Kiiren's sleeping draught seemed to have returned. Was Walsingham another guiser, a skrayling behind a mask of human flesh? He thought not, but there was no way to be sure.
"Sit down, Catlyn," Walsingham said, less gently this time.
Mal did so, though all his instincts bade him run. The spymaster's dark eyes scanned his face.
"I trust we have the right brother," he said at last.
"Shall I show you Monkton's handiwork?" Mal asked. "It's still fresh."
He realised at once he had said the wrong thing.
"What were you thinking?" Walsingham hissed, leaning forward. "Abandoning your post to chase off after your brother?"
He nodded to Baines, who came up behind Mal's chair, placed a hand on his left shoulder and squeezed. Mal gasped as spears of agony drove through his flesh, and ground his teeth together in an effort not to cry out.
"I was abducted."
"By witchcraft?" Walsingham's eyes gleamed with Puritan zeal.
"I don't know." Mal swallowed, throat tinder-dry. He had no proof of anything that had happened. After all, it had just been a dream, hadn't it? "All I know is, I went to sleep in the Tower and woke up in Ferrymead House, incarcerated with my brother."
"You think someone broke into the ambassador's quarters, drugged you and smuggled you out, all unnoticed?"
"St Thomas's Tower looks out over the river, sir. And I may have left the window open. The nights have been muggy of late."
Walsingham's eyes narrowed. "What happened after that?"
"I… I was taken before Suffolk and tortured for information."
"What information?"
"I don't know."
Baines squeezed again. Harder. The edges of Mal's vision darkened, and his left arm began to twitch uncontrollably.
"S-s-something to do with Derbyshire, and, and skraylings. I think they wanted to know what I knew about the Huntsmen."
Mal feigned breathlessness whilst his thoughts ran ahead. Well, half-feigned anyway. Walsingham gestured to Baines, who fetched a cup of wine from the table and pushed it into his good hand. Mal gulped at the sour liquid, but it was pulled away before he could manage more than a mouthful.
"Suffolk trying to curry favour with the skraylings, eh?" Walsingham said, steepling his hands.
"No, sir. I think Suffolk is one of them. A Huntsman, I mean."
It was a risky gambit, but if Walsingham did not already know who and what Suffolk was, he would not hear it from Mal. The spymaster's reaction to any talk of magic told him that such an accusation would not be welcome.
Walsingham shook his head. "I cannot believe it. He has always spoken out in support of our skrayling allies. If it were his son you accused, that would be another matter."
"Suffolk and his son have been working together all along, sir. It was Blaise who was my tormentor."
"So you attacked the father, and slew the son to boot."
"Blaise is dead?"
The spymaster glanced at Baines, but this time Mal was too quick. He leapt to his feet and put more than an arm's reach between himself and his captors. Just enough truth to be believable, that was what Baines had taught him.
"I swear to you, Sir Francis, upon my mother's soul, His Grace the Duke of Suffolk is a traitor working against our alliance with the skraylings. He plots to put another on the throne of England."
He stood there, panting, his every breath pulling at his shoulder wound until he thought it must bleed afresh. Baines crouched into a fighter's stance, but Walsingham waved him back.
"That is a very serious accusation, Catlyn," he said softly.
"I know, sir. I would not voice it if I did not believe it to be true."
"Do you have proof?"
Mal shook his head. "No, but the ambassador believes me. His people are… not unacquainted with the Huntsmen's handiwork. He will vouch for the fact that my brother suffered hideously at their hands."
"Ah, the ambassador. Then he remains our ally? You found no sign of collusion with our enemies?"
"None, sir."
Walsingham nodded. "Good. I do not think the prince wishes to offend the Vinlanders, and if Suffolk is in any way guilty…" He spread his hands.
Mal let out a long breath. Baines was still watching him suspiciously, but without Walsingham to back him up the intelligencer could do nothing.
"You will remain in custody–" Walsingham began.
Mal froze.
"–in my home, under house arrest," he went on, "until such time as this business with the skraylings can be smoothed over. Baines?"
"Thank you, sir," Mal said, relief washing over him. At least he wasn't being sent to the Tower.
Walsingham waved him away, and Baines drew back the bolts on the door, a sour look on his face.
"Nice move, college boy," the intelligencer said as they walked back through the palace.
"What do you mean?" Mal asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Throwing it back on the skraylings. Gets you off the hook, gives them a way to placate His Highness. You'll go far in this business."
"You think Walsingham will employ me again, after what I've done?"
Baines laughed. "He likes men with guts. Just don't get too big for your boots, all right?"
Mal nodded. He had not even considered a career as an intelligencer until now; there had been too much else to think of in the past couple of weeks. Secrets, lies and a blade in each hand: wasn't that what he'd excelled in, all these years?