The door was opened by a young skrayling wearing hornrimmed spectacles. His silver-streaked hair was tied back in a neat queue and he wore a clerk's plain brown tunic and breeches rather than the patterned garb of a merchant. The tattooed lines on his forehead gathered into a frown.
"Naismith," the actor-manager said. "Cutsnail and I talk trade."
The clerk gestured for them to enter, saying something to his master in Vinlandic.
Master Cutsnail's chamber took up the whole of the upper floor of one side-wing of the building. Three large glazed windows looked across the gardens to an identical wing opposite; the other three walls were lined with tapestries from floor to ceiling. Some were European in design, others bore similar patterns to the merchants' garments. The chamber was stiflingly hot despite its size, and the air was heavy with the musky scent of the foreigners.
The clerk gestured to their feet.
"Take your shoes off," Master Naismith told Coby in a low voice.
"I have a hole in my stocking toe, sir," she whispered back.
"No matter." He cast a meaningful glance at the expensive carpets covering the floor.
Cutsnail was sitting cross-legged behind a low table. He stood as they approached and greeted them in the skrayling fashion, head turned to the right and palms displayed. Master Naismith bowed English-style, and Coby followed suit.
"Sorry us late," the actor-manager said. Tradetalk was not the most elegant of languages, but it got straight to the point.
Cutsnail grinned, fangs half-bared in an expression that meant he accepted the apology out of courtesy but was still displeased. He gestured for them to sit, and the clerk brought over a pitcher full of aniig, a herbal infusion which was as popular with the skraylings as beer was with the English. The liquid clinked and splashed as the clerk poured it into three elegant Venetian drinking glasses, and Coby realised with a start that there were small chunks of ice in it. Ice in June? Now that was real magic, and of a most welcome kind. She thought guiltily of Pastor Jan's sermons on the subject of witchcraft. Surely there could be no harm in such a useful practice?
Cutsnail raised his glass, and Coby followed his lead, sipping the cold liquid. She knew better than to drink it too quickly. It might not make a man drunk like beer, but it had a potency of its own which might equally lead to incautious behaviour. She did not want to shame her master in front of this powerful foreigner.
Master Naismith's Tradetalk extended only to the common courtesies and he relied on Coby to translate for him in matters of business. After the obligatory exchange of pleasantries about the latest trade fleet and the state of the Queen's health, Cutsnail got down to business.
"The theatre building progresses well?" he asked, eyeing Naismith across his glass of aniig.
"Very well. The timbers are all in place and the labourers begin work on the walls this week. And I have the plans you asked to see."
Naismith passed a leather document-tube to the skrayling, who shook out the roll of paper and spread it on the desk, weighting the corners with sea-polished stones.
"This is to make things rise up from underground, yes?"
"Indeed," Naismith said. "This is for the trapdoor under the stage; a similar device is used to lower players from above."
He gestured for Coby to explain further. She gathered her thoughts; this was going to push her grasp of Tradetalk to its limits.
"It uses weights, as you see here," she said, pointing to the diagram's counterweight mechanism. "All I do is pull this handle, and the trapdoor slides to one side and the platform rises up to replace it."
"And this?" Cutsnail stabbed a thick grey fingernail at another part of the diagram, where the rope connected to the counterweight spiralled around a groove cut into a tapered spindle.
"Ah, that is the cunning part," she replied, suppressing a grin of pride. "The teeth on the wheel make it turn at a constant speed, but because the drum is like so –" she formed a tapering shape with her hands "– it lets out less and less rope as it turns, slowing it down so the platform comes to a gentle stop."
"And you made this?"
"I designed it, yes. There is none other like it in all London."
She did not add that the mechanism had been inspired by memories of learning to spin wool at her mother's knee. Boys were not expected to know such things.
Cutsnail made an approving sound. "How soon will the theatre be ready?"
Master Naismith gazed at the ceiling. "There's still all the plastering and thatching, and the painter can't start work on the stage until that's finished, because of the dust, so I'm afraid it won't be until September at the very earliest."
Cutsnail bared his teeth.
"It must be done for August."
Naismith frowned at Coby and she nodded in confirmation.
"August?" Naismith shook his head. "That will not be easy."
"It must be done."
"May I ask why?"
Cutsnail hesitated. "It is not yet widely known, but my people are sending an ambassador to England, and your Prince Arthur has proposed a contest of plays in his honour."
"A contest?" Naismith smiled. "Then you are indeed in luck, sir. Are not my men the best actors in London?"
Coby rephrased the question as a statement. She did not think her employer would appreciate her issuing a formal challenge to his business partner.
"That is why I wished to invest in your new theatre," the skrayling replied. "But it must be ready for the ambassador's visit."
"Surely performances of such grandeur will be played at one of the royal palaces?"
"That is not our custom. I am certain the ambassador will wish to see the plays in their rightful setting."
"Still, August…" Naismith shook his head. "If I had known sooner–"
"If the theatre is not ready, it will hurt my standing in the guild. I will have to increase my share of the theatre's profits to four-fifths to compensate for any losses I will make elsewhere."
"Four-fifths?" Naismith looked faint.
Coby suppressed a smile.
"That is fair recompense," she told the skrayling.
"I will do everything in my power to ensure the theatre is ready in time," Naismith said when he had recovered his composure.
Cutsnail smiled, showing off his long eye teeth to full advantage.
"I am certain you will," he said.
The purse of crowns weighed heavy in Coby's pocket as she walked to Goody Watson's. She could not have felt more conspicuous if she had been wearing girl's clothes, or none at all. Surely a sharp-eyed cozener had already spotted the tempting bulge or heard the muffled clink of coins? She scanned the crowded streets, but nothing seemed amiss. A few minutes later she reached the house of the tailor's wife without incident, and slipped through the open front door with a sigh of relief.
She paused on the threshold, sneezing at the dust that filled the air. Gowns, jackets and cloaks of every colour hung from pegs along one wall, whilst doublets, breeches and various linen items were folded in neat piles on shelves or scattered across trestle tables. A variety of hats, most of them black, occupied another set of pegs, and pairs of boots and shoes lurked under the tables alongside boxes of small household goods such as candlesticks and pewter dishes. Goody Watson sat by the window with her mending basket, half an eye on her work and the other half on a portly gentleman who was swaggering up and down, trying out the hang of a hip-length cloak that did nothing for his figure.