Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

Leading the way up the tight stairs, Will slowed as he neared the second floor to peer around the turn where two men waited halfway along the landing. They were rough, unshaven, in poor clothes, their numerous scars detailing their violent life.

Withdrawing, Will rapped on the wall. A second later the shadows of the men loomed across the top of the stairs. Miller burst forth, and before the guards could raise the alarm, he cracked their heads together and they fell to the boards unconscious.

On the third floor, four more men waited, arguing noisily as they drank ale, too many to eliminate without a fight.

Bounding from the top of the stairs, Will took them by surprise. His sword went to the throat of the nearest, while Carpenter, Miller, and Mayhew attacked the others, but not before shouts rose up. Launceston ran one of the guards through, and Mayhew rammed his knife under the ribs of another, withdrawing it with a flourish to slash his victim across the throat. Miller's solid punch broke the jaw of the remaining guard.

A clatter on the stairs signalled the arrival of a guard from the fourth floor who let out a cry of shock before scampering back up. Before he had climbed half the flight, Carpenter's throwing knife was embedded in his back.

"How many guards above?" Will asked his prisoner. The tip of his blade brought a droplet of blood on the guard's throat.

"He was the last," the man croaked.

"Pickering is up there?"

"He is making merry with his copesmates for his bene fortune."

"He speaks the thieves' cant," Carpenter said. "Prick him some more until he recalls the queen's English."

"The meaning is clear." Will brought his sword hilt up hard against the guard's head and knocked him unconscious.

From below came the faint rattle of the cellar door. The others didn't notice, but Will was acutely aware that the Hunter would soon stand between them and their only route out of the building. He would face that conundrum when he came to it.

Will took the remaining steps two at a time. The sound of festivities emanating from the room at the top was so loud Will understood why no one from within had investigated the disturbance. A woman's exclamation of surprise. The smash of a broken bottle. Music and raucous cheers.

"Some wine would be good now," Mayhew said.

"You can have all the wine in the Palace of Whitehall if we recover the Silver Skull from this den of thieves." Will peered through the keyhole.

Men in gaudy costumes and masks sat at tables around the outside of a large room, the roughness of what features were visible at odds with the delicacy of their outfits: gold and silver, black and red diamonds, green velvet, purple silk. The masks had long beaks like birds, or resembled devils or farmyard animals. Piled high on the tables were chicken and pork, cheese and bread and honeycakes, and numerous jugs of wine and ale, on the finest tableware Will had seen outside of the queen's dining hall. In the space among the tables, a buxom, half-naked woman frolicked with a jester.

From his narrow view, Will estimated twenty men were present, all of them undoubtedly the hardest, most violent cutthroats who had sealed with blood their ascension to the ranks of Pickering's inner circle.

On the edge of his view was a grand, high-backed chair that resembled a throne. In it sat a fat, ruddy-faced man with a booming laugh. His manner was confident, and the others appeared to be paying deference to him.

"We are about to step into a pit of vipers, outnumbered by four to one," Will said, "but we have surprise on our side. Cause as much disturbance as you can. I will seek out Pickering. The others will calm once I have a knife at his throat. Agreed?"

Nodding, the others drew their swords.

Kicking the door open, Will bounded onto the nearest table, booting a platter of meat into the throat of one of the guests. Amid the deafening outcry that erupted, knives were drawn and cudgels pulled from beside seats. Shrieking, the woman scrambled beneath the tables.

As two men pushed back their chairs to attack, Carpenter and Mayhew ran them through. By the time the other cutthroats had thrown off the effects of their drink and food, Miller and Launceston were among them. Blood spattered across the floorboards as the spies carved a swathe through the drunken underworld lords.

Leaping over the jester's head, Will avoided the fray and went directly for the King of Cutpurses. Leaping onto the table, and then, with one boot on the back of the throne, propelling himself behind Pickering, he turned fluidly to slide his dagger against his throat.

"Hold now, or your master dies," he shouted. Sheathing his sword, he tore off Pickering's mask to reveal a red-faced man, hair lank with sweat, piggy eyes roving fearfully.

Slowly, the cutthroats came to a halt, gazes flickering between Pickering and the door.

"Any attempt to leave this room will ensure you leave your life," Will continued.

Through the open door came the creak of the stairs and the advancing rumble of the dog's growl.

"Matthew." Will pulled a small pouch from his cloak and tossed it to Mayhew.

Slamming the door, Mayhew poured the contents of the pouch-salt and a mixture of herbs-along the floorboards from hinge to lock. "Now we shall not be disturbed," he said, gesturing to the protective concoction that Dee had created long ago.

"Now, Pickering, I presume?"

Rolling his eyes towards Will, Pickering looked so frightened he might faint.

"All we want is the Silver Skull," Will continued. "You have overreached yourself this time. This is not some purse from a poor country visitor or a necklace from some dowager fresh off the ship from Flanders. The price you pay for this prize will be your life."

Pickering opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish. Beyond the door, Will could hear the tramp of boots, the rise and fall of the dog's throaty rumble setting his teeth on edge. All eyes flickered uneasily towards the door.

Spinning Pickering around roughly, Will pressed the knife harder against his throat. "Speak, now!"

"I ... I ..." Pickering stuttered, "I am not who you think I am!" His eyes darted towards his associates.

"He lies," Launceston said. "Cut him a little. It will loosen his tongue."

But Will could see the fat man was too scared to lie. He scanned the faces of the other cutthroats and saw puzzlement there. "So, even you did not know this was not your master." The stand-in tried to scramble away, but Will caught him and dragged him back. "So Pickering keeps his identity a secret even from those closest to him for protection from rivals and injured parties," Will continued. "Who is your master?"

"I do not know."

"He hired you."

"He wore a mask!"

Throwing the fat man to one side, Will stepped onto the table and walked slowly around the perimeter so he could study his prisoners. "Take off your masks," he ordered.

Reluctantly, they obeyed, revealing sullen, brutish eyes and unshaven jowls, scars and missing ears, teeth, and eyes.

"The court of the King of Cutpurses," Will mocked. "A poor king deserves a court like this." He watched for any sign of offence, but all eyes were downcast.

Outside the door, the dog's growl became a low howl that had a chilling, hungry quality. Everyone in the room started.

"What, you would feed us to your dog once we speak?" one of the men said. "We know nothing. That one there is Laurence Pickering." He pointed to the fat man. "He gave me ruff-peck and shrap every time I brought the lifts."

"Feeding to the dog? A good idea," Will said. "Matthew, John, what say we toss one out of the door at a time until we find the real Pickering?"

"A good idea," Mayhew replied. "Our dog has a frightful hunger."

Laughter rose up from the back of the group of cutthroats. Unable to see who had made the sound, Will jumped from the table and advanced. The cutthroats moved away from him.