Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

The actions were strange enough to bring the band of thugs to a puzzled halt.

As Will studied the Silver Skull, a barely perceptible change came over the mask, perhaps a slight change in the quality of the moonlight it reflected, or a barely audible noise as though it were a tuning fork vibrating.

The scarred man flinched, his hand involuntarily going to his throat. He coughed once and spluttered. When it passed, his mocking smile returned. But only for a moment. Within seconds he was reeling, tearing at his face and arms and fighting for breath, eyes wide with panic.

The rest of Pickering's men were rooted in horror. The hands holding Will fell away, and he stepped quickly back through their ranks into the shadows at the edge of the alley.

The scarred man's skin blackened as if burned by an invisible fire. It spread quickly across his face, then down his arms, and his skin cracked like a muddy track beneath the hot sun. Blisters erupted everywhere, covering every part of him within seconds, forcing his eyes shut and deforming his lips. One by one the blisters burst to release foul yellow pus. As blood streamed from the corners of his eyes, his nose, his ears, his flesh began to liquefy, and he fell to his knees in a growing puddle, clawing at the areas where sticky bone was now visible.

Watching his death throes, Pickering's men crossed themselves or whispered prayers, but the spectacle kept them fixed.

Finally, the scarred man pitched forwards onto the cobbles and lay still. Will had observed something similar, in a village not far from Darmstadt when the plague had struck. But there the death had been slow, over days, not a matter of seconds. Yet he could see now what the Silver Skull was: an engine of disease, powered by the will of the one who wore it. All it required to operate was the key: the jewel the Hunter had fitted to it.

His impression was proved correct when first one, then ten, then all of Pickering's men began to experience the initial symptoms. In no time at all, the disease had leapt among them, driving them to their knees in an agonising death.

With horror, Will realised why the Enemy was so determined to gain the Skull: if thirty men could be brought down so quickly, where was the end of it? A street? A city? An entire country? Perhaps even the greatest army could be wiped away in the blink of an eye. With the Skull under their control, all Dee's defences amounted to nothing, and England was left naked and on the brink of becoming a charnel pit.

A tingling began in the tips of his fingers and his throat began to close. The Silver Skull looked directly at him. Before the disease rushed through Will, Don Alanzo caught the Skull's arm and guided him away with a gentle tug. The Hunter and his dog were nowhere to be seen. Don Alanzo gave Will a slight bow, the scales now balanced, and moved quickly away across the courtyard into the dark beyond, with the Skull beside him.

Will attempted to give pursuit, but his head was swimming and his legs were like jelly, even at the merest touch of the Skull's power. By the time he had recovered, Don Alanzo and the Skull had disappeared into the maze of Alsatia, and within moments, the whinny of a horse was followed by the crack of a whip and the rattle of carriage wheels.

Miller stumbled over, unscathed, a deep-seated horror burned into his eyes. "Will, I failed you," he croaked.

"You did what you could, as do we all. Come." As they headed back, Will added, "Whatever he said to you, ignore it. They lie. That is what they do."

Miller did not respond.

At the scene of the Thieves' Fair, Will was surprised to find that Marlowe and a group of the queen's men had rounded up the collection of rogues in one corner of the courtyard, where they were being held at sword point. Several bodies of those who had resisted lay on the cobbles as a lesson to the others.

Grace ran over and grasped Will's hand tightly. "You are safe," she said with relief. "I prayed for your return."

"You should not be here Grace," he scolded. "But I am glad to see you well." He motioned to Nathaniel to take Grace to one side.

"She only wished for knowledge of her sister," Nathaniel said quietly. "Do not treat her harshly."

The weight of what he had witnessed lay heavily on Will. With the weapon in the Enemy's hands, time was rapidly running out. He sought out Marlowe and said, "Kit, I thank you for coming to my aid. Now, bring me Pickering, the King of Cutpurses. I have some hard questions for him."

Marlowe motioned to Pickering's costume topped by the bird mask lying in a heap on the cobbles. "Mistress Seldon tells me this was his disguise."

"Then once again he hides among his people." Will eyed the sullen mass of rogues.

"If you do not know his looks, then you will never find him among that rabble, Will."

Will considered his options, and then said, "Bring the men to me one at a time."

As the pageant of glowering men trailed past, Will studied the size, the gait, and most importantly the eyes: Pickering's unwavering stare was unforgettable. Many he dismissed immediately, too squat, too large, too grey. A few he spent a moment considering. But there was one who at first appeared wrong, until Will realised he was feigning a limp and walking with his left shoulder stooped. He kept his gaze down, until Will forced him to look up. The unblinking black eyes were coldly familiar.

"The King of Cutpurses," Will said wryly. "Your nobility is about to be tested."

Pickering responded only with a defiant stare.

Will turned to Marlowe. "Take him to the Tower."

CHAPTER 18

lady, in Alsatia, amid the greatest rogues of London? What did you expect?" Will said angrily as he marched down the Long Corridor from the State Rooms to the wing set aside by Walsingham. "And this is where I hear your lecture about recklessness again, I suppose?" Grace responded without flinching.

He could see her temper was hot and she would fight him every step of the way, as always. "You risked a great many things, including death."

"If you kept me informed, I would not have to take risks."

"So it is my fault?" he blazed.

"Stop treating me like a little girl."

"Then trust me. If I discover anything about jenny, I will tell you."

She grew sullen. "It is not simply about jenny, and you know that."

His own anger drained away as he saw clearly the young girl who raced to him through the garden whenever he visited jenny. "You cannot protect me in the work I do," he said.

"And you cannot bring jenny back by protecting me. Nor can you erase the pain of her loss. But we cannot help ourselves, can we? We are both cursed to repeat our mistakes, trying to save the one person who reminds us of that time when all was right with the world."

She looked away sharply. He knew it was because tears had sprung to her eyes, but she would not show him what she perceived to be a weakness. Much of what she said was true, he knew, but Grace was more to him than a symbol of what had been lost. In the midst of his own grief, he had been devastated to see the effect of jenny's disappearance on her. It had torn out her heart at first, and then replaced her happiness with a slow-burning bitterness. He cared for her deeply, and he would not have her suffer any more.

Grace saw him wrestling with her account of his motivations and softened. "Jenny haunts us both. The manner of her passing ... here one moment and then gone, no body to bury or grieve, no truthful account, only guesses and hints and what-might-have-beeps ... Neither of us can find rest while there are so many questions still to answer, and no likely answers forthcoming." She bit her lip and looked away out of the window to where the servants carried cuts of ham to the kitchens from the back of a wagon.