The Alchemist of Souls

was paying more attention to the players than to the game, of which he knew little and cared less. Mal so rarely talked about his past, it was easy to forget he was the son of a diplomat, as far above a mere scrivener as Prince Arthur was above a gentleman commoner like Mal. This was a rare window on a part of his friend’s life he seldom got to see.

“That’s merely what I was told,” Grey said, preparing to serve.

“What else did you hear?”

“Nothing.” Grey wiped his hand on his damp shirt, which clung to his tall, muscular frame. He was handsome enough, Ned had to admit. If you liked cold-eyed arrogant bastards.

A heavily built young man in a gaudy scarlet doublet slashed with yellow silk pushed in front of Ned, blocking his view of the game. Ned was about to push back when he remembered where he was.

Muttering under his breath he stepped backwards until he could go no further. He leant against the condensation-damp wall of the tennis court, eyes closed, wishing he was somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t feel like a stranger in his own city.

When he opened his eyes he saw another courtier leaning against the wall not far away, watching him slyly from under lowered lids. The youth was no more than sixteen, thin and with a sickly complexion like something found under a stone. Eyes down, mouth shut, Mal had said. But if he was approached, surely it would be rude to say no? Not that he wanted to say yes to anything this creature might