The Alchemist of Souls

“What is it?”

“I have your money,” Mal said, tapping his pocket.

The porter’s eyebrows lifted, and his sneer twisted into an ingratiating smile.

“Come in, sir, come in.”

He unbolted the gate and Mal went through into the courtyard, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the nearby cesspit. It was a wonder the patients hadn’t all died of plague long ago. Judging by the screams coming from the nearby Abraham Ward, however, they were still very much alive.

“You go right on in, sir,” the porter said. “Mistress Cooke will see to you.”

He looked expectantly at Mal. who grimaced but gave the man thruppence from his purse, “to oil the hinges of the gate” as the fellow liked to put it. Much as Mal disliked the fact, he would need to come back here at least once more.

“I have to ask for your blade as well, sir,” the porter added. “New rules, sir.”

“He has become dangerous of late?”

“Lord bless us, no, sir! He’s been gentle as a lamb since you was last here.” He shook his head. “There was this young gallant, see, showing off to his lady in the Abraham Ward, and one of the inmates got hold of his rapier. Nasty mess, it was, sir. We don’t want any more trouble like that.”

Mal drew his dagger and handed it to the porter. He was tempted to point out that anyone who thought taunting the insane was a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon deserved everything he got.