The Alchemist of Souls

lish-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,