The Alchemist of Souls

Ned shrugged. “Why not? You’ve seen their camp; tell me that’s not magic.”

Mal had no answer to that. He well remembered his first glimpse of the skraylings’ stockade at night, lit by lamps of cold blue, violet and yellow that never flickered despite the gusts of icy wind blowing in off the Essex marshes.

“You should be grateful to ’em,” Ned said as they set off again. “Since they set a bounty on rats, there’s been scarcely a hint of plague in the city.”

“You think killing rats made the difference?”

“Something did. Why else would they be paying a penny a tail?”

Because they want everyone to forget that skraylings don’t get the plague? He added aloud, “Perhaps they’re fond of rat-tail soup.”

Ned pulled a face. “Even I’m not that desperate.

Hey, that gives me an idea!”

“Another one?”

“We could buy us a terrier and set ourselves up as ratcatchers. They say a good ratter can kill twenty a minute.”

“And where would we get the money to buy a dog?” Mal said. “Tom at the White Hart wanted tenand-six for that scrawny pup the other day.”

“It was a little runt,” Ned admitted. “My money would have been on the rat. So, where to? The Bull’s Head?”

Mal ignored him. He was trying to decide whether or not to pawn his rapier. Not an attractive option,