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he believed her to be younger than her years, he might think her merely a late bloomer. As for his other interest, the only way to put him off completely would be to tell him her secret, but that she could not do. In a foreign land full of sin and wickedness, a poor, friendless girl had no other way to guard her virtue but deceit.
      "Lord Jesu, forgive me," she whispered.
     
    "Come on, boy!"
      "Sir?"
      Master Naismith glared at her.
      "I have a meeting with Master Cutsnail at noon – or have you forgotten?"
      "No, sir, of course not, sir," she replied, hurrying after him.
      "Cutsnail" was not the skrayling's real name, of course, but most Londoners found the foreigners' language almost impossible to pronounce, so they warped their names into something more familiar; preferably something bawdy, or at least humorous. Merchant Qathsnijeel was one of the lucky ones.
      They walked in silence along Thames Street. Between the houses, Coby caught a glimpse of the river, spangles of sunlight dancing on the green waters. She trudged along behind her employer, wishing they could take a wherry downriver. Behind his back, the actors often said Naismith's purse-strings were tighter than a nun's lips.
      At last they came to London Bridge, where the traffic condensed into a solid mass of humanity flowing even more sluggishly than the river beneath their feet. Coby could see little of the shops and houses on either side, only the towers of the gatehouses that blocked the thoroughfare at intervals. Master Naismith shouldered his way through the press, leaving her to slip along in his wake.
      After what felt like half the morning, they reached the far end and passed through the Great Stone Gate into Southwark. Before them stood the wide road leading south-eastwards towards Canterbury, but Master Naismith turned left along St Olave's Street, parallel to the river. They continued at a quickening pace, and as they neared the far end, the church bells began to toll the hour. Master Naismith broke into a trot.
      The last house in the street was a large timber-framed building, much like any other guild-house in the city. The only thing that distinguished this one, at least from the outside, was the sign hanging over the door. The rectangle of wood was carved with a design of dots, triangles and curving lines, all picked out in gold leaf. The abstract symbols meant nothing to Coby, but their very alienness made their meaning clear: here was the Distinguished Company of Skrayling Merchant Venturers.
      The actor-manager paused for a moment, hands on thighs, panting like a hound. Sweat ran down his forehead into his bushy eyebrows. Coby pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and he mopped his face gratefully.
      "Never get old, lad," he told her, wheezing. "'Tis a most grievous business."
      He straightened up, grimacing, and walked up to the front door of the guild house. Coby trailed behind, nervousness at meeting the senior merchant warring with avid curiosity. The skraylings kept to themselves for the most part, and though she had been able to learn their pidgin easily enough in the marketplaces of Southwark, the foreigners were still something of a mystery to her.
      Just inside the front door stood two skrayling guards armed with heavy staves, ready to eject anyone not on legitimate business. They seemed to know Master Naismith, however, and waved him inside with but a passing glance at Coby.
      The main hall was packed with skraylings hurrying to and fro between the tables that lined the walls. At each table sat a merchant, a painted sign before him. The clack of counting blocks and the sibilant growl of the skraylings' native tongue filled the air. It was all disappointingly mundane: no invisible servants, no heaps of enchanted gold, no one suddenly appearing out of thin air or disappearing into it.
      Master Naismith led her away from the dealing room through a side door and up a flight of stairs to a