The Merchant of Dreams (21 page)

Youssef shrugged. “The empire has been at peace with Venice for a generation. Who am I to stick my oar in those waters?”

Mal raised his tea glass to the light, admiring the delicate pattern of gilding around its waist. Only the Venetians made glass this fine.

“Peace has its benefits,” he said. “Trade with old enemies, for one.”

“You do not give up easily, do you, Englishman?”

Mal suppressed a smile.
The tide turns.

“And then of course there is Raleigh’s ship, the
Falcon
,” he added. “Even now, the Spanish may be closing in on Cagliari.”

Youssef grinned, his dark eyes glinting like Sandy’s obsidian blade.

“Now you are talking, my friend. It will be my pleasure to snatch such a prize from the grasp of my old enemy – and yours.”

As they neared Cagliari, Youssef sent all his lookouts aloft to keep an eye out for the Spanish. Ned half-expected to find the
Falcon
taken, but as they entered the harbour he spotted the galleon at anchor where they had left it. Still, it would not do to be seen coming to Raleigh’s rescue, so he and Mal disguised themselves as members of Youssef’s crew in baggy calf-length breeches and canvas shirts, barefoot and with kerchiefs tied about their heads. Mal even removed his earring and stowed it in his discarded boot; the black pearl was too distinctive and valuable a bauble to be worn by a lowly sailor.

Captain Youssef chose a berth not too far from the
Falcon
, from which vantage point they were able to see Raleigh’s crew at work on the repairs. There was no sign of Spanish soldiers on board.

“A pity,” Ned muttered. “I should have liked to see that bastard Hansford taken by the Spanish. With any luck they’d hang him, like his assassin friend.”

“You’d rather travel with Youssef, then?” Mal said with a smile as they disembarked.

Ned shrugged. “He’s all right, for a foreigner.”

They blended into a group of sailors leaving one of the other ships, then slipped down a side-alley and headed for the inn where Raleigh was staying.

Ned trailed after Mal, still feeling a little queasy. The rich pastries had sat like a stone in his stomach on the journey back from Marseille, and it had taken all his self-control not to throw them up again. To make matters worse, when they found Raleigh in the inn’s courtyard he was smoking his foul pipe and playing cards with Warburton and Hansford. Ned wasn’t sure which of the two made his stomach curdle the most. He wandered over to stand in the shade by a potted olive tree whilst Mal told Raleigh about their business in Marseille.

Raleigh’s face darkened, and the two sailors put down their cards.

“A damned Turk?” Raleigh bellowed. “You may go with him if you will, but I shall stay with the
Falcon
– and have my gold back.”

Mal replied in placating tones and sat down on the bench next to Raleigh. The captain glowered at first, but his expression softened at every word and eventually he smiled and nodded. They shook hands and Mal came over to Ned’s shady corner.

“You persuaded him to go with us?” Ned said as they headed up to their chamber.

“I reminded him that the Queen herself had commanded this service. I also suggested that, when we get to Venice, he puts it about that he captured the
Hayreddin
in a mighty sea-battle. There are enough Christians in Youssef’s crew to make it look like the truth, if we have them all manning the ship when we arrive.”

Ned chuckled.

“You’ve turned quite the cunning rascal, you know that?”

“I learned from the best,” Mal replied with a grin.

Ned hid his delight at this compliment with an elaborate bow. If only some of that persuasive power could be his, the remainder of this voyage would be a lot more enjoyable.

“Monsieur Catlyn! Monsieur Catlyn!”

Mal levered himself up on his elbow and squinted at the door.

“Who is it?”

He got to his feet and gingerly crossed the rough floor. The voice came again. Mal wrenched the door open and was almost hit in the face by a frantic sailor.

“What is it?”

“Monsieur! Captain Youssef sent me to fetch you. The Spanish have been sighted, four galleons flying the royal ensign.”

“We’ll be right there.” He went back inside and woke Ned. “Come on, lazy bones! Time to go.”

As soon as Ned was on his feet, Mal went to find Raleigh. The rest of the crew were soon roused and sent to rejoin their fellows on the
Falcon
, and the three Englishmen headed for the
Hayreddin
. The harbour lay in shadow still, and a chill breeze blew down off the hills.

“Take my ship back to Marseille,” Raleigh told Warburton, “then come to Venice as soon as she’s fully repaired.”

“Aye, captain.”

They boarded the galleass, and Mal and Ned went to change back into their familiar English garb. They had been assigned a tiny cabin in the fo’c’s’le with no bunks, only three paillasses that covered most of the floor. The sturdy lock on the door suggested this was normally used as a storeroom for valuable cargo.

“Damned uncomfortable way to spend the rest of our journey,” Raleigh muttered.

He gestured for Mal and Ned to place his sea chest on the only remaining piece of bare floor, and stumped back out on deck.

“This is going to be cosy,” Ned said, throwing down his own small knapsack.

“We can spend most of the day on deck,” Mal replied. “At least the weather is better than in the Atlantic.”

They went back up to find the oars shipped and the crew preparing to row out of the harbour. Mal shaded his eyes and gazed southwards. Four white sails in the distance, though he could not make out their flags. Youssef’s lookouts must have the eyes of hawks.

“We’ll tow the
Falcon
out to sea,” the captain said as the
Hayreddin
began to move. “This land breeze is too feeble to get her going fast enough to outrun the Spanish.”

“Can we help?” Mal said, looking down at the men straining at the oars.

Youssef shook his head. “My men know the rhythm; you would only break it and slow us down. Do you know how to work the sheets?”

“A little.”

He sent Mal and Ned to help unfurl the sails, and they hauled on the ropes until their hands were blistered. The
Hayreddin
slipped past the
Falcon
and threw her a line, then the two ships moved out of the harbour together, veering eastwards out of the path of the oncoming galleons. The Spanish changed course to intercept, fanning out in a line that spanned the bay.

“Do you think they’ll fire on us?” Ned asked when they paused for breath.

“Probably,” Mal replied, wiping his forehead with the back of his shirt sleeve. His left shoulder ached and his palms felt like they’d been burned with brands. “They have more sail as well.”

“And that’s bad, is it?”

“They’re faster, but less manoeuvrable. It’s going to be close.”

The westerly wind caught the
Falcon’s
sails at last, and she slipped her cable and drew alongside the
Hayreddin
.

“The sooner we split up,” Raleigh yelled across to Warburton, “the harder it’ll be for the Spanish to catch us both. Run before the wind, then turn back north as soon as you can.”

“Aye, my lord. I’ll see ye in Venice – or take a few Spaniards down with me to Hell!”

The
Falcon
, true to her name, sped eastwards. Her transom was still a patchwork of salvaged timbers, but she was otherwise sound and fled the confrontation without further damage. Youssef steered the
Hayreddin
to starboard, on a heading that would take them between two of the Spanish galleons.

“Is that wise?” Mal said, joining him on the poop-deck.

“They will have to turn to fire on us,” he replied, “and they risk hitting their own ships if they do so.”

“And if they don’t turn and we time it wrong, the starboard one could ram us amidships.”

Youssef nodded. “And we could rake the other in the stern.”

The Spanish had clearly come to the same conclusion, for the more easterly of the two began to turn north whilst its companion continued on its course. Mal and Ned could only watch anxiously from the rail as the
Hayreddin
drew closer to the galleons.

The easterly galleon opened fire, but the wind had already taken them too far away and their shot fell shot, splashing into the waves a ship’s length short of their target. A few of Youssef’s sailors jeered, but the rowers only pulled harder. They were getting close to the second galleon now, close enough to see the faces of the men hauling on the sheets and the mouths of the cannons within the gun-ports.

“To larboard!” Youssef shouted, and the galleass heeled as the wind caught her sails and drove her on a slanting course ahead of the Spanish galleon.

Mal clung to the rail, unable to look away as the galleon bore down on them. Surely she would ram their stern? But the rowers and the wind between them pulled her clear. The
Hayreddin
bucked as the galleon’s wake buffeted her stern, then they were free of the cordon. Mal watched in mingled relief and anxiety as the Spanish, assuming that Raleigh was aboard his own ship, headed east in pursuit of their origin quarry.

“It looks like you may get your wish,” he said to Ned.

“If it were only Hansford and his cronies aboard, I’d be cheering the Spanish on,” Ned admitted, “but the rest of the crew don’t deserve to be drowned or imprisoned for Raleigh’s sake.”

“True enough.”

Mal grimaced as he peeled his hands from the rail. He had been clutching the wood so hard, the blisters had burst.

“Here, let me see to those,” Ned said, taking him by the elbow. “You’ll not be fit to carry a sword if they fester.”

Mal let himself be led away. It would be a blessed relief to be back on land, where he could take on enemies on his own terms.

Ned took Mal belowdecks and bound his hands.

“A pity,” he said. “I was looking forward to practising my swordplay again.”

“True. You still need to work on your parry.” He flexed his bandaged hands experimentally. “Give me a day or two, and I’ll be fit enough.”

Mal’s prediction turned out to be accurate. With his riding gloves for extra protection, he was soon able to hold a weapon again. They spent every morning drilling and sparring, and the afternoons watching the Italian coast drift past. At first Ned felt uncomfortable showing off his skills, or lack thereof, in front of Youssef’s crew, but the sailors paid the passengers little mind and went about their business with a quiet efficiency that made Raleigh’s men look like an ill-disciplined mob.

Youssef allowed them to study his map of the eastern Mediterranean and, with little else to occupy his thoughts, Ned tracked their route along the northern coast of Sicily. Soon they reached the Straits of Messina, slipping between the city of the same name and the toe of Italy, and then steering north-eastwards towards the heel. The waters hereabouts were thick with ships, mostly fishing vessels of all sizes, but a good many merchantmen too, of all nations: Italian, Greek, English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Turkish. Ned had seen many such vessels moored at the London quays at one time or another, their crews filling the air with a babel of tongues, but seeing them here on the sunlit waves where they belonged was somehow different. They reminded him of wild beasts set free, beautiful but deadly.

“Should only be three or four more days,” he said to Mal as they limbered up one morning. “We’re in the Adriatic Sea now.”

Mal laughed. “You’re becoming quite the navigator.”

“Have you thought about what we’re going to do when we get there?”

“I’ve thought of little else,” Mal said in a low voice.

“And?”

“A good commander doesn’t make decisions until he’s seen the lie of the land.”

“In other words, you have no plan at all yet.”

Mal threw him a cudgel and gave him one of those lopsided grins that stirred his blood in delicious but frustrating ways.

“Pretty much, yes.”

CHAPTER XV

The city of Venice lay at the centre of a large rectangular lagoon, protected from the sea by a line of narrow islands. The entrance to the lagoon, a gap between two of the larger islands, was guarded by towers on either side, and galleys patrolled the waters without. One of them came swiftly towards the
Hayreddin
, oars flashing in the spring sunlight. Mal prayed the Venetian officials would not ask to search the vessel, or they might wonder why Raleigh had a couple of dozen Moors lurking belowdecks.

“What is your business in the Republic?” the captain of the galley hollered in Italian once they were in range.

Time to play the ignorant foreign visitor, foolish and harmless.

“I beg your pardon?” Mal shouted back in English.

“Ah,
inglese!
” The captain repeated his question, this time in English.

“We are come to buy lace ruffs for Queen Elizabeth of England,” Mal told him.

The Venetian laughed. “You expect me to believe you came all the way from England,
signore
, for a few yards of lace?”

Raleigh stepped forward and leaned over the rail.

“Do you know who I am, sir? I am Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Warden of the Stannaries and a trusted advisor of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.”

Mal suppressed the urge to kick Raleigh. The title was legitimate enough, but “trusted advisor”? This was not the plan they had discussed on the voyage.

“I beg your pardon, Signore Raleigh,” the Venetian replied. “We are honoured to have so famous an English hero in our city. Please, proceed.”

Raleigh, looking pleased with himself, gave the order to enter the lagoon.

“What are you doing, sir?” Mal hissed, drawing Raleigh aside. “Our story is that you are out of favour with the Queen and here to buy gifts to win her over.”

“Tush! It sufficed to get us past that jumped-up harbourmaster, did it not?”