The Merchant of Dreams (26 page)

“No, I cannot believe that.”

“As you wish. I merely state the truth.”

She got to her feet. “Will you sit with Gabriel for a while? I want to talk to Captain Youssef.”

Without waiting for an answer she pushed past him and went out onto the deck. Mal needed her to be strong, now more than ever. If they could not rely on Sandy’s sanity, she would have to lead them, and make better decisions than she had so far.

The sun was rising, gilding the hilltops of the Dalmatian coast and catching the red-and-white pennants on the mastheads of the
Hayreddin
. She drew a deep breath that turned into a yawn. Later. There would be time for sleep when she knew what prospects the day held.

The ship’s bell clanged, and the sailors began to change watch, climbing down from the rigging as their fellows emerged from the hold to take their places. After a few minutes the captain climbed out of the hatch, looking as weary as Coby felt.

“How is our patient, my young friend?” he said, yawning and stretching in the sunlight.

“Much the same, sir. And your men?”

“We lost Fournier to one of their grenades and a few of the men are still weak from the smoke. Allah be praised, the gunners closed the ports before any more got inside.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No matter.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I could not let a friend remain a captive of those creatures. How did it come to pass that you were aboard their ship, anyway?”

She gave him a simplified account of their adventures, leaving out the details of the twins’ true connection to the skraylings. A godly man like Youssef would not understand.

“But with Alexander safe in my hands,” he said, “you think he dare not go through with the scheme, is that it?”

“Yes, but I dare not risk it. We have to get to Venice as soon as possible, to warn Master Catlyn.” She stared at the shore. Colour was flowing down the hills, revealing a harsh, sun-baked land of scrubby forest and rocky outcrops. “Surely we should be sailing north, sir, not south?”

“Your friend Gabriel needs rest and care. A ship is no place for a sick man.”

“You have somewhere in mind?”

“Spalato,” he said. “It is ruled by Venice. If you want safe passage to the republic, I can think of no better place to start.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Ned woke late and muzzy-headed the next morning, having had nothing better to do the night before but play cards with Berowne and drink strong Italian wine until he could barely see to make his way up to his attic bedchamber. He lay for a moment, probing the sticky recesses of his mouth with a furred tongue and listening to the sounds of the city stirring beyond the shuttered window, then rose and stretched.

Mal lay sprawled in the other bed, one black curl plastered to his cheek and smiling to himself in his sleep. Ned was sorely tempted to slip in beside him, but his stomach was demanding breakfast and his head was clanging like the bells of St Paul’s. So he dressed as silently as he could and tiptoed out of the room in his stockinged feet, closing the door carefully behind him. He sat down on the bollock-shrivellingly cold top step and pulled on his shoes, then padded down to the ambassador’s apartments.

The antechamber and parlour were both empty, but the great table was laid as if for dinner, with painted plates, napkins, and glasses with gilded rims. Two silver jugs stood near the head of the table, one of white wine, the other of water. Ned grimaced, wishing Berowne would serve ale like a good Englishman.

Shuffling footsteps sounded in the antechamber, and the door creaked open. Berowne’s ancient manservant entered, preceded by a mouthwatering aroma of baking. Ned took the tray of hot pastries from the man’s trembling hands and set it down on the table.

“Thank you, Master Faulkner,” the old man wheezed. “Will your master be rising soon? I’ll need to warm some more water for his shave.”

“I hope so,” Ned replied, trying to ignore the ache of hunger in his stomach. He went over to the window, to try and take his mind off the food.

The parlour offered a fine view across a little bridge and down the canal. To the left, brick walls enclosed gardens, dark foliage spilling over into the street and softening the hard edges of this most artificial of cities. To the right, tall houses ran along the
fondamenta
, some with shops or workshops at street level. Bathed in the thick honeyed light of early morning, the city glowed like a sated lover. Ned sighed, wishing Gabriel could be there to share the moment with him.

“Is there anywhere more beautiful?” Mal said, joining him at the window. “I think I would never tire of the view.”

“Did I wake you?” Ned went back to the table, and as he hoped, Mal followed. “I thought you would sleep until noon. When did you get back? Before dawn, I hope.”

“Long before,” Mal said, picking up a pastry and tearing it in two.

Ned did likewise, resisting the urge to stuff the entire thing into his mouth. Instead he took a large bite, savouring the rich buttery sweetness. Say one thing about the Venetians, they knew how to cook. He finished it whilst Mal told him about the evening’s entertainments, and helped himself to another.

“It was all very pleasant and courteous, but there’s something going on in this city, something… unnatural. I heard rumours of an assassin they call
Il Mercante di Sogni
, ‘the merchant of dreams’. I think he’s a guiser.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“No. I wish I were. But if there’s even a sliver of a chance it’s true… This changes everything.”

“Witchcraft,” Ned muttered. “I like this less and less.”

They sat in silence for long moments, breakfast forgotten.

“So what do we do about it?” Ned said at last.

“Do? Nothing, at least for now. We shall continue with our business here, though I think I should stay away from Olivia and her patrician friends. Guisers are drawn to power like moths to a flame, and Olivia gathers some of the most powerful men in the city around her.”

Ned shivered despite the growing warmth of the morning.

“So, you have a plan for getting us in to see Lord Kiiren?” he said, trying to take his mind off the subject of guisers.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“I think we’re being followed, or at least watched and reported on.” He wiped his hands on a napkin and got to his feet.

“It’s no more than we expected,” Ned replied. “It’s what I’d do if a foreigner moved into our street back home.”

“Quite. So, I think it’s time to apply the second rule of fencing.”

“Which is…?”

“Make your opponent believe he knows where you will strike next. Then hit him somewhere quite different.”

“What’s the first rule?”

“Get him before he gets you.”

“I like that rule better,” Ned replied, grinning. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want to give them something to think about, something that will throw them off the scent for a while.” He paused in the doorway. “I want them to think I’m in Venice to look for my brother Charles.”

Whether through luck or a growing familiarity with the layout of the main streets, they eventually found themselves at their destination: a tavern on the main waterfront that Berowne said was frequented by Englishmen seeking news from home. Mal reckoned it was unlikely he would find Charles there, but on the other hand it would make his feigned search seem genuine enough, and in any case he had a more pressing reason to visit this establishment in particular.

“You know there’s one small problem with this plan,” Ned said as they approached the door.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“What if you do find Charles? What then?”

Mal didn’t answer.
Truth is, I don’t know. Kicking the shit out of him would be a good start, though
.

The Mermaid looked much like any other Venetian house, having an elegant stucco facade painted a golden yellow, with arched windows and doorway picked out in white stone. Above the door hung a carved sign in the shape of a mermaid, with a gilded tail and hair and holding a real silvered mirror that flashed in the sunlight.

“Don’t forget,” Mal said in a low voice as they approached the door, “not a word about the skraylings unless someone else mentions them first. And if they do, don’t sound too interested. We don’t want Raleigh’s name linked to them in any way.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Ned muttered. “You’re not the only one to work for… our mutual acquaintance, you know.”

“Good. Well then.”

Stepping over the threshold, it was as if they had been magically transported back to London. The tavern was packed to bursting, and the combined stink of unwashed bodies, stale beer and tobacco smoke was enough to fell an ox.

“Quite the home away from home,” Mal said, pushing his way through the crowd.

Contrary to Mal’s first impression, no more than half the sailors were English. He heard snatches of French, German, mainland Italian dialects, Slavic, Greek and Turkish, and saw many swarthy faces – and not a few that were as dark as any Moor’s. The city’s black-clad natives stood out like crows in an aviary of parrots, sipping glasses of wine and looking nervous, whilst all around them the sailors laughed and sang and swore, making the most of their shore-leave before the next voyage. There were plenty of whores to go round, even more than in a typical English tavern, and that was saying something. Venice’s reputation as a city of vice was not undeserved.

He halted in the middle of the taproom.

“Gentlemen!” A few of the sailors looked around. Mal hooked a nearby stool with his foot and stepped onto it. It rocked a little, but that only served to attract the attention of a few more, some of whom laughed.
Perfect
. He stretched out his arms, like an actor addressing his audience. “Gentlemen, I am newly arrived from London and seeking my long-lost brother, Charles Catlyn. A beer to any man who can bring me news of him.”

Before the crowd had time to react, he leapt down from the stool and beckoned to a skinny youth with the beginnings of a moustache.

“Boy, two pints of your best beer!” He gave him some coppers for the beer, and slipped in a silver lira amongst them. Lowering his voice, he added, “Tell Cinquedea a friend is here from London and would like to speak with him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Master Catlyn?”

Mal turned to see three men in baggy hose and round hats seated a table by the wall. One of them, a short broad-shouldered fellow with a reddish beard, beckoned to Mal.

“Come and join our game, if you will, sir.”

“I will, and gladly,” Mal said, taking a seat beside him.

Ned took a seat next to one of the sailors and they made their introductions. The dealer grinned at the new arrivals with tobacco-stained teeth and began distributing cards. Mal scooped up his hand: five cards, Italian in design. The coins on the table were mostly
denari
, similar to English pennies in appearance but far lower in value. Perfect for a cheap evening’s wager.

“Do you have change for one of these?” Mal pulled out the least valuable coin he could find in Raleigh’s purse.

The dealer examined it briefly, then counted out two dozen
denari
. Mal gave half to Ned and placed one of his own in the central pool. The dealer turned the top card from the deck.

“Wands are trumps,” he announced, and gestured for Ned to make the first play.

The pot-boy turned up with two tankards of beer, and gave Mal a nod as he set them down. Mal inclined his head in acknowledgement and settled down to wait.

“So, you are new come to Venice, sir?” one of the sailors asked.

“Aye, two days ago. And yourselves, good sirs?’

“Been here a week,” one of them said. “Heading home soon, God willing. Though we do hear–” he leant forward across the table “–that Sir Walter Raleigh’s in town, and looking for new crew.”

“I fear you’re mistook,” Mal said. “Master Raleigh’s ship left Venice just after we disembarked.”

“That Will Frampton always were a liar,” the dealer said. “Come on, Ben; play or renege.”

A black-clad Venetian approached their table, his genial smile at odds with his sombre attire.

“May I join you,
signori
?” he asked, though his eyes never left Mal. When no one objected, he drew up a stool and sat down next to Mal. “Permit me to introduce myself. Marco da Canal, at your service.”

“Good to meet you, Master da Canal.”

Da Canal inclined his head. “The pleasure is all mine,
signore
.”

“So, you have news of my brother?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Mal glanced at his hand and discarded the two of coins.

“I do not know a man called…”

“Catlyn, Charles Catlyn. Though I’m told he goes by the name of Carlo Catalin these days.”

“Catalin, quite so. I do not know a man by this name, and yet you have a familiar look. Perhaps if you told me a little more, I could match the face to a name.”

Mal took a sip of beer. Was this Walsingham’s man, or an intelligencer in the pay of… who knows whom?

“My brother is forty years old or so, about my height but with light brown hair. He left England four years ago, and I have not heard from him since.”

Da Canal made a sympathetic noise. “And you are both from London?”

“No, Derbyshire. Place called Rushdale.”

“But you have been to London?”

“Aye, I lived there for a while.” He realised it was his turn, and played another card absentmindedly whilst watching the Venetian out of the corner of his eye.
Now he reveals himself…

“Then you must be familiar with the
sanuti
,” Da Canal said.

“Sanuti?” It was the name the gondolier had given to the skraylings’ residence.
Il Fondaco dei Sanuti
.

“The strangers from the New World.”

“The skraylings? I have seen them on occasion, certainly,” Mal said.

“You know they are here in Venice?”

Mal feigned indifference, but he noticed that Da Canal leant fractionally closer, his eyes narrowing.
Well, two can play at that game.