The Merchant of Dreams (27 page)

“I did think I saw one of their ships at anchor,” Mal replied, slurring the words just a little, “but I wasn’t certain.”

He drained his tankard with an exaggerated gesture, though in truth it was nearly empty, and beckoned to a serving man.

“Allow me,” Da Canal said, and gave the servant a coin. “Never let it be said that we do not know how to welcome visitors to our city.”

“You are too kind,” Mal replied, holding up his tankard to be refilled.

“Here, are you playing or not?” One of the sailors leant across the table, jabbing the stem of his pipe at Mal.

“Nay.” Mal threw down his cards, narrowly missing a puddle of beer. “My luck is all ill.”

The dealer shrugged and slipped Mal’s cards under the bottom of the deck. “Better odds for the rest of us, eh, lads?”

The sailors went back to their game, and Mal gestured to Ned to continue.

“I heard Signore Raleigh stayed behind in Venice after his ship departed,” Da Canal murmured. “Is that so?”

“Aye. What of it?”

“Perhaps since you travelled with him, you know his purpose.”

Mal leant forward, blinking at Da Canal in feigned drunkenness.

“Signore Raleigh, as you call him, thinks of only one thing,” he said with a leer. “Her Divine Majesty. And her lack of a husband.”

“Really? But she is much older than him, is she not?”

“When did that ever matter, where money and power is involved?”

“Then he would break up the skraylings’ proposed alliance to win the favour of his queen?”

Mal laughed.
So that’s da Canal’s game
. “Sir Walter? He is no politician. He thinks only of wooing the Queen with fine gifts.”

Da Canal leant back in his seat. “Then he has come to the right place.”

Mal felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned. A skinny girl was smiling down at him, her face painted rose and white, with scarlet lips and pupils large as a cat at dusk. No, not a girl… a boy in girl’s attire. The boy-whore leaned in and whispered in Mal’s ear.

“
Cinquedea
.”

Mal looked at him quizzically, and the boy beckoned.

“Excuse me, Signore da Canal,” Mal said, and winked at the Venetian. “I think I have… business elsewhere.”

Da Canal smiled thinly. “Of course.”

Ned was looking daggers at him, but there was no time to explain. He followed the boy out of the taproom and up a rickety flight of stairs. By his companion’s mincing walk and the clop-clop of his footsteps, Mal guessed he was wearing chopines, the high-soled overshoes that were so fashionable amongst ladies.

They emerged from the stairs into a large room divided into stalls by low wooden walls, more like a stable than a human dwelling. From several of the stalls came the sounds of the inn’s other whores at business, and Mal began to wonder if he had misheard Walsingham after all.

The boy led him past the rutting couples to a door at the far end, and ushered him inside. The room was dark despite the early hour, and Mal paused on the threshold, hand on his dagger hilt. When no attack came, he breathed again. The door closed behind him, and he heard the boy’s footsteps retreating.

“Signore Catalin.” The sound came from the shadows; a young man’s voice, steel-edged and deadly as its namesake.

“Cinquedea?”

“You asked to speak with me. So speak.”

“I was given your name by Sir Francis Walsingham,” Mal said. “He told me you work for an old friend of his, the Blind Lacemaker.”

His eyes were starting to adjust to the gloom, and he could now make out a dark shape standing to one side of the shuttered window. Not a tall man, but solidly built. Was Cinquedea the Lacemaker? It would explain why they were meeting in the dark, where a blind man would have an advantage.

“A friend, is that how he describes her?”

Her?

“Still, they must be of an age, grandmama and he,” Cinquedea went on. “I have often wondered if they were lovers, though my grandfather would have killed him if had found out.”

“Your grandmother?” Mal was unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“You have a queen in England. She is past her sixtieth year, I believe.”

“Two years since,” Mal replied.

“My grandmother is queen of her own little realm. But we digress. What business of England’s brings you here?”

Mal cleared his throat. “I need to speak to the skrayling ambassador. Sir Francis is… concerned about their purpose here, and there seems no other way to discover it.”

“I would have thought their purpose is obvious: to negotiate a trade agreement with the Doge and council.”

“True. But my government wishes to be forewarned of any progress.”

“Why should we help you? Increased trade will be of great benefit to Venice.”

“I do not think Sir Francis would have told me about you unless he believed you would help.”

Cinquedea stepped forward. He was not much older than Mal, though already greying at the temples. Handsome as his namesake as well, with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes that were most certainly not blind.

“I will take the matter to my grandmother,” the Venetian said, “and send you word of her decision. You are staying at the English embassy?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Expect my reply within a few days.”

“Thank you.”

Cinquedea bowed curtly and retreated into the shadows. Somewhere far off, a bell tinkled, and Mal heard the clop-clop of footsteps approach the door.

“Good day, Signore Catalin.”

Mal followed the boy back down to the taproom, and signalled to Ned that it was time to leave.

“I think we should be going, gentlemen,” Ned said loudly. “Captain Raleigh will be expecting us for dinner.”

He made his farewells to the company and followed Mal out of the inn.

“What the hell was all that about?” he asked, as Mal paused to piss in an alley-mouth. “Have you been lying to me all these years? Is Hendricks really a boy after all?”

“The boy was just a messenger,” Mal replied, just loud enough to be heard over the splashing noise. “I could hardly meet openly with… my hoped-for ally.” He shook off the last drop and buttoned up his slops.

“And who is this ally? Christ’s balls, Mal, you’ve become as close-mouthed as a banker’s purse since you came back from France. We used to be the best of friends…”

“And still are.” Mal put an arm around his shoulder. “If I keep secrets, it’s only for your own safety.”

As they walked along the quayside, a sleek gondola with a gilded prow drew up. A hand emerged from the gauzy curtains of the central cabin, and beckoned to Mal. An elegant, dark-skinned female hand. He swallowed, his mouth dry as tinder.

“What’s she doing here?” Ned muttered.

The curtains parted to reveal Olivia, dressed in copper-coloured silk that shimmered like a last glimpse of the sun setting over the Grand Canal. She had shed her mask in favour of an ostrich-feather fan, which she fluttered over her breasts in a manner that didn’t so much hide them as draw the eye to them like a needle to a lodestone.

“Signore Catalin, what a lovely surprise. Please, join me.”

Mal swept a bow. “Alas, my lady, I wish I dared. But your patron would not look kindly upon it, I fear.”

She pouted prettily and sighed. “
Je suis desolée
.”

“As am I, my lady.”

“Perhaps you would dare to attend another evening party? I have guests tonight; you need not fear visiting me alone.”

Mal noted the ambiguity of her words, and smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

She raised her fan to cover her answering smile, but above it her jade-green eyes sparkled with triumph. Mal watched the gondola join the stream of craft heading towards the entrance to the Grand Canal, then turned back towards St Mark’s Square.

“What are you doing?” Ned said, scurrying after him. “I thought you’d vowed to stay away from her?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he replied. “Machiavelli said: ‘There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.’ I intend to take his advice.”

CHAPTER XIX

Mal disembarked from the hired gondola and paused on the threshold of Ca’ Ostreghe. It was over a year since Jathekkil had poked around in his head for memories he could use against him, and still it woke him in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The prospect of coming up against another such monster made his stomach curdle, but he could not hide his head under the blankets like a frightened child and hope they went away. He adjusted his mask and stepped inside.

A cold wind was blowing down from the Alps tonight, and Olivia’s garden was dark and empty. Instead the eunuch guard indicated wordlessly for Mal to follow him up to the
piano nobile
, where a log fire held the unseasonable chill at bay and dozens of candles bathed the room in a memory of sunlight. Olivia sat on a gilded chair reading poetry, whilst a number of admirers perched on stools around her. Bragadin leaned against the marble fireplace with an air of studied indifference; evidently he valued Olivia more as an ornament to his own reputation than for herself.

“Ah, Signore Catalin!” Bragadin stepped forward. With his face half-hidden behind the mask, his smile looked forced and insincere. “I did not know you had been invited.”

“I chanced to meet La Margherita,” Mal said, “whilst I was about my own business, and I confessed to her that I was weary of Raleigh’s company after so many weeks at sea.”

Bragadin’s smile was more genuine this time. “Signore Raleigh is a simple man of action, I suppose.”

“Alas so.”

“And yet he comes all the way to Venice for a gift for your queen. A man of contradictions.”

“I observed as much on first meeting him,” Mal said. “But perhaps such grand gestures are of a piece with his temperament.”

“May I ask what brings you to Venice, if you are not of his following?”

A liveried page appeared at Mal’s elbow with a tray of steaming silver flagons. Mal took one, rolling the stem idly between his fingers.

“Vengeance,” he said with a grin.

Bragadin looked taken aback. “I hope you do not bring a
vendetta
to our city,
signore
. We have strict laws against those who disturb the peace of La Serenissima.”

“Nothing so dreadful, I assure you, sir. I seek my elder brother, who gambled away our family fortune. Perhaps you know him. He goes by the name of Carlo Catalin.”

Mal watched Bragadin carefully, but this time the Venetian betrayed no sign of recognising the name.

“I am sorry,
signore
, but this is a large city and in any case state business occupies most of my time. If a man is not in the Golden Book or a notorious criminal, it is unlikely that I would have come across him.”

“A pity. Perhaps I shall seek out this Mercante fellow. He seems to know everything that goes on in Venice.”

Bragadin’s eyes narrowed behind his mask, but before he could reply, a patter of applause marked the end of their hostess’s recitation. Olivia’s admirers hurried to make room for her as she rose from her seat. Like Venus from the waves, Mal thought, raising his flagon in silent salute. Olivia inclined her head in acknowledgement, then beckoned to him. He glanced back at Bragadin, who shrugged and motioned him to obey.

“Signore Catalin,” Olivia said as Mal drew near, “I have a mind to play a duet. Would you oblige me?”

“I am sadly out of practice–”

“Come, I will not be denied.” She snapped her fingers, and servants hurried forward with a pair of lutes.

After a last sip of wine to steady his nerves, Mal took one of the instruments and sat down on a stool near Olivia’s seat. It took a while to get the lutes in tune with themselves and one another, then Olivia launched into a simple
ricercar
. Mal listened for a few stanzas then added a variation of his own, keeping the fingering simple to hide his lack of practice. He tried to observe the other guests out of the corner of his eye, but it was taking all his concentration to play without making a fool of himself. At last Olivia played a closing flourish and her hands stilled. Mal followed suit, relieved to be done.

“Another,
signore
?” she said, after the applause had died away.

“I have no wish to punish your guests further,
signorina
.”

“Just one more, then.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief behind her mask. “And you may take the lead this time.”

“Since you are so fond of Dowland,” he said, “how about this one…?”

He launched into the opening bars of
My Lord Willoughby’s Welcome Home
, and was gratified when Olivia joined in the duet. It was a short song, thankfully, and he made it through to the end without fumbling more than a handful of notes. Olivia stood and curtsied, first to Mal and then to her audience. He bowed in turn, and excused himself. There had to be a piss-pot around here somewhere.

He wandered out onto the stairs, and was about to head down to the atrium when he heard voices below. He crouched by the balustrade, grateful that the rest of the house was not lit as extravagantly as the main chamber.

“What do you mean, you don’t have it yet?”

The voices echoed around the marble stairwell, too indistinct to make out their owners.

“We were supposed to meet last night,” the other man said, “under the
sottoportego
at the end of Calle di Mezzo, but he never arrived. I waited almost until curfew–”

“You did impress upon him the urgency of our situation?”

“Of course, but this business with Grimani must be filling his pockets right now. What need has he of our custom?”

Mal leant forward, pressing his ear between the cold stone balusters. Were they talking about Il Mercante?

“We had a contract. I–”

The rest of the sentence was lost as a large hand clamped over Mal’s mouth, crushing the mask against his face, and he was dragged backwards away from the stairs. He struggled and tried to reach for his dagger but his assailant was too strong.

“Calm yourself,
signore
,” a deep voice whispered in his ear. “My lady means you no harm, but you cannot be seen here. Do you understand?”