The Merchant of Dreams (31 page)

“Excuse me, sir,” Mal said to a passing workman, “what was all that about?”

“Fighting on the bridges again. Those boys never learn.” His voice was tinged with pride rather than condemnation. He looked Mal up and down and his eyes narrowed. “You a Castellano?”

Mal hesitated. Berowne had warned him about the factionalism dividing the city: the Nicoletti in the west and the Castellani in the east. From time to time fighting broke out between the young men of the two factions and could rapidly devolve into full-scale riots if not checked. San Marco was Castellani territory.

“I’m staying in Santa Croce,” he said at last, “so I suppose that makes me one of the Nicoletti.”

“You take care then, sir, if you know what’s good for you.” The workman hoisted his bag of tools a little higher and went on his way.

Mal set off again, and a few minutes later found himself at the Winged Lion. The taverna was quiet, just a couple of old men playing chess and sipping wine. Mal had the feeling they came here every morning for the companionship and did not leave until curfew. Ned was in the opposite corner, playing a solo card game on a well-scrubbed table.

“You took your time,” he said. “It’s a good job these Venetians don’t drink much. I’d have been thrown out of an English alehouse for nursing a flagon all afternoon.” He gathered up his cards and drained his cup. “After you.”

They made their way through the darkening streets of San Marco, Mal following the image of the route that Olivia had shown him at the end of their lesson. It had been strange to walk through a hazy simulacrum of the city, but less strange than walking the very real and solid streets and recognising places he had never been before. He began to see the true power of the skraylings, to communicate in ways that men scarcely dreamed of.

“No mask, then?” Ned asked as they trotted side by side up the steps of a small bridge.

“I thought it too noticeable,” Mal replied. “It hides a man’s face, but also marks him out as a person of note, since only patricians are allowed to wear them freely. This way we are just ordinary citizens going about our business.”

“And what if we’re recognised?”

“Bragadin has never seen you before, and I have my own defence.” He pulled up the hood on his cloak.

Palazzo Bragadin was a substantial building on the far side of San Marco, deep into Castellani territory. Its façade overlooked one of the larger tributaries of the Grand Canal, whilst the rear entrance gave onto a small narrow square with a well in the centre.

“Should we not watch from the canal side?” Ned murmured as they strolled idly through the square. Around them, shopkeepers were dismantling stalls and barring their shutters. “I thought the grander folk of Venice travelled everywhere by boat.”

“So they do. However, I would expect Bragadin to deal with this business through an intermediary, and whether here or elsewhere, that is best not done through the front door.”

“He could conduct his negotiations through letters, and we’d be none the wiser.”

Mal shook his head. “This is not the sort of matter one commits to paper, even enciphered. After all, a cipher common enough to be known by his clients would be as good as useless. So–” he glanced around, conscious of being overheard “–we watch the servants’ entrance for any suspicious comings or goings.”

“And how are we going to lie in wait? We should have disguised ourselves as beggars or something.”

“No. The beggars are bound to know every one of their kind in the parish; our arrival on their territory would only spark trouble.”

“So what do we do?”

Mal smiled. “The way has been prepared for us.”

He paused at a door opposite the palazzo and knocked. After a few moments it opened and an old man squinted up at them, the lamplight gleaming on his bald pate.

“
Signori?
”

“We have come to visit our cousin,” Mal said to him in Italian.

“Of course, sirs, come in.”

They followed him inside, into a narrow passage smelling of mildew. Somewhere up above, a woman was singing, a repetitive song that sounded like a lullaby. The old man ushered them through a side door into a low-ceilinged room lit only by the faint glow of lanterns from the street. It appeared to be a disused storeroom, empty but for the remains of a wine barrel in one corner, rotting gently into the layer of must and slime that covered the tiled floor. Mal thanked the man, and he and Ned crossed carefully to the narrow barred window that looked out onto the street.

“Now we wait,” Mal said softly. He peered through the grimy glass, resisting the temptation to clean it to get a better view. He wanted to leave no sign of their presence here, in case they had to return tomorrow night.

They did not have long to wait; before the bells had tolled the first hour after sunset, a small door just along the street opened, and a cloaked and hooded figure of Bragadin’s height and build emerged. On such a mild night, there was only one reason to be going abroad so concealed. Mal led the way back to the front door of the house and opened it a crack. As soon as Bragadin turned into the square, Mal slipped out and beckoned for Ned to follow him. They padded to the end of the street and halted at the corner.

The square was still busy with men making their way home after work, so Mal stepped out and walked briskly in the same direction Bragadin was taking. Their quarry turned right and right again, then southwards towards St Mark’s Square. Mal hunched his head as he walked, conscious that he was markedly taller than most Italians, though it did at least give him a good view over the crowds. Fortunate, since he almost missed Bragadin making a sharp right turn towards the Rialto Bridge.

“What… if we lose him?” Ned panted as they strode up the long low steps.

“Don’t worry, I think I know where he might be going.”

They followed Bragadin down the other side of the bridge and past the empty fish market, over a smaller bridge and left down a broad street, through a square and over another bridge, always heading north. For a moment Mal wondered if he was wrong and Bragadin was heading for the skraylings’ palazzo, though he couldn’t think of a reason why he should. So intent was he on this idea that he nearly lost Bragadin again as the man turned west instead of continuing north. At least, Mal thought it was west, judging by the last faint glow of the sky ahead of them. It was hard to be certain in this city.

The stink of dyers’ vats announced their arrival in one of the poorer parts of the city, somewhere on the border between San Polo and Santa Croce but far from the English embassy. The sort of place a patrician like Bragadin would never frequent, and therefore the perfect place for Il Mercante to conduct his business.

A few minutes later they emerged into a large square in front of a church composed mainly of round towers like a castle’s. Halfway across the square Bragadin turned left down a narrow street.

“Now we have him,” Mal whispered, halting by the well.

“How so?”

“If I’m right, this is the same place he was supposed to meet those men I overheard at Olivia’s. I scouted it out in daylight, and that street ends at a canal. I think he intends to meet someone who will arrive by gondola.”

“And if he leaves with them?”

“Then we have a problem. But I do not think he is fool enough to put himself into the hands of the men he is selling secrets to. He takes risks enough, dealing with them himself.”

“Odd, that,” Ned said. “I’d use a go-between, for fear of being recognised. These men know him, right?”

“Yes. But conspiracy makes men mistrustful. He cheats Olivia, and therefore does not trust any man not to do the same to him.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll have to get a bit closer than this if we want to find anything out. So far he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary, is he?”

“No, he’s not. And I’m sure he’s chosen this spot because it’s somewhere his dealings cannot easily be overheard.”

“That’s no help to us, then,” Ned muttered.

“True. But his attention will be on the canal, not the street. He cannot be looking behind him at every sound without drawing attention to himself. So, we walk calmly down the street as if we were visiting someone, and hope to find a place to conceal ourselves in the shadows.”

“And if we can’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. So to speak.” He paused. “And speaking of speaking, don’t say a word once we enter the street. If these men hear us speak English, they may put two and two together.”

“Right you are,” Ned replied, his expression comically serious. Mal prayed his friend would not forget himself, but there was nothing for it but to continue.

He wrapped his cloak around him and set off across the square, Ned at his heels. Though he would not admit it, he was glad he had not come alone. One man by himself looked more suspicious than two, and if it came down to it they could pretend to be having an assignation of their own. He smiled to himself. Ned would enjoy that, perhaps a little too much.

The street was dark at ground level, lit only by the faint glow of candles in the
piani nobili
above. Barred windows and closed doors lined both sides. At the far end Mal could make out a paler archway cutting through a tenement; the
sottoportego
that led to the canal. He strode as confidently as he dared through the darkness, finally pausing at a door fifteen yards or so from the archway, allowing his boots to scuff loudly on the worn paving stones. He laid his hand upon the door handle and pretended to fumble in his pockets for a key, meanwhile counting silently. One, two, three… When he reached twenty he stepped silently to one side and melted into a neighbouring doorway. A moment later Ned joined him, and they exchanged brief glances. Either it had worked and Bragadin thought them a pair of local men arriving home, or it hadn’t. They would soon find out.

No sound came from the
sottoportego
, and at last Mal let out a slow breath. Now to wait. From the lights and noises above, the residents of this building were already home, and with any luck would stay there all night.

He was just beginning to fear he was wrong and their quarry had given them the slip, when a soft thud of wood on stone announced the arrival of a gondola at the nearby steps. Beside him, Ned tensed.

The scraping of shoe leather on uneven canal steps echoed down the passageway as someone disembarked, then the soft splash of an oar as the boat departed. No one was allowed to eavesdrop on this conversation, especially a garrulous gondolier.

“Good evening, sir.” The speaker’s voice was distorted, perhaps by a mask. Bragadin was evidently no fool. “I had not expected you to bring company.”

“I had not expected to meet a second time. Do you have it?”

A pause.

“Alas–”

A scuffle and a thud, as of a man’s body hitting a wall.

“I have been patient,” Bragadin’s client hissed. His next words were indistinct, whispered perhaps in Bragadin’s ear. “I will be patient no longer.”

“Please, you ask a great deal–”

“A great deal indeed, for I have paid you a thousand ducats already and seen naught for it.”

A thousand ducats? What in God’s name were these men asking Il Mercante to find out?

“I am close,” Bragadin gasped. “It takes time to put spies in place so that they will not be found out. Another week–”

“I don’t have a week. You swore you could get me the information before the Doge’s investiture. Your promises are worthless.”

Bragadin laughed, his mask shaping the sound into a hollow cackle that raised the hairs on Mal’s neck. “So is your house’s name,” he said softly, “if the Ten find out what you’ve been up to.”

“Are you threatening me? You louse, you dungheap crawler–”

Bragadin cried out, the sound ending in a choking gurgle. Mal dashed forward, colliding with someone in the passageway. The man swore and Mal felt a blade catch in the folds of his cloak. He retreated a pace and drew his own dagger, sweeping it in a waist-high arc before him. Damn, but he hated fighting in the dark.

His vision began to clear a little. He could make out two figures between himself and the canal steps; the other was lying on the ground against the wall. Bragadin, he feared. The two men backed away, but they had nowhere to go until their gondola returned. Several minutes at least, he guessed.

“Who are you?” the nearer man asked. “We were to meet alone.”

Mal said nothing. Whoever these men were, they had been at Olivia’s supper parties, and would recognise him by his accent in an instant. The last thing he needed was for the courtesan to be connected to Il Mercante.

Long moments passed, the silence broken only by the rasping breath of Bragadin. So, he lived, for now.

“Where’s that whoreson knave of a gondolier?” the other man muttered. Mal could tell by his stance that he was sizing up his chances of rushing past him into the street and getting away on foot.

“Calm yourself, Pietro,” the nearer man said.

The words had the opposite of the desired effect. Pietro dashed towards the street, but Mal was there first and Pietro ran straight onto his dagger. He looked up at Mal wide-eyed, gasped a last curse, and fell dead at his feet.

Pietro’s companion backed away until his boot-heels scraped on the edge of the canal.

“Peace, gentlemen.” His eyes flicked left, along the canal. “We are done here.”

At that moment the gondola slid into view and he leapt aboard. Mal watched him go, then sheathed his dagger and crouched to examine Bragadin. Blood soaked the man’s doublet, leaving Mal’s hands sticky. Bragadin no longer appeared to be breathing.

“There’s nothing we can do for him,” he told Ned, who stood pale-faced at the passageway’s mouth. He wiped his hands on the dying man’s cloak. “Come, let’s get out of here.”

As he stepped out into the street he realised it was brighter than before. Several of the windows on the upper stories were open, and people were leaning out. A man shouted. Mal broke into a run, cursing as his hood fell back. Rapid footsteps right behind him were Ned, he hoped, but he could hear doors opening now and more voices raised. He sprinted across the square in what he hoped was the right direction, halting in the shadows of the church to see if Ned had followed him.