The Merchant of Dreams (33 page)

Erishen snapped his fingers, and torches flared all around them. Zancani seemed to notice Erishen at last.

“Wh…Who are you?” he quavered.

“Do you not know me? I am Il Capitano. And you are Pantalone.”

Erishen gestured, and Zancani’s nightgown lengthened and darkened until he was wearing Pantalone’s costume of black gown, scarlet stockings and pointed yellow slippers.

“You are a wealthy merchant of Venice,” Erishen went on. “In that city lies a fortune for the taking…”

A chest brimming with gold ducats appeared at Zancani’s feet.

“Gold,” the player whispered.

“But you must be swift!”

Zancani fell to his knees, but the chest of gold sprouted tiny oars and rowed away across the square.

“Summon your captain and sail after it!” Erishen told him. “Now, lest it fall into unworthy hands.”

“Yes, yes!” Zancani scrabbled in the dust. “We must sail at once.”

Erishen withdrew his presence, and a moment later blinked in the late afternoon sunlight. Zancani had rolled over and was cradling his pillow, smiling contentedly to himself and mumbling in his sleep. Erishen got to his feet and tiptoed from the room, confident that they would be away from Spalato by nightfall.

As Sandy had predicted, Zancani awoke from his nap in a fever of urgency to leave for Venice. Amid much grumbling Benetto, Stefano and Valerio took down the tent and dismantled the stage, whilst Coby helped Valerio’s sister Valentina to pack the costumes. When they were done, the men loaded everything onto a couple of handcarts.

“We’re not going to push them all the way to Venice, are we?” Coby said.

Stefano laughed. “Of course not. We only take things down to the ship.”

“But the wind is in the north still. How are we to sail there in this weather?”

“Maestro Zancani’s cousin is in the navy. He can get us to Venice, no problem.”

Gabriel and Sandy went back up to their room to fetch the bags. Coby was about to go and help them, but Gabriel took her aside.

“You’re a young lady now, remember? Try to behave like one. That means letting us menfolk do the hard work.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. This was going to take some getting used to.

Zancani led them down to the quayside. Coby walked at Gabriel’s side, feeling very odd at having nothing to do except look decorative. Not that she had any illusions about that. Any man with sense would be looking at Valentina, who had curves in all the right places and a nose that wasn’t red as a strawberry from the sun.

She scanned the sea nervously, but could see no sign of red sails. Perhaps Sandy was wrong and the skraylings had not been heading for Spalato at all. Not that she minded. The sooner they were in Venice, the sooner she would see Mal again. That thought alone was enough to make all her other worries melt away.

Zancani’s cousin’s ship turned out to be a fearsome-looking galley bristling with oars. There were far more of them than the
Hayreddin
sported, enough to move a ship at great speed by the looks of it. That at least accounted for Benetto’s confidence that they could sail into the wind, or rather row into it. She did not envy the men whose task that would be.

The stern end of the galley was covered by a red awning like a wagon, and banners bearing the winged lion of St Mark flew from its two masts. The central yardarm, its white sail tightly furled, stretched almost the entire length of the vessel. The muzzles of three cannon protruded from a wooden structure just behind the beak-like prow.

“Welcome aboard the
Bellerophon
,” Zancani’s cousin said, ushering up the gangplank. He was taller than his kinsman but with the same dark eyes that lingered on Coby’s face a little too long for courtesy. She was glad the voyage would be short.

As they stepped aboard she lifted her shawl to cover her nose and mouth. A stink like an open sewer rose from amidships, and she soon spotted the source. The men seated at the oars were chained in place, with nowhere to relieve themselves but the benches they sat on. Galley slaves.

“This way,
signorina
! You will be quite safe and comfortable back here.”

They were soon settled under the awning, and within the hour the galley left harbour to the slow, steady beat of a drum. Coby sat hunched up by their luggage, torn between joy at finally being on her way to Venice, and pity for the poor wretches whose suffering would be the means of getting her there.

CHAPTER XXIII

Ned picked at his bread roll. Neither he nor Mal had slept much last night, and not for the reason he had hoped for when they first came to Venice. He had lain awake expecting the constables to come knocking on the door at any moment, though Mal repeatedly assured him they had not been followed, nor was the surviving Venetian likely to betray them even if he suspected. Indeed his friend seemed more worried that Bragadin’s death in suspicious circumstances would lead some to connect this Mercante fellow with Olivia. For his own part he cared not; the guiser had what was coming to her. Perhaps now she might get her claws out of Mal.

He looked up briefly as the door opened. Berowne came in, looking worried.

“Have you heard the news, Catlyn?”

Mal yawned. “No.”

“There’s been a murder in the Calle di Mezzo, near San Giacomo’s. Two men found dead. Some are saying it’s Giambattista Bragadin and Pietro Trevisan.”

“Really.”

“Indeed. Didn’t you meet them at the courtesan’s house?”

“I suppose I must have,” Mal said. “Though I don’t remember half the men I was introduced to.”

“Still, could just be gossip,” Berowne said, sitting down at the head of the table. “I swear the Venetians are as bad as women when it comes to spreading salacious rumours. There’s nothing they like better than a juicy scandal.”

“It does seem unlikely that two important men would be in such a rough part of the city.”

“You’re probably right. Mind you, I dare say the lions will eat well today.”

“Lions?” Ned asked.

“The
Bocce di Leoni
. Means ‘lions’ mouths’. They’re collection boxes set in the walls of various buildings around Venice, including the Doge’s Palace. Anyone who witnesses a crime is obliged to write a denunciation, countersigned by witnesses, and leave it in one of these boxes.”

Ned kept his eyes on his own breakfast. Trust the Venetians to set their entire citizenry to spy on one another. No wonder Walsingham had warned them to be careful.

“An accusation cannot be made anonymously, then?” Mal asked.

“No. I believe that in past generations it was, but the system was too often exploited for petty revenge, and many false accusations were made.”

Ned breathed a sigh of relief. Trevisan’s friend was likely to keep quiet since he was the one who killed Bragadin, and no one else would have recognised them, would they? He glanced at Mal, who shrugged.

Jameson appeared at the door.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but there’s a messenger for Master Catlyn.”

Mal looked around sharply. “For me?”

“He’s waiting in the entrance hall.”

Mal wiped his hands on his napkin. “Please excuse me, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the ambassador muttered. “Good to see the place busy.”

Mal patted Ned on the shoulder and followed Jameson out. Ned sighed and put down the remains of his own breakfast. He had no stomach for it anyway. Excusing himself to Berowne, he went back up to the attic and lay down on his bed to wait for Mal. After a while his eyelids fluttered shut and he fell asleep, to dream of disembodied lions’ heads, their mouths open and slavering for his blood.

Mal clattered down to the atrium, glad of the distraction. A boy of about six or seven, barefoot and dressed in a ragged shirt and breeches, stood in the middle of the floor under the watchful eye of Jameson. He goggled up at Mal, who hunkered down so that they were eye to eye.

“You have a message for me?” Mal asked in Italian.

The boy nodded, hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, sir. Rio Tera degli Assassini, one hour after sunset.”

“And who is this message from?”

The boy held up one hand, fingers splayed. Five.
Cinquedea
. Mal smiled. The scoundrel had a sense of humour, you had to give him that. Assassins’ Canal Street, indeed.

“Thank you.” Mal took out his purse and extracted a couple of small coins. “I shall be there.”

The boy grinned and pocketed his reward. Mal got to his feet and showed him out, then turned back to the staircase.

“Master Catlyn?” Jameson quavered. “There is a letter for you as well.”

“A letter?” Mal took it, expecting to see Olivia’s hand – but it was Coby’s writing. How had a letter from England reached here so soon? He went over to the little window by the front door to read it and broke the seal.

The letter was in cipher of course, but even once decoded it made little sense.
Beware skrayling Hennaq. Sandy and I will be in Venice soon
. Who was this Hennaq, and why should he be wary of him? And what in God’s name was Coby doing, coming to Venice?

He thrust the letter into his pocket with a sigh of frustration. He had to see Olivia. She must have heard of the murder by now and be wondering about his own involvement. Better to go sooner rather than later. He headed upstairs to fetch his cloak and mask.

Mal rang the bell at the garden gate of Ca’ Ostreghe. He had lain awake all night trying to decide what to say to Olivia about last night’s venture, but he was no nearer an answer that did not make him look like a fool. And he was not fool enough to think she would be happy with his news. Coming here on foot had only delayed the confrontation a little while.

Hafiz showed him up to the main reception chamber, rather than Olivia’s private apartments. Not an auspicious beginning. Olivia stood by the empty fireplace, clad in black silk, her hair covered with a long lace veil as if she were a respectable widow. Her expression was not one of sadness, however.

“Signore Catalin.” She bit off every syllable. “How good to see you.”

Mal swept a deep bow. “My lady, I can explain–”

“Explain? Oh I am sure you can. I allow you into my house, my bed, my heart – and this is how you repay me? With betrayal and murder?”

Mal said nothing, only sank to one knee and let her rage on. She was saying nothing he had not thought himself, although her accusations were couched in far more colourful terms. When the stream of invectives finally slowed he chanced a look up. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, though her expression was as stern as ever.

“You are right in all you say, my lady,” he began. When she did not interrupt him with another tirade, he got to his feet. “I have failed you. I found out nothing about Bragadin’s dealings, except that he has perhaps been extorting more money than he told you.”

He related the fragments of conversation he had overheard. Olivia’s delicate brows drew together into a frown.

“The ungrateful cuckold! He owed his fortune to me.”

“Indeed. However he would have died last night whether or not I had followed him. It is clear that his clients were not happy with the delays.”

“It is my fault,” Olivia said, and sank down on a stool. The anger had gone out of her, leaving her looking old and frail. “Since the
sanuti
came to Venice, I have been afraid to wander abroad in the dreamlands in search of the secrets Bragadin had promised. He was more patient with me than they were with him.”

“He dared not kill the goose that laid the golden egg.”

“And now he is dead. And Trevisan too.” She got to her feet. “I have made my decision,
amayi
. This is over.”

Mal’s heart constricted, though with fear or relief he could not be sure. “What is over?”

She gestured around the room. “All of this. La Margherita Nera. I was growing tired of the game anyway.”

“You’re leaving Venice?”

She laughed. “Ah, my dear boy, I forget you are so new to this. No, now that I have you for an
amayi
I will seek rebirth. Everyone will say I died of grief for my beloved patron, and that will be an end to it.”

“No!” Mal closed the space between them and took her in his arms. “You cannot do this.”

“I must,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I knew it could not last forever, that sooner or later Bragadin would be found out, or at least suspected. And now that I have you, I need not fear.”

“It’s not safe,” Mal said. “At least let me try and get the skraylings out of Venice first. You would not want to risk them interfering.”

She looked thoughtful. “You have a point. But you must proceed without me, and you must not come back here until they are gone. I have to take great care in the coming days. Much gossip will fly my way, and the less that sticks, the better.”

“And you swear you will not take your own life in the meantime?”

“I cannot swear,
amayi
. But it will be my last resort, that I can promise you.”

Her lips were hot and sweet, and sent a flush of desire through his veins. After far too short a time, he let her go.

“Fare well, my lady. I hope we may meet again soon.”

The galley rowed west and north around the island city, until Coby began to wonder if they were heading for the mainland after all. However just as the city’s furthest northern limit came into view, they turned back eastwards into the Grand Canal. Narrower than the Thames, it was nonetheless a great waterway, wide enough for two such galleys to pass without tangling their oars. Their own vessel slowed after a few hundred yards and manoeuvred towards the bank, coming to a graceful stop just beyond a cluster of wooden posts that jutted out of the water.

The captain whistled to one of the nearby gondoliers, and the sleek black craft slid between the ship and the bank. Zancani haggled with the gondolier and at last climbed down into the boat, waving for the rest of them to join him. Coby was obliged to stand to one side whilst the men passed all their baggage from hand to hand and down into the gondola, then she and Valentina were helped aboard. It was all very irksome, having to behave like a fragile female, as if she hadn’t spent her youth hauling chests of costumes and heaving wagons out of potholes with the other apprentices.