The Merchant of Dreams (36 page)

“Captain.”

“Chancellor Surian.” Venier gestured to Mal. “Our intelligence was correct.”

“Good,” the chancellor replied, looking Mal up and down with disinterest. “Put them in the lower cells. I will deal with them later.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, Your Excellency,” Mal said, “but it’s all lies.”

“Then I look forward to hearing the truth. Later.”

He went back to his documents, and the prisoners were hustled out of the tiny office, along a corridor and through another heavy studded door.

The room beyond was larger than any he had seen so far, a good twenty feet across and with a ceiling that rose to the full height of this storey. Near at hand stood a long desk with three high-backed chairs behind it, like a magistrate’s bench. What drew the eye, however, was the massive rope, as thick as a child’s arm, hanging over a pulley at the centre of the ceiling, its two ends stopping just short of a set of wooden steps like a mounting block. Two doors faced one another across the steps, and two more in a gallery that ran around three sides of the chamber, cutting its height in two. All four doors had large grilles at head height, giving them a good view of the rope and pulley. His guts tightened in terror.

One of the guards sneered and said something in the thick local dialect as he pushed Mal through the nearest door. The interior was barer than a monk’s cell, scrubbed clean but with a lingering smell of soap, piss and vomit that was almost worse than the honest filth of an English prison. The door slammed shut and a key clicked smoothly in first one lock and then a second. The Venetians were taking no chances with their prisoners.

When their captors had gone, Mal peered out through the door grille. Fat candles had been left burning in cressets, carefully positioned to illuminate the rope but throw the rest of the chamber into shadows. He could just make out the pale circle of Ned’s face at the grille in the opposite wall.

“That whoreson cur betrayed us.” Ned’s voice rose to a shout. “Just wait till I get my hands on him, I’ll–”

“Quiet, Ned! We don’t know who’s listening.”

“I don’t care who’s listening–”

“Ned, for the love of all the saints–” Mal drew a deep breath. “We are prisoners of the Doge. And this is his torture chamber.”

In the appalled silence that followed, Mal knelt on the bare boards and began to pray. To Our Lady, the Archangel Michael, and every saint whose name he could remember.

CHAPTER XXV

When they reached the inn, Coby bade the servant wait for a few minutes. Sandy might want to send back a message of his own. She ran into the inn and up to her room. Valentina was lying on the bed with her back to the door, crying softly. Sweet Jesu, what had Gabriel done to upset her?

“Who are you?”

Coby turned round to see Zancani glowering at her.

“Jacomina?” He took a step closer. “What is this? Some new idea for the play?”

“Uh, yes.” Coby’s mind raced. “In England, it’s traditional for boys to play women’s roles. I thought it would be funny to do it the other way round.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. We will try it out tomorrow.”

“Have you seen Gabriel or Sandy?”

Zancani’s expression changed. “Alessandro is in big trouble when I find him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask your friend Gabriel. He’s downstairs, drunk or crazy, I’m not sure which.” Zancani walked away, muttering under his breath in Italian.

Gabriel, drunk? Gabriel never got drunk.

She found Gabriel at a table in the darkened courtyard, staring into a candle flame. There was an empty wine cup by his elbow, but the jug next to it was almost full.

“Gabe, what’s happened?” she asked. “Why is Sandy in trouble?”

He blinked up at her.

“Sandy’s gone,” he said in a tight voice.

“What?”

“Vanished in a flash of light.”

“Oh no. No no no…” She slumped down on the seat opposite. The last time this had happened, he had been spirited away by Kiiren, but this time? It was too much to hope that he had been so fortunate again. “Tell me everything,” she said, refilling his cup.

“I did as you asked,” he said, gazing into the depths of the wine like a fairground fortuneteller scrying the future, “and offered to read to Valentina as she did her sewing. She insisted on coming down to the men’s chamber, as there was more light – at least, I think that’s what young Benetto was saying, though he seemed to think it was more that she did not want to be alone with a young man in her own bedchamber–”

“Gabriel?” She laid a hand on his wrist. “What happened to Sandy?”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, Sandy was lying on his bed dozing and Benetto was trying to teach Valerio and Stefano a new three-way juggling pattern, so Valentina and I sat at the other end of the room out of their way. I was just acting out a scene from
The Jew of Malta
– you know, Rafe’s favourite speech, where Barabas gets boiled in the cauldron – when there was a blinding light from behind me. I turn round to see Sandy walking towards a… a bright doorway that shouldn’t have been there, then he vanishes and Valentina runs back to her room, screaming about witchcraft.” He took a gulp of wine. “I managed to persuade Zancani that Sandy was just experimenting with some skrayling fireworks and scared the girl out of her wits, but the whole troupe is rattled. Especially since Sandy is nowhere to be found.”

“Perhaps it would be better if we left. Go and get your knapsack, and mine too.”

She ran back out onto the canal bank. To her relief, the ambassador’s servant was still there, chatting with a group of gondoliers.

“Please wait a little longer,” she told him. “My companion and I want to go back to the embassy.”

Gabriel emerged from the inn a couple of minutes later, glancing nervously back over his shoulder.

“Zancani will skin us alive for walking out like this,” he said as they climbed into the gondola.

“Zancani can go to Hell,” Coby muttered. “All that matters is finding Sandy before Mal gets back.”

Mal’s prayers were interrupted by the creak of a door and the shuffling of footsteps. He got stiffly to his feet and went over to the grille. Three men in black robes were making their way to the bench: the elderly chancellor and two slightly younger men. A secretary followed, carrying a pile of documents.

Mal looked across at the opposite cell. Ned’s face was as pale as whey against the blackness within, but he managed a ghost of his habitual grin. Mal forced a smile in return, then turned his attention back to the new arrivals.

The three men had taken their places and were talking amongst themselves in low voices. The secretary placed the stack of documents in front of the chancellor, bowed, and left. The chancellor picked up the first item on the stack with palsied hands: a letter sealed with dark wax. He broke the seal, read its contents and then passed it to one of his colleagues, who then passed it to the third. After some discussion, one of the younger men made a note in a ledger, and they moved on to the next item.

Ned cleared his throat as if to speak and Mal shot him a warning glance, shaking his head. One of the clerks looked up briefly, then went back to his work. The chamber was silent but for the scratching of pen on paper.
Make them wait
, Walsingham had taught him on the subject of interrogation.
Anticipation is half the torture
. Perhaps his mentor had learned the technique from the Venetians.

At last the three men finished their business, and Mal could now only wish it had taken them longer. The chancellor rang a small bell that stood on the desk, and after a few moments two guards entered the room. The chancellor motioned towards Mal’s cell. Mal made the sign of the cross and muttered a last prayer. The door of his cell was unlocked and the guard beckoned for him to come out. Mal decided to oblige him; if he struggled, it would not help his case and would only unman Ned entirely. He therefore stepped forth calmly and allowed the guards to escort him to the bench. The chancellor peered down at him with eyes yellowed and bloodshot by long years and too many late nights.

“Your name?”

“Maliverny Catlyn, sir.”

The man to the chancellor’s right began taking notes, glancing up at Mal from time to time.

“You are English?” the chancellor went on.

“On my father’s side. My mother was French, but I was brought up in England.”

“And what brings you to the Serene Republic?”

Mal swallowed. “I am looking for my elder brother, Charles. He fled overseas some years ago.”

“It says here–” the chancellor picked up a letter “–that you were seen fleeing the scene of a murder. Yesterday evening, in Calle di Mezzo in Santa Croce.”

“A lie,” Mal said evenly. “Who so accuses me?”

The chancellor handed the letter to the guard, who gave it to Mal. The handwriting was uneven, the work of a man unaccustomed to it. The signature at the bottom was an illegible scrawl, countersigned by other hands equally hard to make out.

“Several citizens of the parish saw you,” the chancellor said, “and did their civic duty.”

Or were bribed to do so by Trevisan’s friend? Once the identity of the dead men got out, it would not have been hard to link a tall silent stranger to Bragadin via Olivia, and a foreigner made an easy scapegoat.

“Do you still deny it?” Surian went on.

“I had no part in Signore Bragadin’s death. That was the work of another man.”

“His name.”

“I don’t know. He was with Trevisan, but it was dark–”

“How convenient, to lay the blame on a man of whom we have found no trace.” Surian leaned forward. “You say you did not kill Bragadin. What about Trevisan?”

Mal said nothing, unwilling to condemn himself. The chancellor flicked a pale hand towards the guards, who took hold of Mal’s arms and led him towards the steps.

“It is the truth, on my honour!” Mal could not help crying out as they pushed him to the foot of the steps.

His hands were pulled behind his back and bound tightly together, then he was shoved up the steps. He was now looking down on the inquisitors, but this was no vantage point.

“Again. What about Trevisan?” the chancellor asked in patient tones. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” Mal whispered.

“A little louder, please. I fear my hearing is not what it was.”

“Yes, I killed Pietro Trevisan. But it was an accident. He ran onto my dagger.”

Surian chuckled, a dry sound like a rusty gallows-cage. “An accident. Ah, how many give that excuse.”

The chancellor made a curt gesture, and one of the guards mounted the steps behind Mal and attached the rope around his wrists to the one hanging from the ceiling. Mal steeled himself for what would come next.

The
strappado
was a simple torture device, but highly effective. The victim was lifted by his bound arms until his entire weight hung from them, twisted up behind his back as they were. The pain was said to be unbearable. And even if he bore it, he did not trust Ned not to talk in order to spare him. His friend was too soft of heart for this business.

“Again. Why did you murder two of our eminent citizens? What is your purpose in our city?”

“I seek my brother, Charles, who fled England leaving our family ruined.”

The guard pulled on the free end of the rope, lifting his arms higher. It was not yet tight, but still the anticipation left him trembling with dread. He tried to swallow, but his throat was drawn tight as a noose.

“One last time, Englishman. Why have you come to Venice?”

Mal shook his head, and the guard tugged on the rope. Mal stifled a grunt of pain as his arms were raised at an uncomfortable angle, forcing him to lean forward. He teetered on the top step, heart pounding, then regained his balance. He stood there, breathing heavily for a moment, knowing that far worse was about to come. The chancellor cleared his throat, ready to ask again.

“Stop! I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Ned shouted.

The chancellor nodded at the guard, and Mal’s breath caught in his throat as he was lifted onto the balls of his feet. The muscles of his shoulders and upper arms burned as they began to take his weight. The guard hauled on the rope and Mal screamed. A moment later the rope slackened just enough for his flailing feet to gain purchase on the steps once more. He sucked in a shuddering breath.

“I put it to you,” the chancellor said, “that you are an English spy, perhaps even an assassin, sent to interfere with the negotiations between the Venetian Republic and the
sanuti
.”

“No,” Mal gasped. “I am here to find my brother and take him back to England. The murder was a chance meeting, an accident…”

The chancellor lifted his hand, but before the guard could respond, someone entered the chamber and crossed quickly to the bench. Mal looked up, blinking away tears of agony. The secretary had returned and now spoke in low tones to the chancellor and handed him a letter. The chancellor read it, his expression changing gradually from open irritation to barely concealed fury. At last he seemed to recall his surroundings, and made a chopping motion towards Mal. The guard let go of the rope and Mal tumbled from the steps to lie in a panting, shivering heap on the wooden floor.

Ned clung to the iron grille, heedless of the rough metal cutting into his fingers. There had to be some way to stop this. He shouted at the black-robed inquisitors, cursing them to Hell. Oddly, it appeared to have the desired effect. The ugly bastard who had been torturing Mal helped his victim to his feet and cut his bonds. Mal staggered against the steps, his face ashen. Ned released the bars and hammered on the door with both fists.

“Mal! What in Christ’s name’s going on?”

Mal looked up at him and shook his head briefly.

The other guard came over and unlocked Ned’s cell door, waving curtly at him to come out. Ned shrank back into his cell, heart lurching in panic. Was it his turn now? The guard spat out what sounded like a curse, grabbed Ned by the arm and hauled him out into the torchlight.

Ned looked around him in panic. Mal was standing at the bench now, whilst the old man spoke to him in low tones. Mal nodded once or twice. Then the other guard opened the door and they were escorted out, to freedom. Ned drew a ragged breath, hardly daring to believe it was over. As they descended the staircase Mal stumbled and would have fallen, but Ned hurried down and caught him.