The Merchant of Dreams (41 page)

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Berowne’s.” Mal pulled on his drawers and tied the waist-string. “You can’t keep me a prisoner, you know.”

“At least stay tonight, and rest some more. Please.”

Mal paused. In truth he was not as well recovered as he would like. His muscles still ached despite the skrayling medicine, and he doubted he would pass Kiiren’s test yet.

“Very well.” He stuck his head through the neck-hole of his shirt. “But no more sleeping draughts. I need a clear head tomorrow.”

Kiiren ducked his head in acknowledgement, though Mal noted he did not actually say yes.

He was left to finish dressing on his own. No weapons, but then he had come unarmed. Nor were these all his own clothes; he guessed his brother had exchanged their doublet and hose, the better to fool Berowne. At least they were a better fit for one another these days, though Sandy was still a little narrower across the shoulder. Too much time spent indoors instead of out fighting.

He went over to the window, which looked out onto the street at the side of the palazzo. It was not far down to the ground, and an adjacent windowsill gave easy access to a chimney-breast with convenient footholds. As soon as he had his strength back, he would be out of here in a matter of moments.

They followed Charles down the street, through an archway and along an alley to a plain door with tiny barred windows either side. Charles fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and gestured for them to go inside.

“You first,” said Ned.

Charles led them through a narrow damp-smelling passageway and up a flight of stairs with treads of worn red brick. The upper chambers were no better than the ground floor, with mouldering plaster and uneven, creaking floorboards. Stained mattresses and blankets piled here and there hinted at absent inhabitants, poor working men who only came back here to sleep. Charles stopped at a door with peeling green paint and unlocked it.

“Welcome to my palazzo, gentlemen,” Charles said with a bow, and ushered them inside.

The chamber was only slightly less shabby than the rest, but at least had a proper bed and a window looking out over a narrow canal. Charles lit a tallow candle and motioned for his brother to sit down on the only chair in the room. In truth it was barely fit for firewood, though the faint sheen of gilding here and there suggested it had once been a rich man’s possession.

“Thank you, I prefer to stand. I will not stay long.” Sandy hugged his ribs, shivering a little. “You said you were trying to protect me, that you had seen things.”

Charles began unbuttoning his doublet. Now that they were no longer running through the twilit streets of the city, Ned could see the family resemblance in the shape of the brow and the set of the mouth. Charles was fairer in colouring, though, with mousy brown hair, straight as a plumb-line where the twins’ was inclined to curl, and a pale English complexion despite the sunny climate. His beard was full and untidy, as if he seldom bothered to visit the barber, and his clothes were more than a little threadbare. He matched the house rather well.

“I know your brother blames me for what happened that night, but it were necessary,” Charles said, his native accent coming through. “The reason I wanted you and Maliverny to join the Huntsmen is that we need as many good and true men as we can get, for our secret war against Satan and his devils.”

“Secret war?” Ned stifled a laugh as Charles glared at him.

“Aye. Thanks to the likes of me, the likes of you never get to hear on it.” Charles peeled off his sodden doublet and draped it over the windowsill. “We Huntsmen get all the blame, though we are but martyrs to a righteous cause.”

Righteous cause, my arse
. The Huntsmen broke the law, and not just by riding hooded and masked.

“Mal and I never asked to join. We were tricked, coerced…” Sandy broke off, shuddering with more than cold.

“Wait a moment,” Ned said. “You are all Huntsmen? You and Sandy and… and Mal too?”

“You mean they never told you?” Charles smiled thinly. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Ned Faulkner. A friend of your brother.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“You said something about devils,” Sandy put in. “Is that what you think the skraylings are?”

“There’s far worse things than skraylings,” Charles said. “Nightmare creatures, fast and deadly, that lurk in the dark–” He stared at Sandy. “You’ve seen them.”

“Only in dreams.”

Charles pulled up his wet shirt. “Did I dream these?”

Ned stared. Four or five silvery lines, as wide as a man’s finger and nearly a foot long, ran across the pale skin over Charles’ ribs.

“How…?”

“Happened when I were a lad, just after my own welcome into the Huntsmen.” He stripped off the shirt and hung it from the mantel to dry, weighting it with a couple of earthenware bottles. “Father’s men heard rumours. Sheep killed in places where no wolf had been seen in a generation. Children… missing. A gang of us went up into the hills, tracking it. Only me and him came back.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“You two were naught but babes in arms,” Charles said.

“No thanks to you,” Sandy said. “If you had not murdered me, this might not have happened.”

“What? Murdered you?” Charles laughed. “You look right lively enough to me.”

“You murdered me. You and your friends, that night in the hills.”

Charles looked at Ned. “Did you just let him out of Bedlam?”

Ned swallowed. Strictly speaking, he had indeed played a part in freeing Sandy from the asylum. “N… no, he’s been free of that filthy den for over a year.”

Sandy advanced on his brother. “What did you do with my necklace?”

“What necklace?”

“The clan-beads you stole from my corpse.”

“He thinks he’s a skrayling reborn,” Ned said. “And since you’re a Huntsman by your own confession, I think he blames you for it.”

“You’re both mad,” Charles said, backing away. “Alexander, you are sick of mind, you need help–”

“My necklace,” Sandy growled, seizing Charles and pinning him against the wall.

“I sold it.” Charles gazed up into his brother’s eyes. “Please, Alexander, I’m sorry…”

“Who did you sell it to?”

“Bragadin. Giambattista Bragadin.”

Ned laughed. “Bragadin? He’s dead.”

Sandy turned to glare at him. “Dead?”

“Saw him killed myself.”

“If you are lying–” Sandy pressed harder, grinding Charles’ head against the rough plaster.

“I’m not, I swear on our father’s immortal soul.”

“If you are lying,” Sandy went on, “I will come back and haunt your dreams. The creatures you spoke of are nothing compared to what I can do.”

Charles blanched, and seemed to shrink inside his own skin.

Ned laid a hand on Sandy’s arm. “Come on, you’ve got what you wanted. Let’s leave him be.”

Sandy let his brother go, but his face was still as hard as stone.

“I should turn you over to the elders for your crime,” he said.

“And I should report you to the city authorities,” Charles replied. “They have hospitals here too, you know, for the sick of mind. Out in the islands of the lagoon, where you can’t escape.”

Sandy went for Charles again, but Ned got between them.

“Enough, the pair of you!” He dragged Sandy bodily to the other side of the room and pulled him close enough to whisper.

“We have to tell Mal,” he said. “If this has anything to do with…” He broke off, not wanting to give anything further away in Charles’ presence.

Sandy allowed himself to be led away, though he looked over his shoulder one last time as they left the shabby chamber. Ned muttered curses under his breath. Next time, Hendricks could look after the madman and he would stay at home with Gabriel.

CHAPTER XXIX

Mal rose before dawn and dressed as silently as he could. Twilight was the best time for such ventures, as he had explained to Ned; in the shadowless dusk between day and night, the eye struggled to make out shapes and outlines. At least, human eyes did; perhaps skraylings’ were different. No matter. Once he was away from here it was the eyes of Surian’s agents that Mal needed to hide from, not those of his skrayling captors.

A row of houses stood opposite this wing of the
palazzo
, any of which could conceal an informant. Mal scanned each one carefully whilst trying to remain unseen behind the shutters of his own window, but saw nothing untoward. He opened the window and threw Sandy’s bundled-up cloak down into the shadow of the chimney breast then with a whispered prayer to Saint Michael climbed onto the sill.

For a moment he teetered there, regretting the idea, but then he turned to face the wall and forced himself to stretch out his right leg and feel for the ledge of the next window. There. He reached out his right arm and curled his fingers around the rough stone of the neighbouring window arch. Praying his abused flesh would not betray him, he shifted his weight to the right, gently at first until he was sure he had a firm footing, and then brought his left hand and foot across so that he was standing on the other windowsill. Not far now.

He sidled along the sill to the far side of the window, fingers clawing at the stonework in an effort to keep his balance. His shoulders were burning now, the effects of Kiiren’s potions long worn off, and sweat was trickling down his back despite the dawn chill. Better get this over with before his arms failed him altogether. Quickly he reached out again with his right leg until he felt the side of the chimney, then flung himself across the gap, half sliding, half falling down the rough stone to land with a jolt on the pavement below. He looked around, heart pounding, expecting one of the Venetian guards to come running. Long moments passed, and they did not come. Perhaps they had gone home, or more likely were dozing at their posts.

It was starting to get light now, and he could hear shutters opening down the street and neighbours calling greetings to one another. Curfew was over, and soon the city would be busy enough that a man abroad would not be remarked upon. He waited in the shadow of the chimney as long as he dared, then shook out the cloak, wrapped it around him and sauntered off down the street without a backward glance.

Coby went down to breakfast, still in no better humour than she had gone to bed the night before. Whilst the visit to the clockmaker’s shop had been fascinating, she had no desire to spend another moment in Raleigh’s presence if she could help it. For all his claims to have needed her expertise, he had largely ignored her, or claimed her every idea as his own. It had been a frustrating, humiliating evening and she wanted nothing more to do with the man. If only they could eat in the servants’ quarters… but ever since Jameson’s betrayal they had been avoiding him. She couldn’t fault the man for his loyalty to his master, but it made for uncomfortable mealtimes.

And then there was this business with Mal and his brother. She was glad they had a plan for getting rid of Hennaq and the courtesan in one fell swoop, but would it work? She still didn’t entirely trust Lord Kiiren either. He might be devoted to the twins, but would his protection extend to the rest of them?

Distracted as she was by these thoughts, she didn’t see Ned until she ran into him at the bottom of the stairs.

“And the same to you, Mistress Sour-breeches,” Ned responded to her growled curse.

She grabbed him by the front of the doublet and leaned in until they were almost nose to nose.

“Don’t. Call. Me. Mistress.” She glared at him. “Berowne and Raleigh aren’t supposed to know, remember?”

“All right, all right, keep your wig on. God’s bones, you’re in a foul humour this morning.”

She released him with a sigh. “I’m just worried about Mal, that’s all.”

“He’ll be fine. It’s his brother you want to worry about.”

“Sandy? What’s wrong?”

“Not here.” Ned looked around. “Come back upstairs. We need to talk.”

The shops along the Rialto Bridge were just opening their shutters as Mal strode up the long shallow steps. He had thought it best not to go straight back to the embassy. Surian’s men were doubtless watching it, and the later they discovered they were dealing with identical twins, the better. Let them concentrate their efforts on Sandy, and he could move about the city more freely.

Perhaps that was Kiiren’s plan. He could hardly have put his prisoner in a better room to escape from, after all. Mal smiled to himself. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the young skrayling was older than his great-grandfather and thrice as cunning. Kiiren might pay lip service to the idea of obeying the skrayling elders, but he always put Erishen first. For that, Mal could not fault him.

The problem was, what to do if Hennaq did not come to Venice. What was he going to do about Olivia then? He could not communicate with Kiiren in secret with her still around. Unless… Cinquedea had offered his services before. And since Ned had confirmed it was Jameson who had betrayed them to the
sbirri
, not Cinquedea, perhaps he could persuade the man to resume their arrangement. It was certainly worth a try.

The Mercerie bustled with activity in preparation for the morning’s customers. Servants swept the pavement outside each shop and shook tapestries from upper windows, whilst others swabbed the glass panes of the shopfronts and swore at their neighbours above for ruining their work. Men with delivery barrows hurried back and forth before the streets became too crowded, shouting
Permesso!
or the more brusque
Attentione!
as their humour took them. Mal dodged around them all and emerged at last in St Mark’s Square. It was a relief to be in the open after the narrow streets of the city, and he whistled a old song as he crossed in front of the basilica. Even the sight of the Doge’s Palace was not enough to dampen his spirits. Then he saw the ship.

It was a skrayling carrack, much like the one he had seen at anchor when he arrived. For a moment he convinced himself it was the same vessel, but a glance along the quay confirmed that there were now two of them. It might not be Hennaq, he told himself. Skrayling ships were hard to tell apart, since they bore no banners, nor were they even named. The skraylings seem to regard them as one would an oxcart: useful but unremarkable.