The Merchant of Dreams (30 page)

“Well. Good.”

He strode out of the room and shut the door sharply behind him, rattling the bolts. Gabriel twitched awake and groaned.

“What was that?”

“Just…” Sandy? She wasn’t sure what to call him any more; he seemed less human with every passing day.

Gabriel struggled upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his left foot touched the floor.

“So,” he said after a jaw-cracking yawn, “today’s the day that Suffolk’s Men are reborn.”

Coby made an affirmative noise and turned her back whilst he dressed. Seeing men half-naked had never bothered her when she was in a tiring-house helping actors into their costumes, but in the intimacy of a bedchamber it felt quite wrong to stand and watch.

“Of course we can’t call ourselves Suffolk’s Men any more,” she said over her shoulder. “Anyway, Grey is the last person I would want to claim as a patron.”

“How about ‘Raleigh’s Men’? I dare say he’s the one who’ll be paying for all this, one way or another.”

“No. We don’t want anything to link us to Mal. How about…” She pondered for a moment. “Parrish’s Men.”

“What?”

“You have to be the leader of our troupe. You have the most experience, and we need to spare your leg. Sandy and I will do most of the work.”

“What about the play itself? No one will understand a word.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re not going to be doing plays like the ones back in London.” She paced the room, images crowding her mind’s eye. “I was in the market square yesterday, and there was a troupe of Italian players. They call it
commedia all’improviso
. Very different from our own theatre: all bawdy comedy, mock fights and falling on their arses. As long as we’re funny, I don’t think it will matter if the audience understands us or not.”

“And you think you can do that? Acting is not as easy as it looks, you know.”

“I have been acting all my life,” she said softly. “Just not on a stage.”

She borrowed pen and paper from Gabriel and wrote the letter to Mal, then went downstairs in search of breakfast. To her surprise the
commedia
players were sitting round one of the tables in the courtyard, looking as miserable as a wet Sunday afternoon. The shy young juggler was turning a painted ball in his hands, staring at it as if it held the secrets of eternity, whilst their leader, a short curly-haired man in threadbare black-and-red motley, berated each of them in turn. The youngest of the troupe, a girl of about fifteen, was weeping loudly into a handkerchief.

“Did the play not go well last night?” she asked the landlord as he passed on his way back to the kitchen.

“Oh yes. But this morning they discovered that their Columbina and Il Capitano have run off to be wed, and taken a whole week’s money with them.”

“That is unfortunate,” Coby replied. And strangely convenient. Two actors go missing, the very day after she had suggested taking to the stage.
Erishen
. She thanked the landlord and set off to post the enciphered letter.

“This was your doing, wasn’t it?” She folded her arms and stared at Sandy, whose smug grin was good as an admission of guilt.

“The lovers had wanted to leave for a long time,” he said, turning away abruptly so that droplets of water flew out from the ends of his damp hair. “I simply gave them a nudge.”

“Don’t tell me you…?” Coby wiped her face with her cuff. “No, I don’t want to know. Whatever it is, it’s between you and God.”
If you still believe in Him
.

Gabriel looked from one to the other in confusion. “What’s ‘his doing’?”

Coby sighed. “The
commedia
players I saw yesterday are conveniently in need of two actors. A man and a woman.”

“Women play on the Italian stage?” Gabriel asked.

“Oh yes. And in France too. It is only in England that women are forbidden to perform.”

“The English honour skrayling custom in that regard,” Sandy added.

“Whatever the reason,” Coby went on, glaring at Sandy, “we now have a choice. Continue with my plan, or try to join the
commedia
.”

“But there are three of us,” Gabriel said. “And none of us speaks Italian.”

“Which is all the more reason to join an existing troupe,” Sandy said. “We will be less conspicuous amongst them than by ourselves.”

“It’s really up to Hendricks,” Gabriel said with a sympathetic smile. “She is the one who must discard her current guise, as well as learn to act.”

The two men looked at her expectantly.

“Very well,” she said after a moment. “But only because I had been thinking about it already. And I will need your help, Master Parrish. I… I need to learn womanly manners if I am to do this properly.”

“Of course.”

“The gown I bought is rather plain; I think I should buy something to brighten it up a little before we approach the players. And you two ought to look a bit more like actors as well.” She weighed the purse in her pocket. “If there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s clothe a theatre company for next to nothing.”

Choosing a pretty shawl for herself in the market was easy enough, but Venetian men’s fashions were terribly sombre; not at all the sort of flamboyant clothing needed to make them look like actors. Eventually she found a couple of pairs of yellow stockings for the men, some dyed feathers to put in Gabriel’s hat, and two striped and fringed scarves that would do for a number of uses. Satisfied at last, she returned to the inn with her haul and the two men began changing into their new clothes.

“These were the best I could find,” she said, taking Gabriel’s hat and pinning the feathers in place.

“They look splendid,” Gabriel said with a smile. “I had a hat rather like that, back in Southwark.”

He looked a lot stronger today, and was walking about the room unaided, though with a pronounced limp. The stockings did little to hide the bandages on his calf, however, and Coby prayed the wounds wouldn’t bleed through.

Sandy finished dressing and struck a dramatic pose. Stripped to his shirt sleeves and with one of the scarves tied around his waist like a sash, he cut a dashing figure: an eastern prince, perhaps, or a noble bandit who, like Robin Hood, only stole from those who could afford it. She wondered if he had ever acted before, and if so, whether skrayling plays were very different from English or Italian ones. Mostly she prayed he would not embarrass them or cause trouble. He had done enough as it was.

“Out, out!” she said when they were done. “I’m not going to change into this gown in front of you, you know.”

Gabriel apologised, and Sandy helped him down the stairs to the taproom. Coby bolted the door behind them and stripped down to her stockings and drawers. The latter she was not willing to discard, skirts or no, though she did extract the tool roll and stow it under the mattress. She slipped into the petticoat, thankful that she’d chosen a style that laced up the front. Halfway through the lacing she realised she ought to try and plump up her breasts, rather than flattening them as she usually did. Not that there was a lot to work with, but the bodice was surprisingly effective. She stared down at the unfamiliar prospect for several moments.
Sweet Jesu, what will Mal think when he sees me like this?
She hurriedly pulled on the gown, and arranged the shawl to cover what the bodice exposed. There, much better.

She slipped into her shoes, drew the bolt and drew a deep breath before opening the door.
Well, nothing else for it.
Holding the edge of the scarf tight against her chest, she made her way down to the taproom.

CHAPTER XXI

Mal managed to deflect Ned’s questions about his dealings with Olivia for two days, mostly by ensuring they were never alone together. He let Berowne take them on a tour of the city, including a visit to the basilica of St Mark’s, which surpassed even Mal’s expectations. The lower half of the building was splendid enough, with its fine marble paving and Herculean pillars, but when he looked up… Every inch of the ceiling was gilded, so that it gleamed in the candlelight like a treasure-cave. Even the gilding itself was merely the backdrop to hundreds of mosaics depicting saints and Bible stories, their figures rendered in the flat Eastern style that betrayed the city’s past connections with Constantinople.

“I used to think the preachers exaggerated,” Ned muttered as they followed Berowne into yet another side chapel.

“Oh?”

“About the richness of the churches, before King Henry broke with Rome.”

Mal smiled. “I doubt any English cathedral was ever a tenth as grand, even then.”

Berowne launched into a description of the chapel ceiling, oblivious to the satiety of his companions.

“I suppose you’re going to see
her
again tonight,” Ned whispered.

“What of it?”

“We’re supposed to be here on business, not pleasure.”

“Can I not combine the two?”

“She has bewitched you, this guiser whore.”

“Olivia is not a whore,” Mal said, more loudly than he’d intended. An old woman who had been lighting a candle in the chapel glared at him and blew out her taper with a huff of disgust.

“So tell me what you’ve learned,” Ned said, “and why this war has suddenly become a truce.”

Mal sighed. “Very well. But not here. When we get back to the embassy, then I’ll tell you.”

“You swear.”

“I swear. Now, look sharp. I think Berowne has found another interesting mosaic.”

Ned rolled his eyes, and Mal chuckled in sympathy. This was going to be a long day.

Ned closed the attic door behind him.

“Well?”

Mal sat down on the end of the bed but immediately rose again, went to the window and closed the shutters against the noonday sun.

“Olivia’s not our enemy,” Mal said quietly. “In fact I think she may be our best ally in the city.”

“What?”

“She has convinced me she has only good intentions–”

“Hah. And people say I’m the one who thinks with my prick.”

“You think I trust her because I–…”

“Because you’re fucking her? Are you?”

Mal’s expression was indistinct in the shadows, but the hunch of his shoulders implied guilt.

“I might have known,” Ned muttered. When Mal made no reply, he added, “So, how is your new paramour going to help us?”

“She doesn’t want the skraylings in Venice any more than England does. In fact she’s terrified they’re here to hunt her down. The only reason she trusts me is because…” He sighed. “I told her about Erishen.”

“Sandy?”

“No, I’ve managed to keep that from her so far, though God knows for how much longer.”

“And you?” Ned went over to him and, taking Mal’s head between his hands, stared into his eyes. “What of you? Is the Mal I know and love still in there?”

“Of course.”

His voice was as rough as his beard, and sent the same shiver down to Ned’s groin.
Not now
, said the unwelcome voice of reason. Ned released him.

“You still haven’t answered my question. How is she going to help us?”

“By getting the Venetians to look the other way whilst we conduct our business here.”

“She can do that?”

“She’s a guiser. An old one. And she is by no means mad, nor evil. She keeps the Grand Council and even the Ten in check; if she does so behind the scenes, well, can you fault her? No one in Christendom wants to hear they are being ruled by a five hundred year-old creature from the New World.”

“Hmm.” Ned chewed his lip. “Even if she does help us, what’s the price? Your soul?”

“No price. I’ve told you, she wants the skraylings gone. But…” Ned’s heart sank.
Here it comes…
“She has asked me to do her a small kindness–”

“Apart from the fucking?”

“Enough, for Christ’s sake, Ned!”

Ned recoiled at the fury in Mal’s voice. “Sorry. Go on.”

“There is a man in her service, a patrician named Giambattista Bragadin. Through him she provides secrets to those requiring leverage over her enemies, and they share the fees.”

“This is that Merchant fellow you were talking about?”

“Yes. Her problem is that she suspects Bragadin of plotting against her. She wants me to follow him and observe his dealings.”

“So why doesn’t she just use her sorcery to rummage around in his head? Guisers can do that, right?”

“That’s why she suspects him. Bragadin has obtained a spirit-guard and is using it to keep her out of his dreams.”

“So you’re going to spy on him?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Very.”

“I’m in.” Ned grinned at him.

“What?”

“I’m in. You don’t think I’m going to sit at home and let you get into trouble all by yourself, do you?”

Mal sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to stop you?”

“Nothing.”

“Very well. Meet me at sunset in the Winged Lion. It’s a taverna in San Marco, not far from Palazzo Bragadin.” Mal bent to unfasten his knapsack. “I have to see Olivia first.”

“A daytime visit? Isn’t that a little… conspicuous?”

“Why do you think I have this?” Mal held up a mask. “A convenient little fashion. Anyone would think this city was ruled through intrigue.”

He picked up a long hooded cloak and headed for the door.

Ned rubbed his hands together, jealousy forgotten. A little night-work, that was more like it. Best not to think who they were doing it for, only the ultimate goal. Finish their business here, and go home.

Mal walked through the Venetian dusk towards his rendezvous with Ned, exhausted in mind and body from his session with Olivia. Dreamwalking required practice and discipline as demanding as swordplay and, contrary to Ned’s slurs, did not include any further carnal pleasures, at least not today. Olivia told him that for true mastery he needed to keep his thoughts and passions separate until he could command them both. Later, she promised, they could repeat the blissful experience of that first joining, and without unwelcome memories intruding.

As he crossed yet another little square, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and halted. A squad of a dozen red-clad
sbirri
, the constables who patrolled Venice, were escorting several sullen young men in the direction of St Mark’s. Seeing an open space, one of them tried to make a break for it but was brought down and beaten into submission before the procession continued on its way.