The Merchant of Dreams (38 page)

She looked up.

“I thought he looked guilty when I first arrived, but I never expected…”

“Could be worse. At least he wasn’t the one who denounced me. Still, I don’t want anyone speaking of our plans in front of him.”

“I’ll tell Master Parrish. And Master Faulkner, if you like.”

She helped him to his feet. He still felt weak as water, but it was no worse than a bad night on campaign, or so he told himself. Breakfast and a cup or three of wine would make all better.

They went down to the dining parlour, where Jameson was setting out bread and cold meats. The old man’s hands trembled more than ever, and he would not look Mal in the eye. As soon as he had finished laying the table he fled the room instead of waiting to ask if they had any further need of him.

Coby poured wine for them both, and Mal forced himself to lift the cup, though his hand shook almost as much as Jameson’s. A few moments later Ned and Gabriel joined them, and Coby passed on Mal’s warning.

“Well?” Ned asked, helping himself to several slices of ham. “What do we do now?”

“We still have find Sandy,” Coby said. She took the platter from him and speared a slice for herself, then loaded Mal’s plate.

Mal cleared his throat.

“No need. I know where he is.”

Everyone stared at him.

“With Lord Kiiren?” Gabriel leant forward.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? I know I saw something–”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Thankfully no one seemed inclined to argue with him, although he could tell from their faces that they had doubts.

“Well, good,” Gabriel said at last.

“Not so good,” Ned told him. “We’ve been trying to get in to see the skraylings since we arrived, but they’re locked up tighter than a maiden’s virtue.”

“At least we know he’s safe,” Coby said.

She put her hand over Mal’s where it lay on the table, and for once Ned did not smirk.

“But how do we get in?” Ned asked. “The Venetians will be watching us like hawks after last night.”

“You will not go,” Mal told him. “Your task is to stay here. If anyone asks for me, tell them I am taken to my bed. Better still, go openly to an apothecary and buy medicine for easing pain. Let the chancellor’s spies think I am too weak from their treatment of me to venture forth.”

“And what will you do?” Ned asked. “Lie abed whilst I run errands?”

“No,” Mal replied with a quiet smile. “I have a mind to become an actor.”

Ned padded down the stairs to the atrium. Hendricks had given him an errand to run, but first he had business of his own.

The atrium was empty, as he had expected. He checked the storeroom where the gondola was kept, but there was no sign of anyone there either. Good. He crossed to the door under the stairs and laid his ear against it. A faint clatter of pans. He smiled to himself and lifted the latch.

He found Jameson in the kitchen, stirring a pot of gruel over the fire. Even this lowly room had an elegance not seen in humble English dwellings, with handsome if antique furniture and a carved stone hood over the hearth to channel smoke up into the chimney. The manservant did not even notice Ned until he was halfway across the room. With a feeble cry of alarm he shrank back, knocking the gruel all over the hearthstones.

“Feeling guilty about something?” Ned asked him.

“I… I… I’m sorry, sir, I had no choice. The constables came to the door asking for Master Catlyn, and when I said he wasn’t here they accused me of lying s… s… so I–”

“So you betrayed us?” Ned stepped closer, hand straying to his knife hilt.

“They said they’d search the house from watergate to rafters. Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t like that, not at all, so I… I told them where you were going.” He began to weep.

Ned gave a grunt of disgust. Mal wouldn’t thank him for harming their host’s servant, especially when the old coot had only been doing his duty to his master.

“Just stay in here unless Berowne calls for you, all right? If you don’t see or hear anything, you can’t tell anyone, can you?”

The old man shook his head, and Ned left him to clearing up the mess.

“Are you sure this will work?” Gabriel said as he and Mal followed Coby into the storeroom.

“Do you have a better plan?” she replied. “Two of us were seen arriving; only two must leave.”

Gabriel opened the water gate with a hooked pole whilst Mal climbed into the gondola and curled up as best he could near the prow. Coby draped a grubby canvas over him then settled back in the cabin.

“We should have hired a gondolier,” Gabriel muttered as he struggled with the oar.

“Master Catlyn said we shouldn’t trust anyone. The servants have already betrayed him once.”

She clung to the sides of the cabin as the gondola lurched out of the dock, bumping against the watergate. Poor Mal; this must be ten times worse for him. At last they were out into the daylight and weaving an unsteady course through Santa Croce towards the Grand Canal.

By dint of good luck they eventually found the inn where Zancani’s troupe were lodged. At least their meandering route through the canals was likely to have deterred even the most persistent intelligencer.

“Master Catlyn? You can get up now.”

Mal blinked up at her and coughed at the dust drifting down from the canvas sheet. She put out a hand to help him up, but he shook her off, climbing awkwardly to his feet as best he could without using his arms to bear his weight. It tore at her to see him so helpless, and she wondered what would happen if they had to fight their way out of another ambuscade. Could he even lift a sword in his present condition?

She left Gabriel tying up the gondola and led Mal through the courtyard of the inn and up to the room Zancani had rented.

“Where have you been all night?” the little man snapped in French. “I thought that you had been arrested for breaking the curfew.”

“Our most profound apologies, maestro,” she replied. “We went in search of our companion Alessandro, and see? Here he is.”

Mal bowed stiffly on cue.

“You look terrible,” Zancani said to him. “Did you spend all your silver on grappa and loose women?”

Mal merely smiled enigmatically which, Coby reflected, was no more than Sandy would have done.

“Well don’t do it again,” Zancani went on. “It is fortunate you will be wearing a mask on stage. Now, get into costume, all of you. You need to rehearse if we are to be ready for this afternoon’s performance.”

“Maestro Zancani,” Mal said. “My evening was not entirely one of pleasure. I was pursuing your business advantage as well.”

“Oh?”

“I have friends in Venice, friends with connections. They told me that the
sanuti
are growing tired of their seclusion in the
fondaco
and would welcome some entertainment. And what better to lift a melancholy heart than the antics of Harlequin and Columbine?”

Zancani frowned, his black eyebrows merging into one. “The
sanuti
?”

“They have silver to spend,” Mal said, “and little to spend it on, until the Doge agrees to trade arrangements. But we should make haste, before another company hears of this and courts their favour.”

“True, true. Gossip flies faster than pigeons.” He clapped his hands. “Ready yourselves for a procession, everyone. We go to wait upon the ambassador from the New World.”

When they had gone, Coby quickly changed into her own theatrical costume. It didn’t feel any more natural now than it had then, and the thought of Mal seeing her like this turned her belly into a nest of writhing snakes. Wrapping the shawl around her, she took a deep breath and ventured out to find the men.

Mal raised an eyebrow when he saw her, but made no other comment. Coby tried to hide her disappointment. Did he not find her attractive like this? Or was she expecting too much? She chided herself for her selfishness.
The poor man has been tortured, and all you can think about is whether he lusts after you?

Under Zancani’s leadership, the players formed up in the little square behind the inn. At the front was Benetto, juggling his painted wooden clubs. Gabriel walked behind him, playing a simple rhythm on a pair of small drums hung around his waist, then Mal and Coby, and behind them Stefano playing the flute. Valerio and Valentina tumbled and cartwheeled on either side.

“Show some more tit, girl!” Zancani barked at Coby. “The Madonna knows your face ain’t worth looking at.”

Coby blushed scarlet but obediently removed her shawl, tying it about her hips instead to give her figure the semblance of womanly curves. She dare not meet Mal’s eye.

Zancani took up his place at the head of the procession, and they began making their way southwards towards the Rialto Bridge.

As they approached the Fondaco dei Sanuti, Mal’s gut tightened in apprehension. Sandy was no doubt welcome here, but what about himself? He was an agent of the English Crown and no friend of this mission. Apart from Kiiren, the other skraylings within were not likely to be pleased to see him. Especially this Hennaq, whoever he was. He had still not found an opportunity to ask Coby what that was all about.

Zancani bowed to the guard outside the street door: a Venetian soldier, not a skrayling. The maestro announced their business with many an obsequious bow, describing their company in glowing terms and gesturing to the players. The soldier looked them all up and down as if checking for weapons, then rapped on the gate.

A young skrayling dressed in a warrior’s tunic peered out, his eyes widening at the sight of the players. The guard spoke to him in Italian, though evidently the skrayling understood none of it, for he merely stood there staring at them all. Coby glanced at Mal, seeking his permission to intervene, but he shook his head. The last thing they needed was for the Venetians to find out that someone who could speak Tradetalk was visiting the skraylings.

The young warrior disappeared back into the
fondaco
, and returned a few moments later with two silver-haired elders. Mal watched them carefully, wondering if either of them had been on Sark back in March. Even if none of them remembered Coby from their brief visit, surely many of the skraylings would have seen Sandy at some point. He was thankful for the masks concealing their features.

After a short debate amongst themselves the elders withdrew into the palazzo, and the players were ushered through the gate into a large courtyard. Mal looked up at the rows of arched windows, wondering if Sandy looked back down at him.

Zancani bade his players to show off their talents, and soon the little troupe were surrounded by two score or more wide-eyed skraylings. From out of the corner of his eye Mal caught a flash of azure blue, and then a tall figure striding along the shadowed cloister. A grin threatened to split his face.

As Sandy stepped out into the light, the Venetian players caught their collective breaths in surprise. One of Benetto’s clubs fell to the ground, the hollow sound echoing loudly from the surrounding walls.

“What is this?” Zancani was the first to recover his voice. “There are two of you?”

“Forgive the deceit, maestro,” Mal said, removing his mask. He nodded to Coby, who ran to the gate. “I’m afraid none of you can leave until our business here is done.”

CHAPTER XXVII

Zancani and his players were shown into a side-chamber, little more than a store-room that had been swept clean and the floor laid with the matting the skraylings were so fond of. A flat-topped sea chest served as a table, and servants laid out jugs of wine and
aniig
and enough glasses for all.

“Please, come with me,” Sandy said to Mal. He glanced at Coby. “The girl may come also.”

The actor seemed unsurprised at being excluded and set about pouring drinks for the others. Sandy led the way around the cloister to a studded door and thence up a marble staircase and through a series of echoing rooms, each with a different coloured tiled floor. At last they reached a closed pair of double doors. Sandy opened one half and gestured for them to go inside.

The room beyond ran the length of the palazzo façade and commanded a magnificent view of the Grand Canal through the many arched windows along one wall. In the middle of the opposite wall stood an enormous white marble fireplace supported by caryatids. The hearth was cold, though the remains of a log fire crumbled in the iron grate, and matting had been placed in a semicircle around the hearthstone. A circular tabletop of multi-coloured stone inlay sat on four piles of bricks nearby, surrounded by large cushions.

Ambassador Kiiren stood on the far side of the table, hands folded in the sleeves of his formal azure blue robe. He looked tired, Mal thought, or perhaps it was just the bright Venetian sunlight emphasising the patches of grey skin under his eyes. As they approached, he broke off his formal pose and hurried towards them, embracing Mal like a long-lost friend.

“Catlyn-tuur!”

“Kii–”

Kiiren released him, eyes wide. “You are hurt, my friend.”

“It’s nothing. How are you?”

He took a seat on the cushions. About a dozen of the zigzag-folded sheets that the skraylings used instead of books lay scattered across the surface of the table, their pages covered in the tiny geometric glyphs of the Vinlandic language. A flask of
aniig
wallowed in a cistern of water, surrounded by half-melted chunks of ice. It must be dull indeed for Kiiren, shut up here for days on end with nothing to do but wait until he was needed.

“What did you think you were doing?” Mal said at last. He looked from his brother to the ambassador and back. “There is a guiser in this city, a powerful one.”

“Are you sure?” Kiiren asked. “We have seen no sign of guisers.”

“Olivia is no fool. She has been avoiding dreamwalking ever since you arrived.”

“Olivia? This is name? You know who it is?”

“Her name is Olivia dalle Boccole, a courtesan.” He forced himself not to catch Coby’s eye. “We have become… well acquainted.”

“You have consorted with the enemy?” Sandy slammed his glass on the table, shattering its delicate base.