The Merchant of Dreams (48 page)

Mal hammered on the embassy door and shouted their names several times, but even so it took Jameson some minutes to open it. They ducked inside, and Mal ran up to the attic to fetch his weapons.

“Does your master have an old sword I could borrow?” Ned asked the manservant. “We’re going back out there, and who knows what we’ll have to face.”

Jameson hesitated, but at last shuffled off into the depths of the house and returned with an old-fashioned sword, shorter and heavier than a rapier but easier to wield at close quarters. It would do very well. Ned thanked him and strapped the weapon to his hip, feeling at once safer and more conscious of the danger they were going into. A few moments later Mal clattered downstairs, his rapier’s scabbard scraping the wall behind him.

“What’s the best way to get to Burano?” Mal asked Jameson. “Should we ask to take the gondola?”

The old manservant smiled. “It’s a bit far for that, sir. You want a proper boat, like a
caorlina
.”

“And where would we find one of those?”

“Try the fish market, sir. Someone may have landed a catch this morning, not having heard of the troubles, and be glad to take you out into the lagoon.”

The island of Burano was situated at the end of a small archipelago that jutted out from the mainland into the lagoon. Although lacking a harbour, its situation was such that ships could anchor close to its shore in the safety of the lagoon, and jetties provided mooring spots for smaller boats. The main town on the island lay on the south-east shore, little more than a cluster of white-washed houses along a single street.

Mal breathed a sigh of relief to be on solid ground again, and paused a moment to enjoy the spring sunshine. The city of Venice, with its dark, haunted alleys and terrified citizens, seemed a thousand miles away.

“So, we just wander round the island until we spot your friend?” Ned asked.

“Or until he spots us,” Mal replied. “I think the latter more likely. The question is, will he approach us if he does see us?”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we keep our eyes and ears open. We’re intelligencers, remember? Watching people is what we do.”

Along either side of the broad, packed earth thoroughfare stood small white-washed houses with tiled roofs and shuttered windows whose window-boxes were bright with spring crocus, anemones and cyclamen. Outside every one sat at a group of black-clad women of all ages, from white-haired grandmothers to little ones of five or six, all with pillows on their laps to which were pinned pieces of lacework in progress. Mal was reminded of a flower garden thick with bumblebees, all hard at work.

“Do you think news has reached here yet?” Ned asked in a low voice. “Everything seems so… normal.”

“Do the folk of Kent or Middlesex care about trouble in London? This island must be far safer, even though they are but an hour’s boat-ride away.”

They found a tavern at last, but it was deserted at this time of day and there was no sign of Cinquedea. After a swift cup of wine they moved on.

“We should be getting back,” Ned muttered. “Gabriel will be wondering where we’ve got to.”

“Just a little longer,” Mal said. “It’s barely noon. We still have the whole afternoon to prepare.”

They turned and walked back down the street.

“Don’t look now,” Mal said in a low voice, “but I think I see the place we’re looking for.”

“Oh?”

He gestured discreetly towards one of the houses. It was indistinguishable from all the rest, except that one of the old women sitting near the door was unusually broad in the shoulder and the folds of her shawl did not quite conceal a dagger hilt. She appeared to have fallen asleep over her needlework, which looked tiny and fragile in her large, bony hands.

Mal beckoned to Ned, and they crossed the street. As they neared the door the sleeping woman seemingly woke up with a start and fixed them with her dark gaze.
His
dark gaze. Mal’s initial suspicions had been correct.

“We are here to see the Lacemaker,” Mal told the man. “My name is Maliverny Catlyn, and this is Ned Faulkner. We are friends of Cinquedea.”

The man grunted.

“Your weapons,” he drawled in the local dialect.

Mal reluctantly handed over his rapier and dagger, and motioned for Ned to do likewise, then they were waved inside. Mal blinked, hoping his eyes would adjust swiftly to the dimness of the interior after the dazzling light outside. After a few moments he could make out an ancient bedstead with faded, moth-eaten hangings, in which lay an old woman wearing a white lace cap and nightgown. Several young women sat on the floor around her, spinning the hair-fine thread used to make the famous Burano lace. Two more men, undisguised, played cards at a table by the window. One of them was Cinquedea. Mal breathed a sigh of relief.

“Who is that?” the old woman asked in a surprisingly steady voice.

She sat up and turned towards them, but did not quite look in their direction. Mal bowed and introduced himself and Ned.

“Is this true, Marco? They are… acquaintances of yours?”

“Yes, grandmama.” The Venetian put down his cards. “Signore Catalin, this is my grandmother, Signora Petronilla.”

Mal bowed again. “It is an honour to meet you, madam. Your reputation, and that of your family, precede you.”

The old woman chuckled, and waved a hand at her young companions, who rose and filed out into the street to continue their work.

“I’m sure it does, young man,” Signora Petronilla said. “But what is so important, that you come all this way to seek out my grandson?”

Mal cleared his throat, aware that he was in the presence of ruthless people who would cut him down in a heartbeat. The trick, as with a dangerous dog, was to show no fear. He forced himself to breathe slowly.

“You have heard about last night’s trouble, after the
Sensa
?” he began.

“Of course.” Cinquedea glanced at his grandmother. “Everyone is saying that the bronze lion of Saint Mark came to life and jumped down from its pillar, slaughtering sinners left and right.”

“Not the saint’s beast, but something worse,” Mal replied. “Demonic creatures, loosed on the city by… by a witch.”

Cinquedea crossed himself, and the old lady muttered something under her breath.

“The woman you tried to tell me about?” Cinquedea asked.

“The same.”

“Then you have my apologies for not believing you. Still, what is that to do with us? Can these creatures swim?”

“I don’t think so.”

“The city is full of churches and priests,” Signora Petronilla said. “Such evil cannot survive there long.”

Cinquedea leaned over and muttered something in his grandmother’s ear.

“Really? A bishop?” She shook her head and tutted. “Still, my men are not soldiers. Why should I throw their lives away?”

“I’m not asking for aid of that kind,” Mal said. “I need knowledge. The creatures are most likely holed up somewhere, awaiting nightfall; my friends and I can lay siege to their lair and destroy any that emerge, but the city is too large to search before sunset. I need to know where to look.”

“And that is all you need?”

“One more thing. We need as many clear glass flasks and bottles as you can lay your hands on.”

“Then you have come to the right place. Marco, speak to your uncle about getting Signore Catalin the things he needs. You, my boy–” she beckoned to Mal “–sit down and tell me everything.”

They returned to the embassy later that afternoon to find Coby and Parrish waiting for them in the storeroom. A couple of dozen squat terracotta jars waited by the gondola dock, their stoppers sealed with wax.

“Lightwater?” Mal asked.

Coby grinned. “Every last demijohn in the skraylings’ possession, almost.”

“Almost?”

“We let them keep a couple for their own defence.”

“Do you know where the devourers are?” Parrish asked.

“I believe so. According to Signora Petronilla’s informants, they were last seen at the eastern end of the Dorsoduro district, just before sunrise. Since there’s no way to leave except to double back or take a boat, it seems likely that they found a bolt-hole in some untenanted building or perhaps even a church.”

“Even so, how do we find them?” Coby said.

“Follow the trail of bodies,” Ned said with a ghoulish grin.

Coby pulled a face.

“Ned has a point,” Mal said. “These creatures may be cunning, but they have made no attempt to hide their trail. Perhaps they are unfamiliar with cities; their native land, if you can call it that, is open moor. That is likely why they survived so long in the Peaklands.”

“When do we make our move?” Parrish asked. “We surely want to have them surrounded well before sunset.”

“I have arranged to meet Cinquedea in Campo San Vio at 5 o’clock.”

“Will that give us enough time?”

Mal looked round at their worried faces. “It has to.”

The square was already emptying by the time they arrived. Open to the water on two sides, it felt exposed to view but nonetheless safer than the suffocating closeness of most Venetian streets. Coby, Ned and Gabriel waited in a nervous huddle whilst Mal spoke to Cinquedea. The Lacemaker’s grandson had brought the promised glass bottles, most of which had been rigged up with string handles around the necks. A few passers-by paused to stare at them as they unloaded the crates onto the
fondamenta
, but most were too busy hurrying home before it got dark.

“I hope to God Mal knows what he’s doing,” Ned muttered. “You should have seen those scars on his brother’s body. Looked like a lion had tried to tear him in two.”

“You’re not helping,” Coby said. Her guts felt like they were trying to find a way out of her belly by themselves.

Gabriel put his arms round both their shoulders and kissed each of them on the temple.

“We survived everything the Huntsmen and their lackeys threw at us, we’ll survive this,” he said.

“Aye, and this time we’re fighting on the Huntsmen’s side,” Mal said, striding over. “Come. One of Cinquedea’s gang thinks he knows where the devourers are.”

He led them eastwards, through a dog-leg alley and over a bridge into a little square hemmed in by a canal on the nearest side and buildings on the other three. Ahead and to the right, small houses stood close-shuttered and silent, crosses hastily daubed on their doors for protection. To the left, blocking the view of the Grand Canal, stood a palazzo about twice the size of Berowne’s house, with a walled garden in front. A vine had grown up the palazzo façade, reaching for the sunlight, and now half-covered the row of arched windows that marked the
piano nobile
.

“Ca’ Dario,” Mal said. “It used to be rented out to the Turkish ambassador, but it fell into disuse owing to the war between Venice and the Empire. No one’s lived there in a generation.”

“And you think they’re in there?” Coby stared up at the building, imagining dead eyes staring back at her from the leaf-framed darkness.

“The gate is rusted up,” Gabriel said. “Doesn’t look like it’s been opened in years.”

“They wouldn’t go in that way. See, along the wall?”

At the far end of the wall where it turned a corner to run alongside the canal, some of the stone coping was missing, and on either side of the gap fresh white score-marks stood out like wounds. The marks of enormous claws.

Several of Cinquedea’s men had joined them in the square. Two started filling empty bottles with lightwater, and the rest went from house to house with these makeshift lanterns, offering them to any householder who dared to answer their knock, and hanging them up outside the doors and windows that remained shut. Soon the little square was as brightly lit as the skrayling compound, though the blue and yellow lanterns combined to cast an eerie underwater light on the façade of the palazzo.

Cinquedea came over and bowed to Mal. “We have fulfilled our side of the bargain, and more. Now, if you will excuse us, we have to return to our families, before…”

He jerked his head towards the darkened building.

“I understand,” Mal said. “Thank you.”

Cinquedea snorted. “You can thank me in the morning. Good luck, and may the saints watch over you this night.”

He beckoned to his men, and they departed without a backward glance. Coby swallowed past the lump in her throat. They were alone now, with a dozen deadly creatures just waiting to come out and slaughter them all.

“Charles and I will go inside,” Mal said. “Ned: you, Hendricks and Parrish will wait here and pick off any that try to flee back into the city.”

“No!” Coby grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t, not just two of you. It’s too dangerous.”

He took her in his arms. “This is my fault, love. I have to mend it.”

He kissed her forehead, and she swallowed against the tears pricking her eyes. She clung to him for a long moment, not wanting it to end.

“One last thing,” he said. “Wear this for me.”

He held out Sandy’s old spirit-guard.

“No, I cannot–”

“Please. I don’t know what those creatures can do in this world, but you need this protection more than I.” He looped the necklace behind her head and fastened the catch. “Be sure to wear it under your shirt, next to your skin.”

She nodded, quite unable to speak. He bent and kissed her lips, and she melted into the embrace, cursing herself for all the times she had pushed him away. At last he withdrew, and wiped her tears away with a rough thumb.

“Go then,” she whispered. “And may God be with you.”

“And with thee.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

Once Coby had retreated to a safe distance Mal prepared to enter the palazzo. He checked both his blades, and then removed his earring and stowed it in his pocket. Tonight he would need all his faculties, more than he needed the lodestone’s protection. At least if the devourers ate his soul he would be spared the torments of Hell. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

“What’s so funny?” Ned asked.

Mal shook his head. “Give us a boost over the wall, will you?”

Ned crouched and laced his hands together.