The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(103)

"Waited for what?" Ned asked, but Sandy was off again.
They crossed the Grand Canal by ferry, and from there it was only a short walk through San Marco to the quayside in front of the Doge's Palace. Ned scurried past, head hunched down, hoping none of the guards recognised him. He didn't trust these Venetians not to change their mind.

Though the sun had not yet set the lantern above the Mermaid's gilded sign was already lit, and the homely fug of beer fumes and tobacco smoke enveloped them as they entered the tavern.

"You have been here before?" Sandy asked.

"Yes." Ned dodged one of the tavern doxies before she could opportune him. "When we first came to Venice."

"You think Charles is here?"

"I doubt it, to be honest. We probably scared him away after Mal's performance last time. But there are usually plenty of Englishmen about. Perhaps someone will know him."

They found an empty table in a shadowy corner where they could watch the door. Ned waved one of the girls over and ordered two pints.

"Keep your eyes peeled," he said to Sandy, leaning across the table. He lowered his voice, so that he could only just be heard above the hubbub. "But don't stare at anyone. Keep it casual, all right?"

"You think there will be trouble."

Ned scanned the crowd.

"Mal told me Charles fled England with a great many debts. If I were such a man, I'd be worried right now. And if he's been here several years he must have money, or friends. Or perhaps both."

The crowd was little different from the last time they had been here, though perhaps fewer Venetians mingled with the foreigners tonight. Had rumour got out about his and Mal's arrest, or were the locals merely having an early night in preparation for tomorrow's festivities? He saw no sign of Cinquedea's boy-whore, nor the crow-like Venetian Mal had been talking to on their previous visit.

"So what does this brother of yours look like?"

Sandy shrugged. "About my height, perhaps a little less. Brown hair, though it may be going grey by now, like our father's."

"That's not much to go on," Ned grumbled.

"I'm sorry. It's been over ten years since last I saw him, and I was not exactly myself at the time."

And who are you now?

The beer arrived, and Ned looked pointedly at Sandy. "Money?"

Sandy dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, which he held out to the girl.

"Here, let me," Ned said, and seizing Sandy's wrist he picked through the silver looking for smaller denominations. "She'll have you paying porter prices for small ale."

He handed over a couple of gazzette to the girl, who eyed both men with evident disappointment. Ned was suddenly aware of Sandy's pulse under his fingertips, and he turned back to find the older man gazing at him intently with dark brown eyes, so like Mal's it never ceased to unnerve him. For a moment Ned wondered if Sandy was trying to bewitch him, then he saw him flick his gaze over Ned's shoulder and back.

"Charles?" He gently released Sandy's wrist.

He turned just in time to see a tall dark-haired man of about forty stare at them in horror before bolting for the tavern door. Ned was after him in an instant.

Their footfalls rang out as they crossed the square, echoing from the hard stone surfaces. Before Ned had got halfway across the square Sandy passed him, long strides eating up the ground. Charles disappeared under a low archway between a printer's shop and a cordwainer's, Sandy hard on his heels. Ned panted in their wake. What they were going to do when they caught up with Charles, he had no idea. Surely they couldn't get away with dragging him through the streets to the embassy?

By the time Ned entered the alley, Sandy was gone. Ned swore and redoubled his efforts, pounding around the corner just in time to see both men cross a bridge about fifty yards down the canal bank. He wondered if there was a shortcut he could take to head them off, but didn't trust his sense of direction in the labyrinth of Venetian streets. It was Charles who knew the lay of the land, far better than either of them, and Ned did not doubt he would evade them somehow.

He ran up the steps of the bridge, dodged around a waterseller in her brightly coloured skirts, and leapt down the other side, pelting down the street as if his life depended on it. His quarry came within sight again; what Sandy gained in length of leg, Ned made up for in long practice and dogged endurance. Nor was Charles likely to keep up a good pace for long. By all accounts the twins' elder brother was a drunkard and a gambler, and a good fifteen years older than either of them to boot. Ned grinned, anticipating that the chase would soon be over. He followed Sandy round a corner – and found himself teetering on the brink of slimy steps running down to another canal.

"Where is he?"

Sandy pointed to a gondola moving erratically down the canal. Charles stood in the stern heaving on the oar, his face scarlet with effort.

"God's teeth!"

Ned ran back out into the street and past the shops, until he found another alley leading towards the canal, this time with a bridge. He raced down the alley and onto the bridge, just in time to see the gondola's prow emerge from the far side. With a cry Ned dropped into the little craft, causing it to rock alarmingly. Charles cursed, let go of his oar and fell into the water. Ned looked on helplessly, clutching the gondola's sides; he could barely swim himself, never mind rescue a man of Charles' height and bulk.