The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(104)

"Rehi!"

Ned looked up to see Sandy dive from the bridge like a cormorant into the turbid green water.

"Sandy?" Christ's balls, Mal would have his guts for lute-strings if anything happened to his brother.

A few moments later two dark heads resurfaced, one towing the other towards the canal-side. Ned paddled the gondola towards the bank as best he could with his bare hands. A small crowd had gathered, and they helped Sandy heave Charles' inert body out of the water. Ned scrambled ashore.

"Is he dead?"

Sandy hauled his elder brother up by the back of his doublet, and Charles coughed up a little canal water. The bystanders, disappointed that the accident had ended without tragedy, began to drift away. Charles coughed again, looked around, and realised he had been caught. He scrabbled backwards until he fetched up against the wall of the nearest building.

"Mal?" He peered up at Sandy, blinking through the water that trickled down his forehead.

Sandy hunkered down, just out of arm's reach. "Guess again, brother."

"Alexander?" Charles made the sign of the cross. "Did you come all this way just to hunt me down?"

"It is no more than you deserve, after what you did to me."

"It was for your own safety, boy. Your brother was gone abroad, and I could not look after you–"

"Funny, that's exactly what Mal said."

"You've seen him? He's alive?"

"How many others did you murder, you and your friends?" Sandy asked in a low voice.

Ned looked around nervously. "Should we be having this conversation in the street?"

"Who are you?" Charles asked him.

"None of your business. Come on, Sandy, let's take him somewhere private."

Charles looked wildly from one to the other. "For the love of God, Alexander, I was trying to protect you. You don't know what's out there. Terrible things, in the darkness…"

Sandy paused, one hand on his brother's arm. "What do you mean?"

"Don't listen to him," Ned said. "He's probably just stalling for time."

"What do you mean?"

"Come with me to my house," Charles said, "and I'll tell you everything."

Mal awoke with a buzzing head and a mouth that tasted like he'd been drinking canal water laced with grappa. Or grappa laced with canal water. Kiiren. The devious little whoreson had drugged him, and Mal had taken the bait like a hawk pouncing on the lure. Strangers betraying him was bad enough, only to be expected really, but now he had to watch out for his so-called friends?

On the other hand his shoulders and arms were far less stiff and painful than they had any right to be, so perhaps he should thank Kiiren after all. He struggled upright and realised he was in bed. Naked. God's teeth! Did the skraylings have no decency at all? He shuddered at the thought of them pawing over him.

A soft golden light seeped through the gauze curtains that enclosed the bed. Dusk, or dawn?

Footsteps sounded on the tiles, and a shadow moved beyond the curtains.

"Good evening, Catlyn-tuur. Are you rested?"

"What time is it?"

"About one of your hours before sunset."
"And where are my friends?"
"Gone back to English ambassador's house, I believe."
Mal pulled back the bedclothes, fought his way through the gauzy drapes and strode over to where his clothes had been laid out neatly on a chair. Let Kiiren stare if he wanted to; he must have seen everything already.

"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.