The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(105)

"Welcome to my palazzo, gentlemen," Charles said with a bow, and ushered them inside.

The chamber was only slightly less shabby than the rest, but at least had a proper bed and a window looking out over a narrow canal. Charles lit a tallow candle and motioned for his brother to sit down on the only chair in the room. In truth it was barely fit for firewood, though the faint sheen of gilding here and there suggested it had once been a rich man's possession.

"Thank you, I prefer to stand. I will not stay long." Sandy hugged his ribs, shivering a little. "You said you were trying to protect me, that you had seen things."

Charles began unbuttoning his doublet. Now that they were no longer running through the twilit streets of the city, Ned could see the family resemblance in the shape of the brow and the set of the mouth. Charles was fairer in colouring, though, with mousy brown hair, straight as a plumb-line where the twins' was inclined to curl, and a pale English complexion despite the sunny climate. His beard was full and untidy, as if he seldom bothered to visit the barber, and his clothes were more than a little threadbare. He matched the house rather well.

"I know your brother blames me for what happened that night, but it were necessary," Charles said, his native accent coming through. "The reason I wanted you and Maliverny to join the Huntsmen is that we need as many good and true men as we can get, for our secret war against Satan and his devils."

"Secret war?" Ned stifled a laugh as Charles glared at him.

"Aye. Thanks to the likes of me, the likes of you never get to hear on it." Charles peeled off his sodden doublet and draped it over the windowsill. "We Huntsmen get all the blame, though we are but martyrs to a righteous cause."

Righteous cause, my arse. The Huntsmen broke the law, and not just by riding hooded and masked.

"Mal and I never asked to join. We were tricked, coerced…" Sandy broke off, shuddering with more than cold.

"Wait a moment," Ned said. "You are all Huntsmen? You and Sandy and… and Mal too?"

"You mean they never told you?" Charles smiled thinly. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Ned Faulkner. A friend of your brother."

"Which one?"

"Does it matter?"

"You said something about devils," Sandy put in. "Is that what you think the skraylings are?"

"There's far worse things than skraylings," Charles said. "Nightmare creatures, fast and deadly, that lurk in the dark–" He stared at Sandy. "You've seen them."

"Only in dreams."

Charles pulled up his wet shirt. "Did I dream these?"

Ned stared. Four or five silvery lines, as wide as a man's finger and nearly a foot long, ran across the pale skin over Charles' ribs.

"How…?"

"Happened when I were a lad, just after my own welcome into the Huntsmen." He stripped off the shirt and hung it from the mantel to dry, weighting it with a couple of earthenware bottles. "Father's men heard rumours. Sheep killed in places where no wolf had been seen in a generation. Children… missing. A gang of us went up into the hills, tracking it. Only me and him came back."

"I don't remember any of that."

"You two were naught but babes in arms," Charles said.

"No thanks to you," Sandy said. "If you had not murdered me, this might not have happened."

"What? Murdered you?" Charles laughed. "You look right lively enough to me."

"You murdered me. You and your friends, that night in the hills."

Charles looked at Ned. "Did you just let him out of Bedlam?"

Ned swallowed. Strictly speaking, he had indeed played a part in freeing Sandy from the asylum. "N… no, he's been free of that filthy den for over a year."

Sandy advanced on his brother. "What did you do with my necklace?"

"What necklace?"

"The clan-beads you stole from my corpse."

"He thinks he's a skrayling reborn," Ned said. "And since you're a Huntsman by your own confession, I think he blames you for it."

"You're both mad," Charles said, backing away. "Alexander, you are sick of mind, you need help–"

"My necklace," Sandy growled, seizing Charles and pinning him against the wall.

"I sold it." Charles gazed up into his brother's eyes. "Please, Alexander, I'm sorry…"

"Who did you sell it to?"

"Bragadin. Giambattista Bragadin."

Ned laughed. "Bragadin? He's dead."

Sandy turned to glare at him. "Dead?"

"Saw him killed myself."

"If you are lying–" Sandy pressed harder, grinding Charles' head against the rough plaster.

"I'm not, I swear on our father's immortal soul."
"If you are lying," Sandy went on, "I will come back and haunt your dreams. The creatures you spoke of are nothing compared to what I can do."

Charles blanched, and seemed to shrink inside his own skin.

Ned laid a hand on Sandy's arm. "Come on, you've got what you wanted. Let's leave him be."

Sandy let his brother go, but his face was still as hard as stone.