The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(106)

"I should turn you over to the elders for your crime," he said.

"And I should report you to the city authorities," Charles replied. "They have hospitals here too, you know, for the sick of mind. Out in the islands of the lagoon, where you can't escape."

Sandy went for Charles again, but Ned got between them.

"Enough, the pair of you!" He dragged Sandy bodily to the other side of the room and pulled him close enough to whisper.

"We have to tell Mal," he said. "If this has anything to do with…" He broke off, not wanting to give anything further away in Charles' presence.

Sandy allowed himself to be led away, though he looked over his shoulder one last time as they left the shabby chamber. Ned muttered curses under his breath. Next time, Hendricks could look after the madman and he would stay at home with Gabriel.

CHAPTER XXIX

Mal rose before dawn and dressed as silently as he could. Twilight was the best time for such ventures, as he had explained to Ned; in the shadowless dusk between day and night, the eye struggled to make out shapes and outlines. At least, human eyes did; perhaps skraylings' were different. No matter. Once he was away from here it was the eyes of Surian's agents that Mal needed to hide from, not those of his skrayling captors.

A row of houses stood opposite this wing of the palazzo, any of which could conceal an informant. Mal scanned each one carefully whilst trying to remain unseen behind the shutters of his own window, but saw nothing untoward. He opened the window and threw Sandy's bundled-up cloak down into the shadow of the chimney breast then with a whispered prayer to Saint Michael climbed onto the sill.

For a moment he teetered there, regretting the idea, but then he turned to face the wall and forced himself to stretch out his right leg and feel for the ledge of the next window. There. He reached out his right arm and curled his fingers around the rough stone of the neighbouring window arch. Praying his abused flesh would not betray him, he shifted his weight to the right, gently at first until he was sure he had a firm footing, and then brought his left hand and foot across so that he was standing on the other windowsill. Not far now.

He sidled along the sill to the far side of the window, fingers clawing at the stonework in an effort to keep his balance. His shoulders were burning now, the effects of Kiiren's potions long worn off, and sweat was trickling down his back despite the dawn chill. Better get this over with before his arms failed him altogether. Quickly he reached out again with his right leg until he felt the side of the chimney, then flung himself across the gap, half sliding, half falling down the rough stone to land with a jolt on the pavement below. He looked around, heart pounding, expecting one of the Venetian guards to come running. Long moments passed, and they did not come. Perhaps they had gone home, or more likely were dozing at their posts.

It was starting to get light now, and he could hear shutters opening down the street and neighbours calling greetings to one another. Curfew was over, and soon the city would be busy enough that a man abroad would not be remarked upon. He waited in the shadow of the chimney as long as he dared, then shook out the cloak, wrapped it around him and sauntered off down the street without a backward glance.

Coby went down to breakfast, still in no better humour than she had gone to bed the night before. Whilst the visit to the clockmaker's shop had been fascinating, she had no desire to spend another moment in Raleigh's presence if she could help it. For all his claims to have needed her expertise, he had largely ignored her, or claimed her every idea as his own. It had been a frustrating, humiliating evening and she wanted nothing more to do with the man. If only they could eat in the servants' quarters… but ever since Jameson's betrayal they had been avoiding him. She couldn't fault the man for his loyalty to his master, but it made for uncomfortable mealtimes.
And then there was this business with Mal and his brother. She was glad they had a plan for getting rid of Hennaq and the courtesan in one fell swoop, but would it work? She still didn't entirely trust Lord Kiiren either. He might be devoted to the twins, but would his protection extend to the rest of them?

Distracted as she was by these thoughts, she didn't see Ned until she ran into him at the bottom of the stairs.

"And the same to you, Mistress Sour-breeches," Ned responded to her growled curse.

She grabbed him by the front of the doublet and leaned in until they were almost nose to nose.

"Don't. Call. Me. Mistress." She glared at him. "Berowne and Raleigh aren't supposed to know, remember?"

"All right, all right, keep your wig on. God's bones, you're in a foul humour this morning."

She released him with a sigh. "I'm just worried about Mal, that's all."

"He'll be fine. It's his brother you want to worry about."

"Sandy? What's wrong?"

"Not here." Ned looked around. "Come back upstairs. We need to talk."

The shops along the Rialto Bridge were just opening their shutters as Mal strode up the long shallow steps. He had thought it best not to go straight back to the embassy. Surian's men were doubtless watching it, and the later they discovered they were dealing with identical twins, the better. Let them concentrate their efforts on Sandy, and he could move about the city more freely.

Perhaps that was Kiiren's plan. He could hardly have put his prisoner in a better room to escape from, after all. Mal smiled to himself. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the young skrayling was older than his great-grandfather and thrice as cunning. Kiiren might pay lip service to the idea of obeying the skrayling elders, but he always put Erishen first. For that, Mal could not fault him.