The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(111)

"Another inn?" Ned asked.

"A casino: a private gambling house. Over the next bridge, turn left, and it's just before you get to the square. Got a dark green door with a knocker in the shape of a Turk's head. Knock twice, then twice again."

The casino was not hard to find; though it looked much like any other house in the street, the crowds eddied away from its door, as if an invisible fence kept them out. He stepped up to the door, feeling horribly conspicuous, and knocked as instructed. After a few moments the door opened, and he stepped inside.

The interior of the little gambling house was darker even than the streets, and the air thick with tobacco smoke and curses. Men sat at tables playing cards, or crouched on the floor to throw dice. Bare-breasted whores perched on customers' knees, shifting from one man to the next as the money changed hands, like sordid incarnations of Lady Luck. Ned weaved his way amongst the tables, trying to spot Charles without catching anyone's eye.

A man wearing rather better clothing than the rest of the patrons got up from his seat, directly into Ned's path and addressed him in Italian.

"I'm looking for a friend," Ned replied in English. "He recommended this place."

"His name, signore?"

"Charles Catlyn."

A few of the other players looked up at this. Ned tensed, expecting Charles to bolt again, but no one made a move.

"Over there." One of the patrons jerked a thumb towards the corner of the room.

Ned found his quarry seated at a table with three other men. He hung back and watched for a while, leaning on the wall. They were playing a game he did not know, one that appeared to require several dozen wooden counters in addition to the cards and the betted money. Some of the counters were marked "VI", and a small stack of darker counters sat at the dealer's left hand. At last the game ended and one of the players got up from the table with many complaints. Ned sauntered over.

"Mind if I join you, gentlemen?"

Charles appeared to notice him for the first time. He blanched and leapt up from his seat, staring wildly around the gambling-house with watery eyes.

"Where is he?"

"Sandy's not with me," Ned replied, taking the vacant seat. "Sit down, Charlie, I just came for a quiet game of… what is it you fellows are playing, anyway?"

"Rovescino," one of the other players said, collecting up all the counters and sorting them into three piles. "You know it?"

Ned shook his head and grinned. "Why don't you show me?"

The crimson-draped bed was large enough for two at the very least. Mal pulled off his boots and then lay back, watching Olivia undress. The candlelight gilded her skin so that she looked like one of the icons adorning St Mark's basilica, complete with enigmatic eyes and a golden halo around her coiffure. Stripped to her corset and a pair of ivory silk breeches, she began to remove the strings of pearls and glass beads from her hair.
"Don't your lovers grow impatient?" he asked, swirling his coffee cup to dissolve the last dregs of precious sugar. "So many layers…"

"Are you impatient, my love?"

"Anticipation is half the torture." A lie; he could now vouch for that personally. "And half the pleasure."

She laughed, a deep throaty sound that send an echo through his veins. "You are a man after my own heart."

Free of her adornments at last, she drifted over to the bed, circling round to the far side before climbing onto the broad mattress, just out of arm's reach.

"Will you not undress?" she said, head cocked on one side. "You have the advantage of me."

"I was hoping you would help me."

She smiled. "I do not think you need my help."

With an exaggerated sigh he began to unbutton his doublet. Soon he was stripped to his linen drawers, the evening air cool on his bare skin. Once, he had dreamed of being naked with her; now he flinched at her touch, fearing could strip his very soul bare and betray his purpose.

"How often have you been a woman?" he asked as she sidled closer.

"Not often," she said. "It is not easy to be the weaker sex, even with our talents to protect us."

"Weaker?" He felt Erishen stir within him. "That is the human speaking."

"I have had to learn to work with the situation at hand. Here, women are allowed so little freedom. Did you know that Venetian noblewomen are scarcely allowed out of the house except to attend funerals or great state occasions?" She made a rude noise. "It is barbaric."

"Then you would prefer to be a man next time."

"Of course." She traced a line down his chest with her fingertip, and he suppressed a shiver of mingled fear and lust. "You would dislike that?"

"No. But I like you as you are. More like a skrayling woman than these pale Christians."

The lies came so easily, he felt guilt at every word but could not stop himself. It was as if Erishen was speaking through him. He tried to relax as Olivia kissed her way up his torso and across his chest, her unbound hair brushing his skin on either side of the kisses. Her lips brushed the knot of scar tissue on his left shoulder and began to trace a path down his arm.

"What is this?" she hissed, her body tensing as she crouched over him.

Mal realised she was staring at the tattoo on his shoulder: a triskelion of branched thorns surrounded by three five-petalled flowers. His mind raced, trying to concoct a story that would not betray his links to Kiiren. It would help if he knew what the sigil actually meant. Kiiren said it was for "remembering", but what did that signify?