The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(123)

"Does your master have an old sword I could borrow?" Ned asked the manservant. "We're going back out there, and who knows what we'll have to face."

Jameson hesitated, but at last shuffled off into the depths of the house and returned with an old-fashioned sword, shorter and heavier than a rapier but easier to wield at close quarters. It would do very well. Ned thanked him and strapped the weapon to his hip, feeling at once safer and more conscious of the danger they were going into. A few moments later Mal clattered downstairs, his rapier's scabbard scraping the wall behind him.

"What's the best way to get to Burano?" Mal asked Jameson. "Should we ask to take the gondola?"

The old manservant smiled. "It's a bit far for that, sir. You want a proper boat, like a caorlina."

"And where would we find one of those?"

"Try the fish market, sir. Someone may have landed a catch this morning, not having heard of the troubles, and be glad to take you out into the lagoon."

The island of Burano was situated at the end of a small archipelago that jutted out from the mainland into the lagoon. Although lacking a harbour, its situation was such that ships could anchor close to its shore in the safety of the lagoon, and jetties provided mooring spots for smaller boats. The main town on the island lay on the south-east shore, little more than a cluster of white-washed houses along a single street.

Mal breathed a sigh of relief to be on solid ground again, and paused a moment to enjoy the spring sunshine. The city of Venice, with its dark, haunted alleys and terrified citizens, seemed a thousand miles away.

"So, we just wander round the island until we spot your friend?" Ned asked.

"Or until he spots us," Mal replied. "I think the latter more likely. The question is, will he approach us if he does see us?"

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we keep our eyes and ears open. We're intelligencers, remember? Watching people is what we do."

Along either side of the broad, packed earth thoroughfare stood small whitewashed houses with tiled roofs and shuttered windows whose windowboxes were bright with spring crocus, anemones and cyclamen. Outside every one sat at a group of black-clad women of all ages, from whitehaired grandmothers to little ones of five or six, all with pillows on their laps to which were pinned pieces of lacework in progress. Mal was reminded of a flower garden thick with bumblebees, all hard at work.

"Do you think news has reached here yet?" Ned asked in a low voice. "Everything seems so… normal."

"Do the folk of Kent or Middlesex care about trouble in London? This island must be far safer, even though they are but an hour's boat-ride away."

They found a tavern at last, but it was deserted at this time of day and there was no sign of Cinquedea. After a swift cup of wine they moved on.

"We should be getting back," Ned muttered. "Gabriel will be wondering where we've got to."

"Just a little longer," Mal said. "It's barely noon. We still have the whole afternoon to prepare."

They turned and walked back down the street.

"Don't look now," Mal said in a low voice, "but I think I see the place we're looking for."

"Oh?"

He gestured discreetly towards one of the houses. It was indistinguishable from all the rest, except that one of the old women sitting near the door was unusually broad in the shoulder and the folds of her shawl did not quite conceal a dagger hilt. She appeared to have fallen asleep over her needlework, which looked tiny and fragile in her large, bony hands.

Mal beckoned to Ned, and they crossed the street. As they neared the door the sleeping woman seemingly woke up with a start and fixed them with her dark gaze. His dark gaze. Mal's initial suspicions had been correct.

"We are here to see the Lacemaker," Mal told the man. "My name is Maliverny Catlyn, and this is Ned Faulkner. We are friends of Cinquedea."

The man grunted.

"Your weapons," he drawled in the local dialect.

Mal reluctantly handed over his rapier and dagger, and motioned for Ned to do likewise, then they were waved inside. Mal blinked, hoping his eyes would adjust swiftly to the dimness of the interior after the dazzling light outside. After a few moments he could make out an ancient bedstead with faded, moth-eaten hangings, in which lay an old woman wearing a white lace cap and nightgown. Several young women sat on the floor around her, spinning the hair-fine thread used to make the famous Burano lace. Two more men, undisguised, played cards at a table by the window. One of them was Cinquedea. Mal breathed a sigh of relief.

"Who is that?" the old woman asked in a surprisingly steady voice.

She sat up and turned towards them, but did not quite look in their direction. Mal bowed and introduced himself and Ned.

"Is this true, Marco? They are… acquaintances of yours?"

"Yes, grandmama." The Venetian put down his cards. "Signore Catalin, this is my grandmother, Signora Petronilla."

Mal bowed again. "It is an honour to meet you, madam. Your reputation, and that of your family, precede you."

The old woman chuckled, and waved a hand at her young companions, who rose and filed out into the street to continue their work.

"I'm sure it does, young man," Signora Petronilla said. "But what is so important, that you come all this way to seek out my grandson?"