The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(29)

Sweet Jesu. "Guisers here in England, hundreds of years ago?"

"Yes."

"And do they still live?"

"I think it unlikely, but I cannot be sure until I have translated the rest of this book."

"Then we must do it, as fast as we can." And pray that you are right.

CHAPTER VIII

Ned ducked into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind him to keep the weather out. Rain sluiced down the diamond-paned windows and seeped through the gaps around the frames, adding to the perpetual dampness of the ship's interior. Shaking the water from his hair he made his way to the far end of the dining table, where he set down the covered plates he had brought up from the galley.

"There you go," he said, removing the pewter lids to reveal mounds of pinkish grey mash. "Sir."

Mal looked up from the map he had been studying and gave him a wan smile.

"Where's that?" Ned asked.

"Venice."

Ned pushed the unwanted plate aside and leant over Mal's shoulder. The details of the map were hard to make out in the gloom. "Looks like a fish to me."

"It's a fanciful map of the city," Mal replied, "but I'm told the island is more or less this shape." He traced a broad blue line that curved like an S, cutting the island into two unequal halves. "See, that's the Grand Canal, and there's the Piazza San Marco, Saint Mark's Square. They say the basilica is beyond compare."

"What's this place?" Ned pointed to an over-large building south of the basilica with rows of round-topped arches drawn across its fa?ade.

"It says…" Mal referred to the numbered key in the corner of the map. "Palazzo Ducale. The Doge's Palace."

"What's a 'doge' when he's at home? Some sort of duke?"

"Not exactly. The Doge is of noble birth but is elected by his fellow citizens, like the Lord Mayor of London."

"Huh. Is that why it's called a republic?"

He listened with half an ear whilst Mal described the workings of the Roman senate and speculated on the similarities with modern Venice. It seemed to take Mal's mind off his seasickness; now, if only he could be persuaded to eat. Perhaps if he were set an example? Ned straightened up and went round to the other side of the table.

"Do you reckon the skraylings are there yet?" he said, sitting down.

Mal looked off into the distance, his fingers twitching as he did the reckoning in his head. "No. They cannot be many days ahead of us, even if they left Sark when we did."

"I can't wait to see Lord Kiiren's face when you turn up hot on his heels. He's bound to know you're up to something."

"It's not him I'm worried about."

"Oh?" Ned scooped up a spoonful of the salt-beef-andchunny mash. It was plain fare, but filling, and at least there was some meat in it.

"The other skraylings are from a different clan," Mal said. "They aren't going to like me talking to Kiiren, not if they think I'm in Venice on the Queen's business."

"Then you'll have to convince them you're there for some other purpose."

"Yes, but what?"

"I thought that was what Raleigh was for? To be your Trojan horse."

"That ruse may fool the Venetians – with any luck they've never heard of me, and won't connect me with Kiiren – but the skraylings are another matter." Mal stared at the map, tracing the contours of the island with one finger. "Fear not, I'll think of something before we reach Venice."

"And if not?"

"We are in God's hands, and can only do our best."

"Easy for you to say," Ned replied around a mouthful of mash. "I don't fancy going back to London to tell Walsingham we've failed."

"We haven't failed yet. And I don't intend to."

The ship lurched over the crest of another wave, and Mal's plate slide a few inches along the table.

"I hope my brother is faring better than we are," Mal said. His face was pale in the cabin's gloom. "I swear I would rather face a dozen guisers than another Atlantic storm."

"No more nightmares, then, since we came aboard?"

Mal shook his head. "Not of that sort."

"I don't suppose there's likely to be any guisers on board anyway. Are there?"

"It's not impossible, but no, you're right. Why would they risk one of their own on a hazardous sea voyage, when there's plenty of mischief they could be getting up to in England?"

"Such as?"

"Whatever manoeuvring at Court will bring them the most power, I suppose."

Ned muttered a curse under his breath. God-damned monstrous witches, they should be rounded up and burned, and their skrayling friends sent back to the New World with their tails between their legs.

"Still, they can work magic from afar, can't they?" he said after a moment, glancing at the rain-blurred window. "That's how you were spirited away."

"True. But over hundreds of miles of ocean? I pray they do not have that kind of power."

"So do I. Though I'd be happier if I had some kind of protection like yours."

"Oh I'm sure something could be found," Mal said with a shadow of his familiar grin. "Master Warburton is certain to have some leg irons around."