The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(44)

"What now?" Ned asked one morning, as he and Mal squatted on coils of rope in the shade of the mizzenmast, stealing a moment's rest between errands. He stretched out his legs, knowing that his aching feet would be even more painful once he stood up again, but the chance of a respite was too good to resist.

"Raleigh's set a course for Sardinia," Mal replied, staring off into the distance.

"Where's that?"

Mal shook out a length of rope and arranged it in the rough outline of the Mediterranean.

"We were about here when the corsairs attacked," he said, pointing to a spot well north of the African coast, "and Sardinia is here, halfway between France and Italy. It's not too far out of our way, at least."

"You don't sound very happy about it."

"Sardinia is ruled by Spain. Even if we can recruit more crew there, can we trust them?"

"Do we have a choice?"

Mal shook his head. "Another corsair attack, and we're dead. Raleigh will never surrender to slavers."

"Is that likely?" Ned asked.

Mal didn't answer. Ned swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. He'd known this voyage would be dangerous, but until now he hadn't understood just how great that danger might be. And if he died here at sea, so far from home, how long would it take for the news to reach Gabriel? Gabriel, whose face he might never see again… He felt tears prick his eyes, and cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to force them away.

"Come on," Mal said, scrambling to his feet. "No use in fretting about what may never happen. We have work to do."

? ? ? ?
The Falcon limped into Cagliari harbour two days later, her crew capable of raising only the faintest of cheers. Mal paused for a moment on his way to the rail, and then slumped back onto the fo'c's'le stair, his blistered hands falling into his lap. A moment later Ned slithered down the stair behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Soon be back on dry land," he said, his voice as raw as Mal's palms.

"You'll have to winch me ashore," Mal groaned, leaning his cheek against the rough planking. "And hire a wheelbarrow, to tip me into bed."

By the time they weighed anchor Mal had rallied somewhat, and was persuaded to gather his belongings and stagger down the gangplank with the rest of the crew. They followed Raleigh across the too-bright quay and through winding streets to an inn, where they were shown into a courtyard filled with tables and benches. Mal sagged onto a bench at Ned's side, and laid his head down on folded arms. He could swear the cobblestones were rolling underfoot like waves. It felt like only a moment later when someone shook him awake.

"Mal? Supper."

He raised his head. The courtyard was half in shadow, and though his shirt had dried on his back as he slept, his shoes and stockings were still damp and stiff with salt water. He straightened up and rubbed a hand over his sunburned face. Someone had mentioned supper?

On the table in front of him sat a bowl of stew and an earthenware cup of velvet-red wine. Suddenly aware he'd not eaten since breakfast, he pulled the bowl towards him and dipped the spoon into the broth. The dull green ovals of broad beans bobbed amongst hunks of dark fish-meat, along with what looked like a slice of lemon. Mal tasted it cautiously then, hunger roused, wolfed the contents of the bowl, wiping it clean with a hunk of coarse bread.

Ned grinned at him across the table. "Better?"
"Much." He drained his cup and refilled it from a jug. "Where are we?"

"Some hostelry in the backstreets. I just followed the rest of them."

He looked at the surrounding building in curiosity, and Mal followed his gaze. Thick walls of whitewashed cob surrounded them on all sides, pierced by round-arched windows and roofed with terracotta tiles. Olive trees stood in huge green-glazed pots at intervals around the courtyard, and over the rooftops they could see more buildings in the same style, rising up into the darkening sky where the waning moon gleamed like a well-used English penny.

"First time on foreign soil, eh?" Mal said.

"Yes." Ned looked back at him. "Is it all like this?"

"Like what?"

"So… bright and dark at the same time. Blinding sun, and shadows like drowning pools…"

"How much have you had to drink?" Mal asked, taking another sip of his own wine.

"No more than you."

"Enough then, on an empty stomach."

A dark-haired girl sauntered over with a flagon on her hip. As she set it down on the table, she leant forward rather further than was necessary, giving them a fine view of sun-tanned breasts plumped up by a tight-laced bodice. Smiling at Mal she slowly stepped back a pace, as if inviting him to follow. He grinned, stood up rather too quickly, and threw up his fish supper at her feet. The girl pulled a face and flounced off in search of a less inebriated sailor.

"Come on, let's put you to bed," Ned said, taking him by the arm.

Mal wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, took a last gulp of wine to wash away the sour taste of vomit and let himself be led away from the now-raucous party of sailors. Ned steered him around a potted olive tree, through an archway and along a short passage. At the far end was a sturdy oak door with iron staples either side and a length of timber leaning against the wall nearby. Mal stared at it for a moment, fuzzily certain there was a reason for a door being like that.