The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(51)

"You are spying on him."

"Well, yes, but…" He shook his head. "There's something else going on, just like there was back in London."

"Such as?"

"I have no idea. Last time, Kiiren was trying to hide the truth about Sandy and me from his kinsmen. As to what he's hiding this time…" He shrugged.

He took out Walsingham's second letter, which he had taken to carrying in his pocket at all times. A name and directions were written on the outside:

Sr. G. Berowne
Salizada San Pantalon
Venezia

Mal wondered what the ambassador was like. A country knight of no account, perhaps, sent overseas to serve his Queen with few thanks and fewer rewards. Much like Mal's own father. He was tempted to cut the seal, but doubtless there was nothing of real interest in there anyway, since Walsingham would expect him to open it.

"Ahoy there! Catlyn!"

Mal turned to see Raleigh waving at him.

"What does he want?" Ned muttered.

"I suspect we are about to find out." He jumped down from the harbour wall and strode towards Raleigh. "Sir?"

"You mentioned you are acquainted with a sea-captain in Marseille."

"Aye, that's true."

"Good. I want you on the next ship thence. Bring me back carpenters and crew, as many as you can." He pressed a heavy purse into Mal's hand.

"Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

Raleigh frowned at him. "I'm not doing it for you. I need my ship repaired, and these damned Sardinians are worse than useless. I fear the governor has sent out word that we are not to be helped."

"Surely it's in his interest to see the back of us."

"It would be, unless he's stalling because he's sent for Spanish reinforcements to capture us."

"You think that likely?"

"I think it is not wise to discount it. And you are, I'll warrant, as anxious to be done here as I."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Then get to it. There's a ship sailing north this afternoon."

Mal bowed and headed back to the inn, Ned trailing at his heels.

"Of course," Ned said as they crossed the market square, "we could just take Raleigh's money and sail to Venice on the next boat heading east, like you said."

"We could, but we're not going to."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't need Raleigh as an enemy. I have enough of those already."

"Who is this friend of yours?" Ned asked as they disembarked in Marseille.

The harbour was thick with fishing boats, and the skies even thicker with gulls. They picked their way around piles of netting, baskets of silver anchovies and dark blue mussels, and squirming sacks of live octopus.

"His name's Youssef," Mal replied. "A Moorish merchant."
"You, dealing with a heathen? I thought you fought in the wars against them, the Moors or Turks or whoever?"

"So I did, years ago. But the French have allied themselves with the Ottoman Empire against the Hapsburgs, and men like Youssef can pass easily between Christendom and the Barbary Coast."

"He's a spy?"

"No." Mal caught his arm. "And do not imply any such thing within his hearing. Not if you wish to go home with all your members intact."

The Hayreddin stood at anchor at the end of the quay, its triangular sails reefed and its oars drawn in with only their blades protruding from the rowlocks. Men were carrying barrels up the gangplank in a steady stream, then jogging back down empty-handed.

"I thought you said he was a merchant," Ned said in a low voice as they drew nearer. "That looks a lot like the ship that attacked us."

"Oared vessels are common in the Mediterranean. The seas are gentler, and slaves plentiful."

"Slaves? Are you sure he's not a corsair?"

Mal laughed. "Calm yourself. There are no slaves aboard the Hayreddin. Captain Youssef considers them an unnecessary expense, since God provides the wind for free. The oars are for manoeuvring into harbour, that is all." Well, mostly all.

Ned muttered something under his breath.

"Of course," Mal added, "if you'd rather be imprisoned by the Spanish…"

"No. It's just… not what I expected. Your life in France, I mean."

"You thought France was exactly like England, only with more wine and garlic?"

Ned pulled a face. "Now you're mocking me."

Captain Youssef greeted them courteously in French and invited them into his cabin, where he served them sweet mint tea and honeyed pastries. Mal told him about the attack on the Falcon and his own need to reach Venice as quickly as possible.

"Perhaps the ship is not so badly damaged," Youssef said. "Danziger's a good shipwright, inshaallah he would have it repaired in no time."

"Perhaps. But if he cannot?"

"Then you have a difficulty," Youssef said, leaning back in his seat. "Is the baklava not to your liking?"

Mal glanced down at the half-eaten pastry, fearing he had offended his host.

"It's very good, but the sea has not agreed with my stomach."

"Has it ever?" Youssef laughed. "Your companion there seems little afflicted."