The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(54)

The easterly galleon opened fire, but the wind had already taken them too far away and their shot fell shot, splashing into the waves a ship's length short of their target. A few of Youssef's sailors jeered, but the rowers only pulled harder. They were getting close to the second galleon now, close enough to see the faces of the men hauling on the sheets and the mouths of the cannons within the gun-ports.

"To larboard!" Youssef shouted, and the galleass heeled as the wind caught her sails and drove her on a slanting course ahead of the Spanish galleon.

Mal clung to the rail, unable to look away as the galleon bore down on them. Surely she would ram their stern? But the rowers and the wind between them pulled her clear. The Hayreddin bucked as the galleon's wake buffeted her stern, then they were free of the cordon. Mal watched in mingled relief and anxiety as the Spanish, assuming that Raleigh was aboard his own ship, headed east in pursuit of their original quarry.

"It looks like you may get your wish," he said to Ned.

"If it were only Hansford and his cronies aboard, I'd be cheering the Spanish on," Ned admitted, "but the rest of the crew don't deserve to be drowned or imprisoned for Raleigh's sake."

"True enough."

Mal grimaced as he peeled his hands from the rail. He had been clutching the wood so hard the blisters had burst.

"Here, let me see to those," Ned said, taking him by the elbow. "You'll not be fit to carry a sword if they fester."

Mal let himself be led away. It would be a blessed relief to be back on land, where he could take on enemies on his own terms.

Ned took Mal belowdecks and bound his hands.

"A pity," he said. "I was looking forward to practising my swordplay again."

"True. You still need to work on your parry." He flexed his bandaged hands experimentally. "Give me a day or two, and I'll be fit enough."

Mal's prediction turned out to be accurate. With his riding gloves for extra protection, he was soon able to hold a weapon again. They spent every morning drilling and sparring, and the afternoons watching the Italian coast drift past. At first Ned felt uncomfortable showing off his skills, or lack thereof, in front of Youssef's crew, but the sailors paid the passengers little mind and went about their business with a quiet efficiency that made Raleigh's men look like an ill-disciplined mob.

Youssef allowed them to study his map of the eastern Mediterranean and, with little else to occupy his thoughts, Ned tracked their route along the northern coast of Sicily. Soon they reached the Straits of Messina, slipping between the city of the same name and the toe of Italy, and then steering north-eastwards towards the heel. The waters hereabouts were thick with ships, mostly fishing vessels of all sizes, but a good many merchantmen too, of all nations: Italian, Greek, English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Turkish. Ned had seen many such vessels moored at the London quays at one time or another, their crews filling the air with a babel of tongues, but seeing them here on the sunlit waves where they belonged was somehow different. They reminded him of wild beasts set free, beautiful but deadly.

"Should only be three or four more days," he said to Mal as they limbered up one morning. "We're in the Adriatic Sea now."

Mal laughed. "You're becoming quite the navigator."

"Have you thought about what we're going to do when we get there?"

"I've thought of little else," Mal said in a low voice.

"And?"

"A good commander doesn't make decisions until he's seen the lie of the land."

"In other words, you have no plan at all yet."

Mal threw him a cudgel and gave him one of those lopsided grins that stirred his blood in delicious but frustrating ways.

"Pretty much, yes."

CHAPTER XV

The city of Venice lay at the centre of a large rectangular lagoon, protected from the sea by a line of narrow islands. The entrance to the lagoon, a gap between two of the larger islands, was guarded by towers on either side, and galleys patrolled the waters without. One of them came swiftly towards the Hayreddin, oars flashing in the spring sunlight. Mal prayed the Venetian officials would not ask to search the vessel, or they might wonder why Raleigh had a couple of dozen Moors lurking belowdecks.

"What is your business in the Republic?" the captain of the galley hollered in Italian once they were in range.

Time to play the ignorant foreign visitor, foolish and harmless.

"I beg your pardon?" Mal shouted back in English.

"Ah, inglese!" The captain repeated his question, this time in English.

"We are come to buy lace ruffs for Queen Elizabeth of England," Mal told him.

The Venetian laughed. "You expect me to believe you came all the way from England, signore, for a few yards of lace?"

Raleigh stepped forward and leaned over the rail.

"Do you know who I am, sir? I am Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Warden of the Stannaries and a trusted advisor of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth."

Mal suppressed the urge to kick Raleigh. The title was legitimate enough, but "trusted advisor"? This was not the plan they had discussed on the voyage.

"I beg your pardon, Signore Raleigh," the Venetian replied. "We are honoured to have so famous an English hero in our city. Please, proceed."

Raleigh, looking pleased with himself, gave the order to enter the lagoon.