The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(55)

"What are you doing, sir?" Mal hissed, drawing Raleigh aside. "Our story is that you are out of favour with the Queen and here to buy gifts to win her over."

"Tush! It sufficed to get us past that jumped-up harbourmaster, did it not?"

"Well, yes, but that's not the point. If this plan is to work, the Venetians must not suspect us of being here to spy on the skraylings."

Raleigh sighed. "Very well, I will play your part if I must."

"Thank you, sir."

The Hayreddin had passed into the lagoon now and was making its slow way towards the distant city. Countless vessels rowed back and forth across the calm waters, from tiny rowing boats to massive oared galleys, single-sailed fishing smacks to mighty galleons bigger than the Ark Royal. Beyond them all, the city shimmered above the water like a heat haze, its pastel-coloured buildings as insubstantial as mist.

"So that's Venice, then?" Ned said, joining Mal at the rail.

"Indeed. La Serenissima. The Serene Republic."

"You seem to know a fair bit about it, considering you've never been here before."

Mal turned his gaze westwards, towards the mainland. "There was much talk of Venice when I fought in the north of Italy. It stands between Christendom and the Turkish Empire, owing scant loyalty to the former and ever at war with the latter."

"But they are Christians here, Catholics?"

"Of a sort. But they do not like the Pope. The Venetians dislike being under the thumb of any foreign lord, spiritual or temporal."

"I like them already."

Mal laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Just mind your tongue, all right? If there is one thing they do not tolerate, it's insults to the Republic. You think what happened to Kyd and Marlowe was bad? The English are amateurs compared to the Venetians."

Ned turned pale. The events of two years ago had cast a long shadow over Bankside.

"No one must suspect our business here," Mal added in a low voice. "I shall adopt the manner of a gallant, that thinks of naught but fine Italian doublets and the latest fashion in shaping his beard."

"You, play the coxcomb?" Ned burst out laughing. "I shall enjoy seeing that."

As they drew closer they could make out the main landmarks of the southern side of the island: the pale fa?ade of the ducal palace, the gilded domes of the basilica behind it and, most prominent of all, the campanile in St Mark's Square, rising above the surrounding buildings like a digitus impudicus, defying the world. To the right of the palace, a long quay stretched the length of the shore towards a vast red brick walled enclosure at the tip of the island: the Arsenale, the Venetian state shipyard.

"I heard they once built an entire ship in two hours," Mal said, "whilst King Henri of France was eating dinner with the Doge. Mind you, they have thousands of men working there."

"They would have made short work of the Falcon, then."

"They do not repair anyone else's ships. The whole place is locked up as tight as a nunnery, to preserve the secrets of their craft, and all foreign visitors to the city are watched closely."

"It's not going to be easy, this job, is it?"

"No, it's not."

The Hayreddin dropped anchor some hundred yards offshore and Ned brought up their baggage ready to disembark. He deposited it on the deck at Mal's feet with a thud.

"Where now?" he said.

"We find the English ambassador's house," Mal replied, "and give him Walsingham's letter. After that… I need to see the lie of the land first."

"Right." Ned shaded his eyes and scanned the docks. "Well, that answers one question."

"What's that?"

"We know the skraylings are here." Ned pointed out a red-sailed vessel, half hidden behind an enormous brig.

"Either that, or there's more than one skrayling ship come to Venice in the past month." It was not an encouraging thought.

Before the jolly-boat could be lowered into the water, the Hayreddin was approached by one of the many gondolas plying their trade along the waterfront.

"I take you somewhere, signori?" the gondolier called up. "My cousin has the nice taverna, very cheap."

"Do you know the house of the English ambassador, my good man?" Mal said. He took the letter from his pocket and pretended to read the address with effort. "It's in the, um, Salizada… San… Pantalon."

The man's expression changed very slightly, no doubt recalculating how much he dared charge this wealthy but ignorant milord for his services.

"Of course, signore. The district of Santa Croce. How many of you am I to take?"

"Two. And my servant and baggage."
They climbed down into the slender craft, which rocked alarmingly as if determined to throw them into the emeraldgreen waters. Somehow they managed to manhandle Raleigh's sea chest aboard without anyone falling in, and they were soon skimming westwards towards the mouth of the Grand Canal.

The gondolier took them past a succession of elegant palazzos, every one different: plaster painted white or rose or honey-yellow; windows with round arches, pointed arches, with or without little stone balconies; shutters on upper windows thrown open to greet the day or latched tight. In one respect, however, they were all alike. Every one had ground-floor windows protected by thick iron grilles to keep out robbers. Mal had seen similar arrangements elsewhere in Italy, but in Venice the contrast with the airy buildings was particularly striking.