The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(57)
"Catlyn… Catlyn." Berowne went over to a bureau that Mal had not noticed before, hidden as it was in a shadowy corner. "I know that name from somewhere."
Mal exchanged glances with Ned.
"Mayhap you received news from England, sir," Mal said, "of how I saved the ambassador of Vinland's life the summer before last."
Berowne unlocked the bureau and sifted through some papers.
"No, no, that was not it. There was something in dispatches, about a fire in Southwark and the death of Sir Anthony Grey, but no mention of a Catlyn. What was it now? Ah, here it is." He held up a sheet of paper. "A census of Englishmen living in the city. Another damn fool imposition, if you ask me, but it doesn't do to question the Ten."
Mal took it from him and scanned down the list. His heart lurched as he read the name: Catalin, Carlo.
"Charles." He bit back a curse.
"You know him, then?"
"If it's the same man, yes. He's my older brother. I knew he had fled abroad, but had no idea of his whereabouts. In truth I thought him dead."
Wished him dead, more like. What in God's name was that base, shameless villain doing in Venice? He turned away, pretending to re-read the list. He tried to tell himself it was mere chance, that Charles had naturally been drawn to a city infamous for its whores and gambling dens, but he couldn't shake off a feeling of unease. The bonds between the Catlyns and the skraylings ran far too deep for this to be a coincidence.
Next morning, Mal and Ned accompanied Raleigh to the Mercerie, the mercantile district of Venice. A series of narrow thoroughfares leading from St Mark's Square to the Rialto Bridge, it was lined with shops selling every luxury the Serene Republic could provide. The upper stories of its buildings were draped with tapestries and lengths of silk and cloth of gold, so that the Mercerie looked more like a royal presence chamber than a city street. Cages of nightingales hung from shop fronts, adding their piercing notes to the clamour of voices, and the scent of ginger, cloves and attar of roses vied with the stink of the crowds. Ned stared about him, dazed by the assault on his senses. Now he knew how countryfolk felt upon arriving in London.
"Come on, snail!"
Ned turned to see Mal beckoning to him through the crowd. Raleigh was standing outside a haberdasher's shop admiring a display of lace. Ned caught them up just as Raleigh went inside.
The interior of the shop was dim and cedar-scented, its walls lined with shelves on which a king's ransom in fine fabrics lay neatly folded: cloth of gold and silver; silks of every colour imaginable, satin-smooth or cut velvet; rolls of ribbon, braid and of course Venetian lace. Some of the latter was made up into ruffs and collars, arranged on wooden half-dummies to display them to advantage. The black-clad proprietor stepped forward, like a shadow come to life.
"Good day, sirs!" he said in perfect English. "Welcome to my humble establishment. What is your desire?"
"How did he know we were English?" Ned whispered to Mal.
"Does Raleigh look Italian? Or French?"
Ned had to admit that the captain looked like neither, any more than the haberdasher looked like an Englishman. It was an odd sensation, finding himself the foreigner in town, and he decided he didn't like it.
Raleigh pointed out a roll of lace, and the haberdasher gestured to an assistant to take it down and unroll it. Mal stood at ease nearby, the very picture of a discreet retainer waiting to attend on his master. Ned wandered around the shop, ignoring the venomous glances the haberdasher's assistant threw his way. Gabriel would love this place; a pity Ned couldn't afford so much as a handkerchief to take back as a gift. He reached out to touch one of the ruffs, but froze at a hiss of disapproval from the assistant and shoved his hand back in his pocket. Today was going to be about as pleasant as escorting his mother on a visit to the parish priest.
Behind him he could hear the haberdasher singing the praises of various samples, and naming prices that would have made the Queen herself turn pale. Raleigh made noncommittal noises, and eventually bowed and made his excuses, leaving the haberdasher and his assistant to tidy up the mess of unrolled finery. Ned hurried after Mal and emerged blinking into the street.
They repeated the process in half-a-dozen shops along the Mercerie, until Ned was yawning with boredom. Even Mal was looking rather less at ease, a slight frown creasing his brow in that way Ned always found so charming. Tonight he would convince Mal to stay in, share a couple of bottles of wine, and then… perhaps his friend could be persuaded to enjoy himself for once.
"Have you seen any skraylings yet?" Mal asked him as they followed Raleigh towards yet another shop. This one had a glazed window made up of rectangular panes as big as the pages of a book, so clean and clear they were almost invisible. Just beyond the glass was an elaborate silvercased clock on a display table.
"Not a one," Ned replied.
"I suppose it's not surprising," Mal said, "if no one is permitted to speak to them. Hardly any point wandering the city being shunned like lepers."
"Perhaps we should scout out this lodging-place of theirs, see if there's a secret way in–" He yelped as Mal clipped him round the ear.
"I thought I told you to mind your tongue?"
Ned hung his head.
"We can discuss strategy in the safety of Sir Geoffrey's house," Mal went on. "In public, pray restrict yourself to the most inoffensive of observations, or keep your mouth shut."