The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(59)

As soon as they were far enough away to allay suspicion, Mal ordered the gondolier to let them ashore. It was not difficult to convince the man that he felt too water-sick to continue. Even Ned looked a little worried as they disembarked.

"Where to now?"

"I think," Mal said, looking around, "we should try to find our way to Berowne's house on foot."

The walk took them a lot longer than he expected. The city was a network of alleys, bridges and canal banks punctuated by small tree-lined squares, each with its church. It was not that they looked the same – indeed every square was different, some paved, some cobbled, some with market stalls, some empty – but there was no pattern to the layout of the city. In London the river flowed straight eastwest from the Tower to Lambeth Palace, and most of the main streets ran parallel to the river or down towards it. In Venice, the Grand Canal curved through the city in the shape of a letter S, and the streets and lesser canals filled in the spaces like scrollwork on an illuminated manuscript. It made him dizzy just trying to remember the way they had come.

Late in the afternoon they finally emerged into a familiar-looking square where workmen were laying the foundations of a new church, and took the correct turn along the canal bank to Salizada San Pantalon.

They were greeted at the door by Jameson, Berowne's ancient steward, who conducted them up to the parlour. Berowne was not there, only Raleigh, pacing before the hearth.

"About time, Catlyn. I have an invitation from Quirin to accompany him to a supper party, and I want you to come with me."

"Of course, sir."

"It doesn't do for a gentleman of my station to go abroad without a retinue." Raleigh said, adjusting the drape of his half-cloak. "Even a retinue of one."

Ned pulled a face behind Raleigh's back. Mal managed to keep his own expression respectful, though only with great effort.

"I trust you have suitable apparel, Catlyn," Raleigh went on. "I am told many of the city's eminent men will be present."

"I packed my best suit, sir," Mal replied, "in expectation of just such an opportunity. I wore it at the French court on several occasions."

"I dare say it will suffice," Raleigh sniffed, and wandered back out into the antechamber, muttering under his breath.

"No point me coming along anyway," Ned said when Raleigh had left the room, "seeing as how I can't speak the language. Still, it must be a grand do if Raleigh wants to act the English lord."

"Don't worry, I'll bring you back some sweetmeats," Mal said, punching him playfully on the arm. "Just don't get into trouble whilst we're out, all right?"

As they made their way downstairs, Raleigh handed Mal a white half-mask.

"I am to wear this?"

"Apparently everyone else will be wearing them," Raleigh said, settling his own in place and tying the ribbons behind his head. It covered his face from his temples down to his upper lip. "You'll have to leave your rapier behind, though. Venetian law."

Mal gazed down at the smooth white visage before him. It ought to have been a reassurance, to be able to hide behind this expressionless shell, but instead it brought back memories of the Huntsmen in their black leather hoods with slits for eyes. Death walked in a mask like this. He shook off the grim thought and followed Raleigh through a heavy door at the foot of the stairs.

He found himself in a vaulted storeroom like a cellar, and recalled Berowne's words. Ripples of light, reflections from the canal outside, played over the walls, so that it felt more like a sea cave than a man-made structure. At the far end, steps led down to a small dock in which sat a plain black gondola. Wooden gates, descending into iron grilles underwater, closed the dock off from the canal.

"How very cunning," he muttered, wishing the ambassador kept horses rather than boats in his undercroft.

The gondola took them out onto the Grand Canal, across that great artery of the city, and into another maze of waterways. Eventually they arrived at a house far grander than Berowne's, though not as large as the skrayling residence.

"This is the clockmaker's house?" Mal asked in surprise as they disembarked.

Raleigh smiled. "Nay, Quirin is merely our passport. This is Ca' Ostreghe, the palazzo of Olivia dalle Boccole."

"A woman?"

"The most beautiful woman in Venice, by some accounts. They call her an 'honest courtesan'."

Before Mal had a chance to ask what that meant, they were ushered into the palazzo under the watchful eye of a tall black servant in scarlet livery. Judging by the man's soft, hairless face he was a eunuch, and therefore a slave, though no less fearsome for that. Mal had faced Turkish officers, some of them eunuchs, during his service in Italy and had a cautious respect for their skills.

Feeling uncomfortably aware now of the absence of his rapier, he followed Raleigh through the echoing atrium and into the garden beyond. White marble statues of Greek and Roman goddesses gleamed against a background of dark clipped hedges, and dozens of blown-glass lamps hung from the gnarled branches of olive trees. Hidden by a crowd of admirers, someone was playing a lute. Mal was reminded of the skrayling camp in its heyday, though the music here was far more familiar and homely.

As they moved through the throng of visitors, Mal realised that there were no women to be seen, only black-clad Venetian men, chattering like a flock of jackdaws. Then the crowd around the lutenist parted, revealing their hostess, Olivia dalle Boccole. The young woman looked up from her instrument and Mal halted in his tracks, transfixed.