The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(60)

Eyes green as fine jade gazed back at him from a mask of creamy silk trimmed with gold braid. Below the mask, carmine-dyed lips curved in a welcoming smile against umber skin. The courtesan's yellow silk bodice was cut more modestly than those of the tavern whores, though it was low enough to reveal half-circles of dusky skin above her nipples.

"Signore Raleigh!"

She set aside the lute and rose gracefully from her seat. Her eyes were now almost on a level with Mal's, though with her black hair braided with strings of pearls and twisted into fantastical shapes, she topped him by several inches. "How good of you to come! And who is this you have brought to me?"

"This is Maliverny Catlyn, a companion on my voyages," Raleigh said, sounding somewhat irritated at being passed over.

Mal bowed low, holding the pose a moment whilst he regained his composure. He had been too long at sea, he decided, if the sight of a beautiful woman unmanned him so.

"Maliverny," the courtesan purred in a rich alto as he straightened up. "That could almost be an Italian name."

"It's French, my lady. My mother was from Provence."

"C'est vrai? J'adore les Fran?ais. Now, gentlemen, please make yourselves at home." She gestured towards a nearby table, where refreshments were laid out.

Guessing they were dismissed for now, Mal drifted over to the table. Flagons of wine stood on silver trays surrounded by delicate glasses with gilded rims, amongst a sea of small dishes containing olives, almonds and morsels of fish fried in batter.

"Can I pour you wine, sir?" Mal asked his companion.

"Yes, do." Raleigh practically snatched the glass from him, and drained it in one go. "Most beautiful woman in Venice? She's naught but a Moorish whore."

Several of the guests turned towards them. Apparently many Venetians spoke at least a little English.

"Keep your voice down, sir," Mal hissed. "We are the guests here. It does not behove us to cause offence."

Raleigh shot Mal a venomous look, refilled his glass and stalked over to a statue of Diana, where the clockmaker Quirin stood with a number of other men.

"Good evening, signore," a voice rumbled at Mal's elbow.

Mal looked round to see one of the guests who had bridled at Raleigh's comment: a heavyset man with thick iron-grey hair curling around the edges of his mask, and a steady, genial gaze.

"Good evening."

"Please, allow me to introduce myself," the Venetian said with a bow. "I am Giambattista Bragadin, signorina Olivia's patron."

Time to play his part. "Maliverny Catlyn, at your service, sir."

He sketched an elaborate bow, flourishing the ruinously expensive lace handkerchief he had bought in the Mercerie.

"Delighted, Signore… Catalin." Bragadin's hesitation was so brief, Mal could not be sure it was not his imagination, or merely a stumbling over an unfamiliar name. Or was his brother well known in the city?

"You speak English very well," Mal said. "I have noticed that a number of your people do."

"We get many foreign visitors here, and the English are especially welcome."

"How so?"

"We are both maritime nations, proud of our independence, and have many enemies in common. And we are too far apart to be rivals."

Mal smiled. "Very true. And of course we have money to spend on all your wonderful goods."

"Indeed. In fact I understand that is the purpose of your visit?"

Mal told him about their morning's expedition to the Mercerie and subsequent invitation to Ca' Ostreghe.

"And what do you think of La Margherita herself?" Bragadin asked, picking up an olive and popping it into his mouth.

"She's not at all what I expected. I thought golden hair and pale skin were esteemed the height of beauty in Venice, as in England."

"So they are. And yet who does not welcome cool shade after the day's heat, eh?"

"Indeed." Mal helped himself to one of the fried delicacies, which turned out to be a surprisingly tender piece of squid. "Sir Walter told me she is what you call an 'honest courtesan'. Have to say I'm not acquainted with the phrase."

"It is a new fashion of our city. The honest courtesan is a beautiful, accomplished woman, skilled in music and poetry and all the graces of civilised discourse; the perfect companion to ease a man's soul."

"And you are her… patron."

"Yes. It is my honour to support her. Our city would be much duller without such jewels to ornament it."

A wealthy man, then, to support a mistress in such style. "And in return she entertains your guests?"

"With her music and poetry, yes." Bragadin's manner remained courteous, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath the velvet scabbard.

Mal took the hint and allowed Bragadin to usher him over to a group of other men, all alike in their white masks and black gowns. Whilst his host rattled off introductions, Mal tried in vain to match names to… faces? Hardly. A distinctive chin here, white hair there… but how could he match those with certainty to their owners' faces at a later date? The work of an intelligencer in Venice required very different skills.

"Forgive my ignorance," Mal said when the introductions were over, "but what is the purpose in wearing masks, if everyone knows who everyone is?"