The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(61)

Bragadin chuckled. "You Englishmen like to wear swords to your Queen's court. Do you intend to kill someone there?"

"No, it's…" Mal smiled, understanding. "It's the fashion."

"Just so," Bragadin said.

"We were just discussing yesterday's vote," the whitehaired man – Venier? – said. "Quite a turnabout from old Pasqualigo, eh?"

"Anyone would think his hand was forced," muttered another patrician. "He never favoured Grimani before now."

Mal sipped his wine and pretended disinterest. If he were patient the conversation might turn to the skraylings eventually.

"You think Grimani will be the next Doge?" Bragadin said.

"At this rate, yes," the first man replied. "He carries all before him. A 'gift' here, a word there…"

"Il Mercante di Sogni," someone muttered.

"Nothing but a rumour," a fat man with heavy gold rings on his fingers said, tucking his pudgy hands into his belt. "A name to frighten the guilty with."

"Who is this 'Mercante' fellow?" Mal asked. The epithet meant "the merchant of dreams"; an ill-omened name, given his recent experiences. Must I start at every shadow, like a guilty man?

"No one knows. It is a rumour, as Dandolo says–" Venier glared at the fat man "–but no less true for that."

"An assassin, spy and extorter of favours," the man who had first mentioned Il Mercante added. "It is said he can get you whatever you desire: the love of a woman, the downfall of your enemy, the favour of the Ten. No doubt Grimani has been using his services liberally."

"Enough, gentlemen," Bragadin said. "La Margherita will not thank us for speaking treason under her roof. Or in her garden."

The other Venetians laughed nervously.
"No, there is no possibility of corruption," Bragadin went on. He turned to Mal. "Do you know how the Doge is elected?"

Mal shook his head.

"Thirty members of the Great Council are chosen by lot," Bragadin said, "and those thirty are reduced by lot to nine; the nine choose forty and the forty are reduced to twelve, who choose twenty-five. The twenty-five are reduced by lot to nine and the nine elect forty-five. Then the forty-five are reduced to eleven, and the eleven finally choose the forty-one who elect the Doge."

Mal stared at him. "You just made that up. It's ridiculous."

Bragadin looked affronted. "Certainly not, signore. It is a grand and ancient tradition, designed to absolutely ensure that no one can influence the elections."

"I'm sorry, I meant no offence, gentlemen. I fear I have no head for politics."

"Then you had better go home, signore, or you will have no head at all," Venier said.

Mal swallowed, wondering if he had gone too far, but then the Venetians burst out laughing. He forced himself to join in. They were a strange folk, and no mistake; merry one moment, and deadly serious the next.

The conversation turned to less controversial matters, and after a while Bragadin and his friends began to disperse, some to the card tables, others to take their leave of their hostess. Mal took advantage of the confusion to slip away in search of Raleigh. Instead he found himself drawn back towards the music. He caught sight of signorina Olivia again, a gilded lamp against whose beauty these black-clad admirers battered themselves in vain. And yet he could not blame them. Almost against his will he made his way towards her through the throng.

Her hands moved over the neck of the lute, strong but graceful, and she sang more sweetly than the caged birds in the trees. It was a moment before he realised she was singing in English.

"Flow my tears, fall from your springs.
Exiled, forever let me mourn.

When night's black bird its sad infamy sings,
Here let me live, forlorn."

Mal sank to his knees at her feet, overcome by the words that echoed his own feelings. Never before had he realised how much he longed to return to England and reclaim his birthright, his family's estate in Derbyshire.

When the song was over, he felt a hand brush through his hair.

"So melancholy, Signore Catalin?"

He looked up. "It is a favourite of mine, but I had not heard words put to it before now."

"No? It was an Englishman who taught it to me." She tipped her head on one side. "Dowland. John Dowland."

"You met Dowland? Is he here in Venice?"

At her gesture, Mal took a seat on the bench beside her. The Venetian men, discreet as ever, melted away into the darkness.

"Signore Dowland came to Venice for a while," she said, "after seeking patronage in Rome. A brilliant musician…"

"Where did he go?"

"Who knows? To Milan, perhaps, or Florence." She leant closer, so that he could smell the scent of her, musk and roses and sweet creamy vanilla, like the lace around her bodice. "You like music?"

Mal cleared his throat. "What gentleman of taste does not? Though I cannot claim to play as well as you, signorina."

"You play the lute? Please, play for me."

"I–"

"Or perhaps you perform better in private," she said, so softly only he could hear.

Mal swallowed, unable to frame an answer. He looked around in search of Bragadin, praying this moment of intimacy with the courtesan was not a breach of etiquette. He had no desire to fight a duel, though a dagger in the back seemed more the Venetian style.