The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(66)

Shuffling footsteps sounded in the antechamber, and the door creaked open. Berowne's ancient manservant entered, preceded by a mouthwatering aroma of baking. Ned took the tray of hot pastries from the man's trembling hands and set it down on the table.

"Thank you, Master Faulkner," the old man wheezed. "Will your master be rising soon? I'll need to warm some more water for his shave."

"I hope so," Ned replied, trying to ignore the ache of hunger in his stomach. He went over to the window, to try and take his mind off the food.

The parlour offered a fine view across a little bridge and down the canal. To the left, brick walls enclosed gardens, dark foliage spilling over into the street and softening the hard edges of this most artificial of cities. To the right, tall houses ran along the fondamenta, some with shops or workshops at street level. Bathed in the thick honeyed light of early morning, the city glowed like a sated lover. Ned sighed, wishing Gabriel could be there to share the moment with him.

"Is there anywhere more beautiful?" Mal said, joining him at the window. "I think I would never tire of the view."

"Did I wake you?" Ned went back to the table, and as he hoped, Mal followed. "I thought you would sleep until noon. When did you get back? Before dawn, I hope."

"Long before," Mal said, picking up a pastry and tearing it in two.

Ned did likewise, resisting the urge to stuff the entire thing into his mouth. Instead he took a large bite, savouring the rich buttery sweetness. Say one thing about the Venetians, they knew how to cook. He finished it whilst Mal told him about the evening's entertainments, and helped himself to another.

"It was all very pleasant and courteous, but there's something going on in this city, something… unnatural. I heard rumours of an assassin they call Il Mercante di Sogni, 'the merchant of dreams'. I think he's a guiser."

"What? Are you sure?"

"No. I wish I were. But if there's even a sliver of a chance it's true… This changes everything."

"Witchcraft," Ned muttered. "I like this less and less."

They sat in silence for long moments, breakfast forgotten.

"So what do we do about it?" Ned said at last.

"Do? Nothing, at least for now. We shall continue with our business here, though I think I should stay away from Olivia and her patrician friends. Guisers are drawn to power like moths to a flame, and Olivia gathers some of the most powerful men in the city around her."

Ned shivered despite the growing warmth of the morning.

"So, you have a plan for getting us in to see Lord Kiiren?" he said, trying to take his mind off the subject of guisers.

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, not exactly?"

"I think we're being followed, or at least watched and reported on." He wiped his hands on a napkin and got to his feet.

"It's no more than we expected," Ned replied. "It's what I'd do if a foreigner moved into our street back home."

"Quite. So, I think it's time to apply the second rule of fencing."

"Which is…?"

"Make your opponent believe he knows where you will strike next. Then hit him somewhere quite different."

"What's the first rule?"

"Get him before he gets you."

"I like that rule better," Ned replied, grinning. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want to give them something to think about, something that will throw them off the scent for a while." He paused in the doorway. "I want them to think I'm in Venice to look for my brother Charles."

Whether through luck or a growing familiarity with the layout of the main streets, they eventually found themselves at their destination: a tavern on the main waterfront that Berowne said was frequented by Englishmen seeking news from home. Mal reckoned it was unlikely he would find Charles there, but on the other hand it would make his feigned search seem genuine enough, and in any case he had a more pressing reason to visit this establishment in particular.

"You know there's one small problem with this plan," Ned said as they approached the door.

"Oh, what's that?"

"What if you do find Charles? What then?"

Mal didn't answer. Truth is, I don't know. Kicking the shit out of him would be a good start, though.

The Mermaid looked much like any other Venetian house, having an elegant stucco facade painted a golden yellow, with arched windows and doorway picked out in white stone. Above the door hung a carved sign in the shape of a mermaid, with a gilded tail and hair and holding a real silvered mirror that flashed in the sunlight.

"Don't forget," Mal said in a low voice as they approached the door, "not a word about the skraylings unless someone else mentions them first. And if they do, don't sound too interested. We don't want Raleigh's name linked to them in any way."

"I haven't forgotten," Ned muttered. "You're not the only one to work for… our mutual acquaintance, you know."

"Good. Well then."

Stepping over the threshold, it was as if they had been magically transported back to London. The tavern was packed to bursting, and the combined stink of unwashed bodies, stale beer and tobacco smoke was enough to fell an ox.