The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(67)

"Quite the home away from home," Mal said, pushing his way through the crowd.

Contrary to Mal's first impression, no more than half the sailors were English. He heard snatches of French, German, mainland Italian dialects, Slavic, Greek and Turkish, and saw many swarthy faces – and not a few that were as dark as any Moor's. The city's black-clad natives stood out like crows in an aviary of parrots, sipping glasses of wine and looking nervous, whilst all around them the sailors laughed and sang and swore, making the most of their shore leave before the next voyage. There were plenty of whores to go round, even more than in a typical English tavern, and that was saying something. Venice's reputation as a city of vice was not undeserved.

He halted in the middle of the taproom.

"Gentlemen!" A few of the sailors looked around. Mal hooked a nearby stool with his foot and stepped onto it. It rocked a little, but that only served to attract the attention of a few more, some of whom laughed. Perfect. He stretched out his arms, like an actor addressing his audience. "Gentlemen, I am newly arrived from London and seeking my long-lost brother, Charles Catlyn. A beer to any man who can bring me news of him."

Before the crowd had time to react, he leapt down from the stool and beckoned to a skinny youth with the beginnings of a moustache.

"Boy, two pints of your best beer!" He gave him some coppers for the beer, and slipped in a silver lira amongst them. Lowering his voice, he added, "Tell Cinquedea a friend is here from London and would like to speak with him."

"Yes, sir."

"Master Catlyn?"

Mal turned to see three men in baggy hose and round hats seated a table by the wall. One of them, a short broad-shouldered fellow with a reddish beard, beckoned to Mal.

"Come and join our game, if you will, sir."

"I will, and gladly," Mal said, taking a seat beside him.

Ned took a seat next to one of the sailors and they made their introductions. The dealer grinned at the new arrivals with tobacco-stained teeth and began distributing cards. Mal scooped up his hand: five cards, Italian in design. The coins on the table were mostly denari, similar to English pennies in appearance but far lower in value. Perfect for a cheap evening's wager.

"Do you have change for one of these?" Mal pulled out the least valuable coin he could find in Raleigh's purse.

The dealer examined it briefly, then counted out two dozen denari. Mal gave half to Ned and placed one of his own in the central pool. The dealer turned the top card from the deck.

"Wands are trumps," he announced, and gestured for Ned to make the first play.

The pot-boy turned up with two tankards of beer, and gave Mal a nod as he set them down. Mal inclined his head in acknowledgement and settled down to wait.

"So, you are new come to Venice, sir?" one of the sailors asked.

"Aye, two days ago. And yourselves, good sirs?'

"Been here a week," one of them said. "Heading home soon, God willing. Though we do hear–" he leant forward across the table "–that Sir Walter Raleigh's in town, and looking for new crew."

"I fear you're mistook," Mal said. "Master Raleigh's ship left Venice just after we disembarked."

"That Will Frampton always were a liar," the dealer said. "Come on, Ben; play or renege."

A black-clad Venetian approached their table, his genial smile at odds with his sombre attire.

"May I join you, signori?" he asked, though his eyes never left Mal. When no one objected, he drew up a stool and sat down next to Mal. "Permit me to introduce myself. Marco da Canal, at your service."

"Good to meet you, Master da Canal."

Da Canal inclined his head. "The pleasure is all mine, signore."

"So, you have news of my brother?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" Mal glanced at his hand and discarded the two of coins.

"I do not know a man called…"

"Catlyn, Charles Catlyn. Though I'm told he goes by the name of Carlo Catalin these days."

"Catalin, quite so. I do not know a man by this name, and yet you have a familiar look. Perhaps if you told me a little more, I could match the face to a name."

Mal took a sip of beer. Was this Walsingham's man, or an intelligencer in the pay of… who knows whom?

"My brother is forty years old or so, about my height but with light brown hair. He left England four years ago, and I have not heard from him since."

Da Canal made a sympathetic noise. "And you are both from London?"

"No, Derbyshire. Place called Rushdale."

"But you have been to London?"

"Aye, I lived there for a while." He realised it was his turn, and played another card absentmindedly whilst watching the Venetian out of the corner of his eye. Now he reveals himself…

"Then you must be familiar with the sanuti," Da Canal said.

"Sanuti?" It was the name the gondolier had given to the skraylings' residence. Il Fondaco dei Sanuti.

"The strangers from the New World."
"The skraylings? I have seen them on occasion, certainly," Mal said.

"You know they are here in Venice?"

Mal feigned indifference, but he noticed that Da Canal leant fractionally closer, his eyes narrowing. Well, two can play at that game.