The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(68)

"I did think I saw one of their ships at anchor," Mal replied, slurring the words just a little, "but I wasn't certain."

He drained his tankard with an exaggerated gesture, though in truth it was nearly empty, and beckoned to a serving man.

"Allow me," Da Canal said, and gave the servant a coin. "Never let it be said that we do not know how to welcome visitors to our city."

"You are too kind," Mal replied, holding up his tankard to be refilled.

"Here, are you playing or not?" One of the sailors leant across the table, jabbing the stem of his pipe at Mal.

"Nay." Mal threw down his cards, narrowly missing a puddle of beer. "My luck is all ill."

The dealer shrugged and slipped Mal's cards under the bottom of the deck. "Better odds for the rest of us, eh, lads?"

The sailors went back to their game, and Mal gestured to Ned to continue.

"I heard Signore Raleigh stayed behind in Venice after his ship departed," Da Canal murmured. "Is that so?"

"Aye. What of it?"

"Perhaps since you travelled with him, you know his purpose."

Mal leant forward, blinking at Da Canal in feigned drunkenness.

"Signore Raleigh, as you call him, thinks of only one thing," he said with a leer. "Her Divine Majesty. And her lack of a husband."

"Really? But she is much older than him, is she not?"
"When did that ever matter, where money and power is involved?"

"Then he would break up the skraylings' proposed alliance to win the favour of his queen?"

Mal laughed. So that's da Canal's game. "Sir Walter? He is no politician. He thinks only of wooing the Queen with fine gifts."

Da Canal leant back in his seat. "Then he has come to the right place."

Mal felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned. A skinny girl was smiling down at him, her face painted rose and white, with scarlet lips and pupils large as a cat at dusk. No, not a girl… a boy in girl's attire. The boy-whore leaned in and whispered in Mal's ear.

"Cinquedea."

Mal looked at him quizzically, and the boy beckoned.

"Excuse me, Signore da Canal," Mal said, and winked at the Venetian. "I think I have… business elsewhere."

Da Canal smiled thinly. "Of course."

Ned was looking daggers at him, but there was no time to explain. He followed the boy out of the taproom and up a rickety flight of stairs. By his companion's mincing walk and the clop-clop of his footsteps, Mal guessed he was wearing chopines, the high-soled overshoes that were so fashionable amongst ladies.

They emerged from the stairs into a large room divided into stalls by low wooden walls, more like a stable than a human dwelling. From several of the stalls came the sounds of the inn's other whores at business, and Mal began to wonder if he had misheard Walsingham after all.

The boy led him past the rutting couples to a door at the far end, and ushered him inside. The room was dark despite the early hour, and Mal paused on the threshold, hand on his dagger hilt. When no attack came, he breathed again. The door closed behind him, and he heard the boy's footsteps retreating.

"Signore Catalin." The sound came from the shadows; a young man's voice, steel-edged and deadly as its namesake.

"Cinquedea?"

"You asked to speak with me. So speak."

"I was given your name by Sir Francis Walsingham," Mal said. "He told me you work for an old friend of his, the Blind Lacemaker."

His eyes were starting to adjust to the gloom, and he could now make out a dark shape standing to one side of the shuttered window. Not a tall man, but solidly built. Was Cinquedea the Lacemaker? It would explain why they were meeting in the dark, where a blind man would have an advantage.

"A friend, is that how he describes her?"

Her?

"Still, they must be of an age, grandmama and he," Cinquedea went on. "I have often wondered if they were lovers, though my grandfather would have killed him if had found out."

"Your grandmother?" Mal was unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"You have a queen in England. She is past her sixtieth year, I believe."

"Two years since," Mal replied.

"My grandmother is queen of her own little realm. But we digress. What business of England's brings you here?"

Mal cleared his throat. "I need to speak to the skrayling ambassador. Sir Francis is… concerned about their purpose here, and there seems no other way to discover it."

"I would have thought their purpose is obvious: to negotiate a trade agreement with the Doge and council."

"True. But my government wishes to be forewarned of any progress."

"Why should we help you? Increased trade will be of great benefit to Venice."

"I do not think Sir Francis would have told me about you unless he believed you would help."

Cinquedea stepped forward. He was not much older than Mal, though already greying at the temples. Handsome as his namesake as well, with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes that were most certainly not blind.

"I will take the matter to my grandmother," the Venetian said, "and send you word of her decision. You are staying at the English embassy?"

"Yes."