The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(69)

"Very well. Expect my reply within a few days."

"Thank you."

Cinquedea bowed curtly and retreated into the shadows. Somewhere far off, a bell tinkled, and Mal heard the clop-clop of footsteps approach the door.

"Good day, Signore Catalin."

Mal followed the boy back down to the taproom, and signalled to Ned that it was time to leave.

"I think we should be going, gentlemen," Ned said loudly. "Captain Raleigh will be expecting us for dinner."

He made his farewells to the company and followed Mal out of the inn.

"What the hell was all that about?" he asked, as Mal paused to piss in an alley-mouth. "Have you been lying to me all these years? Is Hendricks really a boy after all?"

"The boy was just a messenger," Mal replied, just loud enough to be heard over the splashing noise. "I could hardly meet openly with… my hoped-for ally." He shook off the last drop and buttoned up his slops.

"And who is this ally? Christ's balls, Mal, you've become as close-mouthed as a banker's purse since you came back from France. We used to be the best of friends…"

"And still are." Mal put an arm around his shoulder. "If I keep secrets, it's only for your own safety."

As they walked along the quayside, a sleek gondola with a gilded prow drew up. A hand emerged from the gauzy curtains of the central cabin, and beckoned to Mal. An elegant, dark-skinned female hand. He swallowed, his mouth dry as tinder.

"What's she doing here?" Ned muttered.

The curtains parted to reveal Olivia, dressed in coppercoloured silk that shimmered like a last glimpse of the sun setting over the Grand Canal. She had shed her mask in favour of an ostrich-feather fan, which she fluttered over her breasts in a manner that didn't so much hide them as draw the eye to them like a needle to a lodestone.

"Signore Catalin, what a lovely surprise. Please, join me."

Mal swept a bow. "Alas, my lady, I wish I dared. But your patron would not look kindly upon it, I fear."

She pouted prettily and sighed. "Je suis desolée."

"As am I, my lady."

"Perhaps you would dare to attend another evening party? I have guests tonight; you need not fear visiting me alone."

Mal noted the ambiguity of her words, and smiled. "It would be my pleasure."

She raised her fan to cover her answering smile, but above it her jade-green eyes sparkled with triumph. Mal watched the gondola join the stream of craft heading towards the entrance to the Grand Canal, then turned back towards St Mark's Square.

"What are you doing?" Ned said, scurrying after him. "I thought you'd vowed to stay away from her?"

"I've changed my mind," he replied. "Machiavelli said: 'There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.' I intend to take his advice."

CHAPTER XIX

Mal disembarked from the hired gondola and paused on the threshold of Ca' Ostreghe. It was over a year since Jathekkil had poked around in his head for memories he could use against him, and still it woke him in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The prospect of coming up against another such monster made his stomach curdle, but he could not hide his head under the blankets like a frightened child and hope they went away. He adjusted his mask and stepped inside.

A cold wind was blowing down from the Alps tonight, and Olivia's garden was dark and empty. Instead the eunuch guard indicated wordlessly for Mal to follow him up to the piano nobile, where a log fire held the unseasonable chill at bay and dozens of candles bathed the room in a memory of sunlight. Olivia sat on a gilded chair reading poetry, whilst a number of admirers perched on stools around her. Bragadin leaned against the marble fireplace with an air of studied indifference; evidently he valued Olivia more as an ornament to his own reputation than for herself.

"Ah, Signore Catalin!" Bragadin stepped forward. With his face half-hidden behind the mask, his smile looked forced and insincere. "I did not know you had been invited."

"I chanced to meet La Margherita," Mal said, "whilst I was about my own business, and I confessed to her that I was weary of Raleigh's company after so many weeks at sea."

Bragadin's smile was more genuine this time. "Signore Raleigh is a simple man of action, I suppose."

"Alas so."

"And yet he comes all the way to Venice for a gift for your queen. A man of contradictions."

"I observed as much on first meeting him," Mal said. "But perhaps such grand gestures are of a piece with his temperament."

"May I ask what brings you to Venice, if you are not of his following?"

A liveried page appeared at Mal's elbow with a tray of steaming silver flagons. Mal took one, rolling the stem idly between his fingers.

"Vengeance," he said with a grin.

Bragadin looked taken aback. "I hope you do not bring a vendetta to our city, signore. We have strict laws against those who disturb the peace of La Serenissima."

"Nothing so dreadful, I assure you, sir. I seek my elder brother, who gambled away our family fortune. Perhaps you know him. He goes by the name of Carlo Catalin."

Mal watched Bragadin carefully, but this time the Venetian betrayed no sign of recognising the name.

"I am sorry, signore, but this is a large city and in any case state business occupies most of my time. If a man is not in the Golden Book or a notorious criminal, it is unlikely that I would have come across him."