The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(70)

"A pity. Perhaps I shall seek out this Mercante fellow. He seems to know everything that goes on in Venice."

Bragadin's eyes narrowed behind his mask, but before he could reply, a patter of applause marked the end of their hostess's recitation. Olivia's admirers hurried to make room for her as she rose from her seat. Like Venus from the waves, Mal thought, raising his flagon in silent salute. Olivia inclined her head in acknowledgement, then beckoned to him. He glanced back at Bragadin, who shrugged and motioned him to obey.

"Signore Catalin," Olivia said as Mal drew near, "I have a mind to play a duet. Would you oblige me?"

"I am sadly out of practice–"

"Come, I will not be denied." She snapped her fingers, and servants hurried forward with a pair of lutes.

After a last sip of wine to steady his nerves, Mal took one of the instruments and sat down on a stool near Olivia's seat. It took a while to get the lutes in tune with themselves and one another, then Olivia launched into a simple ricercar. Mal listened for a few stanzas then added a variation of his own, keeping the fingering simple to hide his lack of practice. He tried to observe the other guests out of the corner of his eye, but it was taking all his concentration to play without making a fool of himself. At last Olivia played a closing flourish and her hands stilled. Mal followed suit, relieved to be done.

"Another, signore?" she said, after the applause had died away.

"I have no wish to punish your guests further, signorina."

"Just one more, then." Her eyes sparkled with mischief behind her mask. "And you may take the lead this time."

"Since you are so fond of Dowland," he said, "how about this one…?"

He launched into the opening bars of My Lord Willoughby's Welcome Home, and was gratified when Olivia joined in the duet. It was a short song, thankfully, and he made it through to the end without fumbling more than a handful of notes. Olivia stood and curtsied, first to Mal and then to her audience. He bowed in turn, and excused himself. There had to be a piss-pot around here somewhere.

He wandered out onto the stairs, and was about to head down to the atrium when he heard voices below. He crouched by the balustrade, grateful that the rest of the house was not lit as extravagantly as the main chamber.

"What do you mean, you don't have it yet?"

The voices echoed around the marble stairwell, too indistinct to make out their owners.

"We were supposed to meet last night," the other man said, "under the sottoportego at the end of Calle di Mezzo, but he never arrived. I waited almost until curfew–"

"You did impress upon him the urgency of our situation?"

"Of course, but this business with Grimani must be filling his pockets right now. What need has he of our custom?"

Mal leant forward, pressing his ear between the cold stone balusters. Were they talking about Il Mercante?

"We had a contract. I–"

The rest of the sentence was lost as a large hand clamped over Mal's mouth, crushing the mask against his face, and he was dragged backwards away from the stairs. He struggled and tried to reach for his dagger but his assailant was too strong.

"Calm yourself, signore," a deep voice whispered in his ear. "My lady means you no harm, but you cannot be seen here. Do you understand?"

Mal managed a nod. His captor released him, and Mal turned to see Hafiz, the eunuch slave.

"Please, come this way," Hafiz said, opening a door at the top of the stairs. "Quickly."

The voices in the atrium had stilled, but Mal had the uncomfortable feeling the men were listening now, perhaps even creeping up the stair towards him. His left hand groped for his absent rapier.

"Now, please!" the eunuch hissed.

With a last glance down the stairs Mal followed him into a small chamber, illuminated only by the moonlight coming in through an unglazed window. Hafiz lit a lamp and the shadows receded, revealing this to be an antechamber of some kind. Were these Olivia's own apartments?

"Who were those men?"

"Guests of signorina Olivia. They come here to discuss business. Discreetly."

"And you ensure they are able to do so."

Hafiz inclined his head in acknowledgement and backed towards the door.

"Please wait here, signore."

For how long? Mal wanted to ask, but it felt like such a childish question. The door closed, and Mal heard the key turn in the lock. It was an answer of sorts, though not one he liked.

Long minutes passed whilst Mal waited, ear pressed to the door. He heard footsteps on the landing, one man only, followed at a long interval by another. The two conspirators returning separately to the company? He laid a hand on the doorknob but had more sense than to rattle it. If Olivia thought he needed keeping safe from her guests, he did not want to face them armed with naught but a dagger.

He crossed quietly to the window. The streetward fa?ade of the palazzo was plainer than the canal-side one, but still offered enough footholds for a climb down to the garden. The gate was probably locked, but he recalled seeing a thick-limbed vine on the far wall, offering an easy climb into the street beyond. However he had come here to find out more, not to run away at the first sign of danger. Best to save this exit as a last resort.

He examined the rest of the room minutely, though there was little to see. Two doors led out of the room, in addition to the one he had entered by; he listened at both, but could hear nothing above the rumble of conversation from the parlour. A credenza stood against one wall, flanked by matching armless chairs. On the wall above it hung a fine silvered mirror, large enough for Mal to see his head and shoulders. He frowned at the trim of his beard and the length of his hair, and made a note to see a barber on the morrow. If he survived the night.