The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(77)

"Out, out!" she said when they were done. "I'm not going to change into this gown in front of you, you know."

Gabriel apologised, and Sandy helped him down the stairs to the taproom. Coby bolted the door behind them and stripped down to her stockings and drawers. The latter she was not willing to discard, skirts or no, though she did extract the tool roll and stow it under the mattress. She slipped into the petticoat, thankful that she'd chosen a style that laced up the front. Halfway through the lacing she realised she ought to try and plump up her breasts, rather than flattening them as she usually did. Not that there was a lot to work with, but the bodice was surprisingly effective. She stared down at the unfamiliar prospect for several moments. Sweet Jesu, what will Mal think when he sees me like this? She hurriedly pulled on the gown, and arranged the shawl to cover what the bodice exposed. There, much better.

She slipped into her shoes, drew the bolt and drew a deep breath before opening the door. Well, nothing else for it. Holding the edge of the scarf tight against her chest, she made her way down to the taproom.

CHAPTER XXI

Mal managed to deflect Ned's questions about his dealings with Olivia for two days, mostly by ensuring they were never alone together. He let Berowne take them on a tour of the city, including a visit to the basilica of St Mark's, which surpassed even Mal's expectations. The lower half of the building was splendid enough, with its fine marble paving and Herculean pillars, but when he looked up… Every inch of the ceiling was gilded, so that it gleamed in the candlelight like a treasure cave. Even the gilding itself was merely the backdrop to hundreds of mosaics depicting saints and Bible stories, their figures rendered in the flat Eastern style that betrayed the city's past connections with Constantinople.

"I used to think the preachers exaggerated," Ned muttered as they followed Berowne into yet another side chapel.

"Oh?"

"About the richness of the churches, before King Henry broke with Rome."

Mal smiled. "I doubt any English cathedral was ever a tenth as grand, even then."

Berowne launched into a description of the chapel ceiling, oblivious to the satiety of his companions.

"I suppose you're going to see her again tonight," Ned whispered.

"What of it?"

"We're supposed to be here on business, not pleasure."

"Can I not combine the two?"

"She has bewitched you, this guiser whore."

"Olivia is not a whore," Mal said, more loudly than he'd intended. An old woman who had been lighting a candle in the chapel glared at him and blew out her taper with a huff of disgust.

"So tell me what you've learned," Ned said, "and why this war has suddenly become a truce."

Mal sighed. "Very well. But not here. When we get back to the embassy, then I'll tell you."

"You swear."

"I swear. Now, look sharp. I think Berowne has found another interesting mosaic."

Ned rolled his eyes, and Mal chuckled in sympathy. This was going to be a long day.

Ned closed the attic door behind him.

"Well?"
Mal sat down on the end of the bed but immediately rose again, went to the window and closed the shutters against the noonday sun.

"Olivia's not our enemy," Mal said quietly. "In fact I think she may be our best ally in the city."

"What?"

"She has convinced me she has only good intentions–"

"Hah. And people say I'm the one who thinks with my prick."

"You think I trust her because I–"

"Because you're f*cking her? Are you?"

Mal's expression was indistinct in the shadows, but the hunch of his shoulders implied guilt.

"I might have known," Ned muttered. When Mal made no reply, he added, "So, how is your new paramour going to help us?"

"She doesn't want the skraylings in Venice any more than England does. In fact she's terrified they're here to hunt her down. The only reason she trusts me is because… " He sighed. "I told her about Erishen."

"Sandy?"

"No, I've managed to keep that from her so far, though God knows for how much longer."

"And you?" Ned went over to him and, taking Mal's head between his hands, stared into his eyes. "What of you? Is the Mal I know and love still in there?"

"Of course."

His voice was as rough as his beard, and sent the same shiver down to Ned's groin. Not now, said the unwelcome voice of reason. Ned released him.

"You still haven't answered my question. How is she going to help us?"

"By getting the Venetians to look the other way whilst we conduct our business here."

"She can do that?"

"She's a guiser. An old one. And she is by no means mad, nor evil. She keeps the Grand Council and even the Ten in check; if she does so behind the scenes, well, can you fault her? No one in Christendom wants to hear they are being ruled by a five hundred year-old creature from the New World."

"Hmm." Ned chewed his lip. "Even if she does help us, what's the price? Your soul?"

"No price. I've told you, she wants the skraylings gone. But…" Ned's heart sank. Here it comes… "She has asked me to do her a small kindness–"