The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(78)

"Apart from the f*cking?"

"Enough, for Christ's sake, Ned!"

Ned recoiled at the fury in Mal's voice. "Sorry. Go on."
"There is a man in her service, a patrician named Giambattista Bragadin. Through him she provides secrets to those requiring leverage over her enemies, and they share the fees."

"This is that Merchant fellow you were talking about?"

"Yes. Her problem is that she suspects Bragadin of plotting against her. She wants me to follow him and observe his dealings."

"So why doesn't she just use her sorcery to rummage around in his head? Guisers can do that, right?"

"That's why she suspects him. Bragadin has obtained a spirit-guard and is using it to keep her out of his dreams."

"So you're going to spy on him?"

"Yes."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Very."

"I'm in." Ned grinned at him.

"What?"

"I'm in. You don't think I'm going to sit at home and let you get into trouble all by yourself, do you?"

Mal sighed. "I don't suppose there's anything I can say to stop you?"

"Nothing."

"Very well. Meet me at sunset in the Winged Lion. It's a taverna in San Marco, not far from Palazzo Bragadin." Mal bent to unfasten his knapsack. "I have to see Olivia first."

"A daytime visit? Isn't that a little… conspicuous?"

"Why do you think I have this?" Mal held up a mask. "A convenient little fashion. Anyone would think this city was ruled through intrigue."

He picked up a long hooded cloak and headed for the door.

Ned rubbed his hands together, jealousy forgotten. A little night work, that was more like it. Best not to think who they were doing it for, only the ultimate goal. Finish their business here, and go home.

Mal walked through the Venetian dusk towards his rendezvous with Ned, exhausted in mind and body from his session with Olivia. Dreamwalking required practice and discipline as demanding as swordplay and, contrary to Ned's slurs, did not include any further carnal pleasures, at least not today. Olivia told him that for true mastery he needed to keep his thoughts and passions separate until he could command them both. Later, she promised, they could repeat the blissful experience of that first joining, and without unwelcome memories intruding.

As he crossed yet another little square, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and halted. A squad of a dozen red-clad sbirri, the constables who patrolled Venice, were escorting several sullen young men in the direction of St Mark's. Seeing an open space, one of them tried to make a break for it but was brought down and beaten into submission before the procession continued on its way.

"Excuse me, sir," Mal said to a passing workman, "what was all that about?"

"Fighting on the bridges again. Those boys never learn." His voice was tinged with pride rather than condemnation. He looked Mal up and down and his eyes narrowed. "You a Castellano?"

Mal hesitated. Berowne had warned him about the factionalism dividing the city: the Nicoletti in the west and the Castellani in the east. From time to time fighting broke out between the young men of the two factions and could rapidly devolve into full-scale riots if not checked. San Marco was Castellani territory.

"I'm staying in Santa Croce," he said at last, "so I suppose that makes me one of the Nicoletti."

"You take care then, sir, if you know what's good for you." The workman hoisted his bag of tools a little higher and went on his way.

Mal set off again, and a few minutes later found himself at the Winged Lion. The taverna was quiet, just a couple of old men playing chess and sipping wine. Mal had the feeling they came here every morning for the companionship and did not leave until curfew. Ned was in the opposite corner, playing a solo card game on a well-scrubbed table.

"You took your time," he said. "It's a good job these Venetians don't drink much. I'd have been thrown out of an English alehouse for nursing a flagon all afternoon." He gathered up his cards and drained his cup. "After you."

They made their way through the darkening streets of San Marco, Mal following the image of the route that Olivia had shown him at the end of their lesson. It had been strange to walk through a hazy simulacrum of the city, but less strange than walking the very real and solid streets and recognising places he had never been before. He began to see the true power of the skraylings, to communicate in ways that men scarcely dreamed of.

"No mask, then?" Ned asked as they trotted side by side up the steps of a small bridge.

"I thought it too noticeable," Mal replied. "It hides a man's face, but also marks him out as a person of note, since only patricians are allowed to wear them freely. This way we are just ordinary citizens going about our business."

"And what if we're recognised?"

"Bragadin has never seen you before, and I have my own defence." He pulled up the hood on his cloak.

Palazzo Bragadin was a substantial building on the far side of San Marco, deep into Castellani territory. Its fa?ade overlooked one of the larger tributaries of the Grand Canal, whilst the rear entrance gave onto a small narrow square with a well in the centre.

"Should we not watch from the canal side?" Ned murmured as they strolled idly through the square. Around them, shopkeepers were dismantling stalls and barring their shutters. "I thought the grander folk of Venice travelled everywhere by boat."