The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(80)

"And if we can't?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. So to speak." He paused. "And speaking of speaking, don't say a word once we enter the street. If these men hear us speak English, they may put two and two together."

"Right you are," Ned replied, his expression comically serious. Mal prayed his friend would not forget himself, but there was nothing for it but to continue.

He wrapped his cloak around him and set off across the square, Ned at his heels. Though he would not admit it, he was glad he had not come alone. One man by himself looked more suspicious than two, and if it came down to it they could pretend to be having an assignation of their own. He smiled to himself. Ned would enjoy that, perhaps a little too much.

The street was dark at ground level, lit only by the faint glow of candles in the piani nobili above. Barred windows and closed doors lined both sides. At the far end Mal could make out a paler archway cutting through a tenement; the sottoportego that led to the canal. He strode as confidently as he dared through the darkness, finally pausing at a door fifteen yards or so from the archway, allowing his boots to scuff loudly on the worn paving stones. He laid his hand upon the door handle and pretended to fumble in his pockets for a key, meanwhile counting silently. One, two, three… When he reached twenty he stepped silently to one side and melted into a neighbouring doorway. A moment later Ned joined him, and they exchanged brief glances. Either it had worked and Bragadin thought them a pair of local men arriving home, or it hadn't. They would soon find out.

No sound came from the sottoportego, and at last Mal let out a slow breath. Now to wait. From the lights and noises above, the residents of this building were already home, and with any luck would stay there all night.

He was just beginning to fear he was wrong and their quarry had given them the slip, when a soft thud of wood on stone announced the arrival of a gondola at the nearby steps. Beside him, Ned tensed.

The scraping of shoe leather on uneven canal steps echoed down the passageway as someone disembarked, then the soft splash of an oar as the boat departed. No one was allowed to eavesdrop on this conversation, especially a garrulous gondolier.

"Good evening, sir." The speaker's voice was distorted, perhaps by a mask. Bragadin was evidently no fool. "I had not expected you to bring company."

"I had not expected to meet a second time. Do you have it?"

A pause.

"Alas–"

A scuffle and a thud, as of a man's body hitting a wall.

"I have been patient," Bragadin's client hissed. His next words were indistinct, whispered perhaps in Bragadin's ear. "I will be patient no longer."

"Please, you ask a great deal–"

"A great deal indeed, for I have paid you a thousand ducats already and seen naught for it."

A thousand ducats? What in God's name were these men asking Il Mercante to find out?

"I am close," Bragadin gasped. "It takes time to put spies in place so that they will not be found out. Another week–"

"I don't have a week. You swore you could get me the information before the Doge's investiture. Your promises are worthless."

Bragadin laughed, his mask shaping the sound into a hollow cackle that raised the hairs on Mal's neck. "So is your house's name," he said softly, "if the Ten find out what you've been up to."

"Are you threatening me? You louse, you dungheap crawler–"

Bragadin cried out, the sound ending in a choking gurgle. Mal dashed forward, colliding with someone in the passageway. The man swore and Mal felt a blade catch in the folds of his cloak. He retreated a pace and drew his own dagger, sweeping it in a waist-high arc before him. Damn, but he hated fighting in the dark.

His vision began to clear a little. He could make out two figures between himself and the canal steps; the other was lying on the ground against the wall. Bragadin, he feared. The two men backed away, but they had nowhere to go until their gondola returned. Several minutes at least, he guessed.

"Who are you?" the nearer man asked. "We were to meet alone."

Mal said nothing. Whoever these men were, they had been at Olivia's supper parties, and would recognise him by his accent in an instant. The last thing he needed was for the courtesan to be connected to Il Mercante.

Long moments passed, the silence broken only by the rasping breath of Bragadin. So, he lived, for now.

"Where's that whoreson knave of a gondolier?" the other man muttered. Mal could tell by his stance that he was sizing up his chances of rushing past him into the street and getting away on foot.

"Calm yourself, Pietro," the nearer man said.
The words had the opposite of the desired effect. Pietro dashed towards the street, but Mal was there first and Pietro ran straight onto his dagger. He looked up at Mal wideeyed, gasped a last curse, and fell dead at his feet.

Pietro's companion backed away until his boot-heels scraped on the edge of the canal.

"Peace, gentlemen." His eyes flicked left, along the canal. "We are done here."

At that moment the gondola slid into view and he leapt aboard. Mal watched him go, then sheathed his dagger and crouched to examine Bragadin. Blood soaked the man's doublet, leaving Mal's hands sticky. Bragadin no longer appeared to be breathing.

"There's nothing we can do for him," he told Ned, who stood pale-faced at the passageway's mouth. He wiped his hands on the dying man's cloak. "Come, let's get out of here."