The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(84)

"We're not going to push them all the way to Venice, are we?" Coby said.

Stefano laughed. "Of course not. We only take things down to the ship."

"But the wind is in the north still. How are we to sail there in this weather?"

"Maestro Zancani's cousin is in the navy. He can get us to Venice, no problem."

Gabriel and Sandy went back up to their room to fetch the bags. Coby was about to go and help them, but Gabriel took her aside.

"You're a young lady now, remember? Try to behave like one. That means letting us menfolk do the hard work."

"Sorry," she whispered. This was going to take some getting used to.

Zancani led them down to the quayside. Coby walked at Gabriel's side, feeling very odd at having nothing to do except look decorative. Not that she had any illusions about that. Any man with sense would be looking at Valentina, who had curves in all the right places and a nose that wasn't red as a strawberry from the sun.

She scanned the sea nervously, but could see no sign of red sails. Perhaps Sandy was wrong and the skraylings had not been heading for Spalato at all. Not that she minded. The sooner they were in Venice, the sooner she would see Mal again. That thought alone was enough to make all her other worries melt away.

Zancani's cousin's ship turned out to be a fearsomelooking galley bristling with oars. There were far more of them than the Hayreddin sported, enough to move a ship at great speed by the looks of it. That at least accounted for Benetto's confidence that they could sail into the wind, or rather row into it. She did not envy the men whose task that would be.

The stern end of the galley was covered by a red awning like a wagon, and banners bearing the winged lion of St Mark flew from its two masts. The central yardarm, its white sail tightly furled, stretched almost the entire length of the vessel. The muzzles of three cannon protruded from a wooden structure just behind the beak-like prow.

"Welcome aboard the Bellerophon," Zancani's cousin said, ushering up the gangplank. He was taller than his kinsman but with the same dark eyes that lingered on Coby's face a little too long for courtesy. She was glad the voyage would be short.

As they stepped aboard she lifted her shawl to cover her nose and mouth. A stink like an open sewer rose from amidships, and she soon spotted the source. The men seated at the oars were chained in place, with nowhere to relieve themselves but the benches they sat on. Galley slaves.

"This way, signorina! You will be quite safe and comfortable back here."

They were soon settled under the awning, and within the hour the galley left harbour to the slow, steady beat of a drum. Coby sat hunched up by their luggage, torn between joy at finally being on her way to Venice, and pity for the poor wretches whose suffering would be the means of getting her there.

CHAPTER XXIII

Ned picked at his bread roll. Neither he nor Mal had slept much last night, and not for the reason he had hoped for when they first came to Venice. He had lain awake expecting the constables to come knocking on the door at any moment, though Mal repeatedly assured him they had not been followed, nor was the surviving Venetian likely to betray them even if he suspected. Indeed his friend seemed more worried that Bragadin's death in suspicious circumstances would lead some to connect this Mercante fellow with Olivia. For his own part he cared not; the guiser had what was coming to her. Perhaps now she might get her claws out of Mal.

He looked up briefly as the door opened. Berowne came in, looking worried.

"Have you heard the news, Catlyn?"

Mal yawned. "No."

"There's been a murder in the Calle di Mezzo, near San Giacomo's. Two men found dead. Some are saying it's Giambattista Bragadin and Pietro Trevisan."

"Really."

"Indeed. Didn't you meet them at the courtesan's house?"

"I suppose I must have," Mal said. "Though I don't remember half the men I was introduced to."

"Still, could just be gossip," Berowne said, sitting down at the head of the table. "I swear the Venetians are as bad as women when it comes to spreading salacious rumours. There's nothing they like better than a juicy scandal."

"It does seem unlikely that two important men would be in such a rough part of the city."

"You're probably right. Mind you, I dare say the lions will eat well today."

"Lions?" Ned asked.

"The Bocce di Leoni. Means 'lions' mouths'. They're collection boxes set in the walls of various buildings around Venice, including the Doge's Palace. Anyone who witnesses a crime is obliged to write a denunciation, countersigned by witnesses, and leave it in one of these boxes."

Ned kept his eyes on his own breakfast. Trust the Venetians to set their entire citizenry to spy on one another. No wonder Walsingham had warned them to be careful.

"An accusation cannot be made anonymously, then?" Mal asked.

"No. I believe that in past generations it was, but the system was too often exploited for petty revenge, and many false accusations were made."

Ned breathed a sigh of relief. Trevisan's friend was likely to keep quiet since he was the one who killed Bragadin, and no one else would have recognised them, would they? He glanced at Mal, who shrugged.

Jameson appeared at the door.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but there's a messenger for Master Catlyn."