The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(87)

"Dutch," Coby replied. "But I lived in England for a while."

"Si, Inghilterra. I am Magdalena."

"Jacomina."

Magdalena grinned, gap-toothed. "Giacomina. Is very pretty name. I have the cousin named Giacomina."

She showed the girls into a small room on the top floor, not much more than an attic but neat and clean, with two cot beds and a shared nightstand. Coby thanked her and put down her knapsack. How she was going to get away from under Zancani's nose and visit Mal, she did not know, but she was determined to do it tonight. Otherwise she would never sleep, she was sure of it.

Valentina spoke neither French nor English, which rather limited their conversation. However this did not seem to deter the girl unduly. By dint of pantomime and a few words, she declared herself fascinated with Coby's blond hair and insisted on combing it. Coby sat dutifully and allowed herself to be fussed over like a doll, though she could not for the life of her see the point. She was quite capable of combing her own hair, after all.

She was spared any further feminine amusement by a knock on the door. Valentina leapt up and opened the door a crack to reveal the long face of Benetto the juggler. The two players chattered away to one another in Italian for several minutes, then Benetto went away.

"What was all that about?" Coby asked.

Valentina looked glum. She pointed to herself and then Coby, and mimed sewing. Ah, the costumes. That had always been Coby's first task when returning to London from a tour of the country. So much got damaged in use and would need mending before they could perform again. She followed Valentina down to the men's quarters, where all their equipment had been stored.

Mal took down his rapier from its peg, cinched the belt around his hips and threw the hooded cloak around his shoulders, adjusting its folds to conceal the weapon. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

"Expecting trouble?" Ned asked.

Mal closed the attic door.

"One can never be too careful around men like Cinquedea," he said quietly.

"You think he might betray us to the Ten."

"I don't know. I'd like to think not; after all, Walsingham surely wouldn't have led us astray on purpose."

"Walsingham's an old man, and hasn't been outside England in years. Things change."

"Exactly. Which is why we need to be on our guard."

They padded down the marble staircase and let themselves out into the street. There were few people about at this hour, since the Venetians preferred to eat supper late. The scent of garlic and hot oil drifted on the air. Ned's stomach rumbled loudly.

"I thought you already ate?" Mal said, leading the way towards the traghetto at San Toma.

"I did. And now I'm hungry again."

"Gabriel won't like it if you grow a paunch."

"I'll just lose it again in England, unless we have a better harvest this year."

By the time they reached Campo San Toma the sun was sinking behind the church, bathing the city in amber light. Several barefoot children were running around the stone wellhead, shrieking with laughter, but Mal looked about as cheerful as a man going to his own funeral.

"Strange, isn't it?" Ned said, trying to lighten the mood.

"What's strange?"
"Finding out Charles has been here all this time, alive and well. I remember you once saying you'd gladly slit his throat and dump his body on a midden for what he did to Sandy."

"I have more important things to think about than petty revenge."

"Still, when this is all over–"

"Never look beyond the next battle."

"Is that how you see this meeting with Lord Kiiren? As a battle?"

Mal halted in the blackness under a sottoportego. "Kiiren–"

He paused as two passing women broke off their gossip to eye them suspiciously. Ned slipped his arms around Mal's waist and pulled him closer, treating the women to his best salacious grin. The elder of the two muttered in disgust to her companion and turned pointedly away.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Mal asked when the women were out of earshot.

"It gave them something else to fix their suspicions on, didn't it? Anyway, what were you saying?"

"What I think I was going to say, before I was so…" He grimaced, extracted himself from Ned's embrace and set off again "…is: Kiiren is a foreign ambassador and puts his own people first, never forget that."

"But he will help us, right?"

"I certainly hope so."

The gondola ferry was waiting at its jetty, a lamp hanging from its stern. They paid the ferryman and climbed in. Mal hunched down, feeling horribly exposed out on the water. In the distance he could see a blaze of moving lights that indicated one of the barche longhe, the slender armed galleys in which the sbirri patrolled the canals. It was a relief to step ashore in San Marco before the galley reached them.

CHAPTER XXIV

Rio Tera degli Assassini turned out to be a short cobbled street with a fetid canal running across its far end. A gondola was moored to a rotting timber, a cloaked and hooded figure at its oar, like the ferryman of the underworld. Mal paused at the near end, his hand on the hilt of his rapier, and scanned the shadows. If this were a trap…

"Good evening, gentlemen." Another hooded figure rose from the gondola and stepped ashore. "Easy, there. We're all friends."