The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(90)

"I see." He looked her up and down, his eyes narrowing.

"Is he here?"

"Catlyn? No."

"Oh. But he was here?"

"Certainly."

Coby looked up and down the street. "May I come in a moment, sir?"

Raleigh raised an eyebrow, but stood aside for her to enter. Coby stepped into the darkened atrium. A lone candle glinted on gilded picture frames and a short flight of marble stairs, but little else was visible in the gloom.

"May I ask when he will be back?"

"I have no notion. Probably away with that Moorish whore; I doubt he'll be back before morning."

Coby felt sick. Mal, visiting a prostitute? Well, she supposed she could not blame him, since she had held him at arm's length for so long.

Behind Raleigh the old servant, Jameson, wrung his hands and would not meet her eye. Was that what he was concealing? But why would he be so embarrassed about it in front of another manservant?

"And Ned…?" she asked.

"Faulkner went with him," Raleigh replied.

Coby hesitated. She didn't want to confide in Raleigh, but neither was she willing to leave the embassy with so little achieved.

"Did he receive my letter?"

"There was a letter, just this morning," Jameson said, "though I do not know its contents."

"Could I have paper and pen?" she asked. "I would like to leave him another one, just in case."

Raleigh muttered something under his breath but sent Jameson for writing materials. These brought, Coby leant over the little table, composing the message in her head. She didn't want Raleigh to know the whole of her communication with Mal, but on the other hand asking for sealing wax would have made him suspicious. A cipher, on the other hand, might pass without notice if it were subtle enough.

"Make haste," Raleigh snapped. "I have no wish to stand here all night. Or can you not write?"

"One moment, sir. I am not practised in the art, and must get my thoughts in order first."

Raleigh made a contemptuous noise and began pacing the atrium. Trying to ignore him, Coby began to write.

If it please your good grace, your brother sends greeting. He is anxious to be here soon, and will come with all haste to take possession of three ells of fine gold brocade embroidered with fishes. Only the finest in any great city north of Rome suffices; Venice must provide. J H IV.

There, that would have to do. She blew on the ink to dry it, then folded the sheet and handed it to Raleigh.

"One last thing, if I may, sir?"

"Well?"

"I spent the last of my wages getting here. If I do not get back to my lodgings before curfew, I will be arrested. I would not wish to embarrass the ambassador or his guests."

"Is that a threat, boy?" Raleigh turned scarlet. "Get out, before I have you whipped all the way back to your lodgings."

"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir."

"Raleigh? What's all this about?" A stout man in a crumpled velvet doublet limped down the stair; the ambassador, she guessed. "Who is this boy?"

"A servant of Catlyn's. He was just leaving."

"I meant no offence, sir," Coby said. "I was so hoping to find my master here, I quite forgot myself."

"Stay a while," the man said. "Doubtless your master will return before curfew."

"Alas, I ought to pass on the news to my companions, who have come all the way from England to… to see him, with important news of their own. But as I was telling Sir Walter, I have not enough money to get back to my lodgings."

"Then you shall have the use of my gondola. Jameson!"

The servant reappeared.

"Roust out Giuseppe or one of those other ne'er-dowells, and have him take this young fellow wheresoever he wishes. But be swift about it."

Raleigh gave Coby one last contemptuous look, and stamped off up the stairs.

"Thank you, my lord," she said to the ambassador, loud enough for Raleigh to hear. "You are most generous."

Mal shielded his eyes with his free hand. An armoured constable stood silhouetted against the lantern's light, a crossbow pointed at Mal's chest. To his left stood a wiry man of about thirty with thinning hair, wearing a blued steel breastplate over a crimson doublet, a sword hanging at his hip. Four more constables armed with pikes formed a cordon at the end of the street.

"Put up your sword, Master Catlyn," the captain said again, in perfect English with only the trace of an accent. "Or shall I have you shot somewhere painful but not fatal?"

After a moment's pause Mal slid the blade into its scabbard.

"Since you know my name, sir," he said, "perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me whom I address?"

"I am Francesco Venier, son of Lorenzo Venier. You and your servant are under arrest for the murder of Giambattista Bragadin and Pietro Trevisan."

Mal stared at Venier. Betrayed – but by whom? No one knew he was meeting Cinquedea here, no one except… Jameson. He had been there when the urchin delivered Cinquedea's message. But the old man knew nothing about their connection to the murders, did he?

Venier gestured to Mal's sword. "Your weapons, please. Both of you."

Mal reluctantly unbuckled his belt and handed over rapier and dagger. After a moment, Ned contributed his own knife. Venier paused to admire the swept hilt of the rapier, holding it up to the torchlight.