The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(93)

At last the three men finished their business, and Mal could now only wish it had taken them longer. The chancellor rang a small bell that stood on the desk, and after a few moments two guards entered the room. The chancellor motioned towards Mal's cell. Mal made the sign of the cross and muttered a last prayer. The door of his cell was unlocked and the guard beckoned for him to come out. Mal decided to oblige him; if he struggled, it would not help his case and would only unman Ned entirely. He therefore stepped forth calmly and allowed the guards to escort him to the bench. The chancellor peered down at him with eyes yellowed and bloodshot by long years and too many late nights.

"Your name?"

"Maliverny Catlyn, sir."

The man to the chancellor's right began taking notes, glancing up at Mal from time to time.

"You are English?" the chancellor went on.

"On my father's side. My mother was French, but I was brought up in England."

"And what brings you to the Serene Republic?"

Mal swallowed. "I am looking for my elder brother, Charles. He fled overseas some years ago."

"It says here–" the chancellor picked up a letter "–that you were seen fleeing the scene of a murder. Yesterday evening, in Calle di Mezzo in Santa Croce."

"A lie," Mal said evenly. "Who so accuses me?"
The chancellor handed the letter to the guard, who gave it to Mal. The handwriting was uneven, the work of a man unaccustomed to it. The signature at the bottom was an illegible scrawl, countersigned by other hands equally hard to make out.

"Several citizens of the parish saw you," the chancellor said, "and did their civic duty."

Or were bribed to do so by Trevisan's friend? Once the identity of the dead men got out, it would not have been hard to link a tall silent stranger to Bragadin via Olivia, and a foreigner made an easy scapegoat.

"Do you still deny it?" Surian went on.

"I had no part in Signore Bragadin's death. That was the work of another man."

"His name."

"I don't know. He was with Trevisan, but it was dark–"

"How convenient, to lay the blame on a man of whom we have found no trace." Surian leaned forward. "You say you did not kill Bragadin. What about Trevisan?"

Mal said nothing, unwilling to condemn himself. The chancellor flicked a pale hand towards the guards, who took hold of Mal's arms and led him towards the steps.

"It is the truth, on my honour!" Mal could not help crying out as they pushed him to the foot of the steps.

His hands were pulled behind his back and bound tightly together, then he was shoved up the steps. He was now looking down on the inquisitors, but this was no vantage point.

"Again. What about Trevisan?" the chancellor asked in patient tones. "Did you kill him?"

"Yes," Mal whispered.

"A little louder, please. I fear my hearing is not what it was."

"Yes, I killed Pietro Trevisan. But it was an accident. He ran onto my dagger."

Surian chuckled, a dry sound like a rusty gallows-cage. "An accident. Ah, how many give that excuse."

The chancellor made a curt gesture, and one of the guards mounted the steps behind Mal and attached the rope around his wrists to the one hanging from the ceiling. Mal steeled himself for what would come next.

The strappado was a simple torture device, but highly effective. The victim was lifted by his bound arms until his entire weight hung from them, twisted up behind his back as they were. The pain was said to be unbearable. And even if he bore it, he did not trust Ned not to talk in order to spare him. His friend was too soft of heart for this business.

"Again. Why did you murder two of our eminent citizens? What is your purpose in our city?"

"I seek my brother, Charles, who fled England leaving our family ruined."

The guard pulled on the free end of the rope, lifting his arms higher. It was not yet tight, but still the anticipation left him trembling with dread. He tried to swallow, but his throat was drawn tight as a noose.

"One last time, Englishman. Why have you come to Venice?"

Mal shook his head, and the guard tugged on the rope. Mal stifled a grunt of pain as his arms were raised at an uncomfortable angle, forcing him to lean forward. He teetered on the top step, heart pounding, then regained his balance. He stood there, breathing heavily for a moment, knowing that far worse was about to come. The chancellor cleared his throat, ready to ask again.

"Stop! I'll tell you anything you want to know," Ned shouted.

The chancellor nodded at the guard, and Mal's breath caught in his throat as he was lifted onto the balls of his feet. The muscles of his shoulders and upper arms burned as they began to take his weight. The guard hauled on the rope and Mal screamed. A moment later the rope slackened just enough for his flailing feet to gain purchase on the steps once more. He sucked in a shuddering breath.

"I put it to you," the chancellor said, "that you are an English spy, perhaps even an assassin, sent to interfere with the negotiations between the Venetian Republic and the sanuti."

"No," Mal gasped. "I am here to find my brother and take him back to England. The murder was a chance meeting, an accident…"

The chancellor lifted his hand, but before the guard could respond, someone entered the chamber and crossed quickly to the bench. Mal looked up, blinking away tears of agony. The secretary had returned and now spoke in low tones to the chancellor and handed him a letter. The chancellor read it, his expression changing gradually from open irritation to barely concealed fury. At last he seemed to recall his surroundings, and made a chopping motion towards Mal. The guard let go of the rope and Mal tumbled from the steps to lie in a panting, shivering heap on the wooden floor.