The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(45)

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“Because he lies. He says he has never been to Venice, and yet I would swear he is as Venetian as I am. I hear it in his voice.”

“Venetian? But why would he lie about something like that?”

“Because he is here to spy on you, perhaps?”

Coby turned away. Why would the Venetians want to spy on her? It had been years since her little adventure in the republic, and anyway if they were interested in anyone, it would be Mal. He was the one who had wrecked all their plans for an alliance with the skraylings. But perhaps they meant to get to him through her and Kit, just as the guisers had done. She sighed. The last thing they needed was more enemies. She would write to her husband immediately and warn him. No, perhaps it was better not to. Bartolomeo could be using his closeness to the princess to read the correspondence passing through her couriers. Better to wait, and watch, and listen. Mal knew how to be circumspect on his own account, and soon he would be here and she could warn him in person. God willing, she would not have to wait too long.





CHAPTER XII



“I could murder some ale,” Ned growled into his glass of mint tea.

Steam condensed on his face, mingling with the sweat that trickled down from his hairline. God’s teeth but he hated this place! He had thought Marseille hot enough, but al-Jaza’ir could have been the borderlands of Hell. Was, for all he knew. Perhaps one day the parched ground would open up to reveal firepits full of damned souls, and he would be taken down to the fate that he knew awaited all his kind.

“Who needs ale?” Gabriel murmured, opening the little wooden box in front of him. Inside nestled several cherry-sized balls of hashish, a local sweetmeat made from date paste, hemp leaves and spices.

Ned reached out with his good hand and closed the lid.

“You’ve had enough of that already.”

Gabriel squinted at him through gilt lashes. His high cheekbones were sun-scorched and flaking, and his fair hair bleached almost white, and yet he was as beautiful as ever, especially when he smiled. Nowadays though he only smiled after a morsel of hashish. The rest of the time he sank into melancholy, pining for his London friends – and the stage.

“All right.” Ned took his hand away. “But only one more. Youssef will thrash us from here to the New World and back if we come aboard anything less than sober.”

Gabriel paused with the sweetmeat halfway to his mouth.

“We’re going to the New World?”

“No, just back to Marseille. God’s teeth, Gabe, has that stuff stolen all your wits?”

The actor looked contrite and replaced the hashish in the box.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, love.”

“I’m sorry too. I wish I’d never dragged you into this mess.” He looked around the tavern, if you could call it that in the absence of strong drink. “What’s Youssef up to, anyway? I thought this was a quick in-and-out mission. Sell the goods, fill the hold and back to sea.”

Gabriel shrugged. “You know our captain.”

“Do we, though? He may be Mal’s friend, but he says little enough to the rest of us.”

“It’s not easy when he speaks no English.”

“True, but you speak a bit of French. Can’t you worm your way into his confidence?”

“To what end? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life scrubbing decks, Ned. We need to find proper work, something better suited to our talents.” He leaned closer. “Mal must know people in Paris. What if you write to him…?”

“And how is he to reply? He made us promise not to tell him where we are.”

Gabriel slumped back down in his seat, staring at the wooden box.

At that moment the curtain over the doorway lifted and Simon Danziger entered the tavern. Though only twenty years old, the Dutchman was already a seasoned member of the Hayreddin’s crew and its chief carpenter, having learned the craft from his father in Marseille. Danziger pulled off the scarf covering his straw-coloured hair and called for a pot of tea, and Ned beckoned him over to their table.

“What news?” Ned asked him as he pulled up a stool. “Do we sail soon?”

“Maybe,” the carpenter replied, his English accented with a mixture of southern France and his native Holland. “Capitain Youssef is still haggling over that consignment of fine leather.”

Gabriel pulled a face. Ned shot him a warning glance and poured Danziger a glass of tea.

“The better price he gets, the surer we are of another voyage, eh?”

“Maybe. Though perhaps I won’t be sailing with Youssef much longer.”

“Oh?” Gabriel leaned closer.

“I have a mind to start up here on my own account, if I can get the money together.” He blew on his tea, and gave them a conspiratorial wink. “Build some proper ships, not these old-fashioned galleys the Moors seem so wedded to. I’m sick of puttering around the Mediterranean; with a full-rigged pinnace or two we could venture out into the Atlantic and take on the whole world.”

“It’ll take you years to accumulate that much money, surely, even if we were to spend all our time preying on the Spanish.”

Danziger made a dismissive noise. “Youssef hasn’t the balls for the kind of venture I’m planning.”