The Merchant of Dreams

by Anne Lyle

  “So, you have a plan for getting us in to see Lord Kiiren?” he said, trying to take his mind off the subject of guisers.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “I think we’re being followed, or at least watched and reported on.” He wiped his hands on a napkin and got to his feet.

  “It’s no more than we expected,” Ned replied. “It’s what I’d do if a foreigner moved into our street back home.”

  “Quite. So, I think it’s time to apply the second rule of fencing.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Make your opponent believe he knows where you will strike next. Then hit him somewhere quite different.”

  “What’s the first rule?”

  “Get him before he gets you.”

  “I like that rule better,” Ned replied, grinning. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to give them something to think about, something that will throw them off the scent for a while.” He paused in the doorway. “I want them to think I’m in Venice to look for my brother Charles.”

  Whether through luck or a growing familiarity with the layout of the main streets, they eventually found themselves at their destination: a tavern on the main waterfront that Berowne said was frequented by Englishmen seeking news from home. Mal reckoned it was unlikely he would find Charles there, but on the other hand it would make his feigned search seem genuine enough, and in any case he had a more pressing reason to visit this establishment in particular.

  “You know there’s one small problem with this plan,” Ned said as they approached the door.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “What if you do find Charles? What then?”

  Mal didn’t answer. Truth is, I don’t know. Kicking the shit out of him would be a good start, though.

  The Mermaid looked much like any other Venetian house, having an elegant stucco facade painted a golden yellow, with arched windows and doorway picked out in white stone. Above the door hung a carved sign in the shape of a mermaid, with a gilded tail and hair and holding a real silvered mirror that flashed in the sunlight.

  “Don’t forget,” Mal said in a low voice as they approached the door, “not a word about the skraylings unless someone else mentions them first. And if they do, don’t sound too interested. We don’t want Raleigh’s name linked to them in any way.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Ned muttered. “You’re not the only one to work for… our mutual acquaintance, you know.”

  “Good. Well then.”

  Stepping over the threshold, it was as if they had been magically transported back to London. The tavern was packed to bursting, and the combined stink of unwashed bodies, stale beer and tobacco smoke was enough to fell an ox.

  “Quite the home away from home,” Mal said, pushing his way through the crowd.

  Contrary to Mal’s first impression, no more than half the sailors were English. He heard snatches of French, German, mainland Italian dialects, Slavic, Greek and Turkish, and saw many swarthy faces – and not a few that were as dark as any Moor’s. The city’s black-clad natives stood out like crows in an aviary of parrots, sipping glasses of wine and looking nervous, whilst all around them the sailors laughed and sang and swore, making the most of their shore-leave before the next voyage. There were plenty of whores to go round, even more than in a typical English tavern, and that was saying something. Venice’s reputation as a city of vice was not undeserved.

  He halted in the middle of the taproom.

  “Gentlemen!” A few of the sailors looked around. Mal hooked a nearby stool with his foot and stepped onto it. It rocked a little, but that only served to attract the attention of a few more, some of whom laughed. Perfect. He stretched out his arms, like an actor addressing his audience. “Gentlemen, I am newly arrived from London and seeking my long-lost brother, Charles Catlyn. A beer to any man who can bring me news of him.”

  Before the crowd had time to react, he leapt down from the stool and beckoned to a skinny youth with the beginnings of a moustache.

  “Boy, two pints of your best beer!” He gave him some coppers for the beer, and slipped in a silver lira amongst them. Lowering his voice, he added, “Tell Cinquedea a friend is here from London and would like to speak with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Master Catlyn?”

  Mal turned to see three men in baggy hose and round hats seated a table by the wall. One of them, a short broad-shouldered fellow with a reddish beard, beckoned to Mal.

  “Come and join our game, if you will, sir.”

  “I will, and gladly,” Mal said, taking a seat beside him.

  Ned took a seat next to one of the sailors and they made their introductions. The dealer grinned at the new arrivals with tobacco-stained teeth and began distributing cards. Mal scooped up his hand: five cards, Italian in design. The coins on the table were mostly denari, similar to English pennies in appearance but far lower in value. Perfect for a cheap evening’s wager.

  “Do you have change for one of these?” Mal pulled out the least valuable coin he could find in Raleigh’s purse.

  The dealer examined it briefly, then counted out two dozen denari. Mal gave half to Ned and placed one of his own in the central pool. The dealer turned the top card from the deck.

  “Wands are trumps,” he announced, and gestured for Ned to make the first play.

  The pot-boy turned up with two tankards of beer, and gave Mal a nod as he set them down. Mal inclined his head in acknowledgement and settled down to wait.

  “So, you are new come to Venice, sir?” one of the sailors asked.

  “Aye, two days ago. And yourselves, good sirs?’

  “Been here a week,” one of them said. “Heading home soon, God willing. Though we do hear–” he leant forward across the table “–that Sir Walter Raleigh’s in town, and looking for new crew.”

  “I fear you’re mistook,” Mal said. “Master Raleigh’s ship left Venice just after we disembarked.”

  “That Will Frampton always were a liar,” the dealer said. “Come on, Ben; play or renege.”

  A black-clad Venetian approached their table, his genial smile at odds with his sombre attire.

  “May I join you, signori?” he asked, though his eyes never left Mal. When no one objected, he drew up a stool and sat down next to Mal. “Permit me to introduce myself. Marco da Canal, at your service.”

  “Good to meet you, Master da Canal.”

  Da Canal inclined his head. “The pleasure is all mine, signore.”

  “So, you have news of my brother?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” Mal glanced at his hand and discarded the two of coins.

  “I do not know a man called…”

  “Catlyn, Charles Catlyn. Though I’m told he goes by the name of Carlo Catalin these days.”

  “Catalin, quite so. I do not know a man by this name, and yet you have a familiar look. Perhaps if you told me a little more, I could match the face to a name.”

  Mal took a sip of beer. Was this Walsingham’s man, or an intelligencer in the pay of… who knows whom?

  “My brother is forty years old or so, about my height but with light brown hair. He left England four years ago, and I have not heard from him since.”

  Da Canal made a sympathetic noise. “And you are both from London?”

  “No, Derbyshire. Place called Rushdale.”

  “But you have been to London?”

  “Aye, I lived there for a while.” He realised it was his turn, and played another card absentmindedly whilst watching the Venetian out of the corner of his eye. Now he reveals himself…

  “Then you must be familiar with the sanuti,” Da Canal said.

  “Sanuti?” It was the name the gondolier had given to the skraylings’ residence. Il Fondaco dei Sanuti.

  “The strangers from the New World.”

  “The skraylings? I have seen them on occasion, certainly,” Mal said.
<
br />   “You know they are here in Venice?”

  Mal feigned indifference, but he noticed that Da Canal leant fractionally closer, his eyes narrowing. Well, two can play at that game.

  “I did think I saw one of their ships at anchor,” Mal replied, slurring the words just a little, “but I wasn’t certain.”

  He drained his tankard with an exaggerated gesture, though in truth it was nearly empty, and beckoned to a serving man.

  “Allow me,” Da Canal said, and gave the servant a coin. “Never let it be said that we do not know how to welcome visitors to our city.”

  “You are too kind,” Mal replied, holding up his tankard to be refilled.

  “Here, are you playing or not?” One of the sailors leant across the table, jabbing the stem of his pipe at Mal.

  “Nay.” Mal threw down his cards, narrowly missing a puddle of beer. “My luck is all ill.”

  The dealer shrugged and slipped Mal’s cards under the bottom of the deck. “Better odds for the rest of us, eh, lads?”

  The sailors went back to their game, and Mal gestured to Ned to continue.

  “I heard Signore Raleigh stayed behind in Venice after his ship departed,” Da Canal murmured. “Is that so?”

  “Aye. What of it?”

  “Perhaps since you travelled with him, you know his purpose.”

  Mal leant forward, blinking at Da Canal in feigned drunkenness.

  “Signore Raleigh, as you call him, thinks of only one thing,” he said with a leer. “Her Divine Majesty. And her lack of a husband.”

  “Really? But she is much older than him, is she not?”

  “When did that ever matter, where money and power is involved?”

  “Then he would break up the skraylings’ proposed alliance to win the favour of his queen?”

  Mal laughed. So that’s da Canal’s game. “Sir Walter? He is no politician. He thinks only of wooing the Queen with fine gifts.”

  Da Canal leant back in his seat. “Then he has come to the right place.”

  Mal felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned. A skinny girl was smiling down at him, her face painted rose and white, with scarlet lips and pupils large as a cat at dusk. No, not a girl… a boy in girl’s attire. The boy-whore leaned in and whispered in Mal’s ear.

  “Cinquedea.”

  Mal looked at him quizzically, and the boy beckoned.

  “Excuse me, Signore da Canal,” Mal said, and winked at the Venetian. “I think I have… business elsewhere.”

  Da Canal smiled thinly. “Of course.”

  Ned was looking daggers at him, but there was no time to explain. He followed the boy out of the taproom and up a rickety flight of stairs. By his companion’s mincing walk and the clop-clop of his footsteps, Mal guessed he was wearing chopines, the high-soled overshoes that were so fashionable amongst ladies.

  They emerged from the stairs into a large room divided into stalls by low wooden walls, more like a stable than a human dwelling. From several of the stalls came the sounds of the inn’s other whores at business, and Mal began to wonder if he had misheard Walsingham after all.

  The boy led him past the rutting couples to a door at the far end, and ushered him inside. The room was dark despite the early hour, and Mal paused on the threshold, hand on his dagger hilt. When no attack came, he breathed again. The door closed behind him, and he heard the boy’s footsteps retreating.

  “Signore Catalin.” The sound came from the shadows; a young man’s voice, steel-edged and deadly as its namesake.

  “Cinquedea?”

  “You asked to speak with me. So speak.”

  “I was given your name by Sir Francis Walsingham,” Mal said. “He told me you work for an old friend of his, the Blind Lacemaker.”

  His eyes were starting to adjust to the gloom, and he could now make out a dark shape standing to one side of the shuttered window. Not a tall man, but solidly built. Was Cinquedea the Lacemaker? It would explain why they were meeting in the dark, where a blind man would have an advantage.

  “A friend, is that how he describes her?”

  Her?

  “Still, they must be of an age, grandmama and he,” Cinquedea went on. “I have often wondered if they were lovers, though my grandfather would have killed him if had found out.”

  “Your grandmother?” Mal was unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “You have a queen in England. She is past her sixtieth year, I believe.”

  “Two years since,” Mal replied.

  “My grandmother is queen of her own little realm. But we digress. What business of England’s brings you here?”

  Mal cleared his throat. “I need to speak to the skrayling ambassador. Sir Francis is… concerned about their purpose here, and there seems no other way to discover it.”

  “I would have thought their purpose is obvious: to negotiate a trade agreement with the Doge and council.”

  “True. But my government wishes to be forewarned of any progress.”

  “Why should we help you? Increased trade will be of great benefit to Venice.”

  “I do not think Sir Francis would have told me about you unless he believed you would help.”

  Cinquedea stepped forward. He was not much older than Mal, though already greying at the temples. Handsome as his namesake as well, with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes that were most certainly not blind.

  “I will take the matter to my grandmother,” the Venetian said, “and send you word of her decision. You are staying at the English embassy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Expect my reply within a few days.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cinquedea bowed curtly and retreated into the shadows. Somewhere far off, a bell tinkled, and Mal heard the clop-clop of footsteps approach the door.

  “Good day, Signore Catalin.”

  Mal followed the boy back down to the taproom, and signalled to Ned that it was time to leave.

  “I think we should be going, gentlemen,” Ned said loudly. “Captain Raleigh will be expecting us for dinner.”

  He made his farewells to the company and followed Mal out of the inn.

  “What the hell was all that about?” he asked, as Mal paused to piss in an alley-mouth. “Have you been lying to me all these years? Is Hendricks really a boy after all?”

  “The boy was just a messenger,” Mal replied, just loud enough to be heard over the splashing noise. “I could hardly meet openly with… my hoped-for ally.” He shook off the last drop and buttoned up his slops.

  “And who is this ally? Christ’s balls, Mal, you’ve become as close-mouthed as a banker’s purse since you came back from France. We used to be the best of friends…”

  “And still are.” Mal put an arm around his shoulder. “If I keep secrets, it’s only for your own safety.”

  As they walked along the quayside, a sleek gondola with a gilded prow drew up. A hand emerged from the gauzy curtains of the central cabin, and beckoned to Mal. An elegant, dark-skinned female hand. He swallowed, his mouth dry as tinder.

  “What’s she doing here?” Ned muttered.

  The curtains parted to reveal Olivia, dressed in copper-coloured silk that shimmered like a last glimpse of the sun setting over the Grand Canal. She had shed her mask in favour of an ostrich-feather fan, which she fluttered over her breasts in a manner that didn’t so much hide them as draw the eye to them like a needle to a lodestone.

  “Signore Catalin, what a lovely surprise. Please, join me.”

  Mal swept a bow. “Alas, my lady, I wish I dared. But your patron would not look kindly upon it, I fear.”

  She pouted prettily and sighed. “Je suis desolée.”

  “As am I, my lady.”

  “Perhaps you would dare to attend another evening party? I have guests tonight; you need not fear visiting me alone.”

  Mal noted the ambiguity of her words, and smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

  She raised her fan to cover her answering s
mile, but above it her jade-green eyes sparkled with triumph. Mal watched the gondola join the stream of craft heading towards the entrance to the Grand Canal, then turned back towards St Mark’s Square.

  “What are you doing?” Ned said, scurrying after him. “I thought you’d vowed to stay away from her?”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he replied. “Machiavelli said: ‘There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.’ I intend to take his advice.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Mal disembarked from the hired gondola and paused on the threshold of Ca’ Ostreghe. It was over a year since Jathekkil had poked around in his head for memories he could use against him, and still it woke him in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The prospect of coming up against another such monster made his stomach curdle, but he could not hide his head under the blankets like a frightened child and hope they went away. He adjusted his mask and stepped inside.

  A cold wind was blowing down from the Alps tonight, and Olivia’s garden was dark and empty. Instead the eunuch guard indicated wordlessly for Mal to follow him up to the piano nobile, where a log fire held the unseasonable chill at bay and dozens of candles bathed the room in a memory of sunlight. Olivia sat on a gilded chair reading poetry, whilst a number of admirers perched on stools around her. Bragadin leaned against the marble fireplace with an air of studied indifference; evidently he valued Olivia more as an ornament to his own reputation than for herself.

  “Ah, Signore Catalin!” Bragadin stepped forward. With his face half-hidden behind the mask, his smile looked forced and insincere. “I did not know you had been invited.”

  “I chanced to meet La Margherita,” Mal said, “whilst I was about my own business, and I confessed to her that I was weary of Raleigh’s company after so many weeks at sea.”

  Bragadin’s smile was more genuine this time. “Signore Raleigh is a simple man of action, I suppose.”

  “Alas so.”

  “And yet he comes all the way to Venice for a gift for your queen. A man of contradictions.”

  “I observed as much on first meeting him,” Mal said. “But perhaps such grand gestures are of a piece with his temperament.”

  “May I ask what brings you to Venice, if you are not of his following?”