The Merchant of Dreams

by Anne Lyle

  Gabriel looked from one to the other in confusion. “What’s ‘his doing’?”

  Coby sighed. “The commedia players I saw yesterday are conveniently in need of two actors. A man and a woman.”

  “Women play on the Italian stage?” Gabriel asked.

  “Oh yes. And in France too. It is only in England that women are forbidden to perform.”

  “The English honour skrayling custom in that regard,” Sandy added.

  “Whatever the reason,” Coby went on, glaring at Sandy, “we now have a choice. Continue with my plan, or try to join the commedia.”

  “But there are three of us,” Gabriel said. “And none of us speaks Italian.”

  “Which is all the more reason to join an existing troupe,” Sandy said. “We will be less conspicuous amongst them than by ourselves.”

  “It’s really up to Hendricks,” Gabriel said with a sympathetic smile. “She is the one who must discard her current guise, as well as learn to act.”

  The two men looked at her expectantly.

  “Very well,” she said after a moment. “But only because I had been thinking about it already. And I will need your help, Master Parrish. I… I need to learn womanly manners if I am to do this properly.”

  “Of course.”

  “The gown I bought is rather plain; I think I should buy something to brighten it up a little before we approach the players. And you two ought to look a bit more like actors as well.” She weighed the purse in her pocket. “If there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s clothe a theatre company for next to nothing.”

  Choosing a pretty shawl for herself in the market was easy enough, but Venetian men’s fashions were terribly sombre; not at all the sort of flamboyant clothing needed to make them look like actors. Eventually she found a couple of pairs of yellow stockings for the men, some dyed feathers to put in Gabriel’s hat, and two striped and fringed scarves that would do for a number of uses. Satisfied at last, she returned to the inn with her haul and the two men began changing into their new clothes.

  “These were the best I could find,” she said, taking Gabriel’s hat and pinning the feathers in place.

  “They look splendid,” Gabriel said with a smile. “I had a hat rather like that, back in Southwark.”

  He looked a lot stronger today, and was walking about the room unaided, though with a pronounced limp. The stockings did little to hide the bandages on his calf, however, and Coby prayed the wounds wouldn’t bleed through.

  Sandy finished dressing and struck a dramatic pose. Stripped to his shirt sleeves and with one of the scarves tied around his waist like a sash, he cut a dashing figure: an eastern prince, perhaps, or a noble bandit who, like Robin Hood, only stole from those who could afford it. She wondered if he had ever acted before, and if so, whether skrayling plays were very different from English or Italian ones. Mostly she prayed he would not embarrass them or cause trouble. He had done enough as it was.

  “Out, out!” she said when they were done. “I’m not going to change into this gown in front of you, you know.”

  Gabriel apologised, and Sandy helped him down the stairs to the taproom. Coby bolted the door behind them and stripped down to her stockings and drawers. The latter she was not willing to discard, skirts or no, though she did extract the tool roll and stow it under the mattress. She slipped into the petticoat, thankful that she’d chosen a style that laced up the front. Halfway through the lacing she realised she ought to try and plump up her breasts, rather than flattening them as she usually did. Not that there was a lot to work with, but the bodice was surprisingly effective. She stared down at the unfamiliar prospect for several moments. Sweet Jesu, what will Mal think when he sees me like this? She hurriedly pulled on the gown, and arranged the shawl to cover what the bodice exposed. There, much better.

  She slipped into her shoes, drew the bolt and drew a deep breath before opening the door. Well, nothing else for it. Holding the edge of the scarf tight against her chest, she made her way down to the taproom.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Mal managed to deflect Ned’s questions about his dealings with Olivia for two days, mostly by ensuring they were never alone together. He let Berowne take them on a tour of the city, including a visit to the basilica of St Mark’s, which surpassed even Mal’s expectations. The lower half of the building was splendid enough, with its fine marble paving and Herculean pillars, but when he looked up… Every inch of the ceiling was gilded, so that it gleamed in the candlelight like a treasure-cave. Even the gilding itself was merely the backdrop to hundreds of mosaics depicting saints and Bible stories, their figures rendered in the flat Eastern style that betrayed the city’s past connections with Constantinople.

  “I used to think the preachers exaggerated,” Ned muttered as they followed Berowne into yet another side chapel.

  “Oh?”

  “About the richness of the churches, before King Henry broke with Rome.”

  Mal smiled. “I doubt any English cathedral was ever a tenth as grand, even then.”

  Berowne launched into a description of the chapel ceiling, oblivious to the satiety of his companions.

  “I suppose you’re going to see her again tonight,” Ned whispered.

  “What of it?”

  “We’re supposed to be here on business, not pleasure.”

  “Can I not combine the two?”

  “She has bewitched you, this guiser whore.”

  “Olivia is not a whore,” Mal said, more loudly than he’d intended. An old woman who had been lighting a candle in the chapel glared at him and blew out her taper with a huff of disgust.

  “So tell me what you’ve learned,” Ned said, “and why this war has suddenly become a truce.”

  Mal sighed. “Very well. But not here. When we get back to the embassy, then I’ll tell you.”

  “You swear.”

  “I swear. Now, look sharp. I think Berowne has found another interesting mosaic.”

  Ned rolled his eyes, and Mal chuckled in sympathy. This was going to be a long day.

  Ned closed the attic door behind him.

  “Well?”

  Mal sat down on the end of the bed but immediately rose again, went to the window and closed the shutters against the noonday sun.

  “Olivia’s not our enemy,” Mal said quietly. “In fact I think she may be our best ally in the city.”

  “What?”

  “She has convinced me she has only good intentions–”

  “Hah. And people say I’m the one who thinks with my prick.”

  “You think I trust her because I–…”

  “Because you’re fucking her? Are you?”

  Mal’s expression was indistinct in the shadows, but the hunch of his shoulders implied guilt.

  “I might have known,” Ned muttered. When Mal made no reply, he added, “So, how is your new paramour going to help us?”

  “She doesn’t want the skraylings in Venice any more than England does. In fact she’s terrified they’re here to hunt her down. The only reason she trusts me is because…” He sighed. “I told her about Erishen.”

  “Sandy?”

  “No, I’ve managed to keep that from her so far, though God knows for how much longer.”

  “And you?” Ned went over to him and, taking Mal’s head between his hands, stared into his eyes. “What of you? Is the Mal I know and love still in there?”

  “Of course.”

  His voice was as rough as his beard, and sent the same shiver down to Ned’s groin. Not now, said the unwelcome voice of reason. Ned released him.

  “You still haven’t answered my question. How is she going to help us?”

  “By getting the Venetians to look the other way whilst we conduct our business here.”

  “She can do that?”

  “She’s a guiser. An old one. And she is by no means mad, nor evil. She keeps the Grand Council and even the Ten in check; if she does so behind the scenes, well, can you fault her? No one in Chris
tendom wants to hear they are being ruled by a five hundred year-old creature from the New World.”

  “Hmm.” Ned chewed his lip. “Even if she does help us, what’s the price? Your soul?”

  “No price. I’ve told you, she wants the skraylings gone. But…” Ned’s heart sank. Here it comes… “She has asked me to do her a small kindness–”

  “Apart from the fucking?”

  “Enough, for Christ’s sake, Ned!”

  Ned recoiled at the fury in Mal’s voice. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “There is a man in her service, a patrician named Giambattista Bragadin. Through him she provides secrets to those requiring leverage over her enemies, and they share the fees.”

  “This is that Merchant fellow you were talking about?”

  “Yes. Her problem is that she suspects Bragadin of plotting against her. She wants me to follow him and observe his dealings.”

  “So why doesn’t she just use her sorcery to rummage around in his head? Guisers can do that, right?”

  “That’s why she suspects him. Bragadin has obtained a spirit-guard and is using it to keep her out of his dreams.”

  “So you’re going to spy on him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Very.”

  “I’m in.” Ned grinned at him.

  “What?”

  “I’m in. You don’t think I’m going to sit at home and let you get into trouble all by yourself, do you?”

  Mal sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to stop you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Very well. Meet me at sunset in the Winged Lion. It’s a taverna in San Marco, not far from Palazzo Bragadin.” Mal bent to unfasten his knapsack. “I have to see Olivia first.”

  “A daytime visit? Isn’t that a little… conspicuous?”

  “Why do you think I have this?” Mal held up a mask. “A convenient little fashion. Anyone would think this city was ruled through intrigue.”

  He picked up a long hooded cloak and headed for the door.

  Ned rubbed his hands together, jealousy forgotten. A little night-work, that was more like it. Best not to think who they were doing it for, only the ultimate goal. Finish their business here, and go home.

  Mal walked through the Venetian dusk towards his rendezvous with Ned, exhausted in mind and body from his session with Olivia. Dreamwalking required practice and discipline as demanding as swordplay and, contrary to Ned’s slurs, did not include any further carnal pleasures, at least not today. Olivia told him that for true mastery he needed to keep his thoughts and passions separate until he could command them both. Later, she promised, they could repeat the blissful experience of that first joining, and without unwelcome memories intruding.

  As he crossed yet another little square, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and halted. A squad of a dozen red-clad sbirri, the constables who patrolled Venice, were escorting several sullen young men in the direction of St Mark’s. Seeing an open space, one of them tried to make a break for it but was brought down and beaten into submission before the procession continued on its way.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Mal said to a passing workman, “what was all that about?”

  “Fighting on the bridges again. Those boys never learn.” His voice was tinged with pride rather than condemnation. He looked Mal up and down and his eyes narrowed. “You a Castellano?”

  Mal hesitated. Berowne had warned him about the factionalism dividing the city: the Nicoletti in the west and the Castellani in the east. From time to time fighting broke out between the young men of the two factions and could rapidly devolve into full-scale riots if not checked. San Marco was Castellani territory.

  “I’m staying in Santa Croce,” he said at last, “so I suppose that makes me one of the Nicoletti.”

  “You take care then, sir, if you know what’s good for you.” The workman hoisted his bag of tools a little higher and went on his way.

  Mal set off again, and a few minutes later found himself at the Winged Lion. The taverna was quiet, just a couple of old men playing chess and sipping wine. Mal had the feeling they came here every morning for the companionship and did not leave until curfew. Ned was in the opposite corner, playing a solo card game on a well-scrubbed table.

  “You took your time,” he said. “It’s a good job these Venetians don’t drink much. I’d have been thrown out of an English alehouse for nursing a flagon all afternoon.” He gathered up his cards and drained his cup. “After you.”

  They made their way through the darkening streets of San Marco, Mal following the image of the route that Olivia had shown him at the end of their lesson. It had been strange to walk through a hazy simulacrum of the city, but less strange than walking the very real and solid streets and recognising places he had never been before. He began to see the true power of the skraylings, to communicate in ways that men scarcely dreamed of.

  “No mask, then?” Ned asked as they trotted side by side up the steps of a small bridge.

  “I thought it too noticeable,” Mal replied. “It hides a man’s face, but also marks him out as a person of note, since only patricians are allowed to wear them freely. This way we are just ordinary citizens going about our business.”

  “And what if we’re recognised?”

  “Bragadin has never seen you before, and I have my own defence.” He pulled up the hood on his cloak.

  Palazzo Bragadin was a substantial building on the far side of San Marco, deep into Castellani territory. Its façade overlooked one of the larger tributaries of the Grand Canal, whilst the rear entrance gave onto a small narrow square with a well in the centre.

  “Should we not watch from the canal side?” Ned murmured as they strolled idly through the square. Around them, shopkeepers were dismantling stalls and barring their shutters. “I thought the grander folk of Venice travelled everywhere by boat.”

  “So they do. However, I would expect Bragadin to deal with this business through an intermediary, and whether here or elsewhere, that is best not done through the front door.”

  “He could conduct his negotiations through letters, and we’d be none the wiser.”

  Mal shook his head. “This is not the sort of matter one commits to paper, even enciphered. After all, a cipher common enough to be known by his clients would be as good as useless. So–” he glanced around, conscious of being overheard “–we watch the servants’ entrance for any suspicious comings or goings.”

  “And how are we going to lie in wait? We should have disguised ourselves as beggars or something.”

  “No. The beggars are bound to know every one of their kind in the parish; our arrival on their territory would only spark trouble.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Mal smiled. “The way has been prepared for us.”

  He paused at a door opposite the palazzo and knocked. After a few moments it opened and an old man squinted up at them, the lamplight gleaming on his bald pate.

  “Signori?”

  “We have come to visit our cousin,” Mal said to him in Italian.

  “Of course, sirs, come in.”

  They followed him inside, into a narrow passage smelling of mildew. Somewhere up above, a woman was singing, a repetitive song that sounded like a lullaby. The old man ushered them through a side door into a low-ceilinged room lit only by the faint glow of lanterns from the street. It appeared to be a disused storeroom, empty but for the remains of a wine barrel in one corner, rotting gently into the layer of must and slime that covered the tiled floor. Mal thanked the man, and he and Ned crossed carefully to the narrow barred window that looked out onto the street.

  “Now we wait,” Mal said softly. He peered through the grimy glass, resisting the temptation to clean it to get a better view. He wanted to leave no sign of their presence here, in case they had to return tomorrow night.

  They did not have long to wait; before the bells had tolled the first hour after sunset, a small do
or just along the street opened, and a cloaked and hooded figure of Bragadin’s height and build emerged. On such a mild night, there was only one reason to be going abroad so concealed. Mal led the way back to the front door of the house and opened it a crack. As soon as Bragadin turned into the square, Mal slipped out and beckoned for Ned to follow him. They padded to the end of the street and halted at the corner.

  The square was still busy with men making their way home after work, so Mal stepped out and walked briskly in the same direction Bragadin was taking. Their quarry turned right and right again, then southwards towards St Mark’s Square. Mal hunched his head as he walked, conscious that he was markedly taller than most Italians, though it did at least give him a good view over the crowds. Fortunate, since he almost missed Bragadin making a sharp right turn towards the Rialto Bridge.

  “What… if we lose him?” Ned panted as they strode up the long low steps.

  “Don’t worry, I think I know where he might be going.”

  They followed Bragadin down the other side of the bridge and past the empty fish market, over a smaller bridge and left down a broad street, through a square and over another bridge, always heading north. For a moment Mal wondered if he was wrong and Bragadin was heading for the skraylings’ palazzo, though he couldn’t think of a reason why he should. So intent was he on this idea that he nearly lost Bragadin again as the man turned west instead of continuing north. At least, Mal thought it was west, judging by the last faint glow of the sky ahead of them. It was hard to be certain in this city.

  The stink of dyers’ vats announced their arrival in one of the poorer parts of the city, somewhere on the border between San Polo and Santa Croce but far from the English embassy. The sort of place a patrician like Bragadin would never frequent, and therefore the perfect place for Il Mercante to conduct his business.

  A few minutes later they emerged into a large square in front of a church composed mainly of round towers like a castle’s. Halfway across the square Bragadin turned left down a narrow street.