The Merchant of Dreams

by Anne Lyle

  “Now we have him,” Mal whispered, halting by the well.

  “How so?”

  “If I’m right, this is the same place he was supposed to meet those men I overheard at Olivia’s. I scouted it out in daylight, and that street ends at a canal. I think he intends to meet someone who will arrive by gondola.”

  “And if he leaves with them?”

  “Then we have a problem. But I do not think he is fool enough to put himself into the hands of the men he is selling secrets to. He takes risks enough, dealing with them himself.”

  “Odd, that,” Ned said. “I’d use a go-between, for fear of being recognised. These men know him, right?”

  “Yes. But conspiracy makes men mistrustful. He cheats Olivia, and therefore does not trust any man not to do the same to him.”

  “Hmm. Well, we’ll have to get a bit closer than this if we want to find anything out. So far he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary, is he?”

  “No, he’s not. And I’m sure he’s chosen this spot because it’s somewhere his dealings cannot easily be overheard.”

  “That’s no help to us, then,” Ned muttered.

  “True. But his attention will be on the canal, not the street. He cannot be looking behind him at every sound without drawing attention to himself. So, we walk calmly down the street as if we were visiting someone, and hope to find a place to conceal ourselves in the shadows.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. So to speak.” He paused. “And speaking of speaking, don’t say a word once we enter the street. If these men hear us speak English, they may put two and two together.”

  “Right you are,” Ned replied, his expression comically serious. Mal prayed his friend would not forget himself, but there was nothing for it but to continue.

  He wrapped his cloak around him and set off across the square, Ned at his heels. Though he would not admit it, he was glad he had not come alone. One man by himself looked more suspicious than two, and if it came down to it they could pretend to be having an assignation of their own. He smiled to himself. Ned would enjoy that, perhaps a little too much.

  The street was dark at ground level, lit only by the faint glow of candles in the piani nobili above. Barred windows and closed doors lined both sides. At the far end Mal could make out a paler archway cutting through a tenement; the sottoportego that led to the canal. He strode as confidently as he dared through the darkness, finally pausing at a door fifteen yards or so from the archway, allowing his boots to scuff loudly on the worn paving stones. He laid his hand upon the door handle and pretended to fumble in his pockets for a key, meanwhile counting silently. One, two, three… When he reached twenty he stepped silently to one side and melted into a neighbouring doorway. A moment later Ned joined him, and they exchanged brief glances. Either it had worked and Bragadin thought them a pair of local men arriving home, or it hadn’t. They would soon find out.

  No sound came from the sottoportego, and at last Mal let out a slow breath. Now to wait. From the lights and noises above, the residents of this building were already home, and with any luck would stay there all night.

  He was just beginning to fear he was wrong and their quarry had given them the slip, when a soft thud of wood on stone announced the arrival of a gondola at the nearby steps. Beside him, Ned tensed.

  The scraping of shoe leather on uneven canal steps echoed down the passageway as someone disembarked, then the soft splash of an oar as the boat departed. No one was allowed to eavesdrop on this conversation, especially a garrulous gondolier.

  “Good evening, sir.” The speaker’s voice was distorted, perhaps by a mask. Bragadin was evidently no fool. “I had not expected you to bring company.”

  “I had not expected to meet a second time. Do you have it?”

  A pause.

  “Alas–”

  A scuffle and a thud, as of a man’s body hitting a wall.

  “I have been patient,” Bragadin’s client hissed. His next words were indistinct, whispered perhaps in Bragadin’s ear. “I will be patient no longer.”

  “Please, you ask a great deal–”

  “A great deal indeed, for I have paid you a thousand ducats already and seen naught for it.”

  A thousand ducats? What in God’s name were these men asking Il Mercante to find out?

  “I am close,” Bragadin gasped. “It takes time to put spies in place so that they will not be found out. Another week–”

  “I don’t have a week. You swore you could get me the information before the Doge’s investiture. Your promises are worthless.”

  Bragadin laughed, his mask shaping the sound into a hollow cackle that raised the hairs on Mal’s neck. “So is your house’s name,” he said softly, “if the Ten find out what you’ve been up to.”

  “Are you threatening me? You louse, you dungheap crawler–”

  Bragadin cried out, the sound ending in a choking gurgle. Mal dashed forward, colliding with someone in the passageway. The man swore and Mal felt a blade catch in the folds of his cloak. He retreated a pace and drew his own dagger, sweeping it in a waist-high arc before him. Damn, but he hated fighting in the dark.

  His vision began to clear a little. He could make out two figures between himself and the canal steps; the other was lying on the ground against the wall. Bragadin, he feared. The two men backed away, but they had nowhere to go until their gondola returned. Several minutes at least, he guessed.

  “Who are you?” the nearer man asked. “We were to meet alone.”

  Mal said nothing. Whoever these men were, they had been at Olivia’s supper parties, and would recognise him by his accent in an instant. The last thing he needed was for the courtesan to be connected to Il Mercante.

  Long moments passed, the silence broken only by the rasping breath of Bragadin. So, he lived, for now.

  “Where’s that whoreson knave of a gondolier?” the other man muttered. Mal could tell by his stance that he was sizing up his chances of rushing past him into the street and getting away on foot.

  “Calm yourself, Pietro,” the nearer man said.

  The words had the opposite of the desired effect. Pietro dashed towards the street, but Mal was there first and Pietro ran straight onto his dagger. He looked up at Mal wide-eyed, gasped a last curse, and fell dead at his feet.

  Pietro’s companion backed away until his boot-heels scraped on the edge of the canal.

  “Peace, gentlemen.” His eyes flicked left, along the canal. “We are done here.”

  At that moment the gondola slid into view and he leapt aboard. Mal watched him go, then sheathed his dagger and crouched to examine Bragadin. Blood soaked the man’s doublet, leaving Mal’s hands sticky. Bragadin no longer appeared to be breathing.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him,” he told Ned, who stood pale-faced at the passageway’s mouth. He wiped his hands on the dying man’s cloak. “Come, let’s get out of here.”

  As he stepped out into the street he realised it was brighter than before. Several of the windows on the upper stories were open, and people were leaning out. A man shouted. Mal broke into a run, cursing as his hood fell back. Rapid footsteps right behind him were Ned, he hoped, but he could hear doors opening now and more voices raised. He sprinted across the square in what he hoped was the right direction, halting in the shadows of the church to see if Ned had followed him.

  Ned ran past, looking wildly around.

  “Psst, this way!” Mal beckoned to him.

  They ran down another narrow street, across a bridge, through a courtyard and under another passageway onto a broad fondamenta. No sound of pursuers. Perhaps the residents of Calle di Mezzo would not chase miscreants beyond the bounds of their own parish.

  “What do we do now?” Ned gasped, leaning against the wall.

  “We pray to God we can find our way home before curfew without encountering the constables,” Mal said, “and that no one reports us to the Ten.”

/>   CHAPTER XXII

  “I can’t do this,” Coby whispered, pressing herself against the back of the tent that formed their tiring house. She was dressed as Columbina, in a full calf-length skirt and a tightly laced bodice that would have shown far too much cleavage, if she had any. She twisted the mask in her fingers, wishing it were full-face to hide her blushes.

  “Of course you can,” Gabriel said. “You were very good in rehearsals, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. All those years watching me and Dickon didn’t go to waste, that’s obvious.”

  She forced a smile. Dickon Rudd, their old troupe’s clown, had been killed in the same accident as Master Naismith.

  Perhaps realising he had said the wrong thing, Gabriel struck a comic pose, sticking out his padded stomach and splaying his feet in their long slippers. He had been given the part of Il Dottore, since the character of the doctor would allow him to walk with a stick and talk elevated nonsense that no one was supposed to understand. Coby couldn’t help but smile at Gabriel’s antics; for such a handsome young fellow, he made a very convincing old man, all quavering voice and bowed legs.

  “That’s better,” Gabriel said, clapping her on the shoulder. “Now go, before the audience gets restless. And don’t forget what I told you.”

  She took a deep breath and ducked out of the tent. The low stage had been set up directly in front of it, with a wide circle of bare earth beyond that where the audience sat or stood. A hundred or more pairs of eyes gleamed in the light of the torches set on tall stands to either side of the stage, though the eyes were not on her but on the troupe’s leader, Zancani. As Pantalone, he represented the archetypal Venetian merchant: rich, miserly and lecherous. Coby was sure she had bruises on her behind where the little Italian had taken his role rather too seriously during rehearsals. Fortunately her first scene was not with him.

  She waited until Pantalone had made his speech and departed, then climbed the short flight of steps onto the stage. You are not Coby Hendricks, Gabriel’s voice said in her head, you are Columbina, young and lovely and full of mischief.

  “Arlecchino!” She put her hand beside her mouth, to emphasis the action. “Arlecchino?”

  Someone in the audience laughed in anticipation. Coby crossed the stage.

  “Arlecchino?”

  Sandy emerged from the wings opposite, dressed as Il Capitano in his striped sash and a big-nosed mask. “Columbina?”

  Coby made an extravagant gesture of mock alarm. “Capitano?”

  Sandy bowed clumsily, then drew his sword. It was made of several jointed wooden sections and wobbled comically. The audience laughed at the bawdy image. Coby tutted and wagged her finger, and he put the sword away. Or tried to. It took several attempts, since the blade waved around as he moved it. The audience were helpless with laughter by now, and Coby began to relax. They were not watching her at all, she reminded herself. They were watching Columbina and Il Capitano.

  Sandy began making gestures of love, kissing his hands and then stretching them out towards her. She folded her arms and shook her head. He advanced a step and repeated the pantomime. Still she refused him. He pulled a bunch of silk flowers out of his doublet and knelt, holding them out. She pouted, took them – and then hit him over the head with them. There followed a chase around the stage, with the audience cheering them both on.

  “Asino! Stupido!” she yelled at Sandy. “Bamboccio!” When she ran out of the Italian insults she had learnt from Zancani, she added a few French ones for good measure. “Bricon! Crapaud!”

  At last she paused for breath, fanning herself with the flowers, and Sandy pounced, taking her in his arms. She pretended to struggle until he bent her back over his arm and leant over her, feigning to kiss her. At least, that’s what she expected from rehearsals. His dark eyes gleamed in the torchlight and his lips brushed hers, warm and wind-roughened. For a moment, memory of another stolen kiss took over and she kissed him back, then the audience’s whoops and catcalls brought her to her senses. As she started to push him away, the juggler cartwheeled onto the stage as Arlecchino, Columbina’s lover. Il Capitano took fright and dropped Columbina, who landed on her backside to more roars of laughter. Whilst the two men chased one another around the stage, Coby made a hasty retreat to the dressing-tent, biting back tears of pain and humiliation. How dare he kiss her like that, and in front of everyone!

  Backstage the other players congratulated them on a scene well played, but Coby was in no mood for praise.

  “What do you think you were doing?” she hissed at Sandy when they were alone again. “You only pretended to kiss me in rehearsal.”

  He shrugged. “This was not the rehearsal, it was the real thing.”

  “So that gives you the right to kiss me?”

  “It is just a play.”

  “You’re as bad as one another, you men,” she muttered, and fought her way out of the tent. Zancani had arranged tonight’s play so that his newest performers had only a couple of scenes each, and it would be a while before she was needed again.

  She strode across the market square to the well, still hidden from the audience by the bulk of the actors’ tent. Hauling up a bucket of water burnt off a little of her anger at Sandy. She pushed up her mask and splashed some of the water on her cheeks, which cooled her temper some more. Footsteps scuffed in the dust behind her.

  “If you’ve come to apologise–”

  It was not Sandy but a short stocky man in the rough garb of a farmer, perhaps one of the audience. He leered at her and said something in the local dialect.

  “I suggest you leave before I call my friends,” she told him in French, not expecting him to understand.

  The man just leered again and stepped towards her. Without thinking she crouched in a fighting stance. The man laughed and made a lunge for her. She sidestepped and kicked him hard in the arse so that he stumbled. Cursing now, he turned to face her again.

  He spat in the dust. “Puttana!”

  “Don’t you call me a whore,” she muttered.

  Stepping quickly forward she grasped his right arm in both hands and twisted it. The man cursed and lost his footing. Coby hooked a heel behind his ankle and threw him to the ground, releasing him as he fell. The man snatched at her leg. She brought the heel of her hand down sharply on his temple, and he slumped to the ground again, moaning.

  She strode back towards the tent. Gabriel hurried to meet her halfway, stumbling in his overlong slippers.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my dignity.” She drew a ragged breath, let it out again. “I’ve been in fights before, you know. Dozens.”

  “So I see. That poor fellow had no chance.”

  They ducked back into the tent.

  “He underestimated me,” she said quietly. “Fighting in male guise is much harder, in a way. No quarter asked or given.”

  “So why not adopt women’s guise all the time?” Gabriel said. “If it’s easier.”

  “It’s not really easier. Just different.” She sat down on a crate. “And scarier. Fighting as a man, you know your opponent only wants to scare you, hurt you a bit, not…”

  She swallowed, unable to say the words. Gabriel put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Being a man is no protection, believe me,” he murmured. “That’s why I always warned you to be careful around men, even before I knew your true sex.”

  “I know. But it’s not every man who has such intent towards boys. Sometimes it seems they all do towards women.”

  “Not all,” Gabriel replied with a chuckle.

  “No,” she said, thinking of Mal. She smiled back. “Not all. Thank you.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you back to the inn and you can change into more suitable clothes, if that will make you feel better.”

  “No,” she said. “I need to get used to it.” Or try to.

  Next morning Erishen left the inn early again, but instead of going to the bathhouse he headed out of the ci
ty, away from the noise and stink of humankind. Only a few minutes’ walk brought him to a rocky headland with fine views out to sea. He sat down on a rock, basking in the growing warmth like the green water-lizard he had once had as a pet. He tried to remember the creature’s name, but it was lost to him, like so much else.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, a freckled bronze lizard about the length of his hand scuttled across a nearby rock, obsidian eyes blinking in the sunlight. Erishen watched it for a moment, until a hawk flew overhead and it disappeared into a crack in the rocks in a blur of motion. Hide, little one. Perhaps I should be hiding too. Or at least keeping a better lookout.

  He lifted his gaze to the horizon. The sun glittered on the Adriatic, catching the peak of each lapis blue wave with a spark of gold dust. Below and to his right, the city was laid out like a painted map, all creamy-yellow stone and red tiles. Human vision was so much richer than skraylings’, at least by daylight, with so many more colours to delight the eye; he never tired of it.

  The players’ red-and-yellow tent was being set up in the marketplace once more. Another performance tonight, another opportunity to kiss the girl. Of course she would slap him again, as the story demanded, but she seemed to enjoy it despite her protests. He congratulated himself on a plan well executed. At this rate, she would fall into his brother’s arms at the first chance, and all would be well again.

  He briefly considered visiting her dreams as well, to reinforce her feelings towards Mal, perhaps even scare her into a conviction that she must abandon her male guise forever, but he feared that such a blatant manipulation might arouse her suspicions. She was clever, this one, and must be handled with cunning. Which of course made the game so much more fun.

  He turned his attention back to the sea. In the distance a white-sailed ship headed south before the wind, and another to the northwest of his lookout tacked elegantly towards the harbour. Any ship coming up from the south would make little headway in this wind – and yet one was trying. A familiar, red-sailed ship.

  Erishen leapt to his feet and ran down the path to the city, small stones scattering before him as he went.