The Merchant of Dreams

by Anne Lyle

  She found her way to a busy canal-side and hailed a gondolier. He rattled off a price, and she only hoped that he had understood her directions. She scrambled aboard and entered the little cabin with a whispered prayer for God’s protection. He had not failed her yet.

  The bells were tolling the first hour after sunset as they navigated yet another small canal. This one described a dog-leg path under a bridge and around a red and white house, but the gondolier steered his craft to a set of weed-grown steps.

  “We’re here?” she asked.

  The man gestured to the red-and-white house. “Inglese.”

  She handed over the money, praying he was telling the truth, and realised with a sinking heart that she did not have enough left to pay for a gondola back to the inn. Taking a deep breath to quell her panic, she walked up to the house and knocked on the door.

  After a few moments, the door opened and a gaunt old man looked out.

  “Si?”

  “I’m looking for Master Catlyn. Is he here?” she asked in English.

  The man paled. “N… no. I mean yes.”

  Coby’s heart leapt in expectation.

  “That is, he was,” the servant added. “But he left about an hour ago.”

  “Did he say when he’d be back?”

  The man looked away. He was hiding something, Coby was sure of it.

  “Who is that, Jameson?”

  The door opened wide to reveal the last person she wanted to see.

  “Sir Walter.”

  Raleigh’s wind-burned face was redder than usual, as if he had been drinking.

  “The same,” he said. “And who might you be?”

  Coby sketched a bow.

  “J… Jacob Hendricks. Master Catlyn’s valet.”

  Raleigh frowned. “I thought Faulkner was his manservant.”

  “Yes, he is. In London. I served Master Catlyn in France.”

  “I see.” He looked her up and down, his eyes narrowing.

  “Is he here?”

  “Catlyn? No.”

  “Oh. But he was here?”

  “Certainly.”

  Coby looked up and down the street. “May I come in a moment, sir?”

  Raleigh raised an eyebrow, but stood aside for her to enter. Coby stepped into the darkened atrium. A lone candle glinted on gilded picture frames and a short flight of marble stairs, but little else was visible in the gloom.

  “May I ask when he will be back?”

  “I have no notion. Probably away with that Moorish whore; I doubt he’ll be back before morning.”

  Coby felt sick. Mal, visiting a prostitute? Well, she supposed she could not blame him, since she had held him at arm’s length for so long.

  Behind Raleigh the old servant, Jameson, wrung his hands and would not meet her eye. Was that what he was concealing? But why would he be so embarrassed about it in front of another manservant?

  “And Ned…?” she asked.

  “Faulkner went with him,” Raleigh replied.

  Coby hesitated. She didn’t want to confide in Raleigh, but neither was she willing to leave the embassy with so little achieved.

  “Did he receive my letter?”

  “There was a letter, just this morning,” Jameson said, “though I do not know its contents.”

  “Could I have paper and pen?” she asked. “I would like to leave him another one, just in case.”

  Raleigh muttered something under his breath but sent Jameson for writing materials. These brought, Coby leant over the little table, composing the message in her head. She didn’t want Raleigh to know the whole of her communication with Mal, but on the other hand asking for sealing wax would have made him suspicious. A cipher, on the other hand, might pass without notice if it were subtle enough.

  “Make haste,” Raleigh snapped. “I have no wish to stand here all night. Or can you not write?”

  “One moment, sir. I am not practised in the art, and must get my thoughts in order first.”

  Raleigh made a contemptuous noise and began pacing the atrium. Trying to ignore him, Coby began to write.

  If it please your good grace, your brother sends greeting. He is anxious to be here soon, and will come with all haste to take possession of three ells of fine gold brocade embroidered with fishes. Only the finest in any great city north of Rome suffices; Venice must provide. J H IV.

  There, that would have to do. She blew on the ink to dry it, then folded the sheet and handed it to Raleigh.

  “One last thing, if I may, sir?”

  “Well?”

  “I spent the last of my wages getting here. If I do not get back to my lodgings before curfew, I will be arrested. I would not wish to embarrass the ambassador or his guests.”

  “Is that a threat, boy?” Raleigh turned scarlet. “Get out, before I have you whipped all the way back to your lodgings.”

  “Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”

  “Raleigh? What’s all this about?” A stout man in a crumpled velvet doublet limped down the stair; the ambassador, she guessed. “Who is this boy?”

  “A servant of Catlyn’s. He was just leaving.”

  “I meant no offence, sir,” Coby said. “I was so hoping to find my master here, I quite forgot myself.”

  “Stay a while,” the man said. “Doubtless your master will return before curfew.”

  “Alas, I ought to pass on the news to my companions, who have come all the way from England to… to see him, with important news of their own. But as I was telling Sir Walter, I have not enough money to get back to my lodgings.”

  “Then you shall have the use of my gondola. Jameson!”

  The servant reappeared.

  “Roust out Giuseppe or one of those other ne’er-do-wells, and have him take this young fellow wheresoever he wishes. But be swift about it.”

  Raleigh gave Coby one last contemptuous look, and stamped off up the stairs.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said to the ambassador, loud enough for Raleigh to hear. “You are most generous.”

  Mal shielded his eyes with his free hand. An armoured constable stood silhouetted against the lantern’s light, a crossbow pointed at Mal’s chest. To his left stood a wiry man of about thirty with thinning hair, wearing a blued steel breastplate over a crimson doublet, a sword hanging at his hip. Four more constables armed with pikes formed a cordon at the end of the street.

  “Put up your sword, Master Catlyn,” the captain said again, in perfect English with only the trace of an accent. “Or shall I have you shot somewhere painful but not fatal?”

  After a moment’s pause Mal slid the blade into its scabbard.

  “Since you know my name, sir,” he said, “perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me whom I address?”

  “I am Francesco Venier, son of Lorenzo Venier. You and your servant are under arrest for the murder of Giambattista Bragadin and Pietro Trevisan.”

  Mal stared at Venier. Betrayed – but by whom? No one knew he was meeting Cinquedea here, no one except… Jameson. He had been there when the urchin delivered Cinquedea’s message. But the old man knew nothing about their connection to the murders, did he?

  Venier gestured to Mal’s sword. “Your weapons, please. Both of you.”

  Mal reluctantly unbuckled his belt and handed over rapier and dagger. After a moment, Ned contributed his own knife. Venier paused to admire the swept hilt of the rapier, holding it up to the torchlight.

  “Very handsome,” he murmured, and tucked the sword under his arm. “Against the wall, hands on your heads.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Mal saw the constable put down his crossbow. He briefly considered putting up a fight, but there were too many of them, most still armed.

  The constable proceeded to search both prisoners for hidden weapons, turning out pockets and feeling down the sides of Mal’s boots.

  “Nothing?” Venier said, waving the man away. “Dear me, I expected better of Walsingham’s men.”

  Mal kept a straight fac
e. The barb about Walsingham was no doubt a lucky guess, or at least a fair assumption. Venier murmured instructions to his man, who motioned for Mal and Ned to precede him along the street. Mal hesitated, raising his left hand behind his back in a signal he hoped Ned could see in this light. Prepare to run.

  “Might I ask where we are going?”

  “The Doge’s Palace,” Venier said with a smile. “And do not think of trying to escape. There are sbirri in the surrounding streets also, with orders to shoot you on sight.”

  The streets were half-empty this close to curfew, but that only made their little procession more conspicuous. Passers-by stared at the two Englishmen, muttering curses or making obscene gestures. Mal ignored them; a few taunts were the least of his worries. He should have fought his way out of the ambush, damn it, even at the risk of death. But then what would happen to Coby, and his brother? They must surely be here soon, if that letter was to be believed. But even his resourceful young companion could surely not rescue them from the Doge’s prisons. Nor could he count on Olivia, not after what had happened with Bragadin. This time they were on their own.

  All too soon the palace came into view, its marble façade shining silver in the moonlight, its rows of arched windows dark as empty eye-sockets. They were escorted through the ground floor colonnade and into the palace itself. As they passed an inner doorway, a dreadful smell, worse than any canal, wafted out into the night air. Mal swallowed against the nausea roiling in his stomach.

  “Ah yes, the Wells. I’m afraid the stench starts to get worse in the warm spring weather.”

  “Wells? That’s your drinking water?”

  Venier laughed. “No. It is what we call our lowest cells. You would know them as oubliettes.” When Mal did not respond, he added: “Do not fear, signore. You and your… accomplice are not destined for the Wells. Not yet, anyway.”

  Venier led them towards a stair leading up into the palace.

  “After you, gentlemen.”

  They were escorted across an echoing courtyard, into another marble-columned cloister and up a magnificent staircase lined with gilded bas-reliefs. They emerged into an antechamber, dark and empty at this time of night, and paused whilst the captain unlocked a small side-door opposite the entrance to the palace’s grand apartments. Mal was pushed through into the darkness, scraping his scalp on the low lintel.

  The rooms in this part of the palace were low and narrow, as if two floors had been fitted into the height of one palace storey and made to accommodate as many offices as possible. Walls of planking attached with parallel rows of wooden nails divided up the space, so that it looked more like the interior of a ship than a building. The captain led them into a cramped office that was barely large enough for his prisoners and the four guards restraining them. An elderly man sat at a desk at the far end, candlelight gilding his silver hair as he bent over a stack of papers. He looked up after a moment.

  “Captain.”

  “Chancellor Surian.” Venier gestured to Mal. “Our intelligence was correct.”

  “Good,” the chancellor replied, looking Mal up and down with disinterest. “Put them in the lower cells. I will deal with them later.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told, Your Excellency,” Mal said, “but it’s all lies.”

  “Then I look forward to hearing the truth. Later.”

  He went back to his documents, and the prisoners were hustled out of the tiny office, along a corridor and through another heavy studded door.

  The room beyond was larger than any he had seen so far, a good twenty feet across and with a ceiling that rose to the full height of this storey. Near at hand stood a long desk with three high-backed chairs behind it, like a magistrate’s bench. What drew the eye, however, was the massive rope, as thick as a child’s arm, hanging over a pulley at the centre of the ceiling, its two ends stopping just short of a set of wooden steps like a mounting block. Two doors faced one another across the steps, and two more in a gallery that ran around three sides of the chamber, cutting its height in two. All four doors had large grilles at head height, giving them a good view of the rope and pulley. His guts tightened in terror.

  One of the guards sneered and said something in the thick local dialect as he pushed Mal through the nearest door. The interior was barer than a monk’s cell, scrubbed clean but with a lingering smell of soap, piss and vomit that was almost worse than the honest filth of an English prison. The door slammed shut and a key clicked smoothly in first one lock and then a second. The Venetians were taking no chances with their prisoners.

  When their captors had gone, Mal peered out through the door grille. Fat candles had been left burning in cressets, carefully positioned to illuminate the rope but throw the rest of the chamber into shadows. He could just make out the pale circle of Ned’s face at the grille in the opposite wall.

  “That whoreson cur betrayed us.” Ned’s voice rose to a shout. “Just wait till I get my hands on him, I’ll–”

  “Quiet, Ned! We don’t know who’s listening.”

  “I don’t care who’s listening–”

  “Ned, for the love of all the saints–” Mal drew a deep breath. “We are prisoners of the Doge. And this is his torture chamber.”

  In the appalled silence that followed, Mal knelt on the bare boards and began to pray. To Our Lady, the Archangel Michael, and every saint whose name he could remember.

  CHAPTER XXV

  When they reached the inn, Coby bade the servant wait for a few minutes. Sandy might want to send back a message of his own. She ran into the inn and up to her room. Valentina was lying on the bed with her back to the door, crying softly. Sweet Jesu, what had Gabriel done to upset her?

  “Who are you?”

  Coby turned round to see Zancani glowering at her.

  “Jacomina?” He took a step closer. “What is this? Some new idea for the play?”

  “Uh, yes.” Coby’s mind raced. “In England, it’s traditional for boys to play women’s roles. I thought it would be funny to do it the other way round.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. We will try it out tomorrow.”

  “Have you seen Gabriel or Sandy?”

  Zancani’s expression changed. “Alessandro is in big trouble when I find him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ask your friend Gabriel. He’s downstairs, drunk or crazy, I’m not sure which.” Zancani walked away, muttering under his breath in Italian.

  Gabriel, drunk? Gabriel never got drunk.

  She found Gabriel at a table in the darkened courtyard, staring into a candle flame. There was an empty wine cup by his elbow, but the jug next to it was almost full.

  “Gabe, what’s happened?” she asked. “Why is Sandy in trouble?”

  He blinked up at her.

  “Sandy’s gone,” he said in a tight voice.

  “What?”

  “Vanished in a flash of light.”

  “Oh no. No no no…” She slumped down on the seat opposite. The last time this had happened, he had been spirited away by Kiiren, but this time? It was too much to hope that he had been so fortunate again. “Tell me everything,” she said, refilling his cup.

  “I did as you asked,” he said, gazing into the depths of the wine like a fairground fortuneteller scrying the future, “and offered to read to Valentina as she did her sewing. She insisted on coming down to the men’s chamber, as there was more light – at least, I think that’s what young Benetto was saying, though he seemed to think it was more that she did not want to be alone with a young man in her own bedchamber–”

  “Gabriel?” She laid a hand on his wrist. “What happened to Sandy?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Well, Sandy was lying on his bed dozing and Benetto was trying to teach Valerio and Stefano a new three-way juggling pattern, so Valentina and I sat at the other end of the room out of their way. I was just acting out a scene from The Jew of Malta – you know, Rafe’s favourite speech, where Barabas gets boiled in the cauldron – when there wa
s a blinding light from behind me. I turn round to see Sandy walking towards a… a bright doorway that shouldn’t have been there, then he vanishes and Valentina runs back to her room, screaming about witchcraft.” He took a gulp of wine. “I managed to persuade Zancani that Sandy was just experimenting with some skrayling fireworks and scared the girl out of her wits, but the whole troupe is rattled. Especially since Sandy is nowhere to be found.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if we left. Go and get your knapsack, and mine too.”

  She ran back out onto the canal bank. To her relief, the ambassador’s servant was still there, chatting with a group of gondoliers.

  “Please wait a little longer,” she told him. “My companion and I want to go back to the embassy.”

  Gabriel emerged from the inn a couple of minutes later, glancing nervously back over his shoulder.

  “Zancani will skin us alive for walking out like this,” he said as they climbed into the gondola.

  “Zancani can go to Hell,” Coby muttered. “All that matters is finding Sandy before Mal gets back.”

  Mal’s prayers were interrupted by the creak of a door and the shuffling of footsteps. He got stiffly to his feet and went over to the grille. Three men in black robes were making their way to the bench: the elderly chancellor and two slightly younger men. A secretary followed, carrying a pile of documents.

  Mal looked across at the opposite cell. Ned’s face was as pale as whey against the blackness within, but he managed a ghost of his habitual grin. Mal forced a smile in return, then turned his attention back to the new arrivals.

  The three men had taken their places and were talking amongst themselves in low voices. The secretary placed the stack of documents in front of the chancellor, bowed, and left. The chancellor picked up the first item on the stack with palsied hands: a letter sealed with dark wax. He broke the seal, read its contents and then passed it to one of his colleagues, who then passed it to the third. After some discussion, one of the younger men made a note in a ledger, and they moved on to the next item.

  Ned cleared his throat as if to speak and Mal shot him a warning glance, shaking his head. One of the clerks looked up briefly, then went back to his work. The chamber was silent but for the scratching of pen on paper. Make them wait, Walsingham had taught him on the subject of interrogation. Anticipation is half the torture. Perhaps his mentor had learned the technique from the Venetians.