The Merchant of Dreams

by Anne Lyle

  “It will not be easy to find my brother in a such a crowded city,” Sandy said. “Especially when neither of us can speak the language.”

  “We can try the Mermaid again,” Ned said. “Though after last time…”

  “Who is this mermaid? I thought they were just stories.”

  “It’s not a who, it’s a what,” Ned sighed. “A tavern, not far from the Doge’s Palace. I think I can find my way there again.”

  “Very well. Take me to it.”

  Ned set off down Salizada San Pantalon, tracing the one familiar route that he knew would bring them to the ferry stop near San Toma. Although he was meant to be leading the way, Sandy often pulled ahead, his long strides eating up the ground.

  “Slow down,” Ned hissed, when Sandy paused to give way to a man pushing a barrow-load of vegetables. “We’re no help to Mal if we lose anyone trying to follow us.”

  “You are right. I have waited many years for this; another hour or two makes little difference.”

  “Waited for what?” Ned asked, but Sandy was off again.

  They crossed the Grand Canal by ferry, and from there it was only a short walk through San Marco to the quayside in front of the Doge’s Palace. Ned scurried past, head hunched down, hoping none of the guards recognised him. He didn’t trust these Venetians not to change their mind.

  Though the sun had not yet set the lantern above the Mermaid’s gilded sign was already lit, and the homely fug of beer fumes and tobacco smoke enveloped them as they entered the tavern.

  “You have been here before?” Sandy asked.

  “Yes.” Ned dodged one of the tavern doxies before she could opportune him. “When we first came to Venice.”

  “You think Charles is here?”

  “I doubt it, to be honest. We probably scared him away after Mal’s performance last time. But there are usually plenty of Englishmen about. Perhaps someone will know him.”

  They found an empty table in a shadowy corner where they could watch the door. Ned waved one of the girls over and ordered two pints.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” he said to Sandy, leaning across the table. He lowered his voice, so that he could only just be heard above the hubbub. “But don’t stare at anyone. Keep it casual, all right?”

  “You think there will be trouble.”

  Ned scanned the crowd.

  “Mal told me Charles fled England with a great many debts. If I were such a man, I’d be worried right now. And if he’s been here several years he must have money, or friends. Or perhaps both.”

  The crowd was little different from the last time they had been here, though perhaps fewer Venetians mingled with the foreigners tonight. Had rumour got out about his and Mal’s arrest, or were the locals merely having an early night in preparation for tomorrow’s festivities? He saw no sign of Cinquedea’s boy-whore, nor the crow-like Venetian Mal had been talking to on their previous visit.

  “So what does this brother of yours look like?”

  Sandy shrugged. “About my height, perhaps a little less. Brown hair, though it may be going grey by now, like our father’s.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Ned grumbled.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been over ten years since last I saw him, and I was not exactly myself at the time.”

  And who are you now?

  The beer arrived, and Ned looked pointedly at Sandy. “Money?”

  Sandy dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, which he held out to the girl.

  “Here, let me,” Ned said, and seizing Sandy’s wrist he picked through the silver looking for smaller denominations. “She’ll have you paying porter prices for small ale.”

  He handed over a couple of gazzette to the girl, who eyed both men with evident disappointment. Ned was suddenly aware of Sandy’s pulse under his fingertips, and he turned back to find the older man gazing at him intently with dark brown eyes, so like Mal’s it never ceased to unnerve him. For a moment Ned wondered if Sandy was trying to bewitch him, then he saw him flick his gaze over Ned’s shoulder and back.

  “Charles?” He gently released Sandy’s wrist.

  He turned just in time to see a tall dark-haired man of about forty stare at them in horror before bolting for the tavern door. Ned was after him in an instant.

  Their footfalls rang out as they crossed the square, echoing from the hard stone surfaces. Before Ned had got halfway across the square Sandy passed him, long strides eating up the ground. Charles disappeared under a low archway between a printer’s shop and a cordwainer’s, Sandy hard on his heels. Ned panted in their wake. What they were going to do when they caught up with Charles, he had no idea. Surely they couldn’t get away with dragging him through the streets to the embassy?

  By the time Ned entered the alley, Sandy was gone. Ned swore and redoubled his efforts, pounding around the corner just in time to see both men cross a bridge about fifty yards down the canal bank. He wondered if there was a shortcut he could take to head them off, but didn’t trust his sense of direction in the labyrinth of Venetian streets. It was Charles who knew the lay of the land, far better than either of them, and Ned did not doubt he would evade them somehow.

  He ran up the steps of the bridge, dodged around a water-seller in her brightly coloured skirts, and leapt down the other side, pelting down the street as if his life depended on it. His quarry came within sight again; what Sandy gained in length of leg, Ned made up for in long practice and dogged endurance. Nor was Charles likely to keep up a good pace for long. By all accounts the twins’ elder brother was a drunkard and a gambler, and a good fifteen years older than either of them to boot. Ned grinned, anticipating that the chase would soon be over. He followed Sandy round a corner – and found himself teetering on the brink of slimy steps running down to another canal.

  “Where is he?”

  Sandy pointed to a gondola moving erratically down the canal. Charles stood in the stern heaving on the oar, his face scarlet with effort.

  “God’s teeth!”

  Ned ran back out into the street and past the shops, until he found another alley leading towards the canal, this time with a bridge. He raced down the alley and onto the bridge, just in time to see the gondola’s prow emerge from the far side. With a cry Ned dropped into the little craft, causing it to rock alarmingly. Charles cursed, let go of his oar and fell into the water. Ned looked on helplessly, clutching the gondola’s sides; he could barely swim himself, never mind rescue a man of Charles’ height and bulk.

  “Rehi!”

  Ned looked up to see Sandy dive from the bridge like a cormorant into the turbid green water.

  “Sandy?” Christ’s balls, Mal would have his guts for lute-strings if anything happened to his brother.

  A few moments later two dark heads resurfaced, one towing the other towards the canal-side. Ned paddled the gondola towards the bank as best he could with his bare hands. A small crowd had gathered, and they helped Sandy heave Charles’ inert body out of the water. Ned scrambled ashore.

  “Is he dead?”

  Sandy hauled his elder brother up by the back of his doublet, and Charles coughed up a little canal water. The bystanders, disappointed that the accident had ended without tragedy, began to drift away. Charles coughed again, looked around, and realised he had been caught. He scrabbled backwards until he fetched up against the wall of the nearest building.

  “Mal?” He peered up at Sandy, blinking through the water that trickled down his forehead.

  Sandy hunkered down, just out of arm’s reach. “Guess again, brother.”

  “Alexander?” Charles made the sign of the cross. “Did you come all this way just to hunt me down?”

  “It is no more than you deserve, after what you did to me.”

  “It was for your own safety, boy. Your brother was gone abroad, and I could not look after you–”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what Mal said.”

  “You’ve seen him? He’s alive?”

  “How many ot
hers did you murder, you and your friends?” Sandy asked in a low voice.

  Ned looked around nervously. “Should we be having this conversation in the street?”

  “Who are you?” Charles asked him.

  “None of your business. Come on, Sandy, let’s take him somewhere private.”

  Charles looked wildly from one to the other. “For the love of God, Alexander, I was trying to protect you. You don’t know what’s out there. Terrible things, in the darkness…”

  Sandy paused, one hand on his brother’s arm. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Ned said. “He’s probably just stalling for time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come with me to my house,” Charles said, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Mal awoke with a buzzing head and a mouth that tasted like he’d been drinking canal water laced with grappa. Or grappa laced with canal water. Kiiren. The devious little whoreson had drugged him, and Mal had taken the bait like a hawk pouncing on the lure. Strangers betraying him was bad enough, only to be expected really, but now he had to watch out for his so-called friends?

  On the other hand his shoulders and arms were far less stiff and painful than they had any right to be, so perhaps he should thank Kiiren after all. He struggled upright and realised he was in bed. Naked. God’s teeth! Did the skraylings have no decency at all? He shuddered at the thought of them pawing over him.

  A soft golden light seeped through the gauze curtains that enclosed the bed. Dusk, or dawn?

  Footsteps sounded on the tiles, and a shadow moved beyond the curtains.

  “Good evening, Catlyn-tuur. Are you rested?”

  “What time is it?”

  “About one of your hours before sunset.”

  “And where are my friends?”

  “Gone back to English ambassador’s house, I believe.”

  Mal pulled back the bedclothes, fought his way through the gauzy drapes and strode over to where his clothes had been laid out neatly on a chair. Let Kiiren stare if he wanted to; he must have seen everything already.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Berowne’s.” Mal pulled on his drawers and tied the waist-string. “You can’t keep me a prisoner, you know.”

  “At least stay tonight, and rest some more. Please.”

  Mal paused. In truth he was not as well recovered as he would like. His muscles still ached despite the skrayling medicine, and he doubted he would pass Kiiren’s test yet.

  “Very well.” He stuck his head through the neck-hole of his shirt. “But no more sleeping draughts. I need a clear head tomorrow.”

  Kiiren ducked his head in acknowledgement, though Mal noted he did not actually say yes.

  He was left to finish dressing on his own. No weapons, but then he had come unarmed. Nor were these all his own clothes; he guessed his brother had exchanged their doublet and hose, the better to fool Berowne. At least they were a better fit for one another these days, though Sandy was still a little narrower across the shoulder. Too much time spent indoors instead of out fighting.

  He went over to the window, which looked out onto the street at the side of the palazzo. It was not far down to the ground, and an adjacent windowsill gave easy access to a chimney-breast with convenient footholds. As soon as he had his strength back, he would be out of here in a matter of moments.

  They followed Charles down the street, through an archway and along an alley to a plain door with tiny barred windows either side. Charles fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and gestured for them to go inside.

  “You first,” said Ned.

  Charles led them through a narrow damp-smelling passageway and up a flight of stairs with treads of worn red brick. The upper chambers were no better than the ground floor, with mouldering plaster and uneven, creaking floorboards. Stained mattresses and blankets piled here and there hinted at absent inhabitants, poor working men who only came back here to sleep. Charles stopped at a door with peeling green paint and unlocked it.

  “Welcome to my palazzo, gentlemen,” Charles said with a bow, and ushered them inside.

  The chamber was only slightly less shabby than the rest, but at least had a proper bed and a window looking out over a narrow canal. Charles lit a tallow candle and motioned for his brother to sit down on the only chair in the room. In truth it was barely fit for firewood, though the faint sheen of gilding here and there suggested it had once been a rich man’s possession.

  “Thank you, I prefer to stand. I will not stay long.” Sandy hugged his ribs, shivering a little. “You said you were trying to protect me, that you had seen things.”

  Charles began unbuttoning his doublet. Now that they were no longer running through the twilit streets of the city, Ned could see the family resemblance in the shape of the brow and the set of the mouth. Charles was fairer in colouring, though, with mousy brown hair, straight as a plumb-line where the twins’ was inclined to curl, and a pale English complexion despite the sunny climate. His beard was full and untidy, as if he seldom bothered to visit the barber, and his clothes were more than a little threadbare. He matched the house rather well.

  “I know your brother blames me for what happened that night, but it were necessary,” Charles said, his native accent coming through. “The reason I wanted you and Maliverny to join the Huntsmen is that we need as many good and true men as we can get, for our secret war against Satan and his devils.”

  “Secret war?” Ned stifled a laugh as Charles glared at him.

  “Aye. Thanks to the likes of me, the likes of you never get to hear on it.” Charles peeled off his sodden doublet and draped it over the windowsill. “We Huntsmen get all the blame, though we are but martyrs to a righteous cause.”

  Righteous cause, my arse. The Huntsmen broke the law, and not just by riding hooded and masked.

  “Mal and I never asked to join. We were tricked, coerced…” Sandy broke off, shuddering with more than cold.

  “Wait a moment,” Ned said. “You are all Huntsmen? You and Sandy and… and Mal too?”

  “You mean they never told you?” Charles smiled thinly. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Ned Faulkner. A friend of your brother.”

  “Which one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You said something about devils,” Sandy put in. “Is that what you think the skraylings are?”

  “There’s far worse things than skraylings,” Charles said. “Nightmare creatures, fast and deadly, that lurk in the dark–” He stared at Sandy. “You’ve seen them.”

  “Only in dreams.”

  Charles pulled up his wet shirt. “Did I dream these?”

  Ned stared. Four or five silvery lines, as wide as a man’s finger and nearly a foot long, ran across the pale skin over Charles’ ribs.

  “How…?”

  “Happened when I were a lad, just after my own welcome into the Huntsmen.” He stripped off the shirt and hung it from the mantel to dry, weighting it with a couple of earthenware bottles. “Father’s men heard rumours. Sheep killed in places where no wolf had been seen in a generation. Children… missing. A gang of us went up into the hills, tracking it. Only me and him came back.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.”

  “You two were naught but babes in arms,” Charles said.

  “No thanks to you,” Sandy said. “If you had not murdered me, this might not have happened.”

  “What? Murdered you?” Charles laughed. “You look right lively enough to me.”

  “You murdered me. You and your friends, that night in the hills.”

  Charles looked at Ned. “Did you just let him out of Bedlam?”

  Ned swallowed. Strictly speaking, he had indeed played a part in freeing Sandy from the asylum. “N… no, he’s been free of that filthy den for over a year.”

  Sandy advanced on his brother. “What did you do with my necklace?”

  “What necklace?”

 
“The clan-beads you stole from my corpse.”

  “He thinks he’s a skrayling reborn,” Ned said. “And since you’re a Huntsman by your own confession, I think he blames you for it.”

  “You’re both mad,” Charles said, backing away. “Alexander, you are sick of mind, you need help–”

  “My necklace,” Sandy growled, seizing Charles and pinning him against the wall.

  “I sold it.” Charles gazed up into his brother’s eyes. “Please, Alexander, I’m sorry…”

  “Who did you sell it to?”

  “Bragadin. Giambattista Bragadin.”

  Ned laughed. “Bragadin? He’s dead.”

  Sandy turned to glare at him. “Dead?”

  “Saw him killed myself.”

  “If you are lying–” Sandy pressed harder, grinding Charles’ head against the rough plaster.

  “I’m not, I swear on our father’s immortal soul.”

  “If you are lying,” Sandy went on, “I will come back and haunt your dreams. The creatures you spoke of are nothing compared to what I can do.”

  Charles blanched, and seemed to shrink inside his own skin.

  Ned laid a hand on Sandy’s arm. “Come on, you’ve got what you wanted. Let’s leave him be.”

  Sandy let his brother go, but his face was still as hard as stone.

  “I should turn you over to the elders for your crime,” he said.

  “And I should report you to the city authorities,” Charles replied. “They have hospitals here too, you know, for the sick of mind. Out in the islands of the lagoon, where you can’t escape.”

  Sandy went for Charles again, but Ned got between them.

  “Enough, the pair of you!” He dragged Sandy bodily to the other side of the room and pulled him close enough to whisper.

  “We have to tell Mal,” he said. “If this has anything to do with…” He broke off, not wanting to give anything further away in Charles’ presence.

  Sandy allowed himself to be led away, though he looked over his shoulder one last time as they left the shabby chamber. Ned muttered curses under his breath. Next time, Hendricks could look after the madman and he would stay at home with Gabriel.