The Merchant of Dreams (24 page)

Mal bowed low, holding the pose a moment whilst he regained his composure. He had been too long at sea, he decided, if the sight of a beautiful woman unmanned him so.

“Maliverny,” the courtesan purred in a rich alto as he straightened up. “That could almost be an Italian name.”

“It’s French, my lady. My mother was from Provence.”

“
C’est vrai? J’adore les Français
. Now, gentlemen, please make yourselves at home.” She gestured towards a nearby table, where refreshments were laid out.

Guessing they were dismissed for now, Mal drifted over to the table. Flagons of wine stood on silver trays surrounded by delicate glasses with gilded rims, amongst a sea of small dishes containing olives, almonds and morsels of fish fried in batter.

“Can I pour you wine, sir?” Mal asked his companion.

“Yes, do.” Raleigh practically snatched the glass from him, and drained it in one go. “Most beautiful woman in Venice? She’s naught but a Moorish whore.”

Several of the guests turned towards them. Apparently many Venetians spoke at least a little English.

“Keep your voice down, sir,” Mal hissed. “We are the guests here. It does not behove us to cause offence.”

Raleigh shot Mal a venomous look, refilled his glass and stalked over to a statue of Diana, where the clockmaker Quirin stood with a number of other men.

“Good evening,
signore
,” a voice rumbled at Mal’s elbow.

Mal looked round to see one of the guests who had bridled at Raleigh’s comment: a heavy-set man with thick iron-grey hair curling around the edges of his mask, and a steady, genial gaze.

“Good evening.”

“Please, allow me to introduce myself,” the Venetian said with a bow. “I am Giambattista Bragadin, Signorina Olivia’s patron.”

Time to play his part.
“Maliverny Catlyn, at your service, sir.”

He sketched an elaborate bow, flourishing the ruinously expensive lace handkerchief he had bought in the Mercerie.

“Delighted, Signore… Catalin.” Bragadin’s hesitation was so brief, Mal could not be sure it was not his imagination, or merely a stumbling over an unfamiliar name. Or was his brother well known in the city?

“You speak English very well,” Mal said. “I have noticed that a number of your people do.”

“We get many foreign visitors here, and the English are especially welcome.”

“How so?”

“We are both maritime nations, proud of our independence, and have many enemies in common. And we are too far apart to be rivals.”

Mal smiled. “Very true. And of course we have money to spend on all your wonderful goods.”

“Indeed. In fact I understand that is the purpose of your visit?”

Mal told him about their morning’s expedition to the Mercerie and subsequent invitation to Ca’ Ostreghe.

“And what do you think of La Margherita herself?” Bragadin asked, picking up an olive and popping it into his mouth.

“She’s not at all what I expected. I thought golden hair and pale skin were esteemed the height of beauty in Venice, as in England.”

“So they are. And yet who does not welcome cool shade after the day’s heat, eh?”

“Indeed.” Mal helped himself to one of the fried delicacies, which turned out to be a surprisingly tender piece of squid. “Sir Walter told me she is what you call an ‘honest courtesan’. Have to say I’m not acquainted with the phrase.”

“It is a new fashion of our city. The honest courtesan is a beautiful, accomplished woman, skilled in music and poetry and all the graces of civilised discourse; the perfect companion to ease a man’s soul.”

“And you are her… patron.”

“Yes. It is my honour to support her. Our city would be much duller without such jewels to ornament it.”

A wealthy man, then, to support a mistress in such style
. “And in return she entertains your guests?”

“With her music and poetry, yes.” Bragadin’s manner remained courteous, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath the velvet scabbard.

Mal took the hint and allowed Bragadin to usher him over to a group of other men, all alike in their white masks and black gowns. Whilst his host rattled off introductions, Mal tried in vain to match names to… faces? Hardly. A distinctive chin here, white hair there… but how could he match those with certainty to their owners’ faces at a later date? The work of an intelligencer in Venice required very different skills.

“Forgive my ignorance,” Mal said when the introductions were over, “but what is the purpose in wearing masks, if everyone knows who everyone is?”

Bragadin chuckled. “You Englishmen like to wear swords to your Queen’s court. Do you intend to kill someone there?”

“No, it’s…” Mal smiled, understanding. “It’s the fashion.”

“Just so,” Bragadin said.

“We were just discussing yesterday’s vote,” the white-haired man – Venier? – said. “Quite a turnabout from old Pasqualigo, eh?”

“Anyone would think his hand was forced,” muttered another patrician. “He never favoured Grimani before now.”

Mal sipped his wine and pretended disinterest. If he were patient the conversation might turn to the skraylings eventually.

“You think Grimani will be the next Doge?” Bragadin said.

“At this rate, yes,” the first man replied. “He carries all before him. A ‘gift’ here, a word there…”

“
Il Mercante di Sogni
,” someone muttered.

“Nothing but a rumour,” a fat man with heavy gold rings on his fingers said, tucking his pudgy hands into his belt. “A name to frighten the guilty with.”

“Who is this ‘
Mercante
’ fellow?” Mal asked. The epithet meant “the merchant of dreams”; an ill-omened name, given his recent experiences.
Must I start at every shadow, like a guilty man?

“No one knows. It is a rumour, as Dandolo says–” Venier glared at the fat man “–but no less true for that.”

“An assassin, spy and extorter of favours,” the man who had first mentioned Il Mercante added. “It is said he can get you whatever you desire: the love of a woman, the downfall of your enemy, the favour of the Ten. No doubt Grimani has been using his services liberally.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” Bragadin said. “La Margherita will not thank us for speaking treason under her roof. Or in her garden.”

The other Venetians laughed nervously.

“No, there is no possibility of corruption,” Bragadin went on. He turned to Mal. “Do you know how the Doge is elected?”

Mal shook his head.

“Thirty members of the Great Council are chosen by lot,” Bragadin said, “and those thirty are reduced by lot to nine; the nine choose forty and the forty are reduced to twelve, who choose twenty-five. The twenty-five are reduced by lot to nine and the nine elect forty-five. Then the forty-five are reduced to eleven, and the eleven finally choose the forty-one who elect the Doge.”

Mal stared at him. “You just made that up. It’s ridiculous.”

Bragadin looked affronted. “Certainly not,
signore
. It is a grand and ancient tradition, designed to absolutely ensure that no one can influence the elections.”

“I’m sorry, I meant no offence, gentlemen. I fear I have no head for politics.”

“Then you had better go home,
signore
, or you will have no head at all,” Venier said.

Mal swallowed, wondering if he had gone too far, but then the Venetians burst out laughing. He forced himself to join in. They were a strange folk, and no mistake; merry one moment, and deadly serious the next.

The conversation turned to less controversial matters, and after a while Bragadin and his friends began to disperse, some to the card tables, others to take their leave of their hostess. Mal took advantage of the confusion to slip away in search of Raleigh. Instead he found himself drawn back towards the music. He caught sight of Signorina Olivia again, a gilded lamp against whose beauty these black-clad admirers battered themselves in vain. And yet he could not blame them. Almost against his will he made his way towards her through the throng.

Her hands moved over the neck of the lute, strong but graceful, and she sang more sweetly than the caged birds in the trees. It was a moment before he realised she was singing in English.

“Flow my tears, fall from your springs.

Exiled, forever let me mourn.

When night’s black bird its sad infamy sings,

Here let me live, forlorn.”

Mal sank to his knees at her feet, overcome by the words that echoed his own feelings. Never before had he realised how much he longed to return to England and reclaim his birthright, his family’s estate in Derbyshire.

When the song was over, he felt a hand brush through his hair.

“So melancholy, Signore Catalin?”

He looked up. “It is a favourite of mine, but I had not heard words put to it before now.”

“No? It was an Englishman who taught it to me.” She tipped her head on one side. “Dowland. John Dowland.”

“You met Dowland? Is he here in Venice?”

At her gesture, Mal took a seat on the bench beside her. The Venetian men, discreet as ever, melted away into the darkness.

“Signore Dowland came to Venice for a while,” she said, “after seeking patronage in Rome. A brilliant musician…”

“Where did he go?”

“Who knows? To Milan, perhaps, or Florence.” She leant closer, so that he could smell the scent of her, musk and roses and sweet creamy vanilla, like the lace around her bodice. “You like music?”

Mal cleared his throat. “What gentleman of taste does not? Though I cannot claim to play as well as you,
signorina
.”

“You play the lute? Please, play for me.”

“I–”

“Or perhaps you perform better in private,” she said, so softly only he could hear.

Mal swallowed, unable to frame an answer. He looked around in search of Bragadin, praying this moment of intimacy with the courtesan was not a breach of etiquette. He had no desire to fight a duel, though a dagger in the back seemed more the Venetian style.

“Perhaps another time,” she said. “We are both beholden to those wealthier and more powerful than ourselves, are we not?”

“Indeed, madam. I would not trespass on any man’s property.”

“Property?” She raised an eyebrow that had been plucked to the thinness of a pen stroke. “I am no man’s property,
signore
, though sometimes it is wise to let others believe it.”

“Then let us both keep up that pretence,” he said, getting to his feet and bowing low. “Good evening,
signorina
.”

CHAPTER XVII

Coby leant over the side of the ship, watching the glitter of moonlight on the waves. True to his word, Captain Hennaq had removed Sandy’s spirit-guard and all their bonds in return for their good conduct. After all, where were they to go? The ship was provisioned for an Atlantic crossing and needed no further supplies until they reached Venice, which was now only a day or so’s sail away.

She looked round as Gabriel joined her at the rail. He had grown thinner than ever on the voyage and his nose was peeling where it protruded from the shadow of his hat’s brim, but he looked happier than she had seen him in a long time. No doubt he was looking forward to being reunited with Ned.

“Dalmatia,” he said, pointing eastwards towards the barely visible mass of the distant coast. “We sail the narrow waters between Christian Europe and the Turks.”

“Master Catlyn told me he fought the Turks, years ago. It must have been somewhere around here, I suppose.”

A distant rumble of thunder sounded to the north of them. She looked up at the sky. Surely the night was too clear for a storm?

“Look, over there!” Gabriel tugged at her sleeve.

A flash of light, and then several moments later another low boom.

“Cannon? At night?”

The skrayling on watch silently roused the rest of the crew. In the lantern light their tattooed faces looked more inhuman than ever, and Coby could swear some of their eyes glowed like cats’.

She watched the distant battle get closer. A single large ship was surrounded by a swarm of smaller ones, too low in the water for its cannon to fire upon effectively. More than that was difficult to make out in the stark black-and-white of the moonlit waters. Then the beleaguered vessel turned a little towards them, and her heart skipped a beat. She knew that shape, had seen that same ship only a few months ago, waiting for them in the moonlight off the coast of Corsica.

She looked around for the captain. Hennaq had joined his first mate on the fo’c’s’le and was watching the battle through a leather tube with glass in the end. Coby ran up the stairs, her feet slipping on the smooth treads in her haste.

“Captain Hennaq, we have to help that ship. Master Catlyn may well be on board.”

The captain’s amber eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is this a trick?”

“No, sir,” she lied. “Please, let me take a closer look.”

He handed her the viewing tube. She gasped at how much closer the distant ship looked. There was the poop deck, with a tiny Captain Youssef directing his men. No sign of Mal, though. She cast around further, and could hardly believe her eyes. A familiar pennant fluttered from the
Hayreddin’s
mast: five white diamonds in a diagonal row. Even if Mal wasn’t aboard, this was no coincidence.

“They are flying Sir Walter Raleigh’s colours,” she said. “It must be them.”

The captain hesitated for a moment, then turned and shouted orders to his men.

“Get below,” he told her. “Now.”

She ran back down to the weather-deck.

“Now may be our best chance to get away from here,” she whispered to Gabriel.

“In the midst of a battle? How?”

“I don’t know. But we have to try, don’t we?” She looked around. “Keep an eye out for the captain, will you?”

Not waiting for Gabriel’s reply, she ducked into the captain’s cabin.
Now, if I were Hennaq, where would I stow a brace of confiscated pistols?

Thankfully the cupboards lining the cabin were not locked. She searched one after another, and at last found the pistols, along with her powder flask and shot, her lock-pick roll and the book Sandy had stolen. With pockets and doublet front bulging she slipped back out onto the weather deck.