The Merchant of Dreams (34 page)

There was not a lot of space on the gondola once everything was loaded on board, and the little craft sat so low in the water that Coby, perching on one of the narrow seats that ran along either side, could easily reach out and touch the emerald-green water if she had wanted to. She was squeezed in between Gabriel and Benetto; the juggler smiled shyly at her and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then changed his mind.

The gondola began to move slowly on its way, wallowing somewhat from its heavy load. Coby stared up at the strange buildings that drifted past; every one was painted a different colour and had a different number and shape of windows, and yet they formed a harmonious pattern. Most of all they reminded her of the galleried façade of a tiring-house at the back of a stage, as if the entire city were one enormous theatre, and its people merely actors.

The gondola turned left into a side canal, then right and left again before halting at a smaller canal bank, no more than a walkway in front of the row of more modest buildings that lined the lesser canals. Their destination appeared to be an inn, although apart from the sign above the open front door – three leaping fishes with bulging glass eyes and gilded scales – there was little to distinguish it from the houses on either side.

Coby and Valentina were helped ashore, and the men began unloading their belongings. Passers-by gave them many curious glances, and a small child watched wide-eyed from the shadows of a doorway until its mother called it back inside.

“This reminds me of being on tour with Suffolk’s Men,” she said to Gabriel as he placed another bundle of canvas against the nearby wall. “People were always happy to see us arrive, but happy too to see us go.”

“We brought spectacle and a glimpse of the outside world,” he said, looking back down the canal. “And a disturbance of their quiet lives. Some people don’t like that.”

“Still, to see the same in a city like this, at the crossroads of the world.” She shook her head. “It is… strange.”

He shrugged and went back to work.

Zancani fussed around them until everything was unloaded from the gondola, then strode into the inn. Coby followed him, for want of anything better to do.

The inn was cool and shady after the heat of the afternoon, and at first Coby could make out little. As her eyes adjusted, she realised they were walking through a passageway with doors on either side. A moment later they emerged into a courtyard. The ground floor was colonnaded, with tables and benches laid out neatly, though unoccupied at this time of day; the floor above that was galleried like an English inn, with a staircase leading up from the back of the courtyard. The uppermost floor had many arched windows with shutters thrown back to let in the sunlight, and a roof of terracotta tiles. Somehow it looked far grander than the English inns that Suffolk’s Men had stayed in, but it seemed even the humblest dwelling here was built of brick and stucco and tile, instead of the simple wood and thatch of England.

A stout, red-faced man hurried down the stairs, wiping his hands on his apron, and greeted Zancani warmly. A curly-haired lad of about twelve, the image of the innkeeper in skinny miniature, leaned over the balcony, gawping, until his father shouted up to him. Something about Zancani and “Mama”.

By the time the players had finished carrying all the baggage up to their lodgings, the lady of the house had appeared, along with baskets of bread, bowls of olives and jugs of wine. The men settled down to talk business, whilst the innkeeper’s wife ushered the two girls upstairs to their lodgings. Coby looked back wistfully over her shoulder; in the old days she would have been down there with them, not shuffled off to one side like a child.

“You are
Inglese
?” the innkeeper’s wife asked in heavily accented English.

“Dutch,” Coby replied. “But I lived in England for a while.”

“
Si, Inghilterra
. I am Magdalena.”

“Jacomina.”

Magdalena grinned, gap-toothed. “Giacomina. Is very pretty name. I have the cousin named Giacomina.”

She showed the girls into a small room on the top floor, not much more than an attic but neat and clean, with two cot beds and a shared nightstand. Coby thanked her and put down her knapsack. How she was going to get away from under Zancani’s nose and visit Mal, she did not know, but she was determined to do it tonight. Otherwise she would never sleep, she was sure of it.

Valentina spoke neither French nor English, which rather limited their conversation. However this did not seem to deter the girl unduly. By dint of pantomime and a few words, she declared herself fascinated with Coby’s blond hair and insisted on combing it. Coby sat dutifully and allowed herself to be fussed over like a doll, though she could not for the life of her see the point. She was quite capable of combing her own hair, after all.

She was spared any further feminine amusement by a knock on the door. Valentina leapt up and opened the door a crack to reveal the long face of Benetto the juggler. The two players chattered away to one another in Italian for several minutes, then Benetto went away.

“What was all that about?” Coby asked.

Valentina looked glum. She pointed to herself and then Coby, and mimed sewing.
Ah, the costumes
. That had always been Coby’s first task when returning to London from a tour of the country. So much got damaged in use and would need mending before they could perform again. She followed Valentina down to the men’s quarters, where all their equipment had been stored.

Mal took down his rapier from its peg, cinched the belt around his hips and threw the hooded cloak around his shoulders, adjusting its folds to conceal the weapon.
Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb
.

“Expecting trouble?” Ned asked.

Mal closed the attic door.

“One can never be too careful around men like Cinquedea,” he said quietly.

“You think he might betray us to the Ten.”

“I don’t know. I’d like to think not; after all, Walsingham surely wouldn’t have led us astray on purpose.”

“Walsingham’s an old man, and hasn’t been outside England in years. Things change.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need to be on our guard.”

They padded down the marble staircase and let themselves out into the street. There were few people about at this hour, since the Venetians preferred to eat supper late. The scent of garlic and hot oil drifted on the air. Ned’s stomach rumbled loudly.

“I thought you already ate?” Mal said, leading the way towards the
traghetto
at San Toma.

“I did. And now I’m hungry again.”

“Gabriel won’t like it if you grow a paunch.”

“I’ll just lose it again in England, unless we have a better harvest this year.”

By the time they reached Campo San Toma the sun was sinking behind the church, bathing the city in amber light. Several barefoot children were running around the stone wellhead, shrieking with laughter, but Mal looked about as cheerful as a man going to his own funeral.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Ned said, trying to lighten the mood.

“What’s strange?”

“Finding out Charles has been here all this time, alive and well. I remember you once saying you’d gladly slit his throat and dump his body on a midden for what he did to Sandy.”

“I have more important things to think about than petty revenge.”

“Still, when this is all over–”

“Never look beyond the next battle.”

“Is that how you see this meeting with Lord Kiiren? As a battle?”

Mal halted in the blackness under a
sottoportego
. “Kiiren–”

He paused as two passing women broke off their gossip to eye them suspiciously. Ned slipped his arms around Mal’s waist and pulled him closer, treating the women to his best salacious grin. The elder of the two muttered in disgust to her companion and turned pointedly away.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Mal asked when the women were out of earshot.

“It gave them something else to fix their suspicions on, didn’t it? Anyway, what were you saying?”

“What I think I was going to say, before I was so…” He grimaced, extracted himself from Ned’s embrace and set off again “…is: Kiiren is a foreign ambassador and puts his own people first, never forget that.”

“But he will help us, right?”

“I certainly hope so.”

The gondola ferry was waiting at its jetty, a lamp hanging from its stern. They paid the ferryman and climbed in. Mal hunched down, feeling horribly exposed out on the water. In the distance he could see a blaze of moving lights that indicated one of the
barche longhe
, the slender armed galleys in which the
sbirri
patrolled the canals. It was a relief to step ashore in San Marco before the galley reached them.

CHAPTER XXIV

Rio Tera degli Assassini turned out to be a short cobbled street with a fetid canal running across its far end. A gondola was moored to a rotting timber, a cloaked and hooded figure at its oar, like the ferryman of the underworld. Mal paused at the near end, his hand on the hilt of his rapier, and scanned the shadows. If this were a trap…

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Another hooded figure rose from the gondola and stepped ashore. “Easy, there. We’re all friends.”

“Cinquedea?”

“The same.”

Mal motioned to Ned to stay where he was and strode down the street, stopping a couple of sword-lengths from the man. Cinquedea threw back his hood.

“I see you brought a friend.”

“As did you.”

“Then we are even. This one here–” he gestured to the gondolier “–is Marco il Pessotelo.”

Mal inclined his head in greeting.
Pessotelo
was not a word he knew, however; a Venetian surname, or another nickname?

“A great many Venetians seem to be called Marco,” he said.

Cinquedea shrugged. “He is our patron saint. It is good luck to name your son after him. Now, if you will come with me…?”

“Where?” Mal asked, folding his arms.

“We cannot stand around in the street. Unless you wish everyone to hear your secrets?”

Mal glanced up at the surrounding buildings. Who knew who was listening, up there in the shadows?

“Very well. But we keep to the main canals, all right?” He beckoned to Ned. “The first sign that your man is turning down some little backwater, my man Faulkner here will plant a knife between his eyes.” In English he added, “Won’t you, Ned?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Understood,” Cinquedea said. “Please, after you.”

Mal squeezed himself into the little cabin, wishing he were as small as most Venetians. Cinquedea joined him, and Pessotelo hauled on the oar.

“So, you’ll help us?” Mal said as the gondola lurched into motion.

“For a price.”

“I don’t have a lot of money–”

“There are things more valuable than money, my friend. As well you know.”

“What then?”

Cinquedea grinned in the darkness. “Truth.”

“Truth is a false coin, oft clipped to worthlessness.”

“And yet even the clippings have value. Tell me, who killed Bragadin and Trevisan?”

Mal stared levelly back at him.
No beating around the bush, then
. “Why do you think I know?”

“Because I have eyes amongst both Nicoletti and Castellani. And you, sir, were seen running through Santa Croce late last night.”

“Very well, the truth. I don’t know who killed Bragadin; I saw it happen, but I did not see the fellow’s face nor recognise his voice.”

“And Trevisan?”

“I killed him myself, as he tried to run away.”

“How did you happen upon this scene of slaughter?”

“I knew Trevisan and his friend were up to something. I overheard them talking a few days ago and thought the matter might impinge on my own business here, so I invited myself along, so to speak.” It was close enough to the truth, and kept Olivia out of it.

“And Bragadin?”

“A fellow conspirator, perhaps,” Mal said with a shrug. “At any rate their tryst soon became a quarrel; something to do with a great sum of money.”

“Ah, money. Our oldest vice. We always want what we do not have, is this not so?”

“But Venice is rich, surely?”

“One would think so, but you must have discovered the true nature of our city by now.”

Mal cocked an eyebrow and said nothing.

“Take that palace,” Cinquedea said, pointing to one of the many beautiful buildings along the Grand Canal. “Exquisite rose marble, yes? Gilding, fine sculpture. Great windows filled with clear and coloured glass.”

Mal made a noise of agreement.

“It is but a thin skin,” his companion went on, “a layer of burnish upon a crude foundation. Every last building here is of timber and brick behind its façade. Go inside, and you will find dust and decay. It is all a show, a sham; but what an illusion, eh? The most beautiful city in the world, and she is a tawdry broken-down jade at heart.”

Mal didn’t know what to say. It matched his own impressions of the city, and yet as an outsider he dared not voice such a bold opinion.

“Of course if you repeat any of that, sir, I will have to cut your throat. One does not insult a lady to her face, you know?”

“Absolutely,” Mal said, trying to follow the Venetian’s train of thought.

“Our patricians need new markets for their goods. Take that fine fellow Dandolo. He has his finger in many pies, as you English would say.” Cinquedea laughed. “Spices, silk, salt of course, glass and porcelain… if you can buy it in Venice, the chances are high that it has been through one of Dandolo’s warehouses. But storing and shipping all those goods costs a great deal of money. A very great deal.”

“You’re saying he’s bankrupt?”

“That is the rumour. But who knows for certain? He may simply be trying to get out of paying his taxes.”

Mal joined in Cinquedea’s laughter. “Either way, an agreement with the skraylings will be most welcome.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were in favour of these trade negotiations.”

“I am. You mean to stop them?”