The Merchant of Dreams (47 page)

“They don’t like daylight. It weakens them, makes them… less real.”

“There’s no shortage of sunshine here,” Ned said.

“But the streets are narrow, and the buildings tall,” Coby said. “They may be able to find somewhere to hole up during the day.”

“Then we must find these shadowy places and bring light to them.”

“How?”

“That’s one thing the skraylings are good at,” Mal said. “I think we need to send a message to the skrayling merchants, find out if any of them can sell us a barrel or two of lightwater.”

“Why lightwater?” Ned asked. “Wouldn’t torches do as well?”

“Torches are too dangerous. The last thing we need is to save the city by burning it to the ground.” He turned to Coby. “As soon as it’s light, you and Parrish go to the skraylings’ palazzo.”

“What if the Venetians see us?” Gabriel asked.

“I think the Venetians have other things to worry about than someone talking to the skraylings,” Mal replied. “Though if you can think of a ruse to get you in there, all the better.”

“Sir?” Coby left her station at the window and drew him aside. “Do we even know if Lord Kiiren and the elders survived the attacks?”

Mal shook his head. “That’s my other reason for sending you. Please, bring back news of Kiiren… and my brother.”

She nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation embraced him.

“I won’t fail you,” she whispered into his chest.

He kissed her hair, wondering what he had done to deserve such loyalty. If they survived the next few hours, he would find a way to make it up to her. Olivia was gone, and he had to deal with the consequences. All of them.

As dawn broke, Coby and Gabriel ventured out of the Turk’s Head into a city more deserted than they’d ever seen it. Every window was shuttered, every door closed and bolted. Ranks of gondolas bobbed against their mooring posts, their elaborately carved oarlocks empty.

“Do we go on foot, or find a gondolier?” Coby asked.

“By water would seem the safest,” Gabriel replied. “I for one would not willingly risk the city’s alleyways this morning, certainly not until it is full light.”

Coby could not disagree, but it chafed her to wait. Every minute that passed was a minute later in returning to Master Catlyn with news. It felt like an age until the rising sun burned away the morning mists and the citizens began venturing out of doors again. She pounced upon the first gondolier to set foot on the quay, and promised him twice his usual fee if he would take them via the Grand Canal instead of cutting through San Marco. He was more than happy to do so, and soon they were gliding westwards across the broad sun-dappled waters, safe – or so she hoped – from shadow-lurking monsters.

Closer to the Fondaco dei Sanuti, the silence of the cowed city gave way to an ominous rumble of voices. Dozens of gondolas were moored along the Grand Canal in front of the skraylings’ palazzo, and a mob of angry citizens filled the portico, hammering on the bronze doors and shouting what sounded like demands for the skraylings to come out.

“Take the side-canal,” Coby told the gondolier. “There’s no chance of us getting in past that mob.”

The gondolier hauled on his oar, and soon they were slipping down the small canal that formed the southern boundary of the skrayling compound. A narrow
fondamenta
ran along below the palazzo wall, and a few of the more intrepid protestors had made their way to the side entrance, where they were trying unsuccessfully to break the door down. A little further along, the
fondamenta
widened into the street that ran behind the palazzo, and this too was choked with a mob of Venetians, chanting and throwing stones at the windows. Coby caught only a brief glimpse, however, before they were past and heading deep into Santa Croce.

“You want to go back there?” the gondolier asked.

“Yes, but by a roundabout way,” Coby said. There was nothing else for it, if they wanted to approach the palazzo unnoticed.

“I’ll let you ashore, then.” He pointed ahead, to where a small bridge spanned the canal. “Good luck to you,
signori
.”

A few moments later the gondola bumped up against the canal bank and they scrambled ashore.

“I suppose the ordinary folk are blaming the skraylings for what happened last night,” Gabriel said in a low voice as they hurried through the narrow backstreets of Santa Croce.

“It’s hardly surprising,” she replied. “The ambassador is finally invited to the Doge’s palace after weeks in the city, fireworks go off – possibly even fireworks supplied by the skraylings – and shortly afterwards the city is overrun by slavering hellhounds. If I didn’t know–” she lowered her voice to a whisper “–if I didn’t know who was really behind it, I’d suspect them too.”

The crowd behind the palazzo were still in full voice, despite the occasional rain of broken glass as a stone hit one of the remaining intact windows. Coby heard many mentions of the word
diaboli
, and much calling on the name of Christ, the Madonna and various saints.

“How are we going to get inside?” Coby said, watching the crowd warily. “All the doors must be barricaded by now.”

“If we can’t get through the besiegers, we have to get rid of them.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me. Give me your purse, and wait here a few minutes. If you see an opportunity to get inside, take it; otherwise just stay here and keep out of trouble.”

She watched with a heavy heart as he jogged off down the street. After Mal, Gabriel was the best man to have at your side in a tight spot.

Not all the rioters were actively attacking the palazzo. Many, like herself, were content to observe from a distance. It provided cover, but it also made it impossible to get closer to the building without being noticed. Whatever Gabriel’s plan was, it had better be good.

She found an empty doorway on the far side of the street. Either the inhabitants had sensibly locked themselves inside, or they were out here with the rioters; either way, they wouldn’t be opening it any time soon. She leaned against the cool stone, trying to look nonchalant instead of terrified. Last time she had been near a mob like this was when the theatre burnt down, and then it was only frightened playgoers fleeing for their lives. This was something entirely different: ferocious and chaotic, like a fire in human form.

Where were the red-coated constables, for that matter? Defending the Doge and council, most likely. No one cared about a few skraylings, particularly if there was even a remote chance they were behind last night’s unholy manifestations.

A higher-pitched note threaded through the shouting and was taken up by one voice after another. Screams. Like a swarm of bees the crowd began to turn and move towards Coby and the open street leading towards the Grand Canal. She flattened herself into the doorway, wondering if soldiers had turned up at last, though she had heard no gunfire nor any reason for the screaming. The fury that had been directed at the skraylings was now turned inwards as the fleeing rioters fought one another to get onto the gondolas. A few stragglers halted, weighed up their chances and headed down the street into Santa Croce.

As the last few rioters dispersed, Coby saw what had triggered the panic. Gabriel was staggering down the street, shirt torn and soaked in blood.

“No!” She ran to him, seized his arms, scanning his body for wounds. “Dear God, what happened?”

Gabriel groaned, but when she looked up into his eyes he winked and jerked his head towards the side door of the building.

“Quick,” he said. “Before they discover this is all a sham and come back.”

“You’re not hurt?”

“Pig’s blood,” he said. “From the market. Now go!”

Coby needed no more prompting. She ran around the side of the palazzo, and sure enough the little
fondamenta
was empty, and the few gondolas that had been moored there were already gone. She knocked on the door, praying that the skraylings had not abandoned it.

“Hello! You in there! Friends!
Ingilanda!
Talk trade, get lightwater aid Kiiren-tuur!”

The garbled mix of English, Tradetalk and Vinlandic had the desired effect, and after a few moments the door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of tattooed face.

“
Ingilanda?
”

“Friends of Kiiren-tuur and Erishen-tuur. Please, let us in. We have to buy lightwater to fight the night-demons–”

The door opened a little further. Impatience getting the better of her, Coby pushed it wide. The skrayling porter goggled at the sight of Gabriel smeared in pig’s blood but let them in.

“If you want to get out of this city alive,” she told the porter in Tradetalk, “you have to take me to Lord Kiiren. Now.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

Mal stood at the window of the Turk’s Head, watching the city awake. Could he really ask his friends to lay down their lives to help mend his errors? Did he have a choice? He could hardly face the devourers alone. He slammed the side of his fist against the wall. Cowering here was not going to help. He needed to get out there, track the creatures down…

“Maliverny? There’s something I have to tell you, before–” His brother looked around. “Not here, though.”

Mal looked at him suspiciously. “What have you done, Charles?”

“Not here.” He gestured towards a door in the back wall of the gambling house.

Mal glanced back at Ned and held up his hand in a “stay there” gesture, then followed Charles through the door into what turned out to be a large pantry-cum-buttery, well stocked with barrels of wine and jars of olives, along with stacks of plates, napkins and finger-bowls. Sausages the size of a man’s arm hung from the rafters, filling the air with the scent of garlic. Mal’s stomach grumbled, demanding breakfast.

“Well, out with it,” he said, as soon as the door was shut.

Charles sat down on a barrel and stared at his clasped hands. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, little brother–”

“For destroying our family? How can I?”

“Maliverny…” Charles got to his feet, though he still could not meet Mal’s eye. “Rushdale Hall were never sold.”

“What do you mean? I went there, some fellow named Frogmore has it now–”

“As a tenant. He rents it from me, through our lawyers.”

“What? They told me–”

“They told you what they had been instructed to tell you. It was for your own good, yours and Sandy’s–”

“I don’t believe you. This is some ruse, to try and make peace.”

“No, I swear. I had to raise the money to come here somehow, and my credit was hardly the best.”

“Why Venice?”

“Because I found out that folk possessed by skraylings had come here long ago.”

“You wanted to find Olivia?”

“No. I wanted to find others who’d fought these creatures – and won.”

“And did you?”

Charles laughed bitterly. “No such luck. There were plenty of gossip and old stories, but no sign of either the possessed ones or their destroyers. And by the time I’d made certain of it, I were out of money. I could have returned to England in disgrace, but what would that have achieved?”

“You could have reclaimed your heritage,” Mal said. “Rushdale Hall is still worth something, surely?”

“I cannot live there, not after everything… and neither should you. It’s too dangerous.”

“It seemed quiet enough when I visited, three years ago.”

“Happen it does. But stay there long enough, and you’ll see.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because neither of us might see tomorrow.” He fumbled with the signet ring on his right hand. “Take this to our lawyers, and they’ll tell you the truth.”

Mal stared down at the heavy gold ring, remembering seeing it on their father’s hand.

“Don’t think this means I’ll forgive you for what you did,” he told Charles. “If you had seen Sandy in that place…”

“What’s done is done; I’ll face my sins when the time comes. God knows the account is long enough.”

Ned waited, somewhat impatiently, for the brothers to finish whatever business Charles thought too private for his ears. He’d briefly been tempted to go over to the door and eavesdrop, but on reflection he’d had enough of prying into the Catlyns’ business. Instead he took up Hendricks’ former station at the window. The city was beginning to stir: a man hurried past, looking nervously at every doorway; a shutter opposite opened briefly and closed again. No one was going outside who didn’t have to.

“So, are we going to stand around all morning, twiddling our thumbs?” he asked when Mal emerged from the pantry.

“Not at all. I mean to seek out Cinquedea and call upon whatever aid he and his… family are willing to give.”

Charles snorted in derision. “Good luck with that. They say the Ten have been trying to infiltrate the Lacemaker’s organisation for years, without success.”

“I’m not talking about infiltration, merely an alliance,” Mal replied. He scratched his chin. “I don’t suppose Cinquedea will be at the Mermaid, not after last night. So where do we start looking?”

“Since you seem to be dead set on this scheme,” Charles said, “I will give you one piece of advice. Go to the island of Burano.”

“Burano? Ah, yes, that’s where most of Venice’s lace is made,” Mal said.

“It’s no idle nickname, ‘the blind lacemaker’. The women who follow the craft often lose their sight from working every waking hour, dawn to dusk and then on by candlelight if need be.”

“And you think I will find Cinquedea there?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. If there’s trouble in Venice, the Lacemaker’s boys are likely to retreat to home ground.”

Mal thanked his brother and beckoned to Ned. “We’d better go back to Berowne’s first. My rapier is there, and I would be reassured to know that our other friends escaped unhurt.”

They bade Charles farewell and hurried through the empty streets of Venice. For once Ned had nothing to say. He could rail at Mal for being so besotted with this woman as to bring her wrath down on them all, but what good would that do? He just hoped Gabriel was all right. If anything happened to his darling boy, Mal would really feel his fury.