"You asked to speak with me. So speak."
"I was given your name by Sir Francis Walsingham," Mal said. "He told me you work for an old friend of his, the Blind Lacemaker."
His eyes were starting to adjust to the gloom, and he could now make out a dark shape standing to one side of the shuttered window. Not a tall man, but solidly built. Was Cinquedea the Lacemaker? It would explain why they were meeting in the dark, where a blind man would have an advantage.
"A friend, is that how he describes her?"
Her?
"Still, they must be of an age, grandmama and he," Cinquedea went on. "I have often wondered if they were lovers, though my grandfather would have killed him if had found out."
"Your grandmother?" Mal was unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
"You have a queen in England. She is past her sixtieth year, I believe."
"Two years since," Mal replied.
"My grandmother is queen of her own little realm. But we digress. What business of England's brings you here?"
Mal cleared his throat. "I need to speak to the skrayling ambassador. Sir Francis is… concerned about their purpose here, and there seems no other way to discover it."
"I would have thought their purpose is obvious: to negotiate a trade agreement with the Doge and council."
"True. But my government wishes to be forewarned of any progress."
"Why should we help you? Increased trade will be of great benefit to Venice."
"I do not think Sir Francis would have told me about you unless he believed you would help."
Cinquedea stepped forward. He was not much older than Mal, though already greying at the temples. Handsome as his namesake as well, with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes that were most certainly not blind.
"I will take the matter to my grandmother," the Venetian said, "and send you word of her decision. You are staying at the English embassy?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Expect my reply within a few days."
"Thank you."
Cinquedea bowed curtly and retreated into the shadows. Somewhere far off, a bell tinkled, and Mal heard the clop-clop of footsteps approach the door.
"Good day, Signore Catalin."
Mal followed the boy back down to the taproom, and signalled to Ned that it was time to leave.
"I think we should be going, gentlemen," Ned said loudly. "Captain Raleigh will be expecting us for dinner."
He made his farewells to the company and followed Mal out of the inn.
"What the hell was all that about?" he asked, as Mal paused to piss in an alley-mouth. "Have you been lying to me all these years? Is Hendricks really a boy after all?"
"The boy was just a messenger," Mal replied, just loud enough to be heard over the splashing noise. "I could hardly meet openly with… my hoped-for ally." He shook off the last drop and buttoned up his slops.
"And who is this ally? Christ's balls, Mal, you've become as close-mouthed as a banker's purse since you came back from France. We used to be the best of friends…"
"And still are." Mal put an arm around his shoulder. "If I keep secrets, it's only for your own safety."
As they walked along the quayside, a sleek gondola with a gilded prow drew up. A hand emerged from the gauzy curtains of the central cabin, and beckoned to Mal. An elegant, dark-skinned female hand. He swallowed, his mouth dry as tinder.
"What's she doing here?" Ned muttered.
The curtains parted to reveal Olivia, dressed in coppercoloured silk that shimmered like a last glimpse of the sun setting over the Grand Canal. She had shed her mask in favour of an ostrich-feather fan, which she fluttered over her breasts in a manner that didn't so much hide them as draw the eye to them like a needle to a lodestone.
"Signore Catalin, what a lovely surprise. Please, join me."
Mal swept a bow. "Alas, my lady, I wish I dared. But your patron would not look kindly upon it, I fear."
She pouted prettily and sighed. "Je suis desolée."
"As am I, my lady."
"Perhaps you would dare to attend another evening party? I have guests tonight; you need not fear visiting me alone."
Mal noted the ambiguity of her words, and smiled. "It would be my pleasure."
She raised her fan to cover her answering smile, but above it her jade-green eyes sparkled with triumph. Mal watched the gondola join the stream of craft heading towards the entrance to the Grand Canal, then turned back towards St Mark's Square.
"What are you doing?" Ned said, scurrying after him. "I thought you'd vowed to stay away from her?"
"I've changed my mind," he replied. "Machiavelli said: 'There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.' I intend to take his advice."