CHAPTER XIX
Mal disembarked from the hired gondola and paused on the threshold of Ca' Ostreghe. It was over a year since Jathekkil had poked around in his head for memories he could use against him, and still it woke him in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The prospect of coming up against another such monster made his stomach curdle, but he could not hide his head under the blankets like a frightened child and hope they went away. He adjusted his mask and stepped inside.
A cold wind was blowing down from the Alps tonight, and Olivia's garden was dark and empty. Instead the eunuch guard indicated wordlessly for Mal to follow him up to the piano nobile, where a log fire held the unseasonable chill at bay and dozens of candles bathed the room in a memory of sunlight. Olivia sat on a gilded chair reading poetry, whilst a number of admirers perched on stools around her. Bragadin leaned against the marble fireplace with an air of studied indifference; evidently he valued Olivia more as an ornament to his own reputation than for herself.
"Ah, Signore Catalin!" Bragadin stepped forward. With his face half-hidden behind the mask, his smile looked forced and insincere. "I did not know you had been invited."
"I chanced to meet La Margherita," Mal said, "whilst I was about my own business, and I confessed to her that I was weary of Raleigh's company after so many weeks at sea."
Bragadin's smile was more genuine this time. "Signore Raleigh is a simple man of action, I suppose."
"Alas so."
"And yet he comes all the way to Venice for a gift for your queen. A man of contradictions."
"I observed as much on first meeting him," Mal said. "But perhaps such grand gestures are of a piece with his temperament."
"May I ask what brings you to Venice, if you are not of his following?"
A liveried page appeared at Mal's elbow with a tray of steaming silver flagons. Mal took one, rolling the stem idly between his fingers.
"Vengeance," he said with a grin.
Bragadin looked taken aback. "I hope you do not bring a vendetta to our city, signore. We have strict laws against those who disturb the peace of La Serenissima."
"Nothing so dreadful, I assure you, sir. I seek my elder brother, who gambled away our family fortune. Perhaps you know him. He goes by the name of Carlo Catalin."
Mal watched Bragadin carefully, but this time the Venetian betrayed no sign of recognising the name.
"I am sorry, signore, but this is a large city and in any case state business occupies most of my time. If a man is not in the Golden Book or a notorious criminal, it is unlikely that I would have come across him."
"A pity. Perhaps I shall seek out this Mercante fellow. He seems to know everything that goes on in Venice."
Bragadin's eyes narrowed behind his mask, but before he could reply, a patter of applause marked the end of their hostess's recitation. Olivia's admirers hurried to make room for her as she rose from her seat. Like Venus from the waves, Mal thought, raising his flagon in silent salute. Olivia inclined her head in acknowledgement, then beckoned to him. He glanced back at Bragadin, who shrugged and motioned him to obey.
"Signore Catalin," Olivia said as Mal drew near, "I have a mind to play a duet. Would you oblige me?"
"I am sadly out of practice–"
"Come, I will not be denied." She snapped her fingers, and servants hurried forward with a pair of lutes.
After a last sip of wine to steady his nerves, Mal took one of the instruments and sat down on a stool near Olivia's seat. It took a while to get the lutes in tune with themselves and one another, then Olivia launched into a simple ricercar. Mal listened for a few stanzas then added a variation of his own, keeping the fingering simple to hide his lack of practice. He tried to observe the other guests out of the corner of his eye, but it was taking all his concentration to play without making a fool of himself. At last Olivia played a closing flourish and her hands stilled. Mal followed suit, relieved to be done.
"Another, signore?" she said, after the applause had died away.
"I have no wish to punish your guests further, signorina."
"Just one more, then." Her eyes sparkled with mischief behind her mask. "And you may take the lead this time."
"Since you are so fond of Dowland," he said, "how about this one…?"
He launched into the opening bars of My Lord Willoughby's Welcome Home, and was gratified when Olivia joined in the duet. It was a short song, thankfully, and he made it through to the end without fumbling more than a handful of notes. Olivia stood and curtsied, first to Mal and then to her audience. He bowed in turn, and excused himself. There had to be a piss-pot around here somewhere.
He wandered out onto the stairs, and was about to head down to the atrium when he heard voices below. He crouched by the balustrade, grateful that the rest of the house was not lit as extravagantly as the main chamber.
"What do you mean, you don't have it yet?"
The voices echoed around the marble stairwell, too indistinct to make out their owners.
"We were supposed to meet last night," the other man said, "under the sottoportego at the end of Calle di Mezzo, but he never arrived. I waited almost until curfew–"
"You did impress upon him the urgency of our situation?"
"Of course, but this business with Grimani must be filling his pockets right now. What need has he of our custom?"
Mal leant forward, pressing his ear between the cold stone balusters. Were they talking about Il Mercante?
"We had a contract. I–"
The rest of the sentence was lost as a large hand clamped over Mal's mouth, crushing the mask against his face, and he was dragged backwards away from the stairs. He struggled and tried to reach for his dagger but his assailant was too strong.
"Calm yourself, signore," a deep voice whispered in his ear. "My lady means you no harm, but you cannot be seen here. Do you understand?"
Mal managed a nod. His captor released him, and Mal turned to see Hafiz, the eunuch slave.
"Please, come this way," Hafiz said, opening a door at the top of the stairs. "Quickly."
The voices in the atrium had stilled, but Mal had the uncomfortable feeling the men were listening now, perhaps even creeping up the stair towards him. His left hand groped for his absent rapier.
"Now, please!" the eunuch hissed.
With a last glance down the stairs Mal followed him into a small chamber, illuminated only by the moonlight coming in through an unglazed window. Hafiz lit a lamp and the shadows receded, revealing this to be an antechamber of some kind. Were these Olivia's own apartments?
"Who were those men?"
"Guests of signorina Olivia. They come here to discuss business. Discreetly."
"And you ensure they are able to do so."
Hafiz inclined his head in acknowledgement and backed towards the door.
"Please wait here, signore."
For how long? Mal wanted to ask, but it felt like such a childish question. The door closed, and Mal heard the key turn in the lock. It was an answer of sorts, though not one he liked.
Long minutes passed whilst Mal waited, ear pressed to the door. He heard footsteps on the landing, one man only, followed at a long interval by another. The two conspirators returning separately to the company? He laid a hand on the doorknob but had more sense than to rattle it. If Olivia thought he needed keeping safe from her guests, he did not want to face them armed with naught but a dagger.
He crossed quietly to the window. The streetward fa?ade of the palazzo was plainer than the canal-side one, but still offered enough footholds for a climb down to the garden. The gate was probably locked, but he recalled seeing a thick-limbed vine on the far wall, offering an easy climb into the street beyond. However he had come here to find out more, not to run away at the first sign of danger. Best to save this exit as a last resort.
He examined the rest of the room minutely, though there was little to see. Two doors led out of the room, in addition to the one he had entered by; he listened at both, but could hear nothing above the rumble of conversation from the parlour. A credenza stood against one wall, flanked by matching armless chairs. On the wall above it hung a fine silvered mirror, large enough for Mal to see his head and shoulders. He frowned at the trim of his beard and the length of his hair, and made a note to see a barber on the morrow. If he survived the night.
After a moment's hesitation he took up the lamp and searched the credenza's drawers and cupboards, but found only a sewing basket and a few items of the sort that a lady might want before leaving the house: gloves, masks and so on. One was the cream silk half-face mask that Olivia had worn the previous evening. So, this was her suite.
Intrigued now, he went back to the nearer of the two doors. The small room beyond was spartan even by Venetian standards, with whitewashed walls, marble floor and for furniture only a close-stool, a wash stand and a hip bath in the shape of an oyster shell. A room just for washing? Perhaps it was a Moorish custom.
He was about to try the other door when he heard the key rattle in the lock. Quickly he returned to the credenza, put down the lamp and adopted a nonchalant pose.
"Ah, so you are still here," Olivia said, crossing to the window with a graceful swaying walk and closing the shutters. "I was afraid you might have been alarmed by Hafiz's… intervention."
"Who were those men? Are you an accomplice of Il Mercante?"
She closed the space between them and put a finger to his lips. "So many questions. But first I think you owe me some answers, Signore Inglese."
"Oh?"
"Who are you–" she reached up and removed his mask "–and why are you here?"
"My name you already know, and I am here because you invited me."
"Come, signore, the time for games is over." She ran a fingertip along the edge of his left ear and down to the lobe. "Put aside your pretty armour, and be your true self."
Mal prayed his surprise did not show in his face. She recognised the spirit-guard for what it was, which could mean only one thing.
"And what then?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"We are two of a kind, you and I," she said. "Outcasts, for reasons not of our choosing. Is that why the sanuti are here? To track you down?"
Is that what she thinks I am, a renegade guiser? Perhaps I should play along. It is not so very far from the truth, after all.
He forced a laugh. "I arrived in Venice but two days ago."
"So you say. But perhaps you have been in hiding all this time, until your Sir Walter Raleigh came along and gave you a reason to visit me."
"You are very astute, signorina."
"In this city, one learns to see behind the mask if one wants to survive." She removed her own, and set it down on the credenza next to his. "Come, let us make ourselves comfortable, and you can tell me all."
She led him through the other door. Into her bedchamber.
Mal hesitated on the threshold.
"What of Bragadin? Is he your partner? Is he Il Mercante?"
Olivia laughed. "He is naught but my puppet. A woman here has no station but that which a man gives her, so I must make the appearance of being a rich man's mistress." She turned and smiled. "As I told you before, I am no man's property."
Mal followed her inside, little reassured by this. If Bragadin were Il Mercante and she controlled him, what were her plans for himself?
An enormous canopied bed draped in crimson damask dominated the room, and a haphazard layer of Turkish rugs muffled Olivia's footfalls as she went about the room lighting candles. The window was his best chance for a hasty exit, since it opened onto the Grand Canal, though he was not a strong swimmer. Perhaps the door to the antechamber, then, and a climb down to the garden.
When all the candles were lit, Olivia blew out the taper and sat down on a couch by the window.
"Will you help me with these?"
She lifted her skirts to reveal the chopines. Mal knelt and unfastened the buckles and lacings that held them over her silk slippers, then eased them off her feet and put them aside. Olivia sighed and wiggled her toes, and patted the cushioned seat beside her. Mal sat down, arranging himself so that his hand was not too far from his dagger hilt.
"Who are you?" she whispered, twisting on the seat so that she could look him in the eyes. "Have the Christians taken to capturing our people once more?"
Mal shook his head. "I came here by choice, looking for you."
He held her gaze, willing himself not to look away and betray the lies. Sandy should be here doing this, he has far more of Erishen's memories than I, he would know exactly what to say.
"For me? Do I know you?"
"No, my lady. I am but newly stepped onto this path."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why should I trust you? The elders could have sent you to trap me."
"The elders would never approve such a step. You know it is against our law."
"And you broke that law," she said softly. "Why?"
He tried to imagine how Sandy would put it. "Because I think the elders are wrong," he said at last. "You are not evil. Becoming human is not evil."
"Ah, the confidence of youth," she said, smiling. "The elders are indeed wrong. And you, sweet boy, are the answer to my prayers."
"How so?"
"Tell your name," she purred, trailing a hand up his arm.
"You know my name. Mal."
"Your true name."
Mal hesitated. In many a fairytale, the true name of an elf or hobgoblin gave one power over them. Did the same apply to guisers?
"Does it matter?" he said at last.
"It is a matter of courtesy. But perhaps as the elder, I should begin. I am Ilianwe."