CHAPTER XXIII
Ned picked at his bread roll. Neither he nor Mal had slept much last night, and not for the reason he had hoped for when they first came to Venice. He had lain awake expecting the constables to come knocking on the door at any moment, though Mal repeatedly assured him they had not been followed, nor was the surviving Venetian likely to betray them even if he suspected. Indeed his friend seemed more worried that Bragadin's death in suspicious circumstances would lead some to connect this Mercante fellow with Olivia. For his own part he cared not; the guiser had what was coming to her. Perhaps now she might get her claws out of Mal.
He looked up briefly as the door opened. Berowne came in, looking worried.
"Have you heard the news, Catlyn?"
Mal yawned. "No."
"There's been a murder in the Calle di Mezzo, near San Giacomo's. Two men found dead. Some are saying it's Giambattista Bragadin and Pietro Trevisan."
"Really."
"Indeed. Didn't you meet them at the courtesan's house?"
"I suppose I must have," Mal said. "Though I don't remember half the men I was introduced to."
"Still, could just be gossip," Berowne said, sitting down at the head of the table. "I swear the Venetians are as bad as women when it comes to spreading salacious rumours. There's nothing they like better than a juicy scandal."
"It does seem unlikely that two important men would be in such a rough part of the city."
"You're probably right. Mind you, I dare say the lions will eat well today."
"Lions?" Ned asked.
"The Bocce di Leoni. Means 'lions' mouths'. They're collection boxes set in the walls of various buildings around Venice, including the Doge's Palace. Anyone who witnesses a crime is obliged to write a denunciation, countersigned by witnesses, and leave it in one of these boxes."
Ned kept his eyes on his own breakfast. Trust the Venetians to set their entire citizenry to spy on one another. No wonder Walsingham had warned them to be careful.
"An accusation cannot be made anonymously, then?" Mal asked.
"No. I believe that in past generations it was, but the system was too often exploited for petty revenge, and many false accusations were made."
Ned breathed a sigh of relief. Trevisan's friend was likely to keep quiet since he was the one who killed Bragadin, and no one else would have recognised them, would they? He glanced at Mal, who shrugged.
Jameson appeared at the door.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but there's a messenger for Master Catlyn."
Mal looked around sharply. "For me?"
"He's waiting in the entrance hall."
Mal wiped his hands on his napkin. "Please excuse me, Sir Geoffrey."
"Oh, don't mind me," the ambassador muttered. "Good to see the place busy."
Mal patted Ned on the shoulder and followed Jameson out. Ned sighed and put down the remains of his own breakfast. He had no stomach for it anyway. Excusing himself to Berowne, he went back up to the attic and lay down on his bed to wait for Mal. After a while his eyelids fluttered shut and he fell asleep, to dream of disembodied lions' heads, their mouths open and slavering for his blood.
Mal clattered down to the atrium, glad of the distraction. A boy of about six or seven, barefoot and dressed in a ragged shirt and breeches, stood in the middle of the floor under the watchful eye of Jameson. He goggled up at Mal, who hunkered down so that they were eye to eye.
"You have a message for me?" Mal asked in Italian.
The boy nodded, hands clasped behind his back. "Yes, sir. Rio Tera degli Assassini, one hour after sunset."
"And who is this message from?"
The boy held up one hand, fingers splayed. Five. Cinquedea. Mal smiled. The scoundrel had a sense of humour, you had to give him that. Assassins' Canal Street, indeed.
"Thank you." Mal took out his purse and extracted a couple of small coins. "I shall be there."
The boy grinned and pocketed his reward. Mal got to his feet and showed him out, then turned back to the staircase.
"Master Catlyn?" Jameson quavered. "There is a letter for you as well."
"A letter?" Mal took it, expecting to see Olivia's hand – but it was Coby's writing. How had a letter from England reached here so soon? He went over to the little window by the front door to read it and broke the seal.
The letter was in cipher of course, but even once decoded it made little sense. Beware skrayling Hennaq. Sandy and I will be in Venice soon. Who was this Hennaq, and why should he be wary of him? And what in God's name was Coby doing, coming to Venice?
He thrust the letter into his pocket with a sigh of frustration. He had to see Olivia. She must have heard of the murder by now and be wondering about his own involvement. Better to go sooner rather than later. He headed upstairs to fetch his cloak and mask.
Mal rang the bell at the garden gate of Ca' Ostreghe. He had lain awake all night trying to decide what to say to Olivia about last night's venture, but he was no nearer an answer that did not make him look like a fool. And he was not fool enough to think she would be happy with his news. Coming here on foot had only delayed the confrontation a little while.
Hafiz showed him up to the main reception chamber, rather than Olivia's private apartments. Not an auspicious beginning. Olivia stood by the empty fireplace, clad in black silk, her hair covered with a long lace veil as if she were a respectable widow. Her expression was not one of sadness, however.
"Signore Catalin." She bit off every syllable. "How good to see you."
Mal swept a deep bow. "My lady, I can explain–"
"Explain? Oh I am sure you can. I allow you into my house, my bed, my heart – and this is how you repay me? With betrayal and murder?"
Mal said nothing, only sank to one knee and let her rage on. She was saying nothing he had not thought himself, although her accusations were couched in far more colourful terms. When the stream of invectives finally slowed he chanced a look up. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, though her expression was as stern as ever.
"You are right in all you say, my lady," he began. When she did not interrupt him with another tirade, he got to his feet. "I have failed you. I found out nothing about Bragadin's dealings, except that he has perhaps been extorting more money than he told you."
He related the fragments of conversation he had overheard. Olivia's delicate brows drew together into a frown.
"The ungrateful cuckold! He owed his fortune to me."
"Indeed. However he would have died last night whether or not I had followed him. It is clear that his clients were not happy with the delays."
"It is my fault," Olivia said, and sank down on a stool. The anger had gone out of her, leaving her looking old and frail. "Since the sanuti came to Venice, I have been afraid to wander abroad in the dreamlands in search of the secrets Bragadin had promised. He was more patient with me than they were with him."
"He dared not kill the goose that laid the golden egg."
"And now he is dead. And Trevisan too." She got to her feet. "I have made my decision, amayi. This is over."
Mal's heart constricted, though with fear or relief he could not be sure. "What is over?"
She gestured around the room. "All of this. La Margherita Nera. I was growing tired of the game anyway."
"You're leaving Venice?"
She laughed. "Ah, my dear boy, I forget you are so new to this. No, now that I have you for an amayi I will seek rebirth. Everyone will say I died of grief for my beloved patron, and that will be an end to it."
"No!" Mal closed the space between them and took her in his arms. "You cannot do this."
"I must," she said, stroking his cheek. "I knew it could not last forever, that sooner or later Bragadin would be found out, or at least suspected. And now that I have you, I need not fear."