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 fa?ade. 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."