Ned cleared his throat as if to speak and Mal shot him a warning glance, shaking his head. One of the clerks looked up briefly, then went back to his work. The chamber was silent but for the scratching of pen on paper. Make them wait, Walsingham had taught him on the subject of interrogation. Anticipation is half the torture. Perhaps his mentor had learned the technique from the Venetians.
At last the three men finished their business, and Mal could now only wish it had taken them longer. The chancellor rang a small bell that stood on the desk, and after a few moments two guards entered the room. The chancellor motioned towards Mal's cell. Mal made the sign of the cross and muttered a last prayer. The door of his cell was unlocked and the guard beckoned for him to come out. Mal decided to oblige him; if he struggled, it would not help his case and would only unman Ned entirely. He therefore stepped forth calmly and allowed the guards to escort him to the bench. The chancellor peered down at him with eyes yellowed and bloodshot by long years and too many late nights.
"Your name?"
"Maliverny Catlyn, sir."
The man to the chancellor's right began taking notes, glancing up at Mal from time to time.
"You are English?" the chancellor went on.
"On my father's side. My mother was French, but I was brought up in England."
"And what brings you to the Serene Republic?"
Mal swallowed. "I am looking for my elder brother, Charles. He fled overseas some years ago."
"It says here–" the chancellor picked up a letter "–that you were seen fleeing the scene of a murder. Yesterday evening, in Calle di Mezzo in Santa Croce."
"A lie," Mal said evenly. "Who so accuses me?"
The chancellor handed the letter to the guard, who gave it to Mal. The handwriting was uneven, the work of a man unaccustomed to it. The signature at the bottom was an illegible scrawl, countersigned by other hands equally hard to make out.
"Several citizens of the parish saw you," the chancellor said, "and did their civic duty."
Or were bribed to do so by Trevisan's friend? Once the identity of the dead men got out, it would not have been hard to link a tall silent stranger to Bragadin via Olivia, and a foreigner made an easy scapegoat.
"Do you still deny it?" Surian went on.
"I had no part in Signore Bragadin's death. That was the work of another man."
"His name."
"I don't know. He was with Trevisan, but it was dark–"
"How convenient, to lay the blame on a man of whom we have found no trace." Surian leaned forward. "You say you did not kill Bragadin. What about Trevisan?"
Mal said nothing, unwilling to condemn himself. The chancellor flicked a pale hand towards the guards, who took hold of Mal's arms and led him towards the steps.
"It is the truth, on my honour!" Mal could not help crying out as they pushed him to the foot of the steps.
His hands were pulled behind his back and bound tightly together, then he was shoved up the steps. He was now looking down on the inquisitors, but this was no vantage point.
"Again. What about Trevisan?" the chancellor asked in patient tones. "Did you kill him?"
"Yes," Mal whispered.
"A little louder, please. I fear my hearing is not what it was."
"Yes, I killed Pietro Trevisan. But it was an accident. He ran onto my dagger."
Surian chuckled, a dry sound like a rusty gallows-cage. "An accident. Ah, how many give that excuse."
The chancellor made a curt gesture, and one of the guards mounted the steps behind Mal and attached the rope around his wrists to the one hanging from the ceiling. Mal steeled himself for what would come next.
The strappado was a simple torture device, but highly effective. The victim was lifted by his bound arms until his entire weight hung from them, twisted up behind his back as they were. The pain was said to be unbearable. And even if he bore it, he did not trust Ned not to talk in order to spare him. His friend was too soft of heart for this business.
"Again. Why did you murder two of our eminent citizens? What is your purpose in our city?"
"I seek my brother, Charles, who fled England leaving our family ruined."
The guard pulled on the free end of the rope, lifting his arms higher. It was not yet tight, but still the anticipation left him trembling with dread. He tried to swallow, but his throat was drawn tight as a noose.
"One last time, Englishman. Why have you come to Venice?"
Mal shook his head, and the guard tugged on the rope. Mal stifled a grunt of pain as his arms were raised at an uncomfortable angle, forcing him to lean forward. He teetered on the top step, heart pounding, then regained his balance. He stood there, breathing heavily for a moment, knowing that far worse was about to come. The chancellor cleared his throat, ready to ask again.
"Stop! I'll tell you anything you want to know," Ned shouted.
The chancellor nodded at the guard, and Mal's breath caught in his throat as he was lifted onto the balls of his feet. The muscles of his shoulders and upper arms burned as they began to take his weight. The guard hauled on the rope and Mal screamed. A moment later the rope slackened just enough for his flailing feet to gain purchase on the steps once more. He sucked in a shuddering breath.
"I put it to you," the chancellor said, "that you are an English spy, perhaps even an assassin, sent to interfere with the negotiations between the Venetian Republic and the sanuti."
"No," Mal gasped. "I am here to find my brother and take him back to England. The murder was a chance meeting, an accident…"
The chancellor lifted his hand, but before the guard could respond, someone entered the chamber and crossed quickly to the bench. Mal looked up, blinking away tears of agony. The secretary had returned and now spoke in low tones to the chancellor and handed him a letter. The chancellor read it, his expression changing gradually from open irritation to barely concealed fury. At last he seemed to recall his surroundings, and made a chopping motion towards Mal. The guard let go of the rope and Mal tumbled from the steps to lie in a panting, shivering heap on the wooden floor.
Ned clung to the iron grille, heedless of the rough metal cutting into his fingers. There had to be some way to stop this. He shouted at the black-robed inquisitors, cursing them to Hell. Oddly, it appeared to have the desired effect. The ugly bastard who had been torturing Mal helped his victim to his feet and cut his bonds. Mal staggered against the steps, his face ashen. Ned released the bars and hammered on the door with both fists.
"Mal! What in Christ's name's going on?"
Mal looked up at him and shook his head briefly.
The other guard came over and unlocked Ned's cell door, waving curtly at him to come out. Ned shrank back into his cell, heart lurching in panic. Was it his turn now? The guard spat out what sounded like a curse, grabbed Ned by the arm and hauled him out into the torchlight.
Ned looked around him in panic. Mal was standing at the bench now, whilst the old man spoke to him in low tones. Mal nodded once or twice. Then the other guard opened the door and they were escorted out, to freedom. Ned drew a ragged breath, hardly daring to believe it was over. As they descended the staircase Mal stumbled and would have fallen, but Ned hurried down and caught him.
"Thank you," Mal said through gritted teeth.
Ned slipped an arm about Mal's waist and let his friend lean on him for support. They were shown to a gondola waiting at the nearby quayside. A dark-haired man with high cheekbones stood at the oar; from what land he hailed, Ned had no idea, but he did not look much like any of the Venetians they had seen so far.
He helped Mal down onto the bench, and soon they were slipping away through the night, to what destination he dared not guess. After a while he recalled that the republic's prison was next door to the palace, so perhaps they had truly been released after all.
At last the small craft stopped at a familiar-looking canal bank; the English embassy. Desperate as he was to get solid walls between himself and any servant of the Doge, Ned let Mal go ahead of him, fearing his friend might stumble once more. He didn't fancy fishing him out of a canal, not in pitch darkness.
Once ashore, he hurried ahead and knocked on the door of the embassy. No answer. Hardly surprising, since no one was expected to be out on the streets at this time of night. He pounded on the door harder.
"Open up, for God's sake!"
A shutter opened in a neighbouring building high above them, and a woman shouted curses before slamming it shut again. A few minutes later another shutter opened, this time directly above the door.
"Master Catlyn?"
"Aye, and Ned Faulkner," Ned called up. "Is that you, Hendricks?"
"Where have you been? I thought–"
"Just let us in." Ned looked up at Mal. His friend was deathly pale. "Now, for the love of Christ."
Coby ran down the marble staircase as fast as she could without blowing out the candle she was carrying. Hurriedly she put it down on the little table by the front door and pulled back the bolts. The key was stiff in the lock and her patience thin, and she fought with it for several long moments before it would turn. Hardly had she opened the door before Ned Faulkner barged inside. Coby opened her mouth to berate him, but stopped dead when she saw Mal. He looked like a man who had stared into the mouth of Hell.
"What happened?" she asked.
Mal stared at her wonderingly. "I could ask you the same."
At that moment Gabriel came running down the stairs.
"Ned? Mal? Christ in Heaven, what happened?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," Coby said. "See if you can find any wine in the kitchen, will you?"
Gabriel disappeared through the door under the stairs, and Ned trailed after him like a man sleepwalking. Coby turned to Mal, suddenly hesitant. He gave her a weak smile and she slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. When he gasped in pain, she drew back a little and gazed up at him.
"You're hurt," she said.
He made no answer, only gazed down at her with that haunted expression, then he awkwardly pulled her close and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. He trembled in her arms, hissing in pain as he pulled her tighter. Sweet Jesu, I think he's weeping. Tears pricked in her own eyes at the thought of what could have reduced him to such a condition.
"Come on, we can't stand here all night," she said, and led him gently towards the stair.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"For what?"
He shrugged, and gasped with pain again.
"Where is Ned with that wine?" she muttered. The stair was barely wide enough for the two of them side by side, but she was afraid to let Mal go lest he collapse entirely. At length they reached the upper floor. The door ahead of them opened.
"What is this?" Raleigh muttered, peering out.
"Just Master Catlyn returning," Coby said. "The worse for a late night. I'm just putting him to bed."
"Man after my own heart," Raleigh said. "Good night to you, sir."
Coby gave a sigh of relief as the door shut.
"Not far now," she said, guiding Mal up the next flight to the attic room. "Just like the old days in Thames Street. You never came there, did you, sir?"
"Only once."
"Of course. Master Naismith asked you to stay to dinner, then I took you to see the new theatre." She smiled. "That was when you found out my secret."
Mal didn't answer, only leant down and kissed the top of her head. She opened the door at the top of the stairs and they went inside, into the little attic room. She steadied Mal as he sat down on the bed, then put the candlestick down on the floor. Sitting down next to him, she took his hand in hers.
"Is… is it Sandy? Has something happened to him?"
Mal stared at her.
"I thought Sandy was with you."
"He was, but…" She sighed and began telling him about the events at the inn.
"Into a tunnel of light? Then he might be with Kiiren."
"That's what I thought. So, you haven't seen him?"
"No."
He stared down at their hands, entwined together, and told her of the murder, his rendezvous with Cinquedea and subsequent arrest. When it came to the strappado, however, words failed him. His fingers tightened around hers as the helpless panic threatened to overwhelm him again.
They sat for a long while in silence, heads pressed together. It was the longest he had ever spent this close to her, and he did not know whether to thank or curse his tormentors for it. Gritting his teeth he slipped his arm around her waist, though his torn muscles protested at the movement. If only they could go home to Provence right now, and forget all about guisers and skraylings and Venice. No chance of that, though, not until Sandy was found. As for telling her about Olivia… How was he to begin to explain that? He had allowed himself to be seduced by a guiser. She would never understand.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Parrish appeared with two cups of wine.
"Sorry for taking so long," he said with a sheepish grin. "Here, this will help."
Coby jumped up from the bed, and Mal cried out as agony exploded through his abused sinews at the sudden movement. Parrish gave him a sympathetic smile, then said something to Coby, too quietly for Mal to hear, before departing.
She returned to the bed and held out one of the cups. Mal tried to raise a hand, but it lay on the coverlet, heavy as lead.
"Here, let me," she said, putting her own cup down.
She sat next to him and held the cup to his lips whilst he drank. Wine ran down his chin and soaked his beard, but he didn't care. He gulped it back, willing it to spread its numbing warmth through his veins as fast as it could.
"Careful, you'll choke," she said, laughing.
Mal managed a weak grin. The pain was subsiding, though he felt as weak as ever.
She took the cup away. "Would you like to lie down? You look exhausted."
When he did not gainsay her she knelt to pull off his boots. In the candlelight her hair looked like spun gold, each strand impossibly fine. After a few moments he realised that tears were streaming down his cheeks again.
"Ssh," she said, rising to sit next to him.
She started to unbutton his doublet, but he shook his head. The thought of trying to manoeuvre his arms out of the sleeves made him tremble anew.
"All right," she said, and helped to support his weight as he lay himself down on the bed.
After a moment's hesitation she lay down next to him, careful not to press against his arm. She reached down and took his hand in hers again, and lay there, gazing into his eyes.
"It's good to see you again," he whispered.
"And you. I'm… I'm sorry I failed you, sir."
"What happened? How did you come to be here, instead of France, and what did your letter mean? Who is Hennaq?"
"It's a long story; I'll tell you in the morning. Sleep now."
He closed his eyes obediently. One thing he had learnt in his soldiering days was the importance of snatching sleep whenever you could. Once he had dreaded the nightmares it could bring, but at last he felt in command of them. He had Olivia to thank for that, at least.
At that thought an idea came to him. His body might be broken, but his mind was still sound. He waited until Coby's breathing slowed into the rhythms of sleep, then lifted his hand inch by agonising inch until he could touch his earring. He unfastened it with trembling fingers and let it slither down onto the pillow beside him, then lay back, taking a deep shuddering breath. Now he could sleep, and find his brother.