CHAPTER XXIX
Mal rose before dawn and dressed as silently as he could. Twilight was the best time for such ventures, as he had explained to Ned; in the shadowless dusk between day and night, the eye struggled to make out shapes and outlines. At least, human eyes did; perhaps skraylings' were different. No matter. Once he was away from here it was the eyes of Surian's agents that Mal needed to hide from, not those of his skrayling captors.
A row of houses stood opposite this wing of the palazzo, any of which could conceal an informant. Mal scanned each one carefully whilst trying to remain unseen behind the shutters of his own window, but saw nothing untoward. He opened the window and threw Sandy's bundled-up cloak down into the shadow of the chimney breast then with a whispered prayer to Saint Michael climbed onto the sill.
For a moment he teetered there, regretting the idea, but then he turned to face the wall and forced himself to stretch out his right leg and feel for the ledge of the next window. There. He reached out his right arm and curled his fingers around the rough stone of the neighbouring window arch. Praying his abused flesh would not betray him, he shifted his weight to the right, gently at first until he was sure he had a firm footing, and then brought his left hand and foot across so that he was standing on the other windowsill. Not far now.
He sidled along the sill to the far side of the window, fingers clawing at the stonework in an effort to keep his balance. His shoulders were burning now, the effects of Kiiren's potions long worn off, and sweat was trickling down his back despite the dawn chill. Better get this over with before his arms failed him altogether. Quickly he reached out again with his right leg until he felt the side of the chimney, then flung himself across the gap, half sliding, half falling down the rough stone to land with a jolt on the pavement below. He looked around, heart pounding, expecting one of the Venetian guards to come running. Long moments passed, and they did not come. Perhaps they had gone home, or more likely were dozing at their posts.
It was starting to get light now, and he could hear shutters opening down the street and neighbours calling greetings to one another. Curfew was over, and soon the city would be busy enough that a man abroad would not be remarked upon. He waited in the shadow of the chimney as long as he dared, then shook out the cloak, wrapped it around him and sauntered off down the street without a backward glance.
Coby went down to breakfast, still in no better humour than she had gone to bed the night before. Whilst the visit to the clockmaker's shop had been fascinating, she had no desire to spend another moment in Raleigh's presence if she could help it. For all his claims to have needed her expertise, he had largely ignored her, or claimed her every idea as his own. It had been a frustrating, humiliating evening and she wanted nothing more to do with the man. If only they could eat in the servants' quarters… but ever since Jameson's betrayal they had been avoiding him. She couldn't fault the man for his loyalty to his master, but it made for uncomfortable mealtimes.
And then there was this business with Mal and his brother. She was glad they had a plan for getting rid of Hennaq and the courtesan in one fell swoop, but would it work? She still didn't entirely trust Lord Kiiren either. He might be devoted to the twins, but would his protection extend to the rest of them?
Distracted as she was by these thoughts, she didn't see Ned until she ran into him at the bottom of the stairs.
"And the same to you, Mistress Sour-breeches," Ned responded to her growled curse.
She grabbed him by the front of the doublet and leaned in until they were almost nose to nose.
"Don't. Call. Me. Mistress." She glared at him. "Berowne and Raleigh aren't supposed to know, remember?"
"All right, all right, keep your wig on. God's bones, you're in a foul humour this morning."
She released him with a sigh. "I'm just worried about Mal, that's all."
"He'll be fine. It's his brother you want to worry about."
"Sandy? What's wrong?"
"Not here." Ned looked around. "Come back upstairs. We need to talk."
The shops along the Rialto Bridge were just opening their shutters as Mal strode up the long shallow steps. He had thought it best not to go straight back to the embassy. Surian's men were doubtless watching it, and the later they discovered they were dealing with identical twins, the better. Let them concentrate their efforts on Sandy, and he could move about the city more freely.
Perhaps that was Kiiren's plan. He could hardly have put his prisoner in a better room to escape from, after all. Mal smiled to himself. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the young skrayling was older than his great-grandfather and thrice as cunning. Kiiren might pay lip service to the idea of obeying the skrayling elders, but he always put Erishen first. For that, Mal could not fault him.
The problem was, what to do if Hennaq did not come to Venice. What was he going to do about Olivia then? He could not communicate with Kiiren in secret with her still around. Unless… Cinquedea had offered his services before. And since Ned had confirmed it was Jameson who had betrayed them to the sbirri, not Cinquedea, perhaps he could persuade the man to resume their arrangement. It was certainly worth a try.
The Mercerie bustled with activity in preparation for the morning's customers. Servants swept the pavement outside each shop and shook tapestries from upper windows, whilst others swabbed the glass panes of the shopfronts and swore at their neighbours above for ruining their work. Men with delivery barrows hurried back and forth before the streets became too crowded, shouting Permesso! or the more brusque Attentione! as their humour took them. Mal dodged around them all and emerged at last in St Mark's Square. It was a relief to be in the open after the narrow streets of the city, and he whistled a old song as he crossed in front of the basilica. Even the sight of the Doge's Palace was not enough to dampen his spirits. Then he saw the ship.
It was a skrayling carrack, much like the one he had seen at anchor when he arrived. For a moment he convinced himself it was the same vessel, but a glance along the quay confirmed that there were now two of them. It might not be Hennaq, he told himself. Skrayling ships were hard to tell apart, since they bore no banners, nor were they even named. The skraylings seem to regard them as one would an oxcart: useful but unremarkable.
On the other hand if it really were Hennaq, this was an opportunity unlooked-for. Once the skraylings landed, they would no doubt be escorted to the fondaco, and if he wanted to negotiate for his own and Sandy's freedom, he'd have to find another way in. Cinquedea might still be able to help, but if he couldn't or wouldn't… Pulling his hood closer about his face Mal ran to the waterfront and hailed the nearest gondolier.
"Take me to that ship!"
The gondolier looked curiously at him but waved him aboard. The gondola had no cabin, only seats either side of its centre section. Mal sat down, clinging to the edge of the bench.
Upon reaching the ship, Mal did not climb aboard. Instead, he hailed one of the crewmen and asked to speak to the captain. A few minutes later a middle-aged skrayling with beads in his silvered hair appeared at the rail.
"Captain Hennaq?" Mal called up.
"Erishen?" Hennaq's eyes narrowed in suspicion and he said something in Vinlandic.
"No, not Sandy. I am his brother, Maliverny."
"And what is your purpose here, half-a-man?" Hennaq said, switching to Tradetalk.
Mal bridled at the insult, but swallowed his pride. "To offer you a far greater prize than myself and my brother."
"A prize? What prize?"
"I do not think you want it shouted across the water."
"Then come aboard." Hennaq gestured towards his cabin. "We can talk over a glass of aniig, like civilised men."
"You'll forgive me if I do not trust you," Mal said with a laugh. "Come down to the boat, and we can talk."
Hennaq hesitated. "Very well," he said at last. "But I warn you, I will tell my men to shoot if you try to row away."
Mal inclined his head in acquiescence and instructed the awestruck gondolier to row close to the ship. Skrayling bows did not have the range of European crossbows, but he knew he had no chance of getting away before they turned him into a porcupine.
Hennaq climbed gingerly down the rope ladder and stepped into the gondola. "Well?"
"I am not the only guiser in Venice. There is another, far older, whose return to our homeland would bring you great glory. Songs and stories would be written about you and spread throughout the clans."
Hennaq licked his lips. "Go on."
Mal told him. Hennaq's eyes widened, and his hand strayed upwards to touch his clan-beads.
"One of the Lost Ones?"
"Perhaps the last of the Lost Ones. The man who returned her to her people would win great fame. Women will vie amongst themselves to bear your daughters, and give you sons too."
"Why me? Why not claim this glory for yourself, if you know who she is and believe you can capture her?"
"Because we have wronged you, my brother and I. This is our recompense. I hope it is equal to our debt."
Hennaq nodded, his eyes unfocusing as if looking deep into memory.
"Nothing I do can bring back Tanijeel," Mal went on. "But I can make a sacrifice of my own, to balance his. I humbly ask that you accept."
For a long moment the captain did not reply, and Mal began to fear the skrayling would reject the offer. And what then?
"It is good trade," Hennaq said at last.
Mal drew in a slow breath and let it out again, hoping the skrayling did not guess how anxious he had been to secure this agreement. He held out his hand, palm up, and Hennaq placed his own hand over it. After a moment they both withdrew their hands and bowed as best they could, the boat rocking gently at the movement.
"Bring the human woman to me at the great house rented to our elders," Hennaq said. "All should see her and know what she has done, before I take her back to Vinland."
"To the fondaco? I'm not sure that will be possible–"
"You try to go back on our bargain?" Hennaq bared his teeth.
"No, it is the Venetian law. No visitors are allowed into the great house, as you call it." At least, not without a good disguise. Smuggling Olivia in there against her will was not something he wished to try in a hurry.
"Hmm. Then bring her to me here, tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"I must either go ashore soon or leave. That is also the Venetian law. Tomorrow."
"Very well." Mal looked around. "It were best done after nightfall, when fewer eyes are around to see."
"Agreed."
They bowed again, and Hennaq disappeared up the rope ladder. Mal told the gondolier to return to shore. Tomorrow night. That did not give him a lot of time to work out a plan. On the other hand, the sooner this were over, the better. He did not trust himself to keep a secret from Olivia for long.
Coby sat on the end of the bed, listening in appalled horror to Sandy and Ned's story.
"You want to rob a dead man?" she said at last.
"It's not like he needs the necklace," Ned replied.
"Neither do you. Sandy has his own spirit-guard."
Sandy hefted the pouch, which rattled faintly. "This is naught but a makeshift substitute. What I seek are my clanbeads, taken from me when my last body was murdered."
"You could make more," Coby said. "That's what Ruviq said he would do, when he lost his."
"I am no child." Sandy's face was like thunder. "My clan-beads are centuries old, some of them, given to me by fathers long turned to dust. Wearing them marks me as tjirzadhen, one of the Many Times Born. They cannot be made anew."
"But how are you going to get them back, now Bragadin is dead?"