"Owes you money, does he?"
"Something like that."
The tap-man laughed. "Good luck with getting it back."
"Have you seen him?"
The tap-man shook his head. "Most likely you'll find him in the Turk's Head, off the Campo San Giovanni."
"Another inn?" Ned asked.
"A casino: a private gambling house. Over the next bridge, turn left, and it's just before you get to the square. Got a dark green door with a knocker in the shape of a Turk's head. Knock twice, then twice again."
The casino was not hard to find; though it looked much like any other house in the street, the crowds eddied away from its door, as if an invisible fence kept them out. He stepped up to the door, feeling horribly conspicuous, and knocked as instructed. After a few moments the door opened, and he stepped inside.
The interior of the little gambling house was darker even than the streets, and the air thick with tobacco smoke and curses. Men sat at tables playing cards, or crouched on the floor to throw dice. Bare-breasted whores perched on customers' knees, shifting from one man to the next as the money changed hands, like sordid incarnations of Lady Luck. Ned weaved his way amongst the tables, trying to spot Charles without catching anyone's eye.
A man wearing rather better clothing than the rest of the patrons got up from his seat, directly into Ned's path and addressed him in Italian.
"I'm looking for a friend," Ned replied in English. "He recommended this place."
"His name, signore?"
"Charles Catlyn."
A few of the other players looked up at this. Ned tensed, expecting Charles to bolt again, but no one made a move.
"Over there." One of the patrons jerked a thumb towards the corner of the room.
Ned found his quarry seated at a table with three other men. He hung back and watched for a while, leaning on the wall. They were playing a game he did not know, one that appeared to require several dozen wooden counters in addition to the cards and the betted money. Some of the counters were marked "VI", and a small stack of darker counters sat at the dealer's left hand. At last the game ended and one of the players got up from the table with many complaints. Ned sauntered over.
"Mind if I join you, gentlemen?"
Charles appeared to notice him for the first time. He blanched and leapt up from his seat, staring wildly around the gambling-house with watery eyes.
"Where is he?"
"Sandy's not with me," Ned replied, taking the vacant seat. "Sit down, Charlie, I just came for a quiet game of… what is it you fellows are playing, anyway?"
"Rovescino," one of the other players said, collecting up all the counters and sorting them into three piles. "You know it?"
Ned shook his head and grinned. "Why don't you show me?"
The crimson-draped bed was large enough for two at the very least. Mal pulled off his boots and then lay back, watching Olivia undress. The candlelight gilded her skin so that she looked like one of the icons adorning St Mark's basilica, complete with enigmatic eyes and a golden halo around her coiffure. Stripped to her corset and a pair of ivory silk breeches, she began to remove the strings of pearls and glass beads from her hair.
"Don't your lovers grow impatient?" he asked, swirling his coffee cup to dissolve the last dregs of precious sugar. "So many layers…"
"Are you impatient, my love?"
"Anticipation is half the torture." A lie; he could now vouch for that personally. "And half the pleasure."
She laughed, a deep throaty sound that send an echo through his veins. "You are a man after my own heart."
Free of her adornments at last, she drifted over to the bed, circling round to the far side before climbing onto the broad mattress, just out of arm's reach.
"Will you not undress?" she said, head cocked on one side. "You have the advantage of me."
"I was hoping you would help me."
She smiled. "I do not think you need my help."
With an exaggerated sigh he began to unbutton his doublet. Soon he was stripped to his linen drawers, the evening air cool on his bare skin. Once, he had dreamed of being naked with her; now he flinched at her touch, fearing could strip his very soul bare and betray his purpose.
"How often have you been a woman?" he asked as she sidled closer.
"Not often," she said. "It is not easy to be the weaker sex, even with our talents to protect us."
"Weaker?" He felt Erishen stir within him. "That is the human speaking."
"I have had to learn to work with the situation at hand. Here, women are allowed so little freedom. Did you know that Venetian noblewomen are scarcely allowed out of the house except to attend funerals or great state occasions?" She made a rude noise. "It is barbaric."
"Then you would prefer to be a man next time."
"Of course." She traced a line down his chest with her fingertip, and he suppressed a shiver of mingled fear and lust. "You would dislike that?"
"No. But I like you as you are. More like a skrayling woman than these pale Christians."
The lies came so easily, he felt guilt at every word but could not stop himself. It was as if Erishen was speaking through him. He tried to relax as Olivia kissed her way up his torso and across his chest, her unbound hair brushing his skin on either side of the kisses. Her lips brushed the knot of scar tissue on his left shoulder and began to trace a path down his arm.
"What is this?" she hissed, her body tensing as she crouched over him.
Mal realised she was staring at the tattoo on his shoulder: a triskelion of branched thorns surrounded by three five-petalled flowers. His mind raced, trying to concoct a story that would not betray his links to Kiiren. It would help if he knew what the sigil actually meant. Kiiren said it was for "remembering", but what did that signify?
"I had it done at a fair in England," he said at last. "I saw the design in the skraylings' pattern book and took a fancy to it. Why?"
"That is an ancient sigil; I have not seen its like in centuries. And you say someone was selling these to humans as mere decoration?"
Mal feigned innocence. "I can only tell you what I know. What does it mean?"
"I don't know." It seemed to bother her. "Perhaps you remember more than you realise…"
"Perhaps so." He ran his hands down her arms, then slipped them round her waist and pulled her close. "But enough of the past…"
"Il mio tesoro," she whispered in his ear, and kissed the metal hoop where it pierced his earlobe. "Will you not take this off now? I think you are ready for a true joining."
He bent his head to kiss her shoulder, hoping that she mistook the pounding of his heart for lust. He had been afraid she would suggest this, now when it was impossible for him to allow it.
"I want to enjoy every inch of you with my waking eyes first," he said. "What's the hurry, when we have all eternity to look forward to?"
He pushed his fears to the back of his mind and let his body take over. This was a dance he knew of old, though never with so graceful a partner. Soon he forgot why he had ever been afraid of her.
They made love slowly, languorously, lingering over each caress until every nerve trembled like a lute-string at the merest touch. Her fingertips, hot as gledes, danced over his skin as he moved inside her, and the end came all too soon despite his best efforts to prolong their pleasure. He withdrew and rolled over, recalling his purpose here. Dare he stay the night? If so, should he take her captive as she slept and try to keep her hidden until tomorrow?
"Perhaps you are right," she murmured, propping herself up on one elbow behind him. "Sometimes the simple ways are the best."
She slipped a hand around his waist and down towards his navel, making his belly muscles tighten in anticipation. He sucked in a breath and pulled himself upright. Time to get out of here, before he did something stupid. Like doing that again, without the spirit-guard's protection this time. He could always come back.
"I don't suppose I'll see you tomorrow," he said, trying to sound casual. He retrieved his clothes and began dressing.
"You are leaving so soon?"
She shifted on the bed, candlelight gilding her curves. Mal turned his back and pulled on his shirt. It stuck to his clammy skin, but there was no helping it.
"I have business to attend to, and no desire to be arrested for breaking curfew." Mal looked back over his shoulder. "It was you, wasn't it, who gained us our reprieve?"
She grinned like a naughty child. "Was Surian very cross?"
"I thought as much." He pulled on his slops and boots, and picked up his doublet. "Until tomorrow, my lady."
"Until tomorrow, amayi'a. I will see you at the Doge's Palace."
"What?" He froze in the doorway.
"The grand reception at the Doge's Palace. Everyone has been invited, including your ambassador and Sir Walter Raleigh. There will be fireworks in Saint Mark's Square…"
"Yes, yes of course. I had quite forgotten."
He bowed to hide his discomfiture and made his way back downstairs. Damn it, how was he to abduct her and convey her to the skrayling ship with half the city on the quayside? This plan was going from bad to worse.
Coby took the hired gowns back to the Mercerie after supper, and spent some time at Quirin's afterwards. It was far pleasanter without Raleigh playing cock-of-the-walk, and she was able to discuss gears and movements with the clockmaker over a glass of wine. When the shop's gilded and enamelled clocks all began to strike the second hour after sunset, she remembered where she was and excused herself, running all the way back to the embassy to arrive out of breath but at least well within curfew.
She went straight up to her room, but paused at the top of the stairs when she heard whistling coming from behind the closed door. For a moment she considered going back down to the parlour, but she was in no mood for more conversation with Raleigh, so she knocked quietly. No response. She knocked again, a little louder. The whistling stopped, and footsteps approached the door. It opened to reveal Mal, stripped to the waist and rubbing his damp hair with a towel.
"Ah, Coby, about time," he said.
"Sir?"
She looked down at her feet. Though she had seen him half-dressed many times, in the wake of her recent thoughts it was particularly irksome of him to be flaunting his virility so.
"We need to talk." He opened the door wider and she made to go inside. "No, not in here. I want to talk to Sandy as well. And the others."
"Oh." Her cheeks became even hotter, if that were possible. Idiot! Presuming he was talking about you, when— "I'll… I'll just wait out here for you to finish washing, shall I?"
"I'll be out in a moment. Run down and see if Jameson has any of that Tuscan red left, will you?"
"Yes, sir." She hesitated. "What are you doing here? I thought Lord Kiiren wanted you to stay and be tended."
"He changed his mind and let me loose."
"Oh. Well, that's wonderful." She forced a smile. Changed his mind, my foot! The ambassador was up to something again, she would put a month's wages on it.
She ran down to the kitchen, where Jameson grudgingly handed out a flagon of wine and five glasses, all of them old and chipped, placing them one by one on a silver tray with a look that warned her not to drop them on the marble stairs or else. She dutifully took the tray and advanced slowly up to the attic, flinching at every wobble.
Mal was in the larger of the two attic rooms and now at least partially dressed, in a clean shirt and with his wet hair combed neatly back. Gabriel was lying on one of the beds, leafing through a stack of papers – probably his play – whilst Ned dealt cards on the counterpane at his side. Sandy was staring out of the small window under the eaves. She set the tray down on the rickety table in a chime of glass and metal.
"Good, we're all here," Mal said, pouring out the wine. "I did not escape the fondaco this evening, as you may have been thinking. I have been out and about all day, trying to bring this sorry mission to a conclusion. And I have bad news."