CHAPTER XXXIII
Mal stood at the window of the Turk's Head, watching the city awake. Could he really ask his friends to lay down their lives to help mend his errors? Did he have a choice? He could hardly face the devourers alone. He slammed the side of his fist against the wall. Cowering here was not going to help. He needed to get out there, track the creatures down…
"Maliverny? There's something I have to tell you, before–" His brother looked around. "Not here, though."
Mal looked at him suspiciously. "What have you done, Charles?"
"Not here." He gestured towards a door in the back wall of the gambling house.
Mal glanced back at Ned and held up his hand in a "stay there" gesture, then followed Charles through the door into what turned out to be a large pantry-cum-buttery, well stocked with barrels of wine and jars of olives, along with stacks of plates, napkins and finger-bowls. Sausages the size of a man's arm hung from the rafters, filling the air with the scent of garlic. Mal's stomach grumbled, demanding breakfast.
"Well, out with it," he said, as soon as the door was shut.
Charles sat down on a barrel and stared at his clasped hands. "I don't expect you to forgive me, little brother–"
"For destroying our family? How can I?"
"Maliverny…" Charles got to his feet, though he still could not meet Mal's eye. "Rushdale Hall were never sold."
"What do you mean? I went there, some fellow named Frogmore has it now–"
"As a tenant. He rents it from me, through our lawyers."
"What? They told me–"
"They told you what they had been instructed to tell you. It was for your own good, yours and Sandy's–"
"I don't believe you. This is some ruse, to try and make peace."
"No, I swear. I had to raise the money to come here somehow, and my credit was hardly the best."
"Why Venice?"
"Because I found out that folk possessed by skraylings had come here long ago."
"You wanted to find Olivia?"
"No. I wanted to find others who'd fought these creatures – and won."
"And did you?"
Charles laughed bitterly. "No such luck. There were plenty of gossip and old stories, but no sign of either the possessed ones or their destroyers. And by the time I'd made certain of it, I were out of money. I could have returned to England in disgrace, but what would that have achieved?"
"You could have reclaimed your heritage," Mal said. "Rushdale Hall is still worth something, surely?"
"I cannot live there, not after everything… and neither should you. It's too dangerous."
"It seemed quiet enough when I visited, three years ago."
"Happen it does. But stay there long enough, and you'll see."
"Why are you telling me all this now?"
"Because neither of us might see tomorrow." He fumbled with the signet ring on his right hand. "Take this to our lawyers, and they'll tell you the truth."
Mal stared down at the heavy gold ring, remembering seeing it on their father's hand.
"Don't think this means I'll forgive you for what you did," he told Charles. "If you had seen Sandy in that place…"
"What's done is done; I'll face my sins when the time comes. God knows the account is long enough."
Ned waited, somewhat impatiently, for the brothers to finish whatever business Charles thought too private for his ears. He'd briefly been tempted to go over to the door and eavesdrop, but on reflection he'd had enough of prying into the Catlyns' business. Instead he took up Hendricks' former station at the window. The city was beginning to stir: a man hurried past, looking nervously at every doorway; a shutter opposite opened briefly and closed again. No one was going outside who didn't have to.
"So, are we going to stand around all morning, twiddling our thumbs?" he asked when Mal emerged from the pantry.
"Not at all. I mean to seek out Cinquedea and call upon whatever aid he and his… family are willing to give."
Charles snorted in derision. "Good luck with that. They say the Ten have been trying to infiltrate the Lacemaker's organisation for years, without success."
"I'm not talking about infiltration, merely an alliance," Mal replied. He scratched his chin. "I don't suppose Cinquedea will be at the Mermaid, not after last night. So where do we start looking?"
"Since you seem to be dead set on this scheme," Charles said, "I will give you one piece of advice. Go to the island of Burano."
"Burano? Ah, yes, that's where most of Venice's lace is made," Mal said.
"It's no idle nickname, 'the blind lacemaker'. The women who follow the craft often lose their sight from working every waking hour, dawn to dusk and then on by candlelight if need be."
"And you think I will find Cinquedea there?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. If there's trouble in Venice, the Lacemaker's boys are likely to retreat to home ground."
Mal thanked his brother and beckoned to Ned. "We'd better go back to Berowne's first. My rapier is there, and I would be reassured to know that our other friends escaped unhurt."
They bade Charles farewell and hurried through the empty streets of Venice. For once Ned had nothing to say. He could rail at Mal for being so besotted with this woman as to bring her wrath down on them all, but what good would that do? He just hoped Gabriel was all right. If anything happened to his darling boy, Mal would really feel his fury.
Mal hammered on the embassy door and shouted their names several times, but even so it took Jameson some minutes to open it. They ducked inside, and Mal ran up to the attic to fetch his weapons.
"Does your master have an old sword I could borrow?" Ned asked the manservant. "We're going back out there, and who knows what we'll have to face."
Jameson hesitated, but at last shuffled off into the depths of the house and returned with an old-fashioned sword, shorter and heavier than a rapier but easier to wield at close quarters. It would do very well. Ned thanked him and strapped the weapon to his hip, feeling at once safer and more conscious of the danger they were going into. A few moments later Mal clattered downstairs, his rapier's scabbard scraping the wall behind him.
"What's the best way to get to Burano?" Mal asked Jameson. "Should we ask to take the gondola?"
The old manservant smiled. "It's a bit far for that, sir. You want a proper boat, like a caorlina."
"And where would we find one of those?"
"Try the fish market, sir. Someone may have landed a catch this morning, not having heard of the troubles, and be glad to take you out into the lagoon."
The island of Burano was situated at the end of a small archipelago that jutted out from the mainland into the lagoon. Although lacking a harbour, its situation was such that ships could anchor close to its shore in the safety of the lagoon, and jetties provided mooring spots for smaller boats. The main town on the island lay on the south-east shore, little more than a cluster of white-washed houses along a single street.
Mal breathed a sigh of relief to be on solid ground again, and paused a moment to enjoy the spring sunshine. The city of Venice, with its dark, haunted alleys and terrified citizens, seemed a thousand miles away.
"So, we just wander round the island until we spot your friend?" Ned asked.
"Or until he spots us," Mal replied. "I think the latter more likely. The question is, will he approach us if he does see us?"
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we keep our eyes and ears open. We're intelligencers, remember? Watching people is what we do."
Along either side of the broad, packed earth thoroughfare stood small whitewashed houses with tiled roofs and shuttered windows whose windowboxes were bright with spring crocus, anemones and cyclamen. Outside every one sat at a group of black-clad women of all ages, from whitehaired grandmothers to little ones of five or six, all with pillows on their laps to which were pinned pieces of lacework in progress. Mal was reminded of a flower garden thick with bumblebees, all hard at work.
"Do you think news has reached here yet?" Ned asked in a low voice. "Everything seems so… normal."
"Do the folk of Kent or Middlesex care about trouble in London? This island must be far safer, even though they are but an hour's boat-ride away."
They found a tavern at last, but it was deserted at this time of day and there was no sign of Cinquedea. After a swift cup of wine they moved on.
"We should be getting back," Ned muttered. "Gabriel will be wondering where we've got to."
"Just a little longer," Mal said. "It's barely noon. We still have the whole afternoon to prepare."
They turned and walked back down the street.
"Don't look now," Mal said in a low voice, "but I think I see the place we're looking for."
"Oh?"
He gestured discreetly towards one of the houses. It was indistinguishable from all the rest, except that one of the old women sitting near the door was unusually broad in the shoulder and the folds of her shawl did not quite conceal a dagger hilt. She appeared to have fallen asleep over her needlework, which looked tiny and fragile in her large, bony hands.
Mal beckoned to Ned, and they crossed the street. As they neared the door the sleeping woman seemingly woke up with a start and fixed them with her dark gaze. His dark gaze. Mal's initial suspicions had been correct.
"We are here to see the Lacemaker," Mal told the man. "My name is Maliverny Catlyn, and this is Ned Faulkner. We are friends of Cinquedea."
The man grunted.
"Your weapons," he drawled in the local dialect.
Mal reluctantly handed over his rapier and dagger, and motioned for Ned to do likewise, then they were waved inside. Mal blinked, hoping his eyes would adjust swiftly to the dimness of the interior after the dazzling light outside. After a few moments he could make out an ancient bedstead with faded, moth-eaten hangings, in which lay an old woman wearing a white lace cap and nightgown. Several young women sat on the floor around her, spinning the hair-fine thread used to make the famous Burano lace. Two more men, undisguised, played cards at a table by the window. One of them was Cinquedea. Mal breathed a sigh of relief.
"Who is that?" the old woman asked in a surprisingly steady voice.
She sat up and turned towards them, but did not quite look in their direction. Mal bowed and introduced himself and Ned.
"Is this true, Marco? They are… acquaintances of yours?"
"Yes, grandmama." The Venetian put down his cards. "Signore Catalin, this is my grandmother, Signora Petronilla."
Mal bowed again. "It is an honour to meet you, madam. Your reputation, and that of your family, precede you."
The old woman chuckled, and waved a hand at her young companions, who rose and filed out into the street to continue their work.
"I'm sure it does, young man," Signora Petronilla said. "But what is so important, that you come all this way to seek out my grandson?"
Mal cleared his throat, aware that he was in the presence of ruthless people who would cut him down in a heartbeat. The trick, as with a dangerous dog, was to show no fear. He forced himself to breathe slowly.
"You have heard about last night's trouble, after the Sensa?" he began.
"Of course." Cinquedea glanced at his grandmother. "Everyone is saying that the bronze lion of Saint Mark came to life and jumped down from its pillar, slaughtering sinners left and right."
"Not the saint's beast, but something worse," Mal replied. "Demonic creatures, loosed on the city by… by a witch."
Cinquedea crossed himself, and the old lady muttered something under her breath.