The Merchant of Dreams (37 page)

“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.

CHAPTER XXVI

No longer did he begin in darkness. Olivia had taught him to make a haven for himself, a hollow in the landscape of dreams where he was safe and hidden from others, though it was not as strong as hers. He had based it upon the hill-fort he and Sandy had built on the slopes behind Rushdale Hall; a grassy dell ringed with the biggest rocks the twins could carry between them, the turf carefully cleared of thistles and smaller stones. The walls were lower than he remembered and yet they still hid the surrounding landscape. No bleating of sheep disturbed the silence, however, and the air hung still and hot, as on a midsummer day. The blue dome above was thin and hazy, and if he stared hard enough he could see the timeless sky beyond, nacreous grey like the inside of a mussel shell. But he must venture out there if he was to find Sandy. He stepped through the gap in the walls and immediately found himself on the dark moorland he remembered all too well. What next? He had never done this unaided. But he had to find Kiiren, if he could.

No sooner had he thought this than his feet began to move of their own accord. Now he could see the lights, hundreds upon hundreds of them, sleeping minds just waiting for his touch. He looked around, wondering which was Coby’s, though tonight of all nights he had no desire to intrude upon her dreams. His own mood was too grim.

As if summoned by the thought, shapes began to coalesce out of the darkness, blacker than night, never showing themselves but lurking on the edge of vision. Following him, daring him to look back. Devourers. He swallowed and walked faster.
Ignore them, and they’ll go away
, Olivia had told him.
Nightmares can’t hurt you
. But it never felt like that when you were here, in their midst. He could hear their slavering breath, the scrape of claws as they scuttled up around the standing stones.
Don’t run, they can run faster
. His feet wouldn’t listen. In moments he was racing across the moor towards the nearest group of lights, breath rasping in his throat.

Flying, that was the way to escape them, but he couldn’t remember how. Last time it had just happened: one moment running, the next soaring above the midnight plains. But his feet were as heavy as if his boots were full of water, and still the devourers followed.

On and on he staggered, dodging between the glowing domes that sprang from the grass like puffballs, each the gateway into the dreaming mind of one of Venice’s citizens. Somewhere amongst these golden embers would be the white light he remembered from his first encounter with Kiiren, bright as new steel and reassuring as a blade in his hand. And on the other side of the city an answering violet glow, burning with the power of an ancient guiser’s soul. Olivia. He wanted to run to her, find out if she had Sandy, but was afraid of the answer. Perhaps that was why the devourers were here. They smelled his fear.

The nightmare creatures were close behind him now, their rank breath hot on his back. One ran straight into a dream-sphere, which shattered as the dreamer awoke. A moment later the devourer leapt out of the dissolving remnants and resumed the chase, a faint scream echoing in its wake.

There was no sign of any white dome. Had Kiiren taken to wearing a spirit-guard himself, out of fear of guisers? Was he even in Venice at all?

Dream-spheres were exploding all around him now, their fractured light momentarily outlining images of the Venetians’ worst fears: drowning, secret murder, humiliation. He slipped on the dry grass, fell on his hands and knees with his face mere inches from an intact sphere, his own reflection staring back at him from the glowing surface. Then he saw it, a violet-white corona like the midday sun, cresting a low rise in the distance. He got to his feet again and ran towards it.

As he drew near he skidded to a halt. The lights were blended together, swirling around one another in a way that reminded him all too much of his first night with Olivia. Kiiren and Erishen, joined in a blissful communion that transcended flesh. He backed away. He had his answer.

Turning back towards his sanctuary he felt rather than saw the devourers slip around him, towards the lovers.

“No!”

He backed carefully towards the pale dome and with an effort of will envisaged a blade in his hand, obsidian black as a rent in the dreamscape. The creatures hissed in frustration and he gripped the hilt more tightly, although his incorporeal arm ached in sympathy with his flesh. He stood guard for so long that he began to fear he would never leave the night realm, but at last the light behind him faded and was gone. The blade dissolved with it, and he began the long walk back. There was much to do tomorrow, and he feared he would have too little strength for it.

Mal woke the next morning gritty-eyed and so stiff he could not move. Coby had gone, so he had no choice but to lie there with growling stomach and aching head, listening to the household stirring: Jameson’s slow footsteps on the stair, Raleigh calling out for more hot water, and somewhere someone whistling a merry dance tune. Another fine spring day in the Serene Republic. Now he appreciated how that serenity was bought with a brutally efficient government.

The door opened and Coby came in. Her face fell when she saw him lying there, and she hurried over to help him up.

“Jameson is putting breakfast out,” she said, retrieving his boots. “He’s such a patient old thing, fussing over us like a mother hen.”

She knelt at his feet and gently lifted one of his calves.

“Guilt,” Mal replied with a bitter laugh.

“What?”

“Someone betrayed me to the
sbirri
. He’s the only one who knew where I was going last night.”