A gondola was moored to a rotting timber, a cloaked and hooded figure at its oar, like the ferryman of the underworld. Mal paused at the near end, his hand on the hilt of his rapier, and scanned the shadows. If this were a trap…“Good evening, gentlemen.” Another hooded figure rose from the gondola and stepped ashore. “Easy, there. We’re all friends.”“Cinquedea?”“The same.”Mal motioned to Ned to stay where he was and strode down the street, stopping a couple of sword-lengths from the man. Cinquedea threw back his hood.“I see you brought a friend.”“As did you.”“Then we are even. This one here–” he gestured to the gondolier “–is Marco il Pessotelo.”Mal inclined his head in greeting. Pessotelo was not a word he knew, however; a Venetian surname, or another nickname?“A great many Venetians seem to be called Marco,” he said.Cinquedea shrugged. “He is our patron saint. It is good luck to name your son after him. Now, if you will come with me…?”“Where?”
