The Devil's Looking-Glass - By Mark Chadbourn Page 0,23
has the ear of the Doges in Venice and Genoa. Philip of Spain, I fear, is still troubled by Malantha of the High Family. The story is the same in Hungary, in the whispers that prompt the Serbs to rebel against the Ottomans, in Tuscany, Austria, Malta, even in Rome itself. All around us, they move their pieces.’
‘Their aim?’
‘To burn this world. After the indignities they have suffered – yes, at our hands – they have decided the time of man has passed.’
‘Then all of humanity will pay for England’s grand betrayal.’
‘Leave it be!’ Cecil’s spittle flew across the stained chart as he roared. ‘If I did not know better, I would think you revel in the suffering about to be inflicted ’pon us. That is treason.’ The spymaster sagged. The hopelessness he had tried to contain rose in his features and he flapped a feeble hand towards Will. ‘Enough. This tires me. I do not know why you wish to provoke me in this dreaded hour, but . . . enough.’
Calming himself, Will walked round the table to the fire, remembering all the times he had seen Dee trying to warm himself but never being able to drive the cold from his bones. ‘I hear plenty about the monstrous acts of the Unseelie Court,’ he murmured, prodding a log with the toe of his Spanish leather shoe, ‘but never anything about what manner of beings they are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What is their true nature? Their essence? What do we know of them?’ Will turned back to the spymaster, tugging at his chin hair in thought, but he kept one eye fixed on every subtle movement Cecil made. ‘Do they love? Do they care for their children? Do they have children? Or art and poetry and learning—’
‘They are monsters who wish us all dead,’ Cecil interrupted. ‘That is all we need to know.’
‘And you are aware of nothing more? They are what they seem, these pale creatures of the night?’ Will narrowed his eyes, watching the faint muscle-tremor around his master’s mouth.
‘I know nothing more.’ The spymaster looked away at the last, unable to hold Will’s unflinching gaze. He turned back to his charts and pretended to sift through them while he sought to change the subject. ‘For all your many flaws, you have a sharp wit, Swyfte, and you have played your public and private role well in service to the Queen. Tell me your thoughts, for at this moment I would clutch at even a thread to draw me out of the dark.’
Will felt the weight in his chest lighten. Everything was unfolding as planned. ‘We feared Dr Dee had been stolen by the Irish. We came close to losing the mad alchemist to the Unseelie Court, but his transformation saved us from that fate, while at the same time denying us the opportunity to reclaim him. But we must not lose sight of the fact that, at the moment, Dee is free—’
‘Yes, somewhere in the wide Atlantic!’
‘Nevertheless,’ Will replied, throwing his arms wide, ‘he is, for now, at large, and with a fair wind at our backs and the will to achieve it, we can bring him back.’
‘How so?’ Cecil snorted. ‘Do you know where in the New World he travels? Or why?’
Warming to his performance, Will smiled. ‘I know we are in a race, Sir Robert. The Unseelie Court will be in pursuit. Whoever finds Dr Dee first, wins.’
Cecil weighed the words, his furrowed brow revealing the hopelessness he felt.
‘Dee’s carrack will have need to take on supplies for the long ocean voyage,’ the spy continued, ‘and the vessel I saw bore no comparison to our own race-built galleons. Across the stretch of that vast ocean, we can catch up. And,’ he added, ‘I may . . . perchance . . . be able to uncover some clue as to the course Dee’s vessel takes.’
The spymaster’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even if you found the route the doctor has taken, you would have to fight off the full force of the Unseelie Court. You, and a handful of mere men. That is madness. You would be sailing to your deaths.’
‘My life means nothing,’ Will said in all honesty.
Cecil paced around the table, kneading his hands together in thought. ‘But can we prepare a galleon for an Atlantic voyage at such short notice? The cost of food and munitions – England’s coffers are already bare – the shortages of meat and grain after this long, plague-ravaged summer . .