The Devil's Looking-Glass - By Mark Chadbourn Page 0,24
.’
‘You will be counting gold when the Unseelie Court arrives at your door?’ Will said with a wry smile.
‘The Tempest is moored at Tilbury. Our best ship—’
‘Not the Tempest. You may need her to defend London, should I fail. Requisition another ship, in the Queen’s name. After the poor trade of this year, there must be many a merchant keen to be reimbursed.’
‘I will see what I can do.’
‘One other thing.’ Will strode to the window and peered out across the moonlit roofs of the Palace of Whitehall. Not far away, a faint crackle of emerald light sparkled in the sky. ‘If I am to risk my neck, I would arm myself with any information that might help.’
‘A reasonable request. Ask of me what you will.’
‘Not you. There is one other who has all the answers I could ever need.’ Will rested an arm on the window frame and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. ‘Take me to the Lantern Tower. I would question the Faerie Queen herself.’
CHAPTER TEN
EMERALD FLAMES CRACKLED around the tiled roof of the stone tower like marsh lights. Far below, a swaying lantern echoed that glow as a knot of six men processed across the courtyard. Beneath the gentle soughing of the night-wind, the click of their leather heels on the cobbles was the only sound in the still palace. At the oak door studded with black iron, the group came to a halt. The four armoured guards gripped their pikes, their stern faces revealing that they had no notion what was contained within the Lantern Tower. Sir Robert Cecil lowered his eyes, but Will gazed up to the spectral display, his brow knitted. His great gamble began here.
‘Do not let anyone else inside the tower,’ Cecil barked at the guards, looking each man in the face in turn. ‘Defend it with your lives.’ He removed a large iron key from a velvet pouch and unlocked the heavy door. The tumblers clanked into place. Taking the swaying lantern, he stepped inside and closed the door behind Will. The candlelight illuminated stone steps spiralling upwards into the dark. ‘Dee’s magical defences have been disarmed,’ he whispered. ‘We are safe to proceed.’
‘Safe. An odd choice of word.’ Will began to climb the steps. The air was dank and smelled of tallow and burnt iron.
‘Do not concern yourself. She cannot escape.’
‘None of us can escape, Sir Robert.’
The spymaster did not query his charge’s enigmatic response. Perhaps he understood, for he was no stranger to prisons and bars and duty and fear.
They climbed through floor after floor, with the Secretary of State growing more anxious with each step. ‘Who feeds her?’ Will asked.
‘She takes no sustenance as you and I know it,’ the spymaster muttered. ‘In the early days of her imprisonment, I am told attempts were made to bring her meals, but the food rotted in the bowls and was returned untouched.’
‘She has guests?’
‘Rarely. Though Dee has ensured his sigils and spells keep her trapped in place, still all who encounter her fear her power. Sometimes . . .’ Cecil smacked his lips with distaste. ‘Sometimes you can feel her words deep inside your head, like a maggot burrowing. Only that fool Spenser has dallied here awhile, until my father sent him away for fear he had fallen to her wiles.’
Alone, in a cell, for so long. How hot must her rage burn, Will thought. How terrible would be her vengeance if she ever escaped.
The steps ended at another heavy oak door marked with mysterious whorls and symbols inscribed in red paint. Cecil hesitated, looking up at the portal with dread. Will thought his trembling master was about to fall to his knees and pray for their salvation. The silence was heavy, but it was not the silence of emptiness. Will sensed that the cell’s occupant waited on the other side of that door, listening, dangerous, poised, perhaps, for any opportunity that might arise.
‘Go, then. Ask what you will,’ Cecil whispered. He held up the lantern so that Will’s shadow swooped.
The spy leaned in, his nose almost brushing the wood. He couldn’t imagine the prisoner’s terrible beauty, though he had heard stories: a beauty that could drive a man mad or blind. But he imagined her lips parting in a dark smile.
‘Your Highness,’ he began.
Her laugh sounded like an echo in a deep well.
He dabbed the side of his right hand to his nose where a droplet of blood had formed. ‘My name is Will Swyfte,’ he continued.