The Celestial Globe: The Kronos Chronicles: Book II (14 page)

“The snipey Madinia and the cowardly Margaret? I don’t think so.”

Astrophil paced across the floor. “I need to be able to advise you. I cannot do that if I am unable to understand what people say. I will study the English language. You, Petra, must go along with Dee’s plan. For the moment, you have no other option. Be cooperative. Meanwhile, we will do everything possible to create a window for escape. We’ll gather all the information we can about this house, the people living in it, and the city. Now, I know you do not like the idea of mind-magic—”

“It’s creepy.”

“Study it anyway. If that is what allowed Dee to forge the link with your mind, and if that link is what makes him able to locate you, then you could—”

“Learn how to break it.” Petra took the hope she had felt a moment ago, and a new sense of determination. She wove them together in her heart. She was not so different from her father. Like him, Petra had always been able to take comfort in a good plan.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
a servant whisked into Petra’s room. “These are for you, miss.” She held out a pair of clean trousers and a loose shirt. “My stars and pincushions, but Master Dee has strange ideas.”

“What do you mean?” asked Petra.

“Why, you need a proper dress! And the idea of putting you in a room alone with young Kit! And Mistress Dee says no to none of it. Of course, she’s not exactly in her right mind.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

The maid leaned forward. “Sits around like a wooden doll all day, doesn’t she? With that empty face. She’ll talk to me like she’s
surprised I exist—and not in that typical ‘I’m a grand lady and you’re dirt’ kind of way. More like she doesn’t really know what’s going on, or doesn’t care. Hurry along, now. The master won’t like it if you’re late to meet Kit.”

“Who’s Kit?”

“Dress yourself, and then you’ll find out, won’t you?”

D
EE WAS WAITING
for Petra outside a door on the top floor of the manor. Astrophil, peeking from behind the curtain of Petra’s hair, had counted three floors. Petra had tried to look out the windows as she and the servant, Sarah, walked past them, but all she saw were more houses and narrow streets caked with snow.

Dee dismissed Sarah. “Good morning,” he said to Petra. “Today will be your first lesson. After some consideration, I decided that where fencing is concerned, you are not ready to receive lessons from me, so I have hired someone to train you. I will give you lessons where the . . . ah, more subtle aspects of your abilities are concerned, because I know of no better instructor. One word of advice before we enter the practice room. Don’t reveal anything of yourself to anyone in London, especially not to the young man you are about to meet. We will keep your identity secret. Your name is Pamela Dee—”

Petra gagged.

“—a distant cousin, recently orphaned, and now living on my charity.” Dee opened the door.

The room was huge, with a scuffed wooden floor and weapons with various pointy, deadly-looking parts lined the walls. In the center of the room stood a boy. Petra was tall for her age, but he was taller. His brown hair was cut close to the skull. His face was longish but pleasing, with deeply set eyes, a straight and narrow nose, and a pointed chin.

“Christopher Rhymer,” Dee introduced, “is admirably able to
teach you fencing. He is a prodigy. You’re lucky to be able to learn from him. Christopher, this is—”

“Petra,” she said, and was glad to see the irritation on Dee’s face.

“That’s an unusual name,” said the boy. “It sounds foreign.”

“Her parents were odd people,” Dee said smoothly as he crossed the room to a low table where a sword rested. He handed it to Petra, and she saw that it was an exact replica of her father’s sword—except, of course, that it was visible. And the blade was blunt. “This is yours,” Dee told Petra. “Make certain you deserve it.”

He left the room.

“I’m known as Kit to my friends.” The boy cocked his head as he considered Petra. “That’d mean you.”

She hung back warily.

Kit nodded at the closed door. “He’s a frustrating piece of work, isn’t he, our Master John Dee? He keeps you guessing, all the while with a little smile on his face. When he claims to tell you the truth, you can never even half believe it. It makes him good at his job, though.”

“I guess. If you want to be an expert spy, I suppose you have to practice being a liar.”

“Hey, now.” He raised a hand in defense. “I was once a spy.”

“You?”

“Oh, yes. I began training in the profession when I was little. There’s honor in espionage, Petra.” He hastened to soothe away her dislike. “It’s a fine way to protect your country, to keep it safe from plots within and warring foreigners without. Don’t judge what I did. Not until you know something about it.”

“You said you
were
a spy. What made you quit?”

“I didn’t quit. I was forced to retire. Dee’s right—I am a prodigy,” he said matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t just gifted at spying. I
was
extraordinary
. I don’t have any magic, but I had a natural talent for discovering things people were desperate to keep hidden. I was successful at every mission given to me. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about it. I’m great at worming out secrets, yet I can’t seem to be secretive myself. I strutted, and became . . . noticeable. Not a good thing in my job. My
former
job. And fencing?” He hefted a sword and looked at the blade. “Again, too much skill, too little modesty. I beat everyone who dared to duel with me.” He checked to see if she thought he was exaggerating. “Truly. Though . . . well, I never did fight Dee. I don’t even know if he’s good with a sword or not. And there lies the difference between him and me. When I walk into a room, everyone knows who I am: a skilled spy, a frighteningly good swordsman, and a braggart. When Dee walks into a room, everyone’s on their toes. They don’t know which way to look. So here I stand—fifteen years old, barely an adult, and already retired. I’m no longer part of Queen Elizabeth’s society of spies. I just teach swordplay for my bread. Dee’s done me a favor by hiring me to teach you. He pays well.”

“But isn’t Dee . . . noticeable, too?
I
know he’s a spy. Can it really be such a secret? Why isn’t
he
forced to quit?”

“You’ve guessed correctly, Petra: everybody knows Dee’s a spy. Everybody. But you see, he’s on the queen’s council. So if he travels as an ambassador to another court, its ruler
expects
that Dee’s there to gather information. Dee just recently returned from a trip to Bohemia. I’m sure Prince Rodolfo knew full well that Dee sought his secrets. The only question in the prince’s mind would have been: how
much
does Dee know, and what will he do with that information? Maybe the prince even
wanted
certain tidbits to make their way to Queen Elizabeth. In that case, all he had to do was feed them to the English spy in his court. Politics is a game of open secrets, Petra. Why, just three months ago, an English sailor named Drake decided to turn pirate. His ship pounced upon a
Spanish galleon and stole a mind-boggling sum of gold. Drake returns to London and presents his treasure to Queen Elizabeth, who is delighted. But King Ferdinand of Spain is less than happy and writes to the queen demanding his gold and Drake’s head. Queen E claims she has no idea what King F is talking about. King F knows that she does. See? It’s all part of the game.”

“Why don’t you play it, then?” Petra asked. “Couldn’t you be an ambassador one day?”

“It’s kind of you to suggest it, even if you disapprove. Yes, you do. I can see it on your face. But the idea you present is a greasy pole, and I don’t want to try climbing up it. Anyway, I’d still have the same old problem: I can’t be discreet. Everyone knows Dee’s a spy, but nobody can guess
what
he knows.”

Petra appraised him. “You
are
chatty.”

“You see?” He laughed. “Even you think I’m unfit for the job. I just . . . well, I’m trying to be honest with you.”

“Thanks, Kit. I appreciate it.”

“I’m sure you
won’t
appreciate losing to me, though.” He gestured for Petra to draw her sword. “And you will. Badly. I’m not allowed to go easy on you. You’re several years behind. If you wanted to do something with a blade other than hack at bushes, you should’ve begun long ago. We’ll be using real weapons, not practice ones made of wood. The blades are blunt, but they’ll still hurt if they hit you. Lessons will be fast and you’ll have to work to keep up. Basically, you’re in for a trouncing.”

“Maybe I’m better than you think,” said Petra.

“I doubt that. We’re friends now, right? So let’s have no lies between us. Use whatever advantage you can against me, but I’ll still beat you.”

He did. Repeatedly. First he showed her how to hold the sword, thrust with its point, and shuffle her feet to meet or duck away from him. Then Kit lunged immediately into an attack.

Petra tried to connect magically with her sword, to direct it as she wanted. But Kit moved too quickly for her to concentrate, and he kept shouting at her: “Use your
wrist
!” “No! Don’t drop your guard!” “That’s
pathetic
!” The flat of his sword rapped against her arms, legs, and sides. The tip of his blade often stopped just short of her neck and heart. She was dead several times over.

This is making me dizzy,
Astrophil complained from his hiding spot under Petra’s hair.

Finally, Kit called a halt to their practice. Petra was trembling.
I hate that I’m so weak, Astro,
she thought.

He tried to comfort her.
Some of it is due to your illness.

Some, but not all. She hadn’t even used her injured left arm. It was the muscles in her right that ached. When Kit grabbed a pitcher of water and poured some for Petra, she had trouble raising the glass to her lips and her hand shook.

Kit studied her. “Tomorrow, wear your hair up, or I’ll chop it all off. It gets in your face. Anyone can grab a fistful and jerk your head back for a blow to the neck. But if you promise to keep your hair out of the way, I’ll let you keep it. I know girls have their little vanities.”

“You don’t know me very well,” she said.

He paused. “I suppose you’re right. And I was wrong about you where one thing is concerned, Petra.” Kit took the glass from her, then reached to shake her hand. “You are better than I thought.”

P
ETRA HAD NEVER
been afraid of the dark, but all she could think about was that the door to this strange bedroom was locked. Astrophil was sound asleep under the bed.

Petra felt small and empty, like an old, dented thimble.

She missed her father. She remembered how he would hold her when she was little, how he smelled smoky—the coal of his smithy, the candles of his study. She would press her face against his chest and his voice, usually so quiet, would rumble under her ear.

Petra held the pillow against her cheek, and tried to sleep.

“Y
OUR
H
IGHNESS
, do you have my daughter?”

“Why would I tell you that?” The prince lifted a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. He had forgotten how much his dungeons stank.

Mikal Kronos was on his knees in the dirty straw. “Please, take my eyes, if you will only—”

“If I wanted your eyes, old man, they would already be mine. But they are last year’s fashion.”

“I could rebuild the clock’s heart,” Mikal offered.

The prince squeezed his handkerchief, recalling his plans to
seize the Hapsburg Empire through a clock that could waste fields, strike towers with lightning, and flood cities. How his brothers would tremble! How foolish they would look!

“Yes,” the prince said, and folded the handkerchief into a neat square. “I suppose you could.”

P
ETRA READ THE NOTE,
fury boiling in her stomach. She smashed the paper into a ball and flung it into a corner of her bedroom.

Astrophil, perched on the frame of an oil painting, watched the paper whiz past. “What did it say?” he asked.

“It said no.”

Well, not in so many words. Across the top of the note was Petra’s scrawl: “I DEMAND to be let out of this room. My door is always locked.” Below this was Dee’s response:
Unlock it, then.