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I was born on the thirteenth day of July in the eighteenth year of the reign of His Glorious Majesty Henry VIII, in the one thousand five hundred and twenty-seventh year after our Lord's death. I had the great good fortune to be born an Englishman, and when I came of age in both knowledge and reason, I served my country and my queen, Elizabeth Regina. Trapped by the Medici, I was condemned as a heretic and a spy, walled up alive, condemned to die for queen and country. Instead ...
I was born on the thirteenth day of July in the eighteenth year of the reign of His Glorious Majesty Henry VIII, in the one thousand five hundred and twenty-seventh year after our Lord's death. I had the great good fortune to be born an Englishman, and when I came of age in both knowledge and reason, I served my country and my queen, Elizabeth Regina. Trapped by the Medici, I was condemned as a heretic and a spy, walled up alive, condemned to die for queen and country. Instead the hand of Fortune swept me up and I was spared.
It is now the eighteenth day of March in the year 2101, and I am as trapped as I was in Venice. Fortune's servant, Dyckon, a creature called the Roc — who by his very countenance calls forth the living visage of the Dark Ones — swears he will find a way to send me home, to my time, my place, my queen. But the forces of this time and place rage against me as surely as did the Medicis. Others of Dyckon's race even now look to wipe clean the face of the planet of every human. The powers of this time plot to subjugate me with their horrible machine — an identity chip. And if these powers were to find out that I was in league with the Roc, I would be condemned.
It will take all the skills I learned as a spymaster to keep me free, to stop the Roc, and set me on the path to home.
THE SPELLBINDING CONCLUSION OF THE SAGA OF THE MERCHANT PRINCE, DOCTOR JOHN DEE.
Unhappy, John Dee sat in his straight-backed wooden chair on a terrace of his upper-floor bedroom. He marveled at the view: a vast panorama of Metropolitan London. The city was unrecognizable to him. It had grown so tall and so uninviting. The sun turned the clouds the color of diseased fruit, and the pall the light cast over the smoking expanse of buildings was enough to sour anyone. That, Dee supposed, included him. He had stayed in his hilltop aerie at St. Albans for three months, but he knew that he was not accomplishing half of what he had set out to do. He needed to find the other Roc to put an end to any threat of worldwide plague. The Roc might also be the key to Dee's going home. Back to a time when London was manageable. He ached to go home. The village of Mortlake was only six kilometers away, but it was no longer a village and it was no longer home.
"Doctor," called Kelly Edwards from the kitchen. "Do you want some lunch?" Under the guise of providing him protection, she had shared living quarters with him since he had arrived in London, and their relationship was developing into something more than either of them had expected — not a romance so much as a fond symbiosis.
"What are you offering?" he asked as he came in off the enclosed terrace, one brow raised suggestively. The terrace was shielded by spiderglass; it was impenetrable.
"Sprouts and technomeat in basil sauce," she said, smiling at him. She was dressed in a neat jumpsuit with three weapons clipped to the belt. A year ago, Dee would have found this military mien unfeminine and off-putting, but now he saw her as attractive and wholly female. His redheaded Brünnhilde. He came up to her and kissed her cheek. "What's news from d'Winter?"
"Nothing today. He's still looking for the Roc you think must still be here," she said. "But even though Rocs work in groups, isn't it possible that the Yeshua Roc was some kind of loner?"
"Dyckon was not of that mind," said Dee. "He is as certain as I that an attendant Roc must be in hiding on this planet. Waiting." Dee remarked as he took the plate and sat down on the kitchen stool in front of the counter. "Is there naught to drink?"
"Tea and wine. The wine's Romanian." She had gotten down glasses. "I'm having the wine."
"As shall I," declared Dee, and accepted a glass filled with a pinot noir. He lifted this in toast to her and began to eat.
Kelly took the stool opposite his and launched into her lunch. "Anything planned for this morning?"
"I am to be engaged in diverse research," he said obliquely.
"Can I help you with it?" She waited a moment, then added, "I'll have to stay with you, in any case. You might as well keep me busy."
"Marry, then," said Dee. "You will needs come with me to the British Museum at its Montague Street entrance. The museum guard will bar your coming unless you accompany me. I am possessed of a research pass which will grant admittance to me and my assistant, but only if we arrive at the scholars' door at the same time."
"I'm your bodyguard, Doctor," Kelly pointed out as she took a sip of her wine. "I have to remain with you."
"For which I praise my stars and am grateful." He paused. The visit to the museum reminded him of lost opportunities. "I would have greatly desired to have had so majestic a collection in my time. It is the eighth wonder of the world." Dee swirled the wine and watched the liquid languidly slide down the curved glass. "I made petition to the court of Elizabeth to give me leave and a royal grant to pursue just such a scholarly enterprise. To gather the lost works of scientific antiquity." The Doctor grew more wistful, "Such a preservation of monuments and antique writers would have made England the envy of the world. But alas, it was not to be." He shook his head resignedly. After the reckless post-Reformation looting of Catholic property, he had been forced to spend years of time and much of his own money to gather books of ancient learning that had been foolishly discarded by an angry populous. Doctor Dee was reputed to have once had the largest library in Britain. Scholars from all of Europe and Asia came to stand in awe and admire his wealth of mathematics, astronomy, and the mystical occult. "Acquistion of knowledge was my quest and true understanding my prize. Burghley and Elizabeth never saw the country's need."
"The First," said Kelly conscientiously.
"Aye, the First," Dee chuckled, and added, "I am still at pains to think of her that way."
"I would be too, in your shoes," said Kelly with a burst of sympathy that made him feel awkward. Continually, he strived to seem informed on the six centuries of history he had missed. To his surprise, he found that only the world changed, not the passions of men.
"By my soul, although I would with all my heart return to her realm, I should miss you, and the creature comforts of this time." Dee busied himself with his food for the next ten minutes. "How long before you'll be ready to set forth?"
"That depends on you, Doctor," said Kelly. "What kind of protection do you need for the museum?"
"As is my wont," said Dee. "You or Callaghan, light arms you're licensed to carry, as we've done before. I have my suit."
"This is Callaghan's day off," Kelly reminded him.
"So 'tis," said Dee. "Perchance he has returned to Limerick for the day?"
"He has," said Kelly. "He's getting worn out, you know. Ever since we brought him on ten weeks ago, he's only had four days off. That's barely legal, and really expensive."
"Oft have I desired you to employ another sentry while d'Winter's abroad, if you deem it wise," said Dee. "You don't have to saddle all on Callaghan. So long as my true identity remains a secret."
"We'll get someone" she said. "We need to do a thorough check on anyone assigned to you."
He stopped short of asking her why, knowing that she hadn't told him because she wanted to protect him. The thought bothered him slightly, and he absentmindedly asked again, "How long before we depart for the museum?"
"Twenty minutes, if that works for you," she said. "I have to secure the place and summon our private skimmer."
"What you will," he said, resigning himself to the long security check on the house. "Will you repair to secure the roof, or shall I?"
"I'll do it," she said. "You can shut down the record-room, and pack any notes you're going to need."
"Will do," he said, astonished at how much of the modern parlance had crept into his speech in the time since he had arrived in this century. Still, he reminded himself, he had often acquired local regionalisms on his travels in his own era, so there was no reason to be surprised.
"Then off you go," she said, checking her sidearm as she put their lunch dishes into the cleaner. She watched him leave the room, thinking as he went that she was too much involved for her own good — or for his. She finished cleaning the countertop, then took the spiral stairs to the roof where there was a long railing around the hydroponic garden, all but isolating the place like an island.
The roof made her nervous; it was too exposed. All that would be needed to breach it was a flyer and hand weapons. This alone made her very careful while she checked all the monitors on the roof, turning them up to their highest settings. As she turned back toward the stairs, she heard one of the surveillance units shriek a warning, and she ducked. An instant later the primrose next to her left shoulder disintegrated. The guard-beams were already swinging around in the direction from which the shot had come, their lasers poking into the air in the direction of a flyer that abruptly banked away from behind the belltower of a nearby cathedral.
Securing the roof door, she hurried down the stairs, trying to figure out how much she should tell Doctor Dee. At the base of the steps, she armed all the protective programs to fire their various weapons upon intruders. Adeptly, she ran a check on all the exterior windows and the recording devices that would keep visual files on anyone who approached this tall, narrow house on Tower Hill. Lastly she punched in the code on her wrist-vid to bring their flyer to the door.
"I've got my notes," said Dee, coming up behind her with an old-fashioned attaché case.
"You're not taking your palmtop?" She decided to say nothing about the shot on the roof.
"Harp not on that matter again," he retorted sharply. Immediately, he was slightly embarrassed by his strong admonition. They had had this discussion before. It was one of the few times they had argued. "They can be spied on too easily."
"Only by someone who has the right codes," she gently reminded him as they started toward the door. She felt him bristling at her side.
"That's enough to give me pause," said Dee as they ran out to the extended porch to meet the incoming flyer.
Copyright © 2003 by Bill Fawcett & Associates, Inc.
"I saw the way she measured you, Master." Fear stripped away the carefully cultivated French accent that years of travel had perfected, revealing the Irish brogue. "You have made a bitter enemy."
Dr. John Dee touched the edge of the quill to the ink block, then deliberately etched a graceful looping curl to the end of the paragraph. "I am well used to women taking my measure," he said absently. He dotted an i with a flourish, then dropped the pen to the table. Rubbing his hands briskly together, the spymaster broke off a piece of Venetian cheese from the wedge on the table before him. Its milky aroma filled his nostrils with delight, and he devoted his entire concentration to it as he savored the first bite. Then he sipped from the goblet of young Venetian wine. It was sour and tart, but once it was laid down for a couple of years, it would be very passable indeed. Dee nibbled some more cheese. It was said that the Old Ones, who had walked this world in the days following the Creation, dined only on cheese and wine. At that moment, he believed it was true.
"Master," Edward Kelly said evenly, "this be not some kitchen wench making eyes at you. This be one of the great Medici women."
"Be she the pretty one with the copper tresses?" Dee asked, his voice muffled and full of the soft runny cheese.
"No, Master," Kelly sighed, "the ember-haired one was her maid. The hook-nosed one was Marie, niece of the Grand Duke of Venice. His favorite niece," Edward Kelly added significantly.
The English ambassador licked the last vestiges of his lunch from his ink-stained fingers and returned to his writing table to finish his writing, then tapped his teeth with the end of the quill. "Ugly girl with unfortunate eyes?"
"I didn't notice her eyes," the big Irishman said. "I was too busy watching the way the Medici kept fingering her dago dagger. But I grant you, she was ugly," he added with a toothy grin. "God's blood, but was she ugly! What did you say to her to put her so out of her humor?"
John Dee carefully penned his signature mark and then rolled his governmental report into a hollow wooden tube whistle and tossed it to Kelly. Within the week it would reach the court at London, where it would no doubt be read and discussed by no less a personage than the Queen herself. Unfortunately he had little to add to his earlier reports, or at least nothing he wished his monarch to know about. Dee might be doing his duty by Her Majesty, but that did not prevent him from turning a small profit for himself. Business should never get in the way of trade. Dee folded away his writing box and began to clean his quill; then he suddenly smiled, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. Kelly caught the look and groaned. The last time he had seen that expression, they had barely escaped a French mob outside of Chenonceaux in the Val-de-Loire while attending one of Catherine the Florentine's grand fetes champetres.
"You remember now," Kelly demanded of the small man.
"She may have proffered an offer," Dee said mildly, "that I was unwilling to accept." He blew on the nib of the pen. The sound was a low lewd whistle.
Edward Kelly immediately turned away and began to pack a few items into a leather satchel, mumbling that if they left now, they might be out of Venice before the vengeance of the Medici descended on them. "Did she, or didn't she, make you an offer?" he demanded.
Dee came to his feet, pressing his hands into the small of his back, arching his spine, and stretched toward a low-hung ceiling he could never expect to reach. Kelly's orange-red hair brushed the filthy rafters, but even with the oversized heels of his boots, Dee barely stood five feet. Lifting a candle from the bedside table, he held it high and turned to examine his distorted reflection in the clumsy mirror. He was proud of what he saw there. At eight and forty — a respectable, even a venerable age — he still had a full head of hair. It was iron-gray now, of course, but he felt it lent his rather sharp features a measure of distinction, and emphasized his bright blue eyes.
"Master?" Kelly persisted. "What did that witch ask of you?"
"She made me an offer." The small man shrugged. "She was intrigued by my size. She added that she had never been serviced by a man so small and mayhap it might make a merry divertissement."
"And your reply?"
"I pointed out that I had eyed many a midget at court and that it was unlikely that they were all eunuchs."
Kelly groaned aloud.
"I protested her flouting my size. Though I am slight of stature, I am perfectly formed. Wouldn't you say so?" he asked Kelly.
"Yea, verily," Kelly muttered.
"I moreover cited that I was an alchemist and a mathematician, and as such, almost priestlike in my celibacy."
"And she believed you?" Kelly asked in astonishment.
"Nay," Dee sighed. "She had heard rumor out of London."
"Which rumor?" Dee was the subject of many of the most bizarre rumors that circulated in London society. Dee suspected that Kelly knew the good doctor was himself the source of many of the stories. Only last season, an extraordinary tale had gone the rounds of society that he was more than friendly with the Virgin Queen.
"Tittle-tattle about me and the Queen," Dee muttered. "Utter madness."
"Oh. That rumor," the big man whispered, and crossed himself quickly. That rumor had almost had them killed, first by Elizabeth's supporters, then later by those friendly to the dead Scottish queen. Lifting the bag off the bed, he turned to the shuttered window, unlatched it, and eased it open. Venice, washed bloodred in the late-evening twilight, spread about before them, slender towers silhouetted against the sky. The effect was marred by the pall of gritty smoke that blanketed the city and obscured the top floors of some of the taller residences, and the silence was disturbed by the shrieks of pigeons soaring in and out of St. Mark's Square. Leaning out, he looked down. Ten feet below, filthy, foul-smelling, begrimed canal water lapped directly beneath their window.
Dee joined him and peered down, wrinkling his nose, nauseated at the stench. "The rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril," he muttered. "Can you swim?"
"Why?" Kelly asked.
"Because I cannot. So you will have to jump in, swim to yonder boat, row it back here, then keep it steady while I descend."
Kelly shook his head quickly. "That's a foolish waste of time. It would be more provident if we both jumped in and swam to the next walkway. I could keep you afloat." An enormous black rat crawled across a clotted mess of refuse and dropped into the oily water.
"I would rather bed Marie de' Medici," Dr. John Dee said simply. "Now, mind your master and fetch that boat. I shall scribble de' Medici a note of gramercy."
"As you wish, Master." Handing the leather satchel to Dee, Kelly tugged off his worn boots and climbed onto the window frame, turned so that he was facing into the room, and lowered himself into the water. He sank beneath the surface, the coagulated water barely registering a ripple. When his head broke the surface it was streaked with filth, his red hair and beard plastered to his skull and matted with rotten fruit and bird droppings.
Dee jerked his head back so that Kelly would not see the look of disgust and amusement on his face. He held him in too much esteem. He laid the satchel on the open window ledge and was reaching for a poncet of civet to take the stench of the water from his nostrils when the door cracked and splintered inward, and a score of guardsmen, wearing the distinctive blue livery of the Medici, burst into the room.
Instantly, Dee caught the worried eye of his manservant, Kelly, and then swiftly turned to face his intruders. As the soldiers advanced into the chamber facing the blinding sunset, they could not see what was directly behind the man at the window. Dee deftly elbowed the out-of-sight satchel over the window's ledge and out into the water. Although he was listening for a splash, he heard nothing and could only hope that Kelly had caught it. Folding his arms across his chest, he faced the soldiers with an arrogance that belied his height. Behind a barrier of lowered spears, he watched two of the guards professionally rip apart his room, scattering Dee's personal items and heaving Kelly's boots into a corner alongside the stinking chamber pot. There was a shout outside the door and the soldiers straightened imperceptibly as a very theatrical Marie de' Medici strode into the room, light running silver and rose-red off the naked blade of the assassin dagger in her hands. Elbowing past the soldiers, she stopped before Dee.
"Spy," she spat in his face. Lifting the knife, the buxom wall-eyed woman placed it against Dee's cheek. The point almost touched his left eye. He felt its heavy coldness, knew from its feather-light touch against his skin that it was razor sharp. When he had occasion to do bloody-handed work himself, he favored the Medici-style dagger, though he had never once considered that it would be used on him. The irony amused him and he was unable to prevent his lips from twitching in a smile. "You stand accused of spying for the Virgin Queen of England, of plotting against the Medici and Venice. What say you?"
Before he could respond, one of the soldiers brought over the wooden flute Kelly had left on the bed and handed it to the big woman. Smiling as she slowly withdrew her dagger's threat from Dee's face and sheathed it, Marie de' Medici snapped the instrument in half and pulled out the thin small sheet of parchment. She stared at it for a moment and frowned, bushy eyebrows meeting above her nose in a straight line as she scanned the lines of meaningless symbols inked onto the thin paper. Her unmasked anger was palpable.
Majesty, your humble servant begs to bring you the latest news from Italy. The line was in Enochian script.
"This is in code!"
"Is it?" Dee asked mildly.
"But this name here is clear enough, Dr. John Dee. What do you have to say, spy?" she hissed. "What do you have to say to me now?"
"Alas, make assay, my lady Urinal. Someday you will meet a midget without a sense of smell."
Copyright © 2000 by Armin Shimerman