“Here, Dee!” In a strong accent.
“King Rudolf. We are gathered near the sphere.”
It was the young Scientist King of Bohemia, strolling enthusiastically towards the bench to peer upon the retorts, his hands behind his back, clad in hunting green; doublet and britches and peaked cap. “What’s this?”
“I would introduce you to Lady Lyst.”
King Rudolf looked up with a smile. “We are old friends. We corresponded some years ago, when Lady Lyst’s first treatise was published in Prague. And we have spoken once or twice since I’ve been visiting the Court. I am most flattered to be in such company. And we have met, also, I believe, Master Wheldrake. I admired your poems. Though lately, I’ve seen little-”
“I am dead!” pronounced the miniature poet. “That is why. I have been dead for a long while.”
“Then you have come to Doctor Dee for resurrection?”
Doctor Dee smiled. “My reputation is a burden, Your Majesty. Many come with just that request-on behalf of relatives and loved ones, of course. But if you are right, then Master Wheldrake’s the first who’s asked in person.”
Wheldrake leaned his stiffening body against the curve of the globe.
“Perhaps you should ask Master Wheldrake to attend the Court of Bohemia,” suggested Lady Lyst. “He claims we’re Philistines here. And it’s well known that the Elfbergs are great artists in their own right-and scientists.”
Doctor Dee clapped the King on the back. “And this is the finest Elfberg of them all. Soldier, poet, scientist!”
“And I fear, a dreadful dilettante.” The Bohemian King was charming. (He had published three excellent books of verse, two scientific treatises and a work on natural history, and had led the successful Macedonian campaign against the Tatar Empire some five years before.) Wheldrake loathed him mightily and consoled himself with a brooding line or two (How condescending is this King/Who turns his hand to every thing/Let’s lesser folk his praises sing).
“Not as a scientist,” said Wheldrake aloud.
Lady Lyst looked about the laboratory. “Perhaps we should offer the King hospitality, Master Tolcharde?”
“Eh?”
“A drink of wine, perhaps?” said Lady Lyst. “Have you some?” She added: “Or anything?” She picked up a large phial. “This?”
“That’s the urine of a pregnant toad,” Master Tolcharde said. “I don’t think it’s alcoholic.”
Doctor Dee was helpfully knowledgeable. “Not urine, no. There are few kinds of urine which are.”
Lady Lyst had moved away from the bench, into the shadows, peering into alcoves. “What are these?”
“They are some of my mechanical comedians. I’m intending to make a whole set, then present them to the Queen.”
The metal figures, life-size, swung like corpses on a gibbet, and clanked a little: Columbine, Pierro, Captain Fracasse, Scaramouche-the latest costumes, the figures of the fashionable Comedie Parisienne, in bright brass, silver and glowing enamels.
“Excellent,” murmured Lady Lyst. She bent and picked up a dusty flask from the floor. “How do you give them life?”
“Cogs and springs, Lady Lyst, according to my own design.” He patted a dangling leg, which seemed to twitch. He reached up to turn the elaborate puppet; it stared, with an impression of dignity, into the space above his head. “There are rods, yet, to be positioned-and a mainspring-otherwise I would demonstrate.”
The Thane of Hermiston had flung an arm around King Rudolf’s shoulders and was pointing out some of the features of a baroque iron carriage on the far side of the vault, while Colvin kindly helped the senile Baron Calhoun from his chair and away into an ante-chamber. Doctor Dee joined Lady Lyst and Master Tolcharde to stare up at a silver-skirted Columbine as yet lacking hair, pirouetting, as if on an invisible surface.
“And who can say, Master Tolcharde, when your work is finished, whether these creatures are any less alive than we, of fresh and blood?” Doctor Dee became momentarily introspective. “Flesh and blood.”
“Ah,” said Master Tolcharde. “Indeed.” He rubbed, in a perplexed way, at his glinting head.
Doctor Dee cocked a significant eye. “And how goes your other work, Master Tolcharde…?”
“The sphere?”
“No, no. The work you do for me.”
“Of course!” Master Tolcharde exposed his potion-stained teeth. “Almost ready, Doctor Dee. The final stages, however, must be left to you.”
“I understand that.” Doctor Dee brightened. “So it goes well?”
“Modestly, I must say that it is probably my finest creation. My skills, my ideas, seem at their peak. Inspiration comes, as ever, fast and furious, but increasingly I have the means of translating that inspiration into disciplined, practical invention. The Queen’s praise, as always, spurs me. She was very pleased with the little falcon, so I heard, Lady Lyst.”
“I heard the same. A pity you gave it no homing instinct. It flew off, over Norbury Woods, in pursuit of a plover, and never returned.”
“They are easily made. I’ll produce another soon.” Contentedly Master Tolcharde turned back towards his benches.
Master Wheldrake handled a silver-framed mirror, of polished quartz, in which he saw his own bird-like features reflected and distorted. “A magic mirror, Master Tolcharde?”
“From the West Indies.” Doctor Dee took it. “Brought by Sir Thomasin Ffynne. Part of some Iberian booty, I gather, and originally used for summoning the images of gods (or demons) by the priests of the Ashtek Empire. Up until now we have had no success with it. It is always difficult, and sometimes dangerous, in these cases, to try incantations and potions at random. But we persevere, Master Wheldrake, in the Cause of Science.” He placed the mirror into a box of plain, polished wood and put the box under his arm. “The King seems ready to stay awhile. I’ll let the Thane escort him and get on with my appointments. I thank you, Master Tolcharde, for your good news. Lady Lyst.” He bowed. “Master Wheldrake.”
His brown gown lifting, as if he were about to ascend into the air, he hurried through the tangle of tubes towards the door.
Making the long, complicated journey back to the modern court, Doctor Dee left the old part of the palace behind and had reached the brighter, airier atmosphere of the Long Gallery when he came upon two of his fellow ministers in conversation with Sir Thomasin Ffynne himself The admiral wore plain black and white and was dressed for the open sea rather than the Court, in contrast to the lavish brocades, starched ruffs, puffed velvets, stomachers and chains of his companions, Lord Ingleborough and Lord Montfallcon.
Montfallcon’s bow to Dee was small and stiff, but Ffynne greeted him with the somewhat patronising good humour he usually reserved for Dee, whom Sir Thomasin regarded as a harmless and pleasant old eccentric serving the Queen rather as a jester might. “Good morrow, Doctor Dee! How go the spells and charts?” He had made use of Doctor Dee’s excellent geography more than once and, in return, had added information to the sage’s store.
“You are returned from another voyage, Sir Thomasin?”
“Your sense of dates is not your strongest point, Dee.” Tom Ffynne’s shrewd eyes shrank as he laughed and stamped his ivory foot upon the marble tiles. “I’ve been back from the Indies scarcely more than a month. No, I’m off this morning to trade with Tatary and take tolls from any Iberian ships I find in the waters we protect. I’ve come from the Queen a few moments since.” He held up a packet. “And have my documents. Now I bid farewell to my old friends. The Tristram and Isolde awaits me at Charing Cross, and the river’s free enough of ice to make the journey to the sea. So I go while I can. A month on land’s too much for me. I’ll keep an eye out for trinkets, Doctor Dee, of the sort you seek.”
“I’m always obliged to you, Sir Thomasin.” With a nod to Ingleborough and Montfallcon he was bustling on. “A safe journey, sir. Farewell! Oh! My apologies, boy!” He had bumped into Patch the page. “It’s you. Good lad. Charming. Farewell!”