‘Why, perhaps my master is England’s greatest spy after all,’ Nathaniel said, his nose in the air.
Cecil looked daggers at him, but Will cut in. ‘What are these turbulent times you speak of?’
‘While we dwelt on our all-consuming struggle with the Unseelie Court, other shadows were moving beyond our attention.’ A strong wind blew, whipping the dry leaves into gold and brown waves. Cecil shivered. ‘In Venice, across the course of this last month, six of our agents have been found floating in the canals at dawn, eviscerated, as if set upon by a wild beast. There is talk of an English spy turned traitor, a young man with fiery red hair who has spoken widely of his hatred for one Will Swyfte.’
Strangewayes? Could it be that he had somehow escaped Manoa before the way closed, and now, scarred by his failure, was seeking revenge for all that he had lost?
‘In Muscovy,’ Cecil continued, oblivious of Will’s ruminations, ‘the court of the mad Tsar is gripped with fear at tales that the dead have risen from the frozen earth, Mongols from the horde that swept across their land in times gone by. And in the far Orient, in China, comes word of something darker still, a plague of devils . . .’ The words caught in his throat as he eyed Nathaniel. ‘But that is a discussion for another time.’ He watched Will’s eyes for a long moment and then smiled tightly at what he saw there. ‘Very well. Assemble your men, Swyfte, and await further orders.’
When the spymaster had departed, Nathaniel sighed. ‘I suppose this means I must unpack your boxes of doublets, cloaks and shoes, which only this hour I had finished packing.’
‘No rest for you, Nat, and none, it seems, for the swords of Albion,’ Will replied with a grin. As he watched the young man walk away, his thoughts abandoned Whitehall and London and journeyed across the world. Venice, Muscovy, China, one true road ran through all of them. From every fiend he encountered, he would prise the knowledge he required until he had found the key he needed to unlock that way between worlds.
‘And then, Jenny,’ he whispered to the wind, ‘I will come to fetch you home, and no man nor devil will stand in my way.’
For a moment, he waited there alone in the golden autumn light, remembering. And then he turned back towards the throng. There would be blood, he knew, and strife, and there would be an ending. But not this day.
About the Author
Mark Chadbourn was raised in the mining communities of South Derbyshire, and studied at Leeds University before becoming a journalist. Now a screenwriter for BBC television drama, he has also run an independent record company, managed rock bands, worked on a production line and as an engineer’s ‘mate’. He is a two-time winner of the British Fantasy Award and author of the acclaimed The Dark Age, The Age of Misrule and Kingdom of the Serpent trilogies. The Swords of Albion adventures – of which The Devil’s Looking Glass is the third – were in part inspired by the famous ‘Corpus Christi portrait’. Dated 1585, this painting of a young man bears the motto Quod me nutrit me destruit – ‘That which nourishes me, destroys me’ – and is believed by many to be the only surviving depiction of the playwright and alleged spy Christopher Marlowe.
Mark Chadbourn lives in a forest in the Midlands. To find out more about him and his writing, visit www.jackofravens.com
Also by Mark Chadbourn
THE DARK AGE:
THE DEVIL IN GREEN
THE QUEEN OF SINISTER
THE HOUNDS OF AVALON
THE AGE OF MISRULE:
WORLD’S END
DARKEST HOUR
ALWAYS FOREVER
KINGDOM OF THE SERPENT:
JACK OF RAVENS
THE BURNING MAN
DESTROYER OF WORLDS
LORD OF SILENCE
THE SWORDS OF ALBION:
THE SWORD OF ALBION
THE SCAR-CROW MEN
For more information on Mark Chadbourn and his books, see his website at www.jackofravens.com
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.transworldbooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Mark Chadbourn 2012