The mirror howled.
Its cry made Piers crouch and clap his hands over his ears, and gasp; it made the cats flee like seven streaks of darkness.
Only Maskelyne was unmoved, his hands steady on the monitor until the blackness collapsed with a snap and the glass was whole and Rebecca and Jake were gone.
Piers lowered his hands and breathed out. He shook his head and hauled himself up.
“That thing is getting worse. And are you sure you can control it?”
Maskelyne looked up. “No one controls the mirror. Not even Janus. But at least I can monitor it now I’ve sorted out Symmes’s dial.”
Piers wiped his hands on his apron. “I don’t know how you sleep at night. If ghosts sleep.”
He stopped.
Maskelyne was staring at the monitor with a fixed fear.
Piers hurried over. “What’s wrong?” He looked at the numbers on the dial, flicking back and back and back. 1900.
1800
1700
1600
He put both hands over his eyes. “Stop it. Stop it!”
“I can’t.”
1500
1400
“Hell,” Piers whispered.
19
My dark devyse is the portal into which my soule hath journeyed. I fear I have given myself up to its mercies as to a demon. As to a dark angel.
From The Scrutiny of Secrets by Mortimer Dee
HE ONLY REALIZED he was standing in the middle of a road when the donkey reared up in his face and whinnied; in an instant Rebecca had hauled him aside, and they both fell into the gutter, crashing against the hot stone curb.
Jake gasped. “Are you all right?”
“Bruised.” She was rubbing her elbow, there was dirt smudged on her cheek. Then she looked up.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Jake.”
The heat.
The heat struck him like a blow.
He saw a street too narrow, the houses too high. The bricks were tawny, the roofs red tile. Above them scorched a sky bluer than ever possible in London.
The smell of sewage, of olives, of incense, burst onto his senses. And the donkey cart had a driver, who had leaped down and was kneeling now, crossing himself with terror, screaming out “Demons! Fiends of hell!” in a dialect so garbled Jake could barely recognize it.
Rebecca clutched at him. “Jake.”
“Don’t talk. Keep quiet. That’s Italian.”
“You know what he’s saying?”
“Dad worked in Rome. We lived there when I was small.”
He could not believe this. This was all wrong—and, early, so early! The people who came running from the silent buildings, who flung open shutters and stared down at him, were dark-eyed and olive-skinned. He knew, with a rush of joy and terror, that the mirror had betrayed him again.
“Demons!” the driver screamed.
“No. Please.” Jake summoned his Italian. “We are merely visitors. We startled you. Please.”
It was no use. He realized that as he saw Rebecca turn and face the crowd that was gathering fast as rumor, as he looked at her ridiculous Edwardian clothes, his own dark suit. Slipping the bracelet as far up his arm as it would go, he said, “Run!”
They turned, dashed two women aside, hurtled around a cobbled corner.
Into a line of armed men.
Jake hit the ground; Rebecca screamed. Scrambling up he saw that one of the men had hold of her, and was laughing at her struggles. Her hat was off, her long red hair whipping free.
The men stared and whistled. They seemed amazed. One made a sign with his hand, against evil.
Jake leaped up. “Leave her alone. Let her go!”
Almost casually, a man dealt him a blow with the flat of his weapon that sent Jake sprawling, astonished with pain. He gasped for breath, got on hands and knees, was kicked flat again.
The crowd roared. Rebecca screeched, “Jake!”
As if her voice had released it, silence fell. Someone spoke, a sharp bark of command. At once the crowd fell back, slipped away, fled. The line of soldiers parted, and through them came a man on horseback, wearing a gown of black and gold and a hat of some red velvet wound elaborately about his head. His hair was dark and glossy; his nose curved like a hawk’s beak. He looked as though he had ridden out of some pre-Renaissance painting.
He drew rein and said, “Fall back. Disperse the citizens.”
Breathless and aching, Jake scrambled up. Rebecca grabbed him. She looked terrified, but kept silent.
As the soldiers cleared the streets Jake tried to think. They were in trouble here. Dire trouble.
“Who are you?”
The question was calm, but this man was clearly used to getting all the answers he wanted. For a crazy moment Jake was reminded of Inspector Allenby.
“My name is Jake Wilde, signore. This is my . . . wife. Rebecca.”
He registered her tiny gasp but ignored it. “We are travelers from a far country.”
“Where? Your speech is most barbaric.”
“England.”
“Ah. That is a distant island.” The man clicked his fingers. “Is the climate there really a constant fog so that the sun is never seen but on the morning of Easter Day?”
Jake risked a small smile. “Almost, signore.”
Behind the man now were others, a group on foot. He saw priests, a cardinal in red, a gather of well-dressed men. No women anywhere.
He said, “May I ask whom I address?”
The horseman said, “I am Federico Altamana, condottiere of the army of this city. Why are you here? To trade?”
Jake swallowed. Then he said, “In a sense. We heard of a sickness that has come to this place. We’ve heard how it spreads.”
The men murmured. He heard the words il morto negro. Rebecca squeezed his hand in a desperate warning. But he ignored her.
“In my land we have knowledge of many medicines and cures, many cordials and tinctures. I have come to bring this knowledge to you, and the friendship of my king . . .”
“Edward the Third,” Rebecca breathed.
“Edward, King of England and France.”
He was exhilarated. He was making this up out of half-forgotten history lessons and both their lives hung on it, and yet the danger, the threat, as always, filled him with a wild, reckless excitement.
The horseman turned his head and beckoned.
Rebecca gasped.
Out of the crowd came a man in the strangest mask either of them had ever seen. Of loose gray fabric, it hooded the face, was slitted for the eyes. Out of it hooked a great beak like some vulture, dark as a crow, sinister and bizarre.
“Where are your medicines?” the signore demanded. “Where are your king’s gifts? Your entourage?”
“At Pisa, unloading from the ships. We came at once, before them. We hear that many are dying here already.”
He flicked a glance at the masked man. A pair of bright eyes stared back at him.
The Man with the Eyes of a Crow.
The signore nodded. “That is unfortunately true.” He considered, then said, “Il dottore will take you to the monastery. I hope you will be able to help us. But this sickness is not so great. It affects only the poor and sinful. It will pass, as all sickness does.”
Jake frowned. “It may become a great plague.”
The signore leaned from his saddle. “Let us hope not. I await your king’s gifts. If they do not arrive, you will pay for your lies.”
He smiled amiably, jerked his head to his men, and rode on. The armed men fell in behind and followed, gazing at Jake and especially Rebecca with curiosity. She tucked her hair up into her hat hurriedly.