The Traitor's Blade by Kevin Sands (fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

Without a master, none of that would have got me any closer to my dreams.

Now I was supposed to become a spy? Again, someone else was making my decisions for me. It wasn’t the apprentice’s place to question. But I found myself questioning anyway.

What if I didn’t want this?

I said none of it aloud. Nonetheless, Lord Ashcombe seemed to understand the struggle going on inside.

“You have the right to refuse,” he said. “I told you before you went to Paris, you are not a slave. But His Majesty needs you. And, whatever you say, this sort of thing is what you’re best at.

“You will still be an apothecary. As Kirby said, you’ll need to make appearances in his laboratory, take examinations. And Blackthorn will remain your shop. You’ll just be, in secret, this other thing as well.”

I wasn’t sure about any of it, not at all. But if I could still be an apothecary… it made me feel a little better. “Yes, my lord.”

“Now, about Walsingham. He’s strange. Dealing with him requires patience. But he’s loyal, and brilliant, and an exceptional spy.”

Nerves fluttered in my gut. “Yes, my lord.”

I looked over at Tom. He seemed just as stunned as I was, by everything. But he wasn’t about to meet the king’s chief spymaster. He gave me a look of sympathy, which was pretty much all he could do.

And then we were there. Somewhere inside the maze that was Whitehall, Lord Ashcombe stopped at a door and motioned to it.

I knocked. A quiet, baritone voice said, “Enter.”

I took a deep breath and went inside.

CHAPTER

13

THE SPYMASTER’S OFFICE WAS NARROW and cramped, with no windows. A desk near the far wall had been placed to face the door, so anyone sitting behind it could see who came in.

Alexander Walsingham, 1st Earl Walsingham, was not at his desk. He sat, instead, on one of two plain wooden chairs in front of it, angled slightly toward each other. The spymaster was younger than I’d expected, maybe in his late thirties, and possibly not even that. His wig lay on the desk, revealing a head of close-cropped blond hair. He was lean, not particularly tall, and somewhat plain looking. Not the sort of man one might remember in a crowd—which I supposed was good for a spy.

If I hadn’t heard him say “enter,” I’d have thought he was having a nap. He was just sitting there, eyes closed. Without opening them, he motioned to the chair beside him.

“Sit,” he said in that same quiet baritone.

I did. And I waited.

Walsingham made no more gestures, said no more words. He simply sat there in silence, again looking to all the world as if he were fast asleep.

Was I supposed to acknowledge him? Introduce myself? Start the conversation?

I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. Lord Ashcombe had said the man was odd—but he’d also said dealing with the spymaster required patience.

Was that a hint?

I didn’t know. But if Walsingham was to be my master, it was up to him to decide what I should do. So I just sat there and waited.

Minutes passed. At first, my mind raced. There’s a strange sort of pressure, sitting with a stranger, no one saying anything. Should I disturb him? Keep silent? Sing a song? Sally could sing wonderfully; where was she when I needed her? Safe in Berkshire House, I thought, away from all the murders. But as more time passed—I swear, it had to be approaching an hour—I grew bored. Trying not to fidget, I studied the room.

There was a bookshelf by the door; oddly, none of the books’ spines were labeled. A few paintings hung on the walls. There was an Oriental rug under our feet, too large for the floor; one edge curled a few inches where it ran out of room to stretch. The desk was free of all papers; nothing on top but a ticking clock and the spymaster’s discarded wig. A faint scent of mint filled the room. I couldn’t tell from where it was coming.

Eventually, I ran out of things to study. So I turned my mind to the cipher in yesterday’s message. And the key I still hadn’t discovered.

Remember Paris, the letter had said. I’d already tried the obvious words, and none of them had worked. So what was I forgetting?

I’d just begun to run over the whole trip in my mind. Then I noticed: Walsingham’s eyes were open.

And he was staring at me.

His gaze was penetrating, unsettling. It was like he was looking right through me. I almost said “Master?” just to still my nerves, but I managed to clamp my mouth shut.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” he said, quiet as ever.

I’m not sure I could have pulled away, even if I’d wanted to.

“The door you entered,” he said. “On one side is a bookshelf. What is on the other?”

Another test, I realized.

And this one even more important.

I searched my memory. “A painting.”

“Of?”

“A… naval battle. Naval siege, I mean. Ships, attacking a city.”

“How many ships?”

How many ships? “Uh…” I closed my eyes, tried to remember.

There were three in the foreground, tilting against the waves. Three more behind them. Then one closer to the city… no, wait. Two. That made…

“Eight,” I said.

“And what city are they attacking?”

How on earth was I supposed to know that? “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess?”

“Um… Bilbao?”

The spymaster tilted his head, curious. “What makes you say that?”

“Well… the city looks Dutch, but the ships are English, and the painting was clearly done years ago, probably during the war with Spain. Since the painting is in the Dutch style, I figured the artist used his own memory to create a city he’d never been to. Like how painters put the faces of people they know as saints, or whatever. I know we’ve attacked Spanish cities, so I chose the closest port, which is Bilbao. I think.”

“Interesting. You may look.”

The first thing I did was count the ships. Yes,