“Is the cure ready?” Petra asked.
Fiala tossed her long, pale hair. “You’re not very bright.”
“And you are this close to having Amoretta made into a fur hat.”
Lucas chuckled. Petra glared at the cat twining about her ankles, though she in fact had a growing affection for Amoretta, and could never make good on her threats.
“If I gave you a vial of sewer water,” said Fiala, “and told you it would turn Master Kronos back into your doting daddy, you would never know I’d tricked you until you poured it down his throat—and I’d like to see that.” Fiala giggled. “Imagine! Trying to make a Gristleki drink something that isn’t steaming hot blood!”
“That”—Petra strove to keep her voice even—“is why we won’t release you until he’s cured.”
“He’ll try to kill you, you know. I’ve seen it happen. Gristleki don’t care whose blood they drink. They love only two things: to serve their master and their hunger.”
“That’s not your concern. Make the cure.”
“And make it into a gas,” said Tomik, who had stepped from the cockpit into the laboratory.
“Well, aren’t you picky!” said Fiala. In a cloying tone, she added, “Would you like me to make it cherry-flavored while I’m at it?”
Tomik ignored her. “A gas will be easier to give to Master Kronos,” he told Petra.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” said Fiala, “I’ll do my best to reverse one of my finest creations ever. But I’ll make a cure for one Gray Man only. I’m sure Rodolfo will forgive me for this, since the last thing he would want is for me—or Amoretta—to suffer at your hands.”
Petra and Lucas exchanged a skeptical look.
“But I will not give you a recipe,” Fiala continued. “I’m no fool. I’m sure Your Grace”—she batted her eyes with sarcastic flirtation at Lucas—“would love to turn Rodolfo’s Gristleki army into hundreds of useless humans. You’d love to weaken him. After all, you’re next in line to the Bohemian throne.”
Petra and Tomik stared at Lucas. He looked away.
“It is true.” Astrophil’s legs clicked against the metal floor as he crawled into the room. “This is not news, Petra. I have told you before. Lucas, as the duke of Moravia, is the highest born aristocrat in Bohemia after Rodolfo. If the new emperor dies without children, Lucas will inherit our country.”
Petra said to Lucas, “So this is why you helped us. This is why you started the rebellion. You wanted to seize power for yourself.”
Lucas shifted uncomfortably. The smile that always seemed to hover on his lips was gone. “I know the line of succession to the Bohemian throne. I can’t help but know it. But it’s not why I do the things I do.”
Fiala glanced between the friends, gleeful at the sudden tension in the room.
“What’s going on in there?” Zora called from the cockpit.
“Just steer the Tank,” Petra called back.
“We should arrive in Krumlov the day after tomorrow,” Tomik said, looking grateful for a change in topic. “We found a tube like a spyglass that pokes up through the water to give a view of the surface. Judging from what we’ve seen, we’re getting close.”
“Hurry,” Petra told Fiala.
“You might command things, but that doesn’t mean they’ll happen,” the woman said. “Who do you think changed the Gristleki into the glorious beasts they are? Me. And I never made them to be changed back. There is not a single drop of human blood left in a Gray Man’s body. None. Your father has Shadowdrake blood pumping through his veins, and if you think I can so easily clap my hands and make him a man again, you’re even dumber than I thought.
“I’ll try. I confess I’m curious to see whether my genius will succeed, and sparkle in the night of other people’s stupidity. But it makes me very happy to tell you that there may be no cure. What you want, little girl, is probably impossible.”
* * *
“NEEL.” Treb strode through the ballroom toward the king. “We need to talk.”
“Not you, Treb,” said Neel. He rubbed his eyes and gazed around the ballroom, which was the only space in the palace big enough to hold the tribe leaders, their clan leaders, and anybody who might have resources to contribute to the war effort. Maps of Europe were spread across the floor, and tables were blanketed with papers that listed the amounts of everything from weapons to horses to tents. The noise was incredible. “I don’t have the energy to convince you that this war is necessary.”
“I loved Sadie, too, coz. But—”
Neel flinched. His voice came out broken: “This isn’t just about her.”
“Will you let me finish? I know it’s not. You’d be surprised at how many people know it. Sure, Queen Iona wanted to keep our noses out of European affairs, and sure, my brother would have done the same. Even he sees things differently now, though, and it’s not because your sis died. It’s because of what her death means.”
Neel, to whom Sadie’s death was a whirling, keening storm of meaninglessness, looked at the captain. Treb’s face was earnest, and filled with an expression Neel had never seen before.
“Somewhere inside me is my best self,” said Treb, “and I betray it every day. I lash out at people I like. I … well, I won’t even list the ways in which I let my worst self win. But Sadie … she was the best version of all of us. Everyone who knew her knew that, and a lot of people knew her. I think the Roma see that we need to protect the very best in us. If that comes with a cost, we’ll pay it.”
“You’re saying that the Roma support this war?”
“They support you.”
Neel’s throat was dry. He looked at his open hand as if it held what Treb was offering, the respect of his people, and felt like he had bought it with earth from his sister’s grave.
“You’ll help me,” Neel stated.
“I’ve always loved a battle. I’m a warring type. Knocking heads, whipping people in line, charging the enemy. As I said”—Treb grinned—“I’m good at bringing out the worst in me.”
“Did you come over here to ask if you could be my general?”
“No. But if you’re offering…”
“I am. You’re it. Now, was there something else?”
Treb’s face lit up, and Neel realized that he rarely saw his cousin happy. Then the usual dark cloud of a scowl settled in, and Treb said, “We’re hopelessly outnumbered.”
Neel sighed. “I know. Everyone who doesn’t live underground has heard that Rodolfo will be crowned emperor in Austria. The coronation is in three days. The Roma will have a force of maybe ten thousand. The Hapsburg army will be ten times that.”
“He doesn’t have control of it yet. We have a few days before that happens. What’s Rodolfo doing right now? Why, he’s traipsing across the countryside, heading to Austria. And I’ll bet you a figure-eight knot that he’s traveling with a pack of spoiled courtiers and drunken soldiers who’ve shined up their armor to hide how little muscle they have. It’s a political trip, after all. Rodolfo doesn’t need an army. If we were to intercept him…”
“Yes,” said Neel, and felt a flicker of something. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was hope. “If we kill him, the Hapsburg Empire will fall apart. There will be no heir. Each of its territories will be taken over by local royalty. Bohemia would be snapped up by…” Neel spun, found a table, and dashed back to Treb with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He shuffled through the notes until he found what he wanted. Slowly, he read out loud, “Some fellow named Lucas, duke of”—he peered—“Moravia.” He widened his eyes at the sudden recognition that Petra was staying in the home of someone so high up in the Bohemian aristocracy. Well, that was good. That’d mean he’d be better able to to keep her safe. And she was safe. She had to be. Though … he had to admit he didn’t know this for sure. He had hesitated to try to reach her, ever since his dream of the beach. Ever since seeing his tears darken her hair, he had felt … how had he felt?
“The problem isn’t
Bohemia,” said Treb. “It’s Rodolfo, and the people who follow him. And you know what? I think the Roma can handle a traveling party of courtiers.”
“You’re right.” Neel focused on what Treb had told him. “It could work. It’d be a sight easier than taking on the Hapsburg army—or even the whole Bohemian army. The Bohemians would outnumber us three to one, plus there are the Gray Men…” Neel trailed off as he realized something that his excitement had blotted out. “It’s impossible. We can’t get to where Rodolfo is in less than three days. Even with the globes. The nearest Loophole to Bohemia is the one Petra took, and we can’t haul an army—with horses and wagons—down freezing mountains. Even if we did, we still wouldn’t have enough time to reach Rodolfo before he enters Austria.”
“There’s that Loophole from Portugal to the countryside near Prague. You know, the one Tomik stepped through, more than a year ago.”
Neel shook his head. “Dee’s pesky daughter sewed that one up. She—” Neel’s eyes went wide. He shouted so that the whole room could hear him: “Somebody go and get John Dee!”
40
A Treaty
“YOU SAID THAT your daughters can open a Loophole to western India,” said Neel. He and Dee were in the royal sitting room, though Neel was absolutely incapable of sitting. He paced the floor.
“I did, didn’t I?” Dee reached for a small ivory statue of an elephant that decorated the end table next to his chair. “This is lovely.”
“It’s yours. So, Madinia and Margaret could get from England to India pretty quickly, right?”
“Very quickly,” Dee said in a bored tone. “Especially since they are in India.”
Neel stopped pacing.
“Yes.” Dee smiled. “They like India. I saw no reason to send them home after they brought me there. They are amusing themselves in the Manvadar court right now.” Dee cradled the ivory elephant in his hand and traced one finger down its arching nose. “I suppose that if, say, you wanted them to visit you, a fleet ship and a few horses could make the trip there and back in a little more than a day.” Dee glanced up from the elephant. “Would you care to see them, Your Majesty?”
Neel choked on a fizzing mix of astonishment and eagerness. “Yes. Yes, I would. You see—”
“You’d like them to open a Loophole to Bohemia.”
“Can they? Would they? I—”
“I imagine that you’d prefer a location near the Austrian border, ideally along the route Rodolfo would take to be crowned emperor. Would Krumlov Castle do? Iris December is an old friend and has hosted my family before. Madinia will know the way there.”
Neel sagged into the chair across from Dee. The relief started in his stomach, traveled up his throat, and flowed out in laughter. “That’s perfect. Thanks, Dee. I don’t care what Petra says about you, you’re all right. You like that elephant? I’ll give you a case of ’em. I’ll—”
“My ambition ranks a little higher than ivory elephants.” Dee pulled a sheet of parchment from a deep, hidden pocket in his robes.
Neel took it. “What is this?”
“A treaty between your country and mine. After your rousing speech yesterday, I took the liberty of preparing this. It’s quite simple. You are about to embark on a war, and would like my daughters’ help—which is to say, England’s help. England has no love of Rodolfo, and no interest in seeing him on the Hapsburg throne. In fact, we would not be sad to see the Hapsburg Empire crumble. That would allow, well, other countries to become more powerful after its downfall. You and my queen are in a position of mutual interest. Therefore, Madinia and Margaret would be glad to help you—as glad, I’m sure, as you will be to help England.” Dee pointed to the bottom of the beautifully written page. “Sign here.”
Neel narrowed his eyes. He began to read the treaty—but not before he noticed a twitch of surprise on Dee’s face. “You thought I still couldn’t read,” Neel said. “You assumed I’d sign it right away, because I’m desperate. You assumed I wouldn’t show it first to an adviser who could read, because I’m too proud.”
“I assume nothing,” said Dee, yet his words sounded hollow.
“It’s fine. You act in the best interests of your country. I’ll do the same for mine.” Neel took the paper to a nearby desk. He took his time reading it, because it was still difficult for him to string each word into a sentence—and it wouldn’t do any harm to let Dee worry.
When Neel reached the end of the page, he unscrewed an inkpot and dipped in a quill. He scratched out a few sentences, then scribbled changes in the margins. “If this is all right by you”—Neel brought the treaty back to Dee—“I’ll sign it.”
Dee’s face changed as he read the treaty. “You have altered the most important clause. My queen would like her own set of globes.”
“Pity. I don’t have any to spare. I’m sure you understand my position. But if Queen Elizabeth ever wants to borrow a set, I’ll send someone who’ll use them for her, and lead your people where they want to go—so long as the queen’s plans don’t conflict with the Roma’s. I’ve written all that down in the margins.”
“Yes,” said Dee, “in very poor penmanship.”
“Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll throw in a little something extra. See, the Vatra makes great coir rope. Normally we wouldn’t sell to Europe, but we can make an exception for you, and give you a good deal. England’s an island. Ruling the sea around you is as important to the English as it is to us. You must want good ships. With our coir rope, you can have the best. What do you say, Dee?”
* * *
TOMIK TOUCHED THE PINK ROSE in its beaker. Fiala looked up from her work to shoot him an evil glare, but said nothing when he plucked a petal and put it in his pocket. He could hear Petra and Astrophil talking in the bedroom. Their muffled voices rose and fell in a duet, with the spider’s voice piping in a tinny whistle, and Petra’s low like a flute. An impatient flute. She was searching for something to wear that wasn’t a shredded nightgown stiff with dried slime. It was their fourth day in the Tank. Petra had discovered a privy that funneled away waste with a push of a button, and a glass closet in the bed-chamber that sprayed water, so they’d managed to stay more or less clean. But for the longest time, Petra couldn’t bring herself to do what Zora had done—wear Fiala’s clothes. Tomik could imagine Astrophil’s glee as Petra tried things on. The spider loved to see Petra dressed her best.
The friends had fallen into a steady pattern on the underwater ship. They knew now how to steer it well—as the Decembers were doing at the very moment—and had figured out many of its secrets, like a panel that opened to reveal dried food, a faucet that poured river water for drinking, and a button that shot metal spears out of the Tank’s bow. Soon they would have to figure out how to stop the ship and dock it, because they would arrive in Krumlov later that day.
Fiala cleared her throat, deliberately rude. Tomik glanced at her. “Give me that,” Fiala said. She leaned against the fabric that bound her to the chair and pointed.
He gripped the flask that had made the many-mouthed creature grow more arms. It was the chief weapon they had against Fiala. He shook his head. “Say how much you want, and I’ll pour it in a glass.”
She huffed with impatience. “A drop.”
When Tomik had given it to her, Fiala poured it into the potion that filled the brass bowl in front of her. She set fire to the oily liquid, which erupted into flame.
“Hey!” Tomik hauled Fiala, chair and all, away from the worktable. “What do you think you’re doing?” He reached for water to douse the fire.
“Shut up! Don’t do that!” Fiala slapped at him. “It’s part of the process. Let me handle it.”
Zora stepped from the cockpit, took in the situation, and put her finger on the purple button that had sprayed water from the ceiling on their first day aboard the Tank. “Handle it, then,” she told Fiala coolly. “I’ll put it out if you don’t.”
Fiala looked over her shoulder at Tomik. “Push me to the table, y
ou fool.” The flames climbed higher.
Tomik shoved the chair. Fiala clapped another brass bowl over the fire, lifted it, and held an open vial over the bitter smoke. She stoppered it with a cork. “There.” She set the smoke-filled vial on the worktable. “One Gristleki cure, forced out of me by a bunch of rude infants with no respect for me or my cat.”
Petra entered the laboratory with Astrophil on her shoulder. She had managed to find what was perhaps the only non-pink dress in Fiala’s wardrobe. It was pearly white, with simple, elegant lines. Tomik noticed how it brought out the brightness of Petra’s light eyes, and the richness of her dark hair. She had begun to look more like herself as Iris’s dyes, which required daily application, had faded away. As Petra stood there, her eyes resting on the vial as if beholding a miracle, Tomik realized that, not so long ago, his pulse would have raced to see her like this. Yet now his heart was as steady as the Tank’s constant thrum.
“You did it?” Petra said to Fiala. “You made the cure?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know?” Fiala said. “Do you see a Gray Man here, for me to test it on? Maybe it will work.” She shrugged. “Maybe not. I added a touch of Regeneration—my very own invention—which might cause the human organs inside a Gray Man’s body to produce blood. Or it might make your father grow a few arms. Oh!” Her eyes widened. “What a beautiful idea! A Gristleki with ten arms! Fiala Broshek, your ingenuity astonishes me. Now, little girl,” she said to Petra, “bring me my cat. I would like a cuddle.”
But Petra was no longer paying attention to the woman. In fact, she appeared to be paying attention to nothing at all. She gazed into space, her head slightly tilted as if straining to catch a whisper.
“Petra?” Now Tomik’s heart was racing—with urgency, as he thought back to their mountain trek and how she had somehow known, through her mind-magic, that the Gristleki would attack. What danger lurked in the Vltava waters?