Petra gagged.
“—a distant cousin, recently orphaned, and now living on my charity.” Dee opened the door.
The room was huge, with a scuffed wooden floor and weapons with various pointy, deadly-looking parts lined the walls. In the center of the room stood a boy. Petra was tall for her age, but he was taller. His brown hair was cut close to the skull. His face was longish but pleasing, with deeply set eyes, a straight and narrow nose, and a pointed chin.
“Christopher Rhymer,” Dee introduced, “is admirably able to teach you fencing. He is a prodigy. You’re lucky to be able to learn from him. Christopher, this is—”
“Petra,” she said, and was glad to see the irritation on Dee’s face.
“That’s an unusual name,” said the boy. “It sounds foreign.”
“Her parents were odd people,” Dee said smoothly as he crossed the room to a low table where a sword rested. He handed it to Petra, and she saw that it was an exact replica of her father’s sword—except, of course, that it was visible. And the blade was blunt. “This is yours,” Dee told Petra. “Make certain you deserve it.”
He left the room.
“I’m known as Kit to my friends.” The boy cocked his head as he considered Petra. “That’d mean you.”
She hung back warily.
Kit nodded at the closed door. “He’s a frustrating piece of work, isn’t he, our Master John Dee? He keeps you guessing, all the while with a little smile on his face. When he claims to tell you the truth, you can never even half believe it. It makes him good at his job, though.”
“I guess. If you want to be an expert spy, I suppose you have to practice being a liar.”
“Hey, now.” He raised a hand in defense. “I was once a spy.”
“You?”
“Oh, yes. I began training in the profession when I was little. There’s honor in espionage, Petra.” He hastened to soothe away her dislike. “It’s a fine way to protect your country, to keep it safe from plots within and warring foreigners without. Don’t judge what I did. Not until you know something about it.”
“You said you were a spy. What made you quit?”
“I didn’t quit. I was forced to retire. Dee’s right—I am a prodigy,” he said matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t just gifted at spying. I was extraordinary. I don’t have any magic, but I had a natural talent for discovering things people were desperate to keep hidden. I was successful at every mission given to me. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about it. I’m great at worming out secrets, yet I can’t seem to be secretive myself. I strutted, and became . . . noticeable. Not a good thing in my job. My former job. And fencing?” He hefted a sword and looked at the blade. “Again, too much skill, too little modesty. I beat everyone who dared to duel with me.” He checked to see if she thought he was exaggerating. “Truly. Though . . . well, I never did fight Dee. I don’t even know if he’s good with a sword or not. And there lies the difference between him and me. When I walk into a room, everyone knows who I am: a skilled spy, a frighteningly good swordsman, and a braggart. When Dee walks into a room, everyone’s on their toes. They don’t know which way to look. So here I stand—fifteen years old, barely an adult, and already retired. I’m no longer part of Queen Elizabeth’s society of spies. I just teach swordplay for my bread. Dee’s done me a favor by hiring me to teach you. He pays well.”
“But isn’t Dee . . . noticeable, too? I know he’s a spy. Can it really be such a secret? Why isn’t he forced to quit?”
“You’ve guessed correctly, Petra: everybody knows Dee’s a spy. Everybody. But you see, he’s on the queen’s council. So if he travels as an ambassador to another court, its ruler expects that Dee’s there to gather information. Dee just recently returned from a trip to Bohemia. I’m sure Prince Rodolfo knew full well that Dee sought his secrets. The only question in the prince’s mind would have been: how much does Dee know, and what will he do with that information? Maybe the prince even wanted certain tidbits to make their way to Queen Elizabeth. In that case, all he had to do was feed them to the English spy in his court. Politics is a game of open secrets, Petra. Why, just three months ago, an English sailor named Drake decided to turn pirate. His ship pounced upon a Spanish galleon and stole a mind-boggling sum of gold. Drake returns to London and presents his treasure to Queen Elizabeth, who is delighted. But King Ferdinand of Spain is less than happy and writes to the queen demanding his gold and Drake’s head. Queen E claims she has no idea what King F is talking about. King F knows that she does. See? It’s all part of the game.”
“Why don’t you play it, then?” Petra asked. “Couldn’t you be an ambassador one day?”
“It’s kind of you to suggest it, even if you disapprove. Yes, you do. I can see it on your face. But the idea you present is a greasy pole, and I don’t want to try climbing up it. Anyway, I’d still have the same old problem: I can’t be discreet. Everyone knows Dee’s a spy, but nobody can guess what he knows.”
Petra appraised him. “You are chatty.”
“You see?” He laughed. “Even you think I’m unfit for the job. I just . . . well, I’m trying to be honest with you.”
“Thanks, Kit. I appreciate it.”
“I’m sure you won’t appreciate losing to me, though.” He gestured for Petra to draw her sword. “And you will. Badly. I’m not allowed to go easy on you. You’re several years behind. If you wanted to do something with a blade other than hack at bushes, you should’ve begun long ago. We’ll be using real weapons, not practice ones made of wood. The blades are blunt, but they’ll still hurt if they hit you. Lessons will be fast and you’ll have to work to keep up. Basically, you’re in for a trouncing.”
“Maybe I’m better than you think,” said Petra.
“I doubt that. We’re friends now, right? So let’s have no lies between us. Use whatever advantage you can against me, but I’ll still beat you.”
He did. Repeatedly. First he showed her how to hold the sword, thrust with its point, and shuffle her feet to meet or duck away from him. Then Kit lunged immediately into an attack.
Petra tried to connect magically with her sword, to direct it as she wanted. But Kit moved too quickly for her to concentrate, and he kept shouting at her: “Use your wrist!” “No! Don’t drop your guard!” “That’s pathetic!” The flat of his sword rapped against her arms, legs, and sides. The tip of his blade often stopped just short of her neck and heart. She was dead several times over.