“Thinkst thou to educate him, then?”

“I’ll tell thee more on the way to the tavern,” Ben said, and handed Will his shoes. “No, I don’t think so at all. Not that he’s uneducable. If anything, he’s a good man, strong in his faith, willing to die for it. A fighter for freedom, and his two chief lieutenants are also quick and true.”

“And they’re plotting against the Kang.” Will latched the door behind them when they went. “What way are we going, Ben?”

“To the Irish Boy. Age before beauty, gentle Will. Lead on.”

“Then we shall have to wait for a handsome passerby, or we shall never get anywhere,” Will noted, but he did not tarry. The afternoon was cold, the rain something more than a drizzle. “Ben, it pains me to ask this of thee–”

“Aye, Will?” The banter fell from Ben’s tone like the stagecraft it was; Will could feel the weight of his expectancy.

“It wasn’t thee told Salisbury about our Bible‑crafting, was it? When thou wert so unhappy with me?”

“Nay, I’d never do such a thing. Slather thy name in mockery and eat it with relish, aye–”

“It was mustard, not mockery,” Will said. “And the coat of arms was my father’s conceit, in any case.”

Ben laughed. “But something that could bring thee real harm? Never, my friend.”

“That’s bad,” Will answered. “Because if it was not thee, then Chapman has spoken more than he should, and where the wrong ears could hear it.”

Ben grunted, tugging his hood up higher. “I would not be startled to discover it. In any case, I think thou shouldst consider what the Catholics offer,” he said with a wink. “Thy family will thank thee for supporting the old faith. And with such men as Catesby and Tresham, and Guido Fawkes–who thou wilt meet tonight. He was a soldier in the Low Countries when I was, that last.”

“Fighting for the Queen?” Will asked, and Ben shook his head.

“Fighting for the Spaniards. A man of strong convictions. They call him the soldier‑monk, of all things.”

There was a throb of admiration in Ben’s voice; Will sighed to hear it. Nothing worse for an intelligencer than to come to admire the men he will betray.

Aye, and nothing more vital for his credibility with those men.“I’ll make thee proud enough, for a soldier‑bricklayer,” Will said, and Ben laughed at the subtleties behind that statement as they passed under the sign of the Irish Boy.

The tavern’s common was bigger than the Mermaid’s, but not over crowded. Will counted eleven men drinking by the fire, a hum of cheerful conversation flagging only a little when he and Ben entered. Catesby stood, his golden‑blond locks glowing like the sun, and came across the rush‑strewn planks to greet them. Another man rose as well, a walrus‑mustachioed redhead Will had seen somewhere before, not quite so handsome as Catesby but broad‑shouldered and nearly as big as Ben, though not so portly.

Catesby introduced the redhead as Fawkes. Will shook his hand–switching his cane to the left to do so–while Ben dragged a bench over and repositioned a table to make room. Will was seated and introduced about; he was amused to note he’d come far enough as an intelligencer in twelve years that he felt secure in remembering each name and each face without the need to scribble notes.

The evening’s entertainment was much as promised, the playmaker finding himself wined and dined by men who were–for a change – more interested in his personal and political leanings than in his celebrity, and who gave very little away. The role came to Will with enough ease to unsettle him, and it unsettled him more when he remembered that some of the men he sat beside were relatives, acquaintances.

Acquaintances who plot against the throne,he reminded himself. And then he sighed, and thought of Edmund or Annie hanged for no more sin than clinging to the Catholic faith, and wondered if he had chosen the right side after all.

It’s not the side that’s right,he reminded himself. It’s the side you’re on.

And thank you, Kit, for that piece of intelligencer’s wisdom.Will felt queasy with more wine than he was accustomed to drink. He looked up at Ben, who was regarding him with a knowing sort of pity, and Ben nodded and stood.

“Gentlemen, thank you,” Ben said. “I fear Master Shakespeare is a bit poorly, and perhaps I should escort him home.”

“No, Ben,” Will said, although he accepted help to stand. “I’ll manage. You stay for the evening. I’m just tired and in pain.”

“Art certain?” As Ben led him toward the door. “The streets are not as safe as they were.”

Aye, which is saying something, as they were never in particular safe. The King’s Peace doesn’t hold much sway in London any longer.“I’m certain,” Will said.

Fifteen minutes later, when unseen ruffians dropped a bag over his head and hustled him into a carriage, he had wit enough left to find a measure of irony in those words.

He kicked rather helplessly, but whoever held him –a big man smelling of mutton and damp leather –had every advantage, and Will found himself shoved unceremoniously to his knees, his fingers numbed from a thin cord wrapping his wrists. Helpless as a jessed and hooded hawk, damn them all.

The carriage lurched and rattled on for a little while, and he was just as casually carried out of it and up a flight of stairs, and deposited on a mattress. Still blindfolded, Will heard another scuffle, but was able to do little about it with his wrists bound behind his waist and his vision baffled. He knew Kit’s voice when he heard it, however, and shouted, trying to shove himself to his feet and measuring his length instead on the rush‑covered stones.

The fall knocked the wind from him, a spasming pain that wouldn’t let him fill his lungs. He wheezed, worming forward on scraped knees and bruised chest, and then grunted once as someone dropped a knee between his shoulders and pinned him hard. “None of that, old man.”

The scuffle ended abruptly enough that he knew it was not Kit who’d won it. Oh, bloody hell,he thought. Damn‑fool Kit, when wilt learn to bring friends on these missions of mercy?Will did not hear Kit’s voice again, but he heard a man grunting with effort as if he lifted something unwieldy, and then the slamming of a heavy, strap‑hinged door. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it to Hell–

Act V, scene vii

This dungeon where they keep me is the sink

Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.

–Christopher Marlowe, Edward II,Act V, scene v

Kit woke in absolute blackness, with a ringing head, and tried to remember how he had gotten there and why he was lying on a dank, lumpy surface with the taste of earth on his lips. He summoned a witchlight first, wondering that the darkness was so complete that even he could not see through it, and when the hoped‑for blue glow failed to materialize around his fingers he swore softly and rolled onto his back.

He lay on earth, he decided, burrowing his fingers into it. Packed earth, and foul; it reeked of sweat and filth and the long tenancy of terrified men. He cast his right hand out, and his left, and found stone blocks on either side. The walls of his cell, if it was a cell. He snapped his fingers again, to spark light, and nothing answered his murmured incantation except a strange clatter and a heaviness, a constriction on his fingers. His head throbbed as if John Marley were on the inside, banging Kit’s skull with his tacking hammer, and Kit hunched forward between his knees and tried to take some inventory of the situation.

Feet, bare. His head swollen as a broken fist, and oozing blood from a welt on the left side. His cloak was missing, and his sword – he chuckled under his breath in recognition of what was gone. No external sound reached him–