The Empire of Glass - Andy Lane [99]
"How do you know we're in the right place?" Vicki asked.
"Look," the Doctor commanded, pointing at the mirror. Galileo followed the direction of his finger, and saw a maze of hedges set amid a carefully landscaped garden. "The maze and the Tudor knot garden," he continued. "Did you really think that I would make such a foolish mistake as to take us to the wrong palace? Where is your faith, my child?"
"No, Doctor," Vicki said placatingly, "what I meant was, how do you know that this is where Shakespeare was heading?"
The Doctor gestured towards the mirror with Braxiatel's controlling box. The view shifted in the same manner that Galileo had observed when he moved a lens in a spyglass while still looking through it. So, he mused, this mirror was just a sophisticated spyglass, tricked up in finery to be sure, but a spyglass for all that.
The mirror now displayed a stretch of field with a haystack. The Doctor manipulated the image until they were looking straight down on the haystack from above. There was a glint of metal inside.
"The skiff that Mr Shakespeare stole," the Doctor said. "It contains a transponder. We merely followed its signal." He handed the controlling box back to Braxiatel. "Thank you, my boy," he murmured. Galileo strained to overhear. "A wise move, making this Island and all its systems telepathically controlled."
Braxiatel indicated the blue marble hall with a flick of his head. "I didn't want to leave temptation in the Jamarians' path," he said, equally quietly, "but I didn't realize quite how far away from the path they would stray." He hefted the box in his hand. "I should check on the Convention. It's been suspiciously quiet in there."
"Indeed," the Doctor said, nodding, "and Vicki and I will head for the Palace and intercept Mr Shakespeare. May we borrow a skiff?"
"Of course you may. As soon as you leave, I'll send the others away to stop the Jamarians from leaving. We can deal with them later: their plans are scotched anyway, but they're vicious creatures."
The Doctor took a few steps away, then turned back. "Keep a careful eye on those people on the beach," he said. "If the fuse for the bomb turns up, the Jamarians and Mr Shakespeare will be the least of your problems. The death of so many dignitaries from so many opposing races could ignite the galaxy."
"This is odd," Steven muttered, glancing across the skiff's controls,
"the automatic pilot is taking us away from Venice. Wherever this island is, it's not where it was, if you see what I mean." He glanced up at the viewscreen, but all it showed was a sky more blue than black at the altitude they were flying at, and a bright star that must have been Venus.
The skiff rocked slightly as it passed through some sort of atmospheric turbulence. The feeling was so familiar that Steven found himself having to choke back a sudden surge of recognition.
He let his hands move across the controls: not adjusting or pressing anything, but just happy to know that he could if he wanted to. It had been so long since he had flown a ship of any sort that he had almost forgotten how it felt. The years seemed to slough away from him, and he was eighteen again, piloting his fighter into combat with the Krayt. His fingers twitched as he fired imaginary missiles and avoided non-existent laser blasts.
A groan from behind him broke the spell of memory, and he was once again sitting at the controls of an automated skiff, heading God knew where. He turned to where Christopher Marlowe was laid out across a couch at the rear of the cabin. Marlowe's grey, ironic eyes were fixed on Steven's face.
"Not much longer now," Steven said. "Just... just hang on. The Doctor will be able to help."
Marlowe shook his head. "No, young Steven," he murmured. A great cough racked his body, and sent fresh blood spilling down his chin. "And now doth ghastly death, with greedy talons, grip my bleeding heart. My soul begins to take her flight to Hell, and summons all my senses to depart."
"Can't you just shut up and rest?" Steven yelled. Marlowe