It’s in a dozen Strands that Tristan Lyons has tried to sway Sir Edward Greylock to put his money into the East India Company, and in each one Sir Edward seems on the verge of doing so, and yet Tristan returns from the future with word of no success. He has now amended his strategy, so that he appears to Sir Edward twice in a week, that they may have an unfolding conversation and he may twice impress upon him, without seeming to do so, the wisdom of entrusting his fortune to the East India Company.
The German with the sharp yellow beard is present in all of these conversations, though according to Tristan he hears much and says little. At least we know his name now: Athanasius Fugger. Himself pronounces it “Fucker,” in the German style, but it’s “Fugger” they spell it when abroad in England. He is some manner of third cousin thrice removed to Sir Edward’s German mother. Like all of his clan, he is a banker, and ’twould seem he has Sir Edward’s ear. Tristan complains that this Athanasius has “a poker face that would make him a million in Vegas,” which means naught to you and me, but to him what it signifies is that it is impossible to make out what the fella is thinking—whether he favors the plan of investing in the Boston Council or the East India.
Nor is it much Tristan can glean from Sir Edward himself. For each time, doesn’t Sir Edward claim he is “seriously considering moving his investments”? And yet each time, when Tristan goes off to spy upon that factory, isn’t the factory still there?
So I made Tristan an offer, and it’s sorely tempted he was to accept: if he would but tell me plainly everything, the whole of his schemes and their necessity—why magic declines, why he wants to save it, and with whom, and by what means—I would find others who might also prevail upon Sir Edward, and I would find other witches for him to talk to, should our witchiness somehow be helping his efforts in the future. Most tempting to him, of course, was when I offered to introduce him to the Court Witches, as they be the only witches with the standing to turn Sir Edward’s head.
Tristan is eager enough to be meeting the Court Witches, once I allowed that there were some. Especially it was the younger ones he wished to meet, for he has a most ambitious plan that is somewhat mad, and yet ’twould amuse me to see it come to pass: he wishes to create a broad constellation or “network” of witches who might overlap in time, if not in space, so that he and his brethren, having traveled to some particular time, might freely move about the globe with the assistance of these witches, in any era of their choosing. So if our young witches here can be brought into his fold, then when they be old, they will be alive at the same time as the witches in the New World who are helping him there already, and thus he and his brethren can be moving between the New World and the Old with ease, as Breda and myself move Your Grace’s agents between Ireland and London when the need arises.
A mystery it is to me, why anyone would want to do this in some era not of their own living. ’Twould be exhausting. The complications are legion and you would need an áireamhán so large that it would fill a room, and months it would take to work through all the twigs and stems to guard against the lomadh. Himself seems to understand this, and yet will not be dissuaded. He will not explain more to me, but it’s arrogant he is in believing I should give him everything he wants anyhow. “It’s for the sake of magic’s preservation,” has quick enough become his new rallying cry, and I believe him to a point but ’tisn’t enough to keep me his ally if he will not tell me more. Sure I’ve played enough people in my time that I do not like being played my own self.
Although sure it’s gorgeous shoulders he does have.
So I have told Tristan that until he confesses more of his strategy, he would not be meeting any Court Witches or even being introduced to others who might help change Sir Edward’s inclinations as to his inheritance. But I did agree to introduce him to one other witch, should something ill befall me before his work here is complete.
A wealthy merchant’s daughter she is, fixing to be married by her ambitious father on the Feast of St. Ethelburga to a country gentleman. Rose is her name. I met her when first I came over from Eire, years back. Her father loved the theatre and took her and her brothers to the comedies, where I met her and knew her for a witch. It’s often enough I cross paths with her, and have watched her grow to be a lovely lass. She makes it a habit to go to the plays of a Wednesday, and since Tristan has now taken to returning for a second visit, to “follow up” with Sir Edward, I suggested he come then, and I could introduce them.
So we met up with Rose just outside the Globe gates, because of all the entertainment to be had in London, she always has a yen to see that Stratford Gobshite’s latest. There were mobs of folks streaming in and the chatter was loud, so it was, and not a few of them stank as bad as the backstage fellas. Rose is a wee thing, plump and round-faced, with blue eyes and black hair, almost pretty enough to be Irish. I’d already explained to her all about Tristan.
Tristan was, of course, wearing one of Ned Alleyn’s costumes. Recognized it right off, Rose did, and feigned more interest in it than in our visitor. Tristan doffed his cap and bent his knee—far more honor than a lass of her rank demanded, but he’s a chivalrous type—and Rose instantly said to me, in a tone of delight, “That’s half of Dr. Faustus he’s got upon him, isn’t it?” (For wasn’t Faustus the play of Kit’s at which Rose and I first met.)
Tristan straightens up, frowning a bit, and Rose gives him a brief courtesy, hardly more than a dip of the head. “God ye good day,” says she to us both. And to Tristan, “You must be Gracie’s new friend.”
“She’s been very kind to me,” said Tristan.
“I’ll wager she has,” chuckled Rose, more to me than him. I shook my head no; she shrugged (she doesn’t take to the lads much, does our Rose). Tristan either truly did not understand, or chose to counterfeit ignorance.
“I am on a mission that requires the aid of many of you,” he continued. “I hope that you will support my cause as generously as Gráinne—as Grace has.”
“We could have met inside the gates,” Rose said to me, as if Tristan was not even there.
“If we’d gone inside, we’d have had to pay a penny each, just to watch Dick Burbage recite lines Will Shakespeare probably nicked from Raff Holinshed,” I retorted. “Including his usual insults ’gainst the Irish.”
Rose smirked and said to Tristan (as if she’d never been ignoring him), “Has Gracie been bending your ear with her rant about how Will Shakespeare hates the Irish? She’ll go on all day if we let her. So then. What is it exactly that you’re asking of us? You may safely call me a witch here, nobody’s listening and anyhow they wouldn’t care, not here.”
“My brethren and I are seeking witches who would be willing to align themselves with us, so that if we come here on certain quests, we might be Sent to other places or times, and most especially, that we might be returned to where we came from.”
“Gracie says you’re doing this on account of centuries from now, magic is lost from the world and you are trying to restore it.”
“Aye.”
“How does it come to be lost?”