Gloriana

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

March winds lifted the thick ivy about Lord Montfallcon’s high windows; it billowed like the heavy skirts of peasant matrons, reminding Captain Quire of a sensation he could not identify; something from his childhood when, occasionally, the elements would inspire him, bringing him a luscious tranquillity he had never since known. With his hand upon his hilt and his sombrero under his arm he watched the clever old lord read from the printed pamphlet Quire himself had just delivered into his hands.

“No other copies escaped the fire?” Montfallcon asked heavily.

“None. And the manuscript, too, I burned.” “These Stoics. I respect them, Quire. I follow their faith myself, to a large degree. But when belief’s turned to zealotry…Ah, the damage they can do. This makes out the Queen’s a harlot, though a blameless one. Bad blood, it says! The blood’s the best there is-’twas her sire soured it. Taking sensual pleasure while the enemy gathers, it says…. Gods! If they knew how hard she works for Albion. I’ve read all this more than once. The author?”

“On his way to begin a new life, my lord, where he’ll find plenty of discomfort to please him. In Africa. In irons, to the Shaleef of Bantustan.”

Lord Montfallcon gave vent to a small chuckle. “You sold him, Quire? As a slave?”

“As a scribe. He’ll be well-treated, by Bantustan standards. He claimed, in one paragraph, that he was no better than a slave. It seemed fitting to give him a taste of the reality.”

“The printer of this?” He waved it as he walked towards the fire.

“An ignorant man. Fear was all I needed to use. He’s back to making snatchsheets and placards.”

“You’re certain?”

“He claimed he read poorly, that he had not understood the import of the pamphlet. So I offered to insure him against further error by making certain he would be able to read nothing at all.”

“Ah, Quire,” said Lord Montfallcon with sudden gravity, “I wonder if you’ll ever come to frighten me.”

“It’s not my business, my lord.”

Montfallcon was in a restless mood. He studied Quire. He failed to find an answer to the question his eyes asked. “I wish I knew your purpose, Quire. You do not work for gold, I know, though you’re paid well. How’s so much spent, and you with the same suit of clothes, the same patched cloak? You’re not a drunkard or much of a gambler.” He frowned against the glare of the fire. “You do not pay for women. Do you save it, Quire?” The pamphlet was placed upon the fire and stirred with a long rod.

“I spend it freely, sir, on good deeds as often as not.” Quire was puzzled, even discomforted, by this lack of understanding. “A widow here, a cripple there.”

“You, Quire!” A grunt. “Charitable?”

“I am a sympathetic friend-but only to the weak. I will not tolerate the mad or the strong-those I’ll fight or avoid. My good deeds, Lord Montfallcon, are like all my deeds, self-interested. Your work and mine is greatly aided by my reputation for generosity. We employ a great army of loyal innocents, of faithful feeble-minded men and women, of dull, good-hearted, honest folk-for they are the people never reckoned with by one’s enemies. They are always ignored, always condescended to. Therefore they are the most grateful for my good deeds and will bring me all kinds of information, not from greed but from simple loyalty. I am their hero. They worship Captain Quire. They’ll forgive him any crime (’He has his reasons’) and protect him, as best they can, from any consequences. They are the backbone of every scheme.”

“I am almost flattered, Quire, by these confidences. Do you not fear to reveal the secrets of your trade to me?”

“Trade?” Surprised, Quire hesitated at the word, then shook his head to answer: “No, sir, for there are few men of my kidney in the world. Most thieves are fools, most murderers romantics, most spies self-important. I am proud to expound the theories of this profession, as any artist enjoys explaining his method, because he knows that only a rare few can follow him-and he’s happy to encourage those few.”

“What? You see me as a pupil?”

“Of course not, my lord. A peer.”

Lord Montfallcon wagged a finger. “Hubris, Quire! I suspect that the abduction of kings gives your imagination a richer diet than you can afford. You’ve tasted strong wine and now you’d have no other kind. You’ll fall-you become too cocky.”

Quire was sullen. “It pleases me to be so. If I enjoy the emotion, I’ll take it while I may, and not stifle it. I’ve little belief in any definite future.”

“You expect to die?”

He was further surprised. “No, my lord. It is just that there are so many possible futures. I plan, to some degree, for all of them. And, in another way, I plan for none of them.”

“You are not easy-going, Quire. Do not pretend that to me.”

“My life is as disciplined as"-Quire pointed into the fire where the pamphlet had turned black and was disintegrating-"as was his-as his will be, indeed. But I play my emotions with the skill and care of a musician, as I play the emotions of those I’m inclined to use.”

“But you must have an ambition.”

“I’ve told you, my lord. To amplify and define my senses.”

Lord Montfallcon became disturbed. “You use a scholar’s words to justify base deeds, that’s all.” He seemed about to dismiss Quire. He returned to his desk, frowning more darkly than ever.

“My lord?” Quire took his sombrero in his hand, made a step towards the door, then turned. “You recognise me as an artist, surely? I spoke candidly. The best I can do. Such words should not affect you, my lord. They are objective.”

Lord Montfallcon pouted his lips. “You relish your work!” It was an accusation and unexpected.

Quire’s dark eyes were half-amused. “Aye.”

“Zeus! I wish it were not necessary…. But it is necessary, and we must do it.” He gave out a bitter noise. “That I should play Socrates to some modern-day Callicles!”

Quire combed his left hand through his thick locks, studying his patron. His cold voice sang out. “You are suffering, my lord?”

Montfallcon fumbled with a drawer. “I must pay you.”

“You’re ill, my lord?”

“Damn you, Quire, you know it’s not a physical condition. Sometimes I wonder what I do and why I should bother to employ such as you.”

“Because I am the best. At this work of ours, sir. But I’ll not justify my role. I merely explained myself. Justification is for you to do.”

“Eh?” Montfallcon brought out the box of gold. His hands shook.

“One acquires a necessary relish for the pain and humiliation of one’s fellow creatures, my lord. It is in the nature of the work. Yet, as a soldier (when the battle’s won) will wax sentimental over the shame and the waste and the pity of it, so could I weep, and cry ’Horror! But it must be thus!’-and console myself (and you, my lord, for that is what you seem to expect of me today). I refuse such sophistry. Instead I cry ’Horror! But how sweet it is!’ Should I be the victim, I think I should still learn to relish my own misery, for that, also, is a means of amplifying and defining the senses. But I seek the freedom of power. It gives me a wider field. So do I grasp at privilege-which your patronage affords me-the privilege of power. I would rather relish another’s pain than my own.”

“Pain’s for bearing, that’s all. You are a creature, Quire, perverse and stunted in your soul.” He put coins in a bag, counting them carefully.

“No, sir, my soul’s as noble as thine own, sir. I merely interpret its demands in a manner different from yours, sir.” Quire was offended not so much by Lord Montfallcon’s insults as by his misreading of the truth.

Lord Montfallcon’s hand shook as he held out the bag. “Admit it-you work for money!”

“I am not a liar, sir, as you know. Why do you wish me to reassure you in this way? We have worked together harmoniously up to now.”

“I am sick of secrets!”

“You do not employ me, my lord, to console you.”

“Go! Your vulgar ironies ring dull to me!”

A ragged bow from Captain Quire, but he would not leave. There was an unstated demand. He stood his ground. It seemed that he was furious. “For that, my lord, I’ll readily apologise. I lack the practise. I can’t aspire to sing as bright and clear as you lords of the court, for my calling demands blunter tones.”

“You bait me, Quire! I’m no bear for your amusement. Go!”

Captain Quire took the money and tucked it in his belt, holding his stance. “I’m used to speaking to those who are near deaf with terror, or half dead with pain. Thus it is, also, with those who teach the young, or tend the mad and sick, sir. Their vocabularies wither, their style simplifies, their art becomes the art of the country mummer, their humour the bumpkin humour of the Fair.”

“And your apologies bore me, Master Quire. You are dismissed.” Montfallcon seated himself.

Quire took a step forward. “I offer you plain truth and you reject it. You questioned me, my lord, and I replied. I thought we both spoke truth. I thought there was no ambiguity between us. Must I lie to maintain your patronage?”

“Perhaps.” Lord Montfallcon locked his drawer. He drew a breath and said: “Do you say I am an imperfect employer?”

“Perfect up to now, sir. Do we not possess an understanding, as between men of equal sensibility?”

“Indeed! We do have an understanding! I pay You kill, kidnap and conspire.”

“An understanding of the skill, my lord, involved.”

“You’re clever, aye.” Montfallcon became baffled. “What more must I say to make you leave? Is there a charm? Do you seek public honours? Would you have me make you a Prince of the Realm?”

“No, my lord. I was speaking of the art of it, that is all. My belief that you appreciated that art for its own sake.”

“If you like.” Montfallcon waved him away.

Quire was shocked. “What?”

“Go, Quire. I’ll send for you.”

“You offend me deeply, my lord.”

Montfallcon’s voice rose, shaking. “I protect you, Quire. Remember that. Your wicked life is permitted to continue unchecked-your seductions, your blackmailings, your killings on your own account….” Montfallcon placed thin fingers upon his grey brow. “I’ll not respond to your ambiguous demands! This is no time…I have important matters to consider…matters more important, Quire, than the balming of a villain’s pride. Go, go, go, Captain Quire!”

The flop of tawdry black, and Quire was vanished.

As Captain Quire left the shadows of the palace and entered the ornamental garden, now a tangle of budding brambles and unchecked creepers, he paused to look back at the high wall behind him, to frown, to shake his head. His pride was, indeed, most mightily injured. He began to investigate the sensation as he walked on, through the gates and down the hill to the line of trees where Tinkler leaned whistling against the fence, staring at the ragged, racing sky.

“Tink.” Quire climbed the fence and stood with his back to Tinkler, looking along the road towards London’s smoke.

“What’s afoot, Captain?” Tinkler was sensitive to his master’s moods as only one who fears for his life can be. He paced forward in his stiff, cracked coat, thumbs in his doublet belt.

“I’m shocked.” Captain Quire was murmuring, rolling a stone with the pointed toe of his jack-boot. “I thought I was respected. Aye, that’s what’s attacked, my self-respect. I am not understood as an artist. Hasn’t anyone an idea of the skill, the genius involved in my work? Have I not proved it constantly? How else could I prove it? Who else could do what I do?”

“I admire you, Captain. Greatly.” Tinkler was placatory without being truly sympathetic, for he had not the sense to interpret stance or gesture. “We all do-at the Seahorse, the Gryffyn and elsewhere.”

“I meant my peers. I thought Montfallcon sensible to a fellow artist, a realist. I’m stunned, Tink. He’s nought but a pump room cynic!”

Tinkler thought he guessed the cause of this. “He didn’t pay, is that it, Captain? He always-” He was forestalled as Quire pushed the purse into his hand. “Ah, thanks.”

“All this while I believed he understood the nature of my game. He doesn’t appreciate the finesse, the comedy, the irony of it, but most of all he doesn’t understand the structure, the vision, the talent, the hard, unblinking eye that looks upon reality and transmutes it into drama. Oh, Tink!”

Unused to this display of emotional confidence, this revelation of his master’s inner life, Tinkler was at once fascinated and at a loss for words. “Well,” he said, falling in beside Quire as he set off, flustered and flapping, down the track. “Well, Captain…”

“Every artist requires a patron.” Quire looked about him at the black poplars waving in the wind. He yanked at his wandering cloak, he pulled his hat more firmly upon his head. The crow’s feathers fluttered like little drumming fingers against his crown. “And unless he has an appreciative patron he can soon wither, turning his talent to mercenary gain, to please the majority. I have never pleased the majority, Tink.”

“Indeed you haven’t, Captain.”

“My wealth has gone, every copper, on materials. Invested for the art’s sake.”

“You were always generous, Captain.”

“That is what he failed to understand-that and my pride. I took his insults, his apparent contempt, for I understood it to be the part he chose to play.”

“We must all play parts sometimes, Captain.”

“And all the while he displayed his true character, his true opinion of me! Oh, the old fool!” Quire stopped in the middle of the track.

London was in sight-red, grey and white below. On the city’s walls swayed the ramshackle shanties and tents of those who lived and worked there; beyond were roofs of green or silver slate, roofs of thatch, of copper and, in one or two places, of gold leaf. Spires, delicate and thin; heavy domes; battlemented towers; tall temples of knowledge-colleges, libraries in the latest Graecian mould, or in older pointed, gothic shapes, of brick, granite and marble; theatres made of wood and brightly painted, pasted over with a thousand posters; street upon street of dwelling houses, inns, taverns, ordinaries, drapery shops, butchers’ shops; the shops of fishmongers, greengrocers, signpainters, goldsmiths, jewellers, scriveners, makers of musical instruments, clothiers, saddlers, tobacco merchants, vintners, glaziers, barbers, apothecaries, carriage builders, blacksmiths, metalworkers, printers, toy-makers, bootmakers, tinsmiths, chandlers; the high corn exchanges, the shambles, the merchants’ meeting halls, the exhibiting galleries where painters and sculptors displayed their creations….

Quire was reluctant to continue. He stopped and sat down suddenly on a large, smooth rock. “And where may I show the world my works?”

“A drink?” suggested Tinkler. “At the Seahorse?”

Quire could see a squadron of cavalry, with banners and gilded cuirasses and helmets, plumes and embroidered cloaks, trotting down the broad Clerkenwell Road between the fine buildings of the great guilds. He looked towards the river, far across on the other side of the city, to Bran’s Tower, a building of immense age, and beyond it at the barges, the wherries, and the galleons under sail upon the river. “I could have been a general or a famed navigator, employing my gifts to my own great public credit, a favourite of the people, and honoured by the Queen. With my talent I could have become the mightiest merchant in Albion, enriching myself and my nation, made Lord Mayor at least. But I shunned such unworthy pursuits. I lived only for my art and its improvement….”

Tinkler became nervous. “Captain?”

“You go on down, Tink, and spend that gold. It could be the last you’ll see.”

“You are dismissed?” Tinkler was horrified.

“No.”

“You have quit our friend’s employ?” Tinkler’s gag tooth twitched on his lip.

“I have not said so.”

Tinkler, in relief, clapped his wincing master on the back. Since Quire’s tone had changed, he instantly forgot his distress. “Then let’s both to the Seahorse, Captain. This gloomy, windy weather spreads melancholy everywhere.”

Quire lifted himself from the rock, his lantern jaw upon his chest, his face hidden by the unsteady brim of his sombrero. He was unusually and terrifying malleable. “Aye.”

Tinkler was again disturbed. “A wench or two is what we need, Captain. To warm us up. To suck the poor humours from us.”

“A wench?” The eyes moved in the wicked head, questioning Tinkler as if Quire no longer understood the term.

Tinkler trembled. “Every doxy at the Seahorse would be yours, if you desired. And every dell. It’s love you need, master.”

Quire turned bleak eyes away from his lieutenant and straightened a sturdy back. “I love my art.”

“You’re the best.” Tinkler’s voice thickened as his mouth dried. “Ask anyone.”

They continued towards the wall, now not half a mile from them at the foot of the steep path.

“It’s true,” agreed his master.

“And you’re strong, Captain. You love your work-your art, that is to say-and nothing else. But let them love you. Take your rewards.”

Quire smiled at the ground. “I thought Montfallcon understood. I’ve no expectation where the rest are concerned. You and the others, Tink, will never be more than apprentices, to put a little colour to the outlines, paint in a background or two. Good, solid craftsmen, and none the worse for that. It’s men like O’Bryan I despise-jacks of his order, who pretend to be great, who have ambitions towards greatness, and have no true talent, merely an instinct towards murder and treachery. I had to cultivate those instincts, discipline ’em, hone ’em, tune ’em…Ah, and then to find I am considered to be no better than O’Bryan, that insensate, greedy, grandiose, bragging butcher. The kind I most despise.”

“Well, you handled him as he deserved.” Tink’s cheer wore thinner still.

“And they think I cannot love, Tink. You think so.”

“No, no, Captain. I meant only that you were dedicated, that you do not waste yourself…don’t indulge in the softer sort of sentiments….” Tinkler drew his snag tooth into his mouth as if he wished he could follow it.

“But I have loved much and loved many, for I have defeated many. And I am a conventional conqueror. I fall in love with all I vanquish. Who could not? Some can feel affection only for children, if children seem not to threaten them. I feel affection for those who have threatened but are threats no longer. Is not my love the most rational, Tink?”

“Unquestionably, sir.” Tinkler curbed an impulse to increase his pace and move ahead of his master. “And many love you, Captain, as I said.”

Quire showed distaste. “I hope not. I do not wish that. I do not demand it.”

“I meant,” panted the bewildered lackey, “that you’re admired, Captain, and so forth.”

“Admired? By the mob? That’s easily won, such admiration. A few dramatic actions, a cheap jest or two, a daring gesture-aye, and the rabble will continue to cheer you all the way to Tilbury and the hulks. I despise those who pander to the crowd for its own sake. My art must be appreciated by other artists, people who are great in their own spheres, as Lord Montfallcon is great. All those years he spent beside Hern’s throne, calculating, plotting, scheming for Gloriana’s succession. He was my hero, Tink, when I was younger. I recognised him for what he was. I still admire him. He has surely sensed my subtle appreciation of his achievements. But mine, in their own way have been as great.”

“Greater, Captain, considering all.”

“I accepted his patronage in order to extend my experience, improve my skills-amplification, definition…He was my only master. And he despises me.”

“Despise him, Captain. He’s the loser.”

Quire brightened. “So he is. You’re right, Tinkler.” With some effort he lengthened his stride. They were almost at the walls. “You go to the Seahorse and I’ll join you there. I’ll to my respectable quarters and see how Mistress Philomena, the scholar’s wife, fares without her loving mate.” He cocked his hat and creased it. “I’ll see you at the Seahorse, Tink.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Master Tinkler ran ahead through the gate, waving once. “You’ll soon be your old self, again, Captain!”

Quire’s spirits were improving by the second. “Aye. Despise him. I’ve learned all I can. I’m better than our friend, Montfallcon. I’ll leave him behind me!”

It was in this unreal and jaunty mood that he entered through the gate and was immediately attacked by half a score of rogues, with nets and blankets, ropes and knives.

“Here he is!”

Quire’s quick hand went to his sword-hilt, but a noose had already settled over his shoulders. He wriggled. The noose tightened.

The six rufflers, half-masked by cloaks and hoods, were on him.

“Fools! I’m Quire. I’ve friends. All the jacks in town!”

They ignored him and had him trussed and aboard a stinking cart before he could think. He began to doubt his entire comprehension of himself and his world. He was blindfolded and his body was numb with the pressure of the ropes. He had received his second amazement of the day. If he had not been gagged and hooded, he would have sworn aloud.

Arioch! I’m captured. This is injustice to excess! In one day! I allowed myself to lose confidence and thus lost hope-and now I lose my life. Unless I can speak myself free. But what is it? What enemies would dare…?

And then it occurred to Captain Quire that his interview with Montfallcon and the turn it had taken had something in common with this abduction.

He’s delivered me up. He’s betrayed me. He hopes to murder me before I can reveal his secrets. He must not believe the truth. Well, he shall know if I die. Every deed will be published in Captain Quire’s Confession. Gods, it will bring Albion down! Oh, my friend Montfallcon, if I survive, you’ll know still greater vengeance. Then you’ll acknowledge the truth-that pupil has become master. I’ll force you to appreciate that fact, if no other….

His little finger sought his hidden dagger but could not reach. He bit carefully at the gag, to chew it loose. He tested the ropes and the nets that held him. He listened hard to the voices of his captors, but there were only three now-two on the seat in front and one in the waggon beside him-and they were all three taciturn.

Because he was not dead (it would have been as easy for them to murder him there and then cart his body to the river) he guessed that a delayed death was to be part of his fate. Perhaps Montfallcon hoped to torture the hiding place of his Confession from him before he died. He determined to enjoy the agony as best he could-and to enjoy their frustration when he died. It meant, too, that he had a chance to live, to escape, for these fellows were not quick-witted. Mere Kent Street cutpurses of the lowest caste, they might be bribed, threatened or deceived, once his mouth was free. He wondered which lieutenant Montfallcon had commissioned to question him. There were none he had trusted to this sort of work for a long while, save Quire himself. Quire further determined that Montfallcon must personally supervise his torture and death, and this gave him so much satisfaction that he settled in the cart as comfortably as possible and, to the consternation of his captors, began to hum a tune through his gag.

At length the cart stopped; he was dragged from it and humped up a number of groaning wooden steps until a room was reached. It smelled very strongly of coffee and he guessed that he was therefore in one of the many Flax Hill coffee-merchants’ warehouses. Two of his captors departed, leaving one to guard him. Quire began to wriggle across the boards to see what happened. He received a kick in the back. He subsided. The door was opened again and he heard a soldier tread, the chink of spurs, as of a man in authority. The hood and then the blindfold were removed and Quire grinned around his gag, believing he would see Montfallcon, then grinned wider (and more painfully) when he recognised, instead, the Caliph’s envoy, Lord Shahryar of Baghdad, who smiled benignly back at him through a dark, carefully groomed beard and fingered the large curved dagger which hung by golden cords at his gown’s belt. He looked towards the ruffian who stood unseen behind Quire’s prone body. “This is Quire?”

“It’s Quire, sir.”

Coins changed hands and the ruffian was through the door and down the steps as if he feared to witness what followed.

The Arabian drew the dagger from its sheath and, with a menacing movement Quire found rather too obvious, set it against Quire’s throat before swiftly cutting the gag loose and allowing Quire’s grin to come to magnificent bloom. “I’m exchanged, am I?” He was abnormally incautious. “For some favour you’ve granted Montfallcon?”

Lord Shahryar was mildly surprised.

“I mean,” continued Quire, “that he’s delivered me up to you. If so, he grows senile, as I half suspect, for I could tell you many secrets, as you doubtless know.”

Lord Shahryar sheathed the dagger and straightened up, folding his gown fastidiously around him, touching his burnouse lightly with a finger almost solidly covered by gold.

“I’m not your man,” Quire said, deciding that he had admitted too much. “Why have you had this done to me?”

Lord Shahryar rubbed at the point where his jaw met his skull, just behind his left ear.

“You are evidently,” Quire continued with clever indignation, “a gentleman. You are not a vagabond out for ransom. Why am I captured, sir?”

“For several reasons, Captain Quire. You think Montfallcon betrayed you? Well, perhaps he did. And you know who I am-that I am the uncle of Lord Ibram, whom you lured into thinking he was fighting a duel, then slew in a most cowardly fashion.”

“You suspect me of murder! My lord!” Quire steadied his eyes. “Then I beg you, sir, place me in the hands of Sir Christopher Martin’s constables, that I may be given an honourable trial. I am a scholar, sir. I was on my way to the inn where I stay, when in London. Where my wife is, sir. Send a messenger. They’ll vouch I speak truth. The name is Partridge.”

Lord Shahryar smiled again. “Are you afraid, Captain Quire? Do you understand that you shall die, painfully and linger ingly-”

“You’ve the common touch in your wit, sir. I’m the victim of ajape, eh?”

Lord Shahryar displayed some impatience. “I thought you were, at least, a professional rogue and that you would not try to deceive me in such a naive fashion as this, Captain Quire. I know you killed my nephew.”

“Lord Montfallcon hates me. He is jealous of me. He told you, eh?”

“You seem eager to believe Montfallcon your betrayer. Why?”

Quire blinked, then shut his thin mouth tight.

“Montfallcon will not protect you,” continued Lord Shahryar thoughtfully, “if that is what you mean. And he will not much regret my killing of you, Captain Quire. Now what motive has Montfallcon in betraying you, d’you think?” The Saracen was shrewd, but Quire saw no harm in answering the truth:

“Because he sees me as a threat, perhaps.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m the better artist.”

“Spying, murder and betrayal as art.” Lord Shahryar found this idea attractive. “I suppose it is-as much as war is regarded as an art. I understand you, Captain Quire. You appear to be without rival in your chosen vocation.”

He had made, because of recent circumstances, something of a friend. Quire determined to die as quickly as possible, without torture, and tell the Moor every secret he had. He could be generous-as any artist is when praise comes from an unexpected quarter.

“You have a reputation, Captain Quire, for honesty in your own field.”

“I have. You’ll not find me lying, save for specific reasons.”

“Your word is said to be your bond.”

“I give it rarely and never without full consideration of what’s involved. I believe in the truth, you see.” Quire shifted across the floor and inched up so that he could lean against the crumbling plaster of the wall. “An artist’s life is full, by necessity, of ambiguity. It does not do to let ambiguity exist where it need not. Therefore truth and plain-speaking must be cultivated.”

“You’re a strange creature, Master Murderer. I believe you. Are you mad?”

“Most artists are thought so, sir, by those who do not understand them.”

“You’re a dreamer, then?”

“Perhaps. It depends how you use the word. I’d be free of these ropes, sir, if you please. Would you be kind enough to cut them off? The strands of the net in particular are prone to bite quite deep.”

“You’ll give me your word you won’t make an attempt to escape?”

“No, sir. But your rogues must still be below. I’ll promise to offer no harm to your person, which is, in reality, a better oath.”

“I think it is.” His eyes narrowing, the Saracen sliced at the bonds with short, cautious movements.

Quire took a deep breath and remained seated, rubbing at arms and legs. “I thank you, sir. Well, Lord Shahryar, I might or might not have been delivered up by Lord Montfallcon, but I know you’ve no immediate plans to kill me, so therefore you intend to bargain with me, eh?”

“I should kill you. To avenge my nephew.”

“Who was robbing you, as you were aware.”

“Blood is blood. How do you know I shan’t kill you yet?”

“There are rituals attendant to these things, sometimes unconscious, as there are to all things-preliminaries, the working of oneself into a particular humour, the tone of the voice. I’ve heard many a death-song in my time, my lord, and sung many. I think I know all the tunes men sing before they kill. Similarly there are songs-words, phrases, rhythms, melodies, even-sung by those who would be killed. Have you ever detected such a song, my lord?”

“I do not hear you singing one, Captain Quire.”

“I would not, my lord.” Quire stood up and walked towards a bench, half-covered with old coffee beans. He swept the beans away. They rattled on the bare boards and echoed in that empty room. Quire watched them bounce. He stooped, seeing his hat nearby. He picked it up and dusted at it. “I relish life.”

“And death?”

“Not mine.” Now that he knew he was safe, for a while at least, Quire had regained all the pride his encounter with Montfallcon had temporarily taken from him.

“How many have you killed, Captain, in Montfallcon’s service?”

Quire became vague. “You ask me a political, not a personal question.”

“How many have you killed? How many lives have you taken, in your career?”

“An hundred, at least. Probably more. That is, myself. Score have died in fights and such. But I remember only a few.”

“My nephew’s?”

Quire cupped his hand to his hidden ear. “Aha. I think I detect you tuning for that song I mentioned.”

Lord Shahryar shook his head. “I’ll assume you recall his death, since it was so recent.”

“I remember only my best work, not the run-of-the-mill stuff There was a little girl-part of a family-whom I skewered whilst coaxing information from her dam. But it sounds nothing retold thus, and I haven’t the poetry to make it live for you.”

“By what morality do you justify these killings?” Lord Shahryar asked an honest question, though his tone was neutral. “I should like to know.”

“Morality? None. Morality plays no part in it. That would be offensive, my lord. I have killed for every possible reason-pleasure and gold and subtle sensation; curiosity, revenge, to preserve my skin, and so on-save one: I’ve never killed for a moral reason.”

“Montfallcon must pay you very well. Where does your gold go?”

Quire laughed reminiscently. “I’ve been asked the same question twice. It is a day for inquisitions. My poverty’s not spartan. If I possess nothing, I can lose nothing. I rent and I borrow my necessities of the moment. I disperse my money generously but rather whimsically-I cover possible retreats-paving a silver road back to safety, if you understand me. The money’s turned into the best possible asset I could have-power. And therefore I lend my money not so that I may be paid back, but so that I have someone in my debt.”

“I can see that.” Lord Shahryar was amused. “I wondered what weaknesses you had, Captain Quire, and now I know one of them. You tend to long-windedness, eh?”

Quire opened his mouth to reply, but Lord Shahryar returned to the original subject. “Your sword is good, I hear.”

“The best steel in all the world. Blood-forged steel from Iberia. My sword and my daggers are my only valuables. They are my tools-those and my quick brain.”

“So you have no other weaknesses, Captain Quire.” Lord Shahryar was frowning as he turned away, his finger still to his jaw.

“I am, as you say, prone to discourse on the nature and practice of my art. I am rather proud,” Quire added, by way of helping the Moor. “I am inclined to finish work even though it is evidently spoiled when half-completed. I require resolutions. I resent criticism, when sometimes I deserve it. Oh, I am sure I have more weaknesses.”

“But none of the conventional sort. Women?”

“I am satisfied in my sexual needs.”

“Position?”

Quire laughed.

Lord Shahryar gave up this line of argument. “What would you do to save your life?”

“Most things, sir, I think.”

“Relinquish honour?”

“Your interpretation of honour might not be the same as mine, my lord. I am true to myself, true to my art.”

Lord Shahryar began to brighten, as if inspired. “I do begin to understand. Montfallcon employs you for your special gifts, I see. You are not an ordinary assassin.”

Quire shifted his position on the table. “Lord Montfallcon employs me no longer.”

“What? I understand your initial words at last. He has put you out!”

“No, my lord. I have given up his patronage.”

Lord Shahryar nodded. “And that is why you thought he’d betrayed you to me.”

“Now I know he did not directly betray me-perhaps only carelessly. I expected greater loyalty.”

“From him?” The Moor flapped an airy hand. “Not Montfallcon. He respects no one. He has long since rejected humanity in favour of idealism.”

“I learned as much today.”

“So you require a fresh patron, eh?”

“I did not say so, sir. But I tell you this: if you agree to spare my life and let me go away from here unharmed, then I will perform any service you require, save regicide.”

“Any service, Quire?”

“One, sir. No more. A favour for my life. It’s fair.”

“You owe me at least that already. In return for my nephew’s life.”

“I did not say I slew him.”

“But you did slay him. I spent a good deal of money investigating the crime, once given the initial clue.”

“King’s in Newgate for it-or already transported.”

“And you and your valet are free.”

Quire shrugged. “Let’s say I agree to that bargain. A favour for his life, a favour for my own. You already make a profit of one hundred percent. Which two favours can I accomplish, Lord Shahryar?”

“None. I have agreed to nothing you propose. Yet I might be prepared to write off all debits and credits up to this moment. And offer you, instead, my patronage.” Lord Shahryar was laughing delightedly as he turned with arms outstretched, almost as if he displayed his breast to Quire’s knife. “A patron to honour you, Captain Quire! To offer you the greatest possible opportunities for the practice and enlargements of your Art. Montfallcon would not honour you. I shall.”

“But what’s the commission, Lord Shahryar?”

The Moor became ecstatic. Tears of joy were in his eyes as he looked upon his potential protege. “Albion,” he said.

Captain Quire set his hat back on his head and scratched his scalp. His luck and his mood had changed drastically in the last few hours. It was as if he had prayed for this opportunity and it had been delivered to him. He understood, in broad terms, what the Moor asked, but the commission very nearly daunted him.

“Gloriana?”

“She would be happier if wed to our Grand Caliph. The burden of State is too much for a woman.”

“Montfallcon?”

“Disgraced.” A shrug. “Whatever you wish.”

“Specifically, what shall I do?”

“It would be your business to corrupt the Court. The details, of course, would be in your hands-blackmail, charm, deception, murder, what you will-so long as you encouraged cynicism and despair, suspicion and vice, in Gloriana’s followers.” Lord Shahryar’s voice rose, a hymn, as he delivered a prospectus into which he, untrammelled by a Montfallcon’s conscience and doubts, could pour fire-and transmit that fire to Quire-offering him the one thing he desired: respectful sympathy for his greatness in his chosen trade. “We grant you this opportunity, Captain Quire, as well as your life. Also, our gold.”

Quire was excited and amused, wavering. “You win me by flattery, do you, my lord?”

Lord Shahryar said: “I have already praised your talents. The gold would be useful, even to you.” He had missed Quire’s meaning.

Quire stripped a black gauntlet from his hand and waved the conversation into a different course. “I asked for a specific commission.”

“If I tell you, you could tell Montfallcon.”

“Montfallcon’s no longer my master.”

“And I?”

“I still await the exact plot.”

“You swear silence?”

“I’ll say nothing to Montfallcon, if that’s what you mean.”

“The Grand Caliph desires to marry Gloriana so that Arabia and Albion are equal in all things. With this power, he would make war on Tatary and crush our traditional foe forever. But before he can do this, Gloriana’s own courtiers must see her as a weakling; her nobles must lose their faith in her omnipotence, as must the commons. The Court must be shown to be weak and corrupt. Montfallcon must be disgraced or made a fool in the eyes of the Queen-she listens only to him and the council. The Countess of Scaith must be removed from Court. All the Council, if possible, must be seduced in some way. Murders must occur which will be blamed upon the blameless. Contention, suspicion, countermeasures. You follow me?”

“Naturally, but I am not sure it could be done.”

“You could do it. No one else, Quire.”

Quire nodded. “It is true that if I refused you would be hard put to find one with my skills and my opportunities. There is Master Van Haag in the Low Countries, and one or two Florentines-a Venetian I can think of-but they do not know our Court as I know it. Well, the work would be hard and it would take a great deal of preparation.”

“We are fairly patient. Our Grand Caliph wishes it to seem that he comes to Albion as a saviour, accepted both by the Queen and by the people.” The Moor had Quire half-mesmerised. “Could you do it?”

“I think so.”

Lord Shahryar said: “What we Arabians offer Albion is security, purity, morality. We are traditionally praised for these virtues. You must create the climate in which the folk of Albion would cry out for our virtues. We should come to save you-Queen and Realm.”

“And I should have revenge,” said Quire to himself. “I should be vindicated.”

Lord Shahryar continued: “You would be rewarded, of course. Made great. Would Montfallcon elevate you?”

“No, my lord. I trusted him for that.”

“Do not, Captain Quire, suggest you dislike power.” Lord Shahryar linked an arm with that of his nephew’s murderer.

“I have plenty.”

“But no position.”

“And therefore no responsibility. If I were Baron Quire I should have to set an example. Why, I’d be scarcely more free than the Queen herself.”

“A principality? A nation? To indulge your tastes with even greater imagination?”

Quire shook his head. “Like Lord Montfallcon you misunderstand me, sir. And besides, I know you would try to kill me when my work was done. This offer of a nation is nonsense. You would not tolerate a small world of my creation. No, I’ll choose my reward when my task is done. I’ll do it, as you’ve guessed, for the art of it. If I decide to help you, you will have won me from Montfallcon for a single reason-you appreciate that I am an aesthete. You have flattered me and tried to stimulate me in other ways. Well, I am flattered. I am stimulated. But it is only the commission itself that attracts. If I brought Albion down, Queen and all, and if you succeeded in killing me for my pains, I’d die in the knowledge that I had produced my greatest, most lasting work.”

Lord Shahryar withdrew his arm from Quire’s and looked into the Captain’s glittering eyes. “Does Montfallcon fear you, Quire?”

Quire stretched himself and drew deeply of the coffee-flavoured air. “I think he will.”

He contemplated a rich and bloody future, yawning like a waking leopard who opens sleepy eyes to see that, in the night, he has suddenly become surrounded by a herd of plump gazelles. He smiled.