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 towa
rds 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 naíve 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.”
Gloriana Page 17