A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

by Mills, Magnus

  Smew turned away from the window, and then stood stock still with a pained expression on his face. For a second I was unable to discern the cause of his disquiet, but when I looked around I saw that the seats behind me were all empty. It seemed the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Astronomer Royal and the Comptroller for the Admiralty had all sneaked out before the end of the talk.

  ‘That was shameful!’ snapped Wryneck. He rose to his feet and began marching towards the door. ‘I’m going to have a severe word with those three individuals!’

  ‘Don’t bother, Wryneck,’ said Smew. ‘If they weren’t interested they weren’t interested. It can’t be helped.’

  All the same, he was clearly disappointed and I had to admit I felt rather sorry for him.

  ‘Well, if it’s worth anything,’ I said, ‘I found the talk very interesting.’

  ‘Did you really?’ asked Smew.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll definitely be attending the next one.’

  ‘How kind,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Wryneck was still hovering nearby. Now he turned to me. ‘Fond of history, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I do quite like it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Naturally, I’m interested in the history of the empire,’ he said. ‘It would be unthinkable not to be.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Wryneck stared at me unblinkingly, but said nothing more. Meanwhile, Smew was beginning to perk up a little.

  ‘Like some tea?’ he enquired.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Lemon curd and toasted soldiers?’

  ‘Sounds even better.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Over by the doorway, a tasselled cord dangled from the ceiling. Smew pulled it and an instant later Shrike appeared. As usual he was wearing the full imperial livery.

  ‘Ah, Shrike,’ said Smew. ‘Can we have tea for three please?’

  ‘Here in the reading room, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Shrike went off with his orders, while Smew led Wryneck and me over to the bay window. Situated here were some very comfortable chairs and a desk covered in books and papers. Smew asked us to sit down, and it quickly became evident that this was his own personal little corner. Through the window we could see a beautiful walled garden, and beyond it lay the royal palace. Some minutes later, Shrike arrived with the tea, as well as a huge plate of toasted soldiers and a pot of lemon curd. The three of us passed the next half hour in resplendent ease, and at last I felt I was sampling some of the perquisites of high office. Finally, at about five o’clock, the sun began to set over the palace, casting warm beams of light on Smew, Wryneck and myself.

  ‘Marvellous,’ uttered Smew. ‘Absolutely marvellous.’

  ‘Make the most of it,’ I said. ‘The clocks will be going back soon.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Smew. ‘I’d forgotten about the altering of the clocks. Why does that happen, by the way? I’ve never quite understood.’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ I answered, ‘but I think it’s to prepare the populace for the twelve-day feast; for all those long, dark evenings when the public houses are full to the brim.’

  ‘You mean places like the Maypole?’ said Smew.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s a den of iniquity,’ said Wryneck.

  ‘You’ve never been inside then?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Smew.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I propose to pay a visit one evening, so if anyone wishes to accompany me they’re very welcome.’

  ‘You’ll excuse me if I say no,’ murmured Wryneck, before pouring himself another cup of tea.

  We were still basking in the glow of sunset when suddenly the door opened and in walked Garganey.

  ‘Oh,’ he said when he saw us. ‘You’re still here.’

  ‘Naturally, we’re still here,’ said Smew.

  ‘Then you’ll forgive me if I sound selfish, gentlemen, but I was hoping to have the place to myself for a while. I intend to spend an hour studying our play.’

  ‘That’s very commendable,’ remarked Smew. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘It’s not a question of anyone being impressed,’ countered Garganey. ‘It’s a question of doing something properly if it’s going to be done at all.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Smew, ‘and I dare say we’ll all be on our way once the sun’s gone down. Meanwhile, why don’t you join us for some tea?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Garganey. ‘There isn’t time.’

  ‘Of course there’s time,’ said Smew. ‘I insist.’

  Smew quickly gave up his seat to Garganey and found another for himself. Garganey offered no further protest and sat down, although he was plainly reluctant to do so. Then Shrike was summoned and dispatched with another order for tea and toasted soldiers.

  ‘Apologies for missing your talk,’ said Garganey, ‘but I’ve had a hectic day.’

  ‘Anything serious?’ Smew asked.

  ‘It’s difficult to know at this stage,’ Garganey replied. ‘My postmen seem to have some reservations about the changes I’ve been implementing. Do you remember we agreed that they were going to have their breakfast before they went out in the mornings?’

  ‘As discussed in cabinet,’ said Wryneck.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Garganey. ‘It was discussed at the highest level, yet today I received a delegation of postmen who informed me that they weren’t happy about having their breakfasts moved.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They said that such had been the blow to their morale it could only be detrimental to the postal service.’

  At this moment Shrike returned with a heavily laden tray. As fresh supplies of tea and toast were dispensed, Garganey said nothing about the fact that we were being served by a liveried attendant in full imperial regalia. Perhaps his earlier misgivings had begun to subside. Or maybe he was simply too preoccupied with his own concerns to notice. Either way, he now lapsed temporarily into silence while Shrike poured out the tea.

  ‘Why can’t you just command your postmen to do as they’re told?’ suggested Wryneck at length.

  ‘Because they’re not serfs,’ said Garganey. ‘They’re commoners.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Moreover, they’re fully aware that the changes are only for a trial period and don’t carry the full weight of an imperial edict.’

  ‘In other words they’re being awkward.’

  ‘I don’t really like to call it awkwardness,’ said Garganey. ‘After all, they’re only trying to maintain what they see as a tradition, however archaic it might appear. We’re talking about honourable men with unbending principles. Yet they also have ordinary desires. With this in mind I attempted to soften them up a little this afternoon, though I’m afraid my efforts were to no avail.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I took the delegation along to the confectioner’s shop and offered to buy them all a treat; but then that damned Hobby refused to accept my stipendiary sixpence. I felt most humiliated.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Smew.

  ‘He even had the cheek to offer me a toffee apple in recompense.’

  ‘Did you accept?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Garganey. ‘The delegation had already taken their leave and I had to set off after them. Eventually, after much persuasion, they agreed to continue with the trial for the time being, but the situation remains unsatisfactory.’

  ‘As you correctly pointed out,’ said Wryneck, ‘the full weight of an imperial edict would have been helpful.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Garganey.

  While we’d been talking the sun had finally dipped behind the royal palace. Soon Shrike reappeared and cleared away the teacups. Then he started going around lighting the lamps.

  ‘All righ
t, Garganey,’ said Smew, rising from his seat. ‘I suppose you want some peace and quiet so you can get down to studying the play?’

  ‘Yes, if nobody minds,’ replied Garganey. ‘I’d like to rehearse my role as king.’

  ‘Temporary role,’ said Wryneck.

  ‘Of course,’ said Garganey.

  Chapter 6

  The next afternoon I visited the observatory and discovered that Whimbrel had painted the word JUPITER across one of his window frames.

  ‘Why’ve you done that?’ I asked.

  ‘As a reminder,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but Jupiter’s not going to be in that window for ever, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Whimbrel. ‘You told me all the stars were fixed.’

  ‘They’re all fixed relative to one another, yes,’ I said, ‘but Jupiter isn’t a star; it’s a planet. It’s always on the move.’

  ‘Well, it was there last night,’ he retorted. ‘I checked especially to make sure I had the correct window.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s only going to be there for a few weeks and then it’ll be gone.’

  ‘What?’ said Whimbrel with dismay. ‘It took me all morning to paint those letters so neatly.’

  ‘It does look neat,’ I conceded, ‘but I’m sorry to say you were wasting your time. Nothing stands still in the universe. It’s like a huge celestial clock with all the parts revolving.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Whimbrel. ‘If it’s a clock I’ll simply have to wait until Jupiter comes back round again.’

  I gave a sigh.

  ‘Look, Whimbrel,’ I said, ‘I really think you need to study these matters in more depth. When I said “clock” I actually meant “clocks within clocks”. All the planets are on different orbits to us; Jupiter might not reappear in that particular window frame for months, or even years. Meanwhile, there’ll be other planets with other names going by.’

  ‘So how do I tell the planets from the stars?’

  ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘Stars twinkle; planets don’t.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘There’s only eight of them altogether and you can see some without your telescope.’

  ‘Good,’ said Whimbrel.

  ‘Have you managed to get it working yet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, ‘but it so happens I was up on the roof tinkering with it just before you arrived. There’s something I want to show you.’

  He led the way up the iron ladder and on to the roof. The telescope stood jammed in its usual position.

  ‘Look over there,’ said Whimbrel, pointing to the east.

  In that direction lay vast tracts of forest interspersed with open wilderness. The land was generally considered to be uninhabitable, and as such formed a natural boundary between the empire and her neighbours. The horizon was a blur of interminable greyness; but when I followed Whimbrel’s gaze I thought I saw a plume of smoke rising up in the distance. It seemed to mark some sort of break in the terrain; hardly more than a vague line; barely discernible.

  ‘What do you think that is?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Whimbrel. ‘I’ve been up here a few times recently. Sometimes I’ve seen smoke; sometimes I haven’t.’

  ‘Maybe some foresters have headed out there to give it a try,’ I suggested. ‘I know there’ve been several attempts in the past, but they’ve always returned saying it’s too far away to be profitable.’

  ‘You could be right,’ said Whimbrel. ‘All the nearby forests were used up during the great days of shipbuilding.’

  ‘Pity that telescope of yours is out of action. Otherwise we could see much more clearly.’

  Again we peered into the distance, but by now the smoke had begun to drift away. After a minute, however, another plume rose up. This was perhaps slightly nearer than before, though in truth it was very difficult to distinguish anything in the pervading murk. The more we looked, the less we were able to see, until eventually we gave up even trying.

  ‘Come on, Whimbrel,’ I said. ‘It’s cold up here; let’s go back inside.’

  ‘Yes, it is cold, isn’t it?’ he agreed. ‘Autumn is certainly with us now.’

  ‘I expect they’ve got a nice log fire in the Maypole.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say. I’m up here some evenings and I see all the lights blazing and I think of that place. It looks so warm and inviting from the outside.’

  We clambered back down the iron ladder.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘Do you fancy going there tonight?’

  ‘The Maypole?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Whimbrel. ‘According to Sanderling they employ a bevy of dancing girls.’

  ‘Even better,’ I rejoined. ‘He’s been there, has he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, we could invite him along too.’

  ‘Are we allowed though?’ Whimbrel asked.

  ‘Of course we’re allowed!’ I said. ‘We’re officers-of-state; we can do whatever we like.’

  ‘I must admit I’ve always found the prospect quite attractive.’

  ‘Right, then, that’s decided. I’ll see you later, and if Sanderling wants to come as well, the more the merrier!’

  I left Whimbrel pondering what to wear and headed across the park. In the past few days I’d made up my mind to allow the orchestra to have the cake to themselves in the evenings; I thought that this was the least I could do since they plainly had nowhere else to go. Dusk was only just approaching, however, so there was still plenty of time for me to call in and see what they were up to. I entered through the main door and immediately saw Greylag conducting once again from the podium. Strictly speaking this should have been regarded as an act of gross insubordination; after all, Greylag was only a serf, despite his undoubted musical talents. The podium was supposed to be out of bounds unless he received express permission. Recently, though, Greylag and I had come to an understanding whereby he was allowed to occupy the podium during practice sessions. I’d realised that he was much better able to carry out his work from this position; and that therefore in the long term it could only be to my advantage. Accordingly, the orchestra kept on going as I strode down the centre aisle and joined them in the pit.

  What was difficult to tolerate, on the other hand, was the music itself. To be frank it was quite terrible: a wild, rampaging din that might be heard at some fiendish orgy. Furthermore, it was so loud it was deafening. Only when a particular phrase was repeated did it occur to me that I was listening to the imperial anthem being played at breakneck speed! I allowed Greylag to continue for a few more bars; then I raised my hand and within moments the racket ceased.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’m very sorry if it offended your ears, sir,’ replied Greylag, ‘but the piece is a useful means for exercising the orchestra.’

  ‘Is it really necessary?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve been rather under-stretched of late.’

  ‘You mean unchallenged?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see.’

  Greylag remained standing on the podium with this vast and accomplished, yet clearly unfulfilled, orchestra gathered all around him. Meanwhile, an idea that had been developing in the back of my mind gradually came to fruition. The moment was waiting to be seized.

  I ordered Greylag to dismiss the musicians for the evening. They were soon packing away their instruments; then I sat him down and explained what I wanted to do.

  ‘To coincide with the twelve-day feast,’ I began, ‘the cabinet has decided to present a courtly entertainment in the form of a play. I won’t bother telling you the title because you probably won’t have heard of it, but I’d like the orchestra to provide an overture which conveys the sense of turbulence, menace and impending doom that characterises the work. It will require elements suggesting nocturnal subterfuge, unnamed peril and grim descent, as well as the more obvious effects: wa
iling harbingers, howling winds, screeching owls, trumpet blasts, bells chiming, storms raging and cocks crowing.’

  While I’d been talking I had hardly glanced at Greylag, but when finally I looked him in the face I saw that his eyes were glistening. He was paying the closest attention to my words, yet at the same time he appeared to be deep in thought, as if he was already plotting the course of the composition I’d requested.

  ‘What do you think, Greylag?’ I asked.

  For a few seconds he seemed unable to reply. He was hardly even breathing and continued to just sit there with a faraway look in his eyes. Then at last he snapped out of it.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he stammered. ‘We can do it, and we can start at once!’

  He rose to his feet and began pacing about with his hands clasped together.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he continued, talking mostly to himself. ‘We can have oboes. There must be oboes in the beginning, playing very faintly at first. Then the horns . . .’

  Greylag broke off when he saw me staring at him.

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’

  He came and stood before me. ‘I’m sorry to get so carried away, sir, but such an opportunity hasn’t come my way before. I promise I will do everything to make this the greatest piece of music you have ever heard.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it, Greylag,’ I said. ‘So I can leave you to it, can I?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No, Greylag,’ I said. ‘It’s me who should be thanking you.’

  By the time I left the cake Greylag had recalled all the musicians and was addressing them from the podium. Outside, darkness had fallen. I wandered back across the park feeling most content. Greylag had promised me the greatest piece of music I’d ever heard, and I was determined to hold him to it. Tonight, however, the unknown pleasures of the Maypole awaited.