‘Moreover, the orchestra seems to be in peak form,’ he continued. ‘I’m most impressed by the quality of their attack and decay.’
‘They practise day and night,’ I pointed out.
Wryneck nodded his approval.
‘This overture is an exceptional piece of music,’ he said, ‘and I was simply going to suggest that you should maybe consider it as a stand-alone composition, rather than a mere prelude to a play.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘yes, I’ll certainly bear your comments in mind.’
‘Thank you,’ rejoined Wryneck, ‘and congratulations.’
He rose from his seat and together we walked down to the orchestra pit. The musicians had fallen silent at the sight of Wryneck. Greylag was now occupying his former seat amongst the violins. I acknowledged him vaguely as we passed.
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ said Wryneck, ‘but would it be possible for me to take a turn on the piano for a few minutes?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t know you played.’
‘I’m a little rusty,’ he said, ‘but I had lessons as a child.’
‘Help yourself,’ I said, indicating the piano.
He sat down and started playing without a score. I recognised the piece at once: a well-known sonata that spoke gently of romance and lost love. Wryneck was plainly an accomplished pianist. As he continued his rendition he seemed to be completely absorbed in the music, to the point of being visibly moved by it, and I realised I had made a classic mistake. I’d assumed that because Wryneck carried out his duties to the letter he somehow lacked any feelings or even personality. This was a common error in public life: people who did their jobs properly were generally thought to be heartless and uncaring. Wryneck was a prime example of such a fallacy: on the face of it he was an ambitious and unscrupulous servant of the state, bent only on executing a stream of imperial edicts, yet here he was playing the piano beautifully, as though his whole existence depended on it. Behind his official role as Pellitory-of-the-Wall he was obviously an ordinary person with ordinary desires. Clearly I had misjudged him.
Eventually, Wryneck ceased playing and turned to me.
‘This piano’, he said, ‘has seen better days.’
Just then a distant clock struck a quarter to three. Or more correctly, the clock struck a quarter to three in ‘adjusted time’ as it was now generally known.
Wryneck glanced at his watch. ‘Are you coming along to Smew’s talk?’
‘Has a fortnight passed already?’ I asked.
Indeed it had, which meant we needed to set off immediately towards the library if we wished to arrive before the talk began. Wryneck was known for his punctuality, so I knew that all I had to do was keep in step in order to avoid being late. As it was we entered the reading room with a couple of minutes to spare. None of the other officers-of-state had turned up; nor was there any sign of Gallinule, despite his fulsome bout of enthusiasm at the previous talk. For my part I was in the perfect frame of mind for some scholarly improvement, having being buoyed up by Wryneck’s praise of the new overture. It was only as I settled into my seat that it occurred to me I’d neglected to speak to Greylag.
At exactly three o’clock (adjusted time), Smew began his talk. Ostensibly the subject was the history of the empire, but today he had chosen to approach it from an oblique angle.
‘So here we had an empire,’ he began, ‘that considered herself to be at the centre of the civilised world; whose success depended on the willingness of other states to revolve around her, to emulate her, and to bow to her supposed superiority.’
Smew paused.
‘Or was this apparent success founded on a grand conceit?’ he asked. ‘Could it be possible that our neighbours actually took little interest in what we got up to; that they were merely playing us along to keep us quiet?’
I wasn’t sure to which ‘neighbours’ Smew was alluding here. As far as I’d gathered from his earlier talks, the realms, dominions, colonies and commonwealth were all fully acquiescent to the empire’s benign guidance. Yet now he seemed to be implying the opposite. For a moment I wondered if I hadn’t been paying attention properly. To my left I noticed Wryneck making his usual copious notes, a fact that suggested I’d missed something.
‘I’m talking about the so-called “friendly” cities in the east,’ said Smew, ‘although “friendly” is probably a misnomer: they’ve never been particularly “friendly” to each other or anyone else for that matter. They earned the name “friendly” as expressed in the term “friendly rivalry” rather than “friendly co-operation”. They were never in league with one another and remained rigorously independent. Unaffected by external spheres of influence, they were completely beyond the gravitational pull of the empire. Instead, each city followed a linear course that took it hurtling headlong towards its own destiny. They differed from us in many ways. For instance, we acquired gold by exploiting our sovereignty at sea, whereas they mined it directly out of the ground; our clocks had pendulums, while theirs employed a spring-balance mechanism; we favoured amateurs: they used professionals; we had palaces: they had castles; and so on. Our mastery of the seaways gave us command of the coast. Consequently, their people were confined many miles inland. In due course they became expert civil engineers: as well as constructing mines, they dug canals, drained the marshes, built bridges and finally developed iron railways. Our prowess at sailing meant we had no need for such innovations. We proudly carried on with our seafaring traditions, and hardly took any notice as these cities took turns to rise and fall.’
Smew paused again, and it appeared as though the talk had come to a natural conclusion, ‘rise and fall’ being a suitably ringing phrase with which to close. I was surprised, then, when he continued speaking:
‘We did not allow these cities to become entirely isolated, however. The empire’s sole concession to the east was to send her sons to one or other of their great universities. We recognised that in their struggle for improvement they had cultivated some important seats of learning. Hence, each prospective emperor enrolled at a revered institution whilst still an uncrowned princeling. The theory was that he’d study and learn thoroughly the ways of the east; then after a certain period he would return home and, following much thought and introspection, reject them. It was a tried and tested thesis, effectively put to use by generations of emperors right up to this very day.’
Now Wryneck closed his notepad and put away his pen, which told me for sure that the talk was over.
‘I never knew that,’ I said, ‘about the emperor going away to university.’
Smew said nothing in reply, but instead stood silently gazing at me from behind his lectern. Again I wondered if there was some important point that Wryneck had grasped but I clearly hadn’t. Or perhaps Smew was allowing a few more moments for it to sink in. Either way, I rose from my seat feeling somewhat bemused.
‘Like some tea?’ said Smew.
I’d decided in advance to say no if such an invitation was made, because I really ought to get back and attend to the needs of the orchestra.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘That would be nice.’
‘Lemon curd and toasted soldiers?’
‘Even better.’
Smew pulled the tasselled cord to alert Shrike. Meanwhile, Wryneck and I settled down in the comfortable chairs by the bay window. When Smew joined us he chose the chair nearest to his desk, on top of which lay Dotterel’s box containing the ceremonial crown.
‘Shouldn’t that be locked away somewhere safe?’ I enquired.
‘It’s safe enough here in the library,’ replied Smew. ‘Either Wryneck or myself are always present.’
A few minutes later Shrike returned with a fully laden tray. As he handed us our portions of toast the clock struck five and the setting sun cast its warm rays through the window.