I’d taken care to reserve a place where I could keep an eye on our three distinguished guests. I was especially interested to see how they would react to the performance; Whimbrel’s account of Gallinule’s play was still fresh in my mind. According to Whimbrel, two of these men in olive drab had watched the entire tragedy with apparent detachment. As Greylag stepped on to the podium, I pondered whether his wonderful music would get through to Grosbeak, Merganser and Gadwall.
We were to begin with the fifth, sixth and seventh variations on the imperial anthem. I considered these to be the most stirring of Greylag’s treatments and had requested them specifically. With ninety-eight musicians at his disposal we could certainly expect some fireworks from Greylag.
The response of the audience in general was most encouraging. The moment Greylag raised his baton a great hush descended. Then they sat mesmerised as the orchestra got into its stride. The standard, as ever, was first class. After a few minutes I looked sidelong at the three ‘scoffers’. Sure enough, they were all sitting expressionless with their arms folded. Perhaps, I concluded, the imperial anthem meant nothing to them. Admittedly, they joined in the applause when the three variations were finished, but all the same I hoped they would show a little more enthusiasm for Greylag’s overture, which was due to follow.
Another member of the audience was Hobby the confectioner. He was sitting fairly near to Grosbeak, Merganser and Gadwall, and was clearly enjoying himself. He hurrahed loudly at the end of each piece of music, and when the overture began he could be heard tapping his foot. Unfortunately, he had the habit of coughing during quiet passages. Not only that, but he made no attempt to do it discreetly: instead he seemed to make a performance out of each cough, producing a handkerchief and disgorging himself with gusto. It was during one such bout of coughing that I noticed Grosbeak looking across at Hobby. Next moment he gave a signal and three men in olive drab uniforms emerged from the shadows. They approached Hobby and spoke to him in lowered voices before leading him outside. He didn’t come back; and subsequently there was no more coughing in the auditorium.
The overture had now reached its famous crescendo. A cheer rose up when the lone horn appeared and played its mournful notes. Then the entire orchestra came crashing back and the music charged to its tremendous finale. The concert was undoubtedly a triumph: the audience responded tumultuously. Even Grosbeak, Merganser and Gadwall were seemingly engaged at last, nodding to one another as they added to the applause. I looked over to Smew: he was smiling with evident satisfaction.
Greylag, in the meantime, had silently rejoined the orchestra as they packed away their instruments. I intended to rush over and congratulate him but no sooner had I got to my feet than I was engulfed by a crowd of well-wishers, all slapping me on the back for my supposed tour de force. Then Smew called me across to join his entourage. He went sweeping out into the night and I had no option but to follow; which meant that Greylag would have to wait until the following day.
By then, however, events had begun to unfold rather swiftly. It was quite a while before I had the chance to speak to Greylag again.
I was on my way to the cake next morning when I learned some disturbing news: Brambling had been so upset by the failure of the currency that he’d resigned his post as Chancellor. The first I knew of it was when I saw him standing outside the counting house with his bags packed. Apparently, he’d already seen Smew and had his resignation accepted.
‘Didn’t he try and persuade you to reconsider?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Brambling, ‘he offered the usual platitudes but I’m afraid it was too little too late. I’ve made up my mind to go and I’m not changing it again.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘I intend to return to the provinces and fade into obscurity.’
Nevertheless, his duties were incomplete. He wasn’t going anywhere until he’d seen the ledger returned safely to its rightful home.
‘Those scrutineers won’t find any errors,’ he declared, ‘if that’s what they’re looking for.’
I felt slightly sorry for Brambling. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the currency was worthless; indeed, the slide had begun years before he commenced his brief tenure. Everyone always assumed that Greater Fallowfields possessed vast reserves of gold and silver bullion, but now the assumption was shown to be untrue. All we had was a hoard of coins whose value depended on the good name of the empire. This, it transpired, was no longer enough: the empire was on the wane. We couldn’t even resort to buried treasure. Hidden somewhere was a crown of solid gold, but nobody knew where it was. Consequently we were unable to pay our debts, and Brambling blamed himself. I left him brooding and continued my journey towards the cake.
When I arrived I was confronted by a huge number of parcels stacked outside the main door. There were roughly a hundred of them, all wrapped in brown paper, and I guessed they were the orchestra’s new coats. This was typical of the empire: necessary items could never be found until after they were needed. I decided that Dotterel must have had a change of heart; presumably he’d located the garments and ordered these parcels to be dispatched forthwith, but the postmen had then failed to deliver them in time for the concert.
On examining the parcels closely, however, I discovered that they did not bear the imperial postmark. Instead, they were all stamped with the letters CoS.
Quickly I opened one of them. Inside, neatly pressed and folded, was an olive drab uniform. I was still standing there holding it when Whimbrel appeared.
‘We’re wanted down at the counting house,’ he said, ‘urgently.’
I rewrapped the parcel and put it back on its pile. Then we set off. As we walked, I informed Whimbrel about Brambling’s impending departure. He was unsurprised.
‘Dotterel and Garganey have tendered their resignations too,’ he said. ‘It seems they’ve had the idea of combining the workforce into some kind of trade organisation before it dwindles any further. They’ve both come to the conclusion that workers can’t be ruled from the top down; so they’ve decided to join their ranks and develop a democratic movement.’
‘Is that why we’re needed at the counting house?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ replied Whimbrel, ‘but the matter is equally serious. Grosbeak and his men have returned with the ledger.’
There was a small gathering outside the counting house when we got there. Smew was present, of course, as well as Wryneck and Shrike. Representing the visitors were Grosbeak and Merganser, accompanied by a few of their henchmen; but we saw no sign of Brambling.
‘He’s gone,’ explained Wryneck. ‘He headed off as soon as the ledger was safely returned.’
‘Didn’t he say goodbye?’ I asked.
‘He did to me, yes,’ said Wryneck.
‘And me,’ added Shrike.
‘Well, he didn’t to me,’ I said.
‘Can we please get on?’ demanded Grosbeak.
‘Certainly,’ said Smew. ‘Let’s go inside.’
One of Grosbeak’s assistants had laid the ledger on the table, and now we assembled around it. Grosbeak settled down in Brambling’s former chair. Smew sat opposite. As de facto regent he was our natural spokesman.
‘We have studied your records,’ Grosbeak began, ‘and they are reasonably transparent.’