So, Greater Fallowfields was to be liberated, was it? Well, perhaps; but I wondered at what price a final settlement would be achieved. These newcomers had begun making demands already, and I suspected that the empire was in danger of becoming a mere puppet state.
For the moment, of course, the whole subject remained in abeyance. Our priority was to find the emperor as soon as possible. The following day Wryneck renewed his investigations; I offered to accompany him but he politely informed me that Sanderling’s contacts were more valuable. The two of them departed shortly after breakfast.
Finding myself at a loose end, I dropped in on the musicians to see how they were getting on. To my astonishment the auditorium was deserted. In all the time I’d been attached to the orchestra I had never known them not to practise or rehearse, but today they were all absent. A short investigation revealed that some of them were still in bed, while others had gone sightseeing. Well, I had to admit they deserved it: they’d done nothing but work, work, work ever since I’d known them and clearly they needed a rest. What surprised me, though, was that they didn’t bother unpacking their instruments for the entire day. When they returned in the evening a good few of them had red faces and smelt of drink; it then dawned on me that they must have been out spending their wages. Obviously this would have been an experience for which they were poorly prepared, and doubtless they’d regret it in the morning.
I was then struck by a secondary thought: if the musicians were indeed going home, as now seemed probable, how would the new regime react to having an orchestra of serfs on its hands? Serfdom hardly fitted in with the idea of liberation as I understood it, and suddenly I pictured a lot of unanswered questions. Where, for example, would Greylag stand in all this?
It so happened he was difficult to track down too. Naturally, I expected him to exclude himself from any sort of holidaymaking, and guessed he would resort to the privacy of his study. Yet when I knocked on the door there was no reply. I noticed the door was off its catch, so gently I pushed it open and peered inside. The room was empty.
After some thought I remembered that Greylag had been greatly inspired by the railway engine we’d seen on our jaunt into the countryside; he’d composed some highly experimental music on the strength of it. Accordingly, I thought I might seek him out at the central station. When I got there the usual flurry of activity appeared to have abated slightly: although the coming and going never ceased, it was nowhere near the level I was accustomed to. A glance at the timetable told me a train was due to arrive from Fallowfields in the next few minutes, so I went to the designated platform. Sure enough, standing at the far end was a lone figure. When I drew nearer, however, I realised that it wasn’t Greylag, but Grosbeak. He stood immobile, except for an occasional glance at his pocket watch, and gazed steadfastly towards the west. I assumed he was waiting for a specific passenger or group of passengers; therefore, I stayed where I was and watched with interest. After another minute a whistle sounded in the distance. Then the rails began to hum as the train approached. Grosbeak continued to stand stock still, apparently lost in thought. I could now see the engine clearly: it had obviously received a new coat of paint recently and was gleaming in the pale winter sunshine. I also observed that it had been given a name: emblazoned along the side in bright gold lettering were the words EMPIRE OF FALLOWFIELDS.
The train pulled importantly into the platform, but when it came to a halt I saw that it was completely empty.
Dusk had descended when I returned to the concert hall. The lights in the foyer were glowing dimly, and from inside the auditorium I heard music being played. I looked in and saw Greylag sitting at the piano as if he’d been there all day. He was composing a nocturne by the sound of it, and every so often he would pause and make some changes to his manuscript. It was heartening to know that some things would never change in Greylag’s world. I decided this should be celebrated, so I went to the broom cupboard and collected a bottle of wine and two glasses. (The wine actually belonged half to Sanderling and half to me, but under the circumstances I felt he was hardly in a position to complain if I opened it.) I returned to the auditorium and poured a glass for Greylag and one for myself.
To my surprise Greylag refused his glass.
‘Not when I’m playing, thank you all the same,’ he said. ‘It seems somewhat unprofessional.’
So I sat under the pink chandeliers and drank alone, listening while Greylag resumed work on his nocturne. He was just about finished when Wryneck and Sanderling came back. It was very late and Sanderling looked quite flushed. The pair of them were disconsolate.
‘No luck then?’ I ventured.
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Wryneck. ‘The trail appears to have gone cold.’
‘We’ve tried everywhere,’ added Sanderling, ‘but nobody’s seen the emperor; not lately anyway.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘There’s only one solution,’ said Wryneck. ‘We’ll have to find a substitute.’
Chapter 24
The cake looked truly magnificent in the early spring sunshine. The restoration work had been completed to a high standard and the results were impressive.
Not a moment too soon, by all accounts.
No one in the empire ever noticed that the stone walls had begun gradually to fade over the years. It had required the eyes of outsiders, of course, to recognise the problem and rectify it. Now that they’d been returned to their original yellow hue we could plainly see the difference. Another decade, apparently, and they would have started to crumble.
Meanwhile, the roof had been cleared of all the dead leaves and other detritus which marred its creamy-white dome.
Now, once again, the cake appeared good enough to eat!
Performances would resume when all the seats had been reinstalled. (Nobody liked the idea of having to stand to watch the orchestra play.)
Chapter 25
As the clock struck ten, Shrike opened the register.
‘Let us begin,’ he said. ‘Chancellor of the Exchequer?’
‘Present,’ said Sanderling.
‘Postmaster General?’
‘Present,’ said Whimbrel.
‘Astronomer Royal?’
‘Present,’ I said.
‘Comptroller for the Admiralty?’
‘Present,’ said Smew.
‘Surveyor of the Imperial Works?’
‘Present,’ said Mestolone.
‘Pellitory-of-the-Wall?’
‘Present,’ said Wryneck.
‘Principal Composer to the Imperial Court?’
‘Present,’ said Greylag.
‘His Exalted Highness, the Majestic Emperor of the Realms, Dominions, Colonies and Commonwealth of Greater Fallowfields?’
Shrike paused and waited.
Five minutes went slowly by and nothing happened. Then suddenly there was a huge fuss and kerfuffle outside the door.
‘Let us pass!’ demanded an imperious voice. ‘We are the Player King!’
~ ~ ~
The author would like to thank Simon Moody
and Mark Pappenheim for their patience.
A Note on the Author
Magnus Mills is the author of The Restraint of Beasts, which won the McKitterick Prize and was shortlisted for both the Booker Prize and the Whitbread First Novel Award in 1998, and of five other novels, including