With an effort she made her mind turn outwards again, shaking her huge and lovely frame as a setter might rid itself of water and hearing Lord Kansas recall, with all the skill of one who relished the role of ranconteur, his East Indian adventures. “And so, gentlemen, sundry clattering knights met all in a hall of tall bamboo, which was cool and gloomy, for light did come only through tight-woven lattice. This great place was the Aviary of the King of Bengahl. Axe and shield, sword and spear, clanged and cracked, like white fire in that gloom, while all about us parrots and macaws and parakeets, jackdaws and birds of paradise, canaries and cockatoos, screeched and fluttered. Why, in the end of it, there was more bird’s blood spilled than men’s. The thing was settled amicably in the end, when all were exhausted, when Sir Colum Feveril undertook to pay the proper price for the girl he’d married out of love. It was the issue. They had not made it clear!”
Gloriana drew a deep breath and then her voice joined in the common laughter.
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
March winds lifted the thick ivy about Lord Montfallcon’s high windows; it billowed like the heavy skirts of peasant matrons, reminding Captain Quire of a sensation he could not identify; something from his childhood when, occasionally, the elements would inspire him, bringing him a luscious tranquillity he had never since known. With his hand upon his hilt and his sombrero under his arm he watched the clever old lord read from the printed pamphlet Quire himself had just delivered into his hands.
“No other copies escaped the fire?” Montfallcon asked heavily.
“None. And the manuscript, too, I burned.” “These Stoics. I respect them, Quire. I follow their faith myself, to a large degree. But when belief’s turned to zealotry…Ah, the damage they can do. This makes out the Queen’s a harlot, though a blameless one. Bad blood, it says! The blood’s the best there is-’twas her sire soured it. Taking sensual pleasure while the enemy gathers, it says…. Gods! If they knew how hard she works for Albion. I’ve read all this more than once. The author?”
“On his way to begin a new life, my lord, where he’ll find plenty of discomfort to please him. In Africa. In irons, to the Shaleef of Bantustan.”
Lord Montfallcon gave vent to a small chuckle. “You sold him, Quire? As a slave?”
“As a scribe. He’ll be well-treated, by Bantustan standards. He claimed, in one paragraph, that he was no better than a slave. It seemed fitting to give him a taste of the reality.”
“The printer of this?” He waved it as he walked towards the fire.
“An ignorant man. Fear was all I needed to use. He’s back to making snatchsheets and placards.”
“You’re certain?”
“He claimed he read poorly, that he had not understood the import of the pamphlet. So I offered to insure him against further error by making certain he would be able to read nothing at all.”
“Ah, Quire,” said Lord Montfallcon with sudden gravity, “I wonder if you’ll ever come to frighten me.”
“It’s not my business, my lord.”
Montfallcon was in a restless mood. He studied Quire. He failed to find an answer to the question his eyes asked. “I wish I knew your purpose, Quire. You do not work for gold, I know, though you’re paid well. How’s so much spent, and you with the same suit of clothes, the same patched cloak? You’re not a drunkard or much of a gambler.” He frowned against the glare of the fire. “You do not pay for women. Do you save it, Quire?” The pamphlet was placed upon the fire and stirred with a long rod.
“I spend it freely, sir, on good deeds as often as not.” Quire was puzzled, even discomforted, by this lack of understanding. “A widow here, a cripple there.”
“You, Quire!” A grunt. “Charitable?”
“I am a sympathetic friend-but only to the weak. I will not tolerate the mad or the strong-those I’ll fight or avoid. My good deeds, Lord Montfallcon, are like all my deeds, self-interested. Your work and mine is greatly aided by my reputation for generosity. We employ a great army of loyal innocents, of faithful feeble-minded men and women, of dull, good-hearted, honest folk-for they are the people never reckoned with by one’s enemies. They are always ignored, always condescended to. Therefore they are the most grateful for my good deeds and will bring me all kinds of information, not from greed but from simple loyalty. I am their hero. They worship Captain Quire. They’ll forgive him any crime (’He has his reasons’) and protect him, as best they can, from any consequences. They are the backbone of every scheme.”
“I am almost flattered, Quire, by these confidences. Do you not fear to reveal the secrets of your trade to me?”
“Trade?” Surprised, Quire hesitated at the word, then shook his head to answer: “No, sir, for there are few men of my kidney in the world. Most thieves are fools, most murderers romantics, most spies self-important. I am proud to expound the theories of this profession, as any artist enjoys explaining his method, because he knows that only a rare few can follow him-and he’s happy to encourage those few.”
“What? You see me as a pupil?”
“Of course not, my lord. A peer.”
Lord Montfallcon wagged a finger. “Hubris, Quire! I suspect that the abduction of kings gives your imagination a richer diet than you can afford. You’ve tasted strong wine and now you’d have no other kind. You’ll fall-you become too cocky.”
Quire was sullen. “It pleases me to be so. If I enjoy the emotion, I’ll take it while I may, and not stifle it. I’ve little belief in any definite future.”
“You expect to die?”
He was further surprised. “No, my lord. It is just that there are so many possible futures. I plan, to some degree, for all of them. And, in another way, I plan for none of them.”
“You are not easy-going, Quire. Do not pretend that to me.”
“My life is as disciplined as"-Quire pointed into the fire where the pamphlet had turned black and was disintegrating-"as was his-as his will be, indeed. But I play my emotions with the skill and care of a musician, as I play the emotions of those I’m inclined to use.”
“But you must have an ambition.”
“I’ve told you, my lord. To amplify and define my senses.”
Lord Montfallcon became disturbed. “You use a scholar’s words to justify base deeds, that’s all.” He seemed about to dismiss Quire. He returned to his desk, frowning more darkly than ever.
“My lord?” Quire took his sombrero in his hand, made a step towards the door, then turned. “You recognise me as an artist, surely? I spoke candidly. The best I can do. Such words should not affect you, my lord. They are objective.”
Lord Montfallcon pouted his lips. “You relish your work!” It was an accusation and unexpected.
Quire’s dark eyes were half-amused. “Aye.”
“Zeus! I wish it were not necessary…. But it is necessary, and we must do it.” He gave out a bitter noise. “That I should play Socrates to some modern-day Callicles!”
Quire combed his left hand through his thick locks, studying his patron. His cold voice sang out. “You are suffering, my lord?”
Montfallcon fumbled with a drawer. “I must pay you.”