Quire was reluctant to continue. He stopped and sat down suddenly on a large, smooth rock. “And where may I show the world my works?”
“A drink?” suggested Tinkler. “At the Seahorse?”
Quire could see a squadron of cavalry, with banners and gilded cuirasses and helmets, plumes and embroidered cloaks, trotting down the broad Clerkenwell Road between the fine buildings of the great guilds. He looked towards the river, far across on the other side of the city, to Bran’s Tower, a building of immense age, and beyond it at the barges, the wherries, and the galleons under sail upon the river. “I could have been a general or a famed navigator, employing my gifts to my own great public credit, a favourite of the people, and honoured by the Queen. With my talent I could have become the mightiest merchant in Albion, enriching myself and my nation, made Lord Mayor at least. But I shunned such unworthy pursuits. I lived only for my art and its improvement….”
Tinkler became nervous. “Captain?”
“You go on down, Tink, and spend that gold. It could be the last you’ll see.”
“You are dismissed?” Tinkler was horrified.
“No.”
“You have quit our friend’s employ?” Tinkler’s gag tooth twitched on his lip.
“I have not said so.”
Tinkler, in relief, clapped his wincing master on the back. Since Quire’s tone had changed, he instantly forgot his distress. “Then let’s both to the Seahorse, Captain. This gloomy, windy weather spreads melancholy everywhere.”
Quire lifted himself from the rock, his lantern jaw upon his chest, his face hidden by the unsteady brim of his sombrero. He was unusually and terrifying malleable. “Aye.”
Tinkler was again disturbed. “A wench or two is what we need, Captain. To warm us up. To suck the poor humours from us.”
“A wench?” The eyes moved in the wicked head, questioning Tinkler as if Quire no longer understood the term.
Tinkler trembled. “Every doxy at the Seahorse would be yours, if you desired. And every dell. It’s love you need, master.”
Quire turned bleak eyes away from his lieutenant and straightened a sturdy back. “I love my art.”
“You’re the best.” Tinkler’s voice thickened as his mouth dried. “Ask anyone.”
They continued towards the wall, now not half a mile from them at the foot of the steep path.
“It’s true,” agreed his master.
“And you’re strong, Captain. You love your work-your art, that is to say-and nothing else. But let them love you. Take your rewards.”
Quire smiled at the ground. “I thought Montfallcon understood. I’ve no expectation where the rest are concerned. You and the others, Tink, will never be more than apprentices, to put a little colour to the outlines, paint in a background or two. Good, solid craftsmen, and none the worse for that. It’s men like O’Bryan I despise-jacks of his order, who pretend to be great, who have ambitions towards greatness, and have no true talent, merely an instinct towards murder and treachery. I had to cultivate those instincts, discipline ’em, hone ’em, tune ’em…Ah, and then to find I am considered to be no better than O’Bryan, that insensate, greedy, grandiose, bragging butcher. The kind I most despise.”
“Well, you handled him as he deserved.” Tink’s cheer wore thinner still.
“And they think I cannot love, Tink. You think so.”
“No, no, Captain. I meant only that you were dedicated, that you do not waste yourself…don’t indulge in the softer sort of sentiments….” Tinkler drew his snag tooth into his mouth as if he wished he could follow it.
“But I have loved much and loved many, for I have defeated many. And I am a conventional conqueror. I fall in love with all I vanquish. Who could not? Some can feel affection only for children, if children seem not to threaten them. I feel affection for those who have threatened but are threats no longer. Is not my love the most rational, Tink?”
“Unquestionably, sir.” Tinkler curbed an impulse to increase his pace and move ahead of his master. “And many love you, Captain, as I said.”
Quire showed distaste. “I hope not. I do not wish that. I do not demand it.”
“I meant,” panted the bewildered lackey, “that you’re admired, Captain, and so forth.”
“Admired? By the mob? That’s easily won, such admiration. A few dramatic actions, a cheap jest or two, a daring gesture-aye, and the rabble will continue to cheer you all the way to Tilbury and the hulks. I despise those who pander to the crowd for its own sake. My art must be appreciated by other artists, people who are great in their own spheres, as Lord Montfallcon is great. All those years he spent beside Hern’s throne, calculating, plotting, scheming for Gloriana’s succession. He was my hero, Tink, when I was younger. I recognised him for what he was. I still admire him. He has surely sensed my subtle appreciation of his achievements. But mine, in their own way have been as great.”
“Greater, Captain, considering all.”
“I accepted his patronage in order to extend my experience, improve my skills-amplification, definition…He was my only master. And he despises me.”
“Despise him, Captain. He’s the loser.”
Quire brightened. “So he is. You’re right, Tinkler.” With some effort he lengthened his stride. They were almost at the walls. “You go to the Seahorse and I’ll join you there. I’ll to my respectable quarters and see how Mistress Philomena, the scholar’s wife, fares without her loving mate.” He cocked his hat and creased it. “I’ll see you at the Seahorse, Tink.”
Relieved to be dismissed, Master Tinkler ran ahead through the gate, waving once. “You’ll soon be your old self, again, Captain!”
Quire’s spirits were improving by the second. “Aye. Despise him. I’ve learned all I can. I’m better than our friend, Montfallcon. I’ll leave him behind me!”
It was in this unreal and jaunty mood that he entered through the gate and was immediately attacked by half a score of rogues, with nets and blankets, ropes and knives.
“Here he is!”
Quire’s quick hand went to his sword-hilt, but a noose had already settled over his shoulders. He wriggled. The noose tightened.
The six rufflers, half-masked by cloaks and hoods, were on him.
“Fools! I’m Quire. I’ve friends. All the jacks in town!”
They ignored him and had him trussed and aboard a stinking cart before he could think. He began to doubt his entire comprehension of himself and his world. He was blindfolded and his body was numb with the pressure of the ropes. He had received his second amazement of the day. If he had not been gagged and hooded, he would have sworn aloud.
Arioch! I’m captured. This is injustice to excess! In one day! I allowed myself to lose confidence and thus lost hope-and now I lose my life. Unless I can speak myself free. But what is it? What enemies would dare…?
And then it occurred to Captain Quire that his interview with Montfallcon and the turn it had taken had something in common with this abduction.
He’s delivered me up. He’s betrayed me. He hopes to murder me before I can reveal his secrets. He must not believe the truth. Well, he shall know if I die. Every deed will be published in Captain Quire’s Confession. Gods, it will bring Albion down! Oh, my friend Montfallcon, if I survive, you’ll know still greater vengeance. Then you’ll acknowledge the truth-that pupil has become master. I’ll force you to appreciate that fact, if no other….