‘Didn’t quite work out that way, did it, Admiral?’
Back at the end of his life, Slovo was still talking to the Welsh Vehmist.
‘Sadly no. When I next returned to the Over-King’s camp, everything was gone as if it had never been. Oh – apart from one thing – one of my arquebuses was lying in the middle of the clearing, neatly snapped in half. I assumed that was for my benefit.’
‘Correct,’ confirmed the Vehmist.
‘Well, I got the message,’ Slovo continued, ‘and never went back. In fact, that was the last I heard of the matter. I didn’t get my book.’
‘No,’ said the Vehmist, trying to sound decently regretful. ‘We didn’t feel that you’d deserved it.’
Slovo toyed with a green fig, powerfully indenting it with his fingers. ‘So it was another of your schemes, then?’ he said, regarding the wounded fruit.
The Vehmist answered, ‘We curtailed your little bit of private enterprise as a favour to ourselves and our allies. Mind you, your deviousness up to that point quite delighted us. The first we got to learn of anything was the attack on Pisa.’
‘Oh,’ smiled Slovo, ‘so they got around to that, did they? How come I didn’t hear of it?’
‘Because,’ the Vehmist replied simply, ‘by then we were on the case. It was in the interest of all concerned parties – declared or not – to draw a veil over things. And the Pisans are an incurious lot, not given to history or recording. If they can’t eat it or fuck it …’
‘Yes, quite,’ interrupted the Admiral fastidiously. ‘So what happened?’
‘I said you’d ask,’ laughed the Vehmist, ‘but my Master wouldn’t have it – not a man in his position, he said. Good job I read the file right through for all the details …’
‘I’m a military man,’ said Slovo. ‘I like neat endings.’
‘Just so, Admiral, and I’m here to humour you in every respect. Well, it’s easily told. They didn’t do too bad, all things considered. Bear in mind, for instance, they were all separate peoples and tribes. Also, their last real experience of full scale infantry action was, what—?’
‘A thousand?’ suggested Slovo.
‘Yeah, maybe a thousand years beforehand. Not only that, but they weren’t using their preferred weapons, like the repeating crossbow and assassin’s blades, but those guns you’d so kindly got them. Like I said, it was quite a creditable effort, really.’
‘But to no avail, I take it?’
‘No. They came on in pike columns, heading for the Town-Gate, covered by a skirmish line of your arquebus fellows. It was all rather neat apparently – given their undisciplined propensities. The Elvish cannons even scored a few decent hits, though how you’d miss a town wall I’m not quite sure.’
‘You’ve clearly never fired a gun in the midst of battle,’ observed the Admiral acidly.
‘No, thank gods,’ said the Vehmist, the gibe bouncing harmlessly off him. ‘Well, the Pisans were surprised, of course. But they got some shots off, taking a few Elves out and – blammo – all order flees. Among the Elves it just turned into a mad scramble for the Gate and racial enemy, knives drawn.’
Admiral Slovo shook his head sadly. It didn’t matter any more, but even at the remove of decades, displays of uncorseted emotion had the power to upset him.
‘So they were all packed together like a mad mob by the time they neared the Town,’ the Vehmist continued, trying manfully to conceal a modicum of amusement. ‘Meanwhile, the Pisan militia had woken up, so to speak, and trundled a cannon or two to the spot and, after that, the Elf horde couldn’t do a thing right …’
‘After that,’ interjected the Admiral, concluding on the Vehmist’s behalf, ‘they were torn asunder with grapeshot and fled, bewildered, each a victim of their own solipsistic individualism.’
‘Neglecting to carry their wounded with them, I might add,’ said the Vehmist reprovingly.
‘Naturally,’ said Slovo. ‘They’re Elves.’
‘It doesn’t excuse them,’ the Vehmist persevered. ‘We were quite inconvenienced by their left-behinds – living and otherwise. Still, it all got sorted out in the end: “bandits”, was the official explanation, unusually ambitious ones. It suited all parties to swallow it.’
‘And the left-behinds?’ queried Slovo.
‘A rather odd burial mound beside the City walls – a puzzle for antiquaries and grave-robbers to come: such long limbs … such elegant skulls. At their request, we left it to the other petty Elf-Lords to deal with their High-King. It was all done with consummate treachery.’
‘I thought they might act sooner or later,’ agreed the Admiral. ‘He was premature – and bad publicity. His race do not care for undue attention.’
‘Quite so,’ said the Vehmist. ‘Fen and fell and Downs folk they must remain for a good while yet; till either their ambitions are modified or man’s intolerance is moderated. Unless, that is, some reckless individual such as you, acts to fan their ancient grievance and deludes them once again into ruin.’
‘I got impatient,’ said Admiral Slovo, wondering why on earth he felt the need to explain any more. ‘Quite aside from the delectable bait the High-King was holding out, you lot seemed to have abandoned me in the dusty labyrinth of the Vatican bureaucracy.’
‘Sin, most grievous sin,’ confessed the Vehmist. ‘Apparently our attentions were particularly focused elsewhere during those years – although that hardly excuses our neglect. Your little project perforce drew our eyes back to Italy and made us realize there were blades we’d failed to sharpen back there. It was decided to tell you more.’
‘Ah yes,’ recalled Slovo, ‘the international conspiracy annual dinner-dance …’
The Vehmist both smiled and winced.
The Year 1493
‘I die in Germany. Afterwards, I am enrolled in a conspiracy.’
‘You will sleep here, brother.’
Slovo stepped in. The first thing he noticed was the lack of a roof, the second the sound of the door locking behind him.
‘You will sleep here,’ came the voice of the Vehmic Knight from outside, ‘and wake to life anew.’
Admiral Slovo did not answer. He was here at the Holy Vehme’s pleasure and there was nothing to gain by vain protest.
The sea journey, a rarity for him nowadays, had revived old memories and forgotten tastes. All the way from Rome to … this place, where Germania merged into land disputed with the Turk, he had pondered the unnaturalness of his life, pushing a quill-pen, not a stiletto. The subtle and learned Vehmic courier (a friar in normal life) assigned to accompany him, and to subvert his every settled opinion, found little work left for him to do.
Everything had been arranged on Admiral Slovo’s behalf, as neat and quick as a thunderbolt. The notice of leave of absence, signed by a Bishop no less, had arrived on his Vatican desk just like any other piece of correspondence. That same afternoon, a clerk in his office, hitherto suspected of being nothing more than he seemed, confided to Slovo that a certain ship was sailing on the evening tide and that he must be on it. Admiral Slovo gladly surrendered to the equally pressing tide of events and let himself be borne along.
Now he found himself in an open-topped stone-built box observing the stars that shone down on him and the rest of the forsaken landscape. Even had he wished to escape, the constraining walls were too high and sheer to climb. The one and only door looked simple and sturdy enough to resist a siege. Slovo would be here just as long as the purpose of the Vehme required.