‘Precisely,’ agreed the schoolmaster. ‘For all his fortunate birth, he is the most distrusting boy I’ve yet to meet. He operates behind screens of deception and reticence, never saying all of what he means, even when it is of no import. Everything is buried beneath layers of artifice.’
‘That might just be cowardice,’ suggested another of his interrogators.
‘I, too, thought so,’ said the schoolmaster eagerly, ‘and so observed and tested him. He stands his ground in all the tiny wars of the play-yard. He is no coward, merely preternaturally controlled and nerveless.’
‘Do the other infants abhor him then?’ The question came from within the dark-clad ranks of those standing round the walls of the cavern.
The schoolmaster politely sought to reply to the correct face but it was lost in the shadows between the torch embrasures. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is the confirming point – his detachment is a seamless garment. To the other children he pretends to be a light-hearted and natural boy and they are deceived.’
He turned his head slowly to take in the assembly and lifted his hand to solicit support from the hundreds gathered there. ‘I ask you to trust me,’ he said, addressing the whole gathering. ‘He is intelligent and calculating, cold-hearted and yet ethically aware. He is a seven-year-old that entertains theological speculations. While his peers play ball he wonders about Aristotle. I really think that he might serve.’
Thus saying, the schoolmaster bowed his head and stepped back two paces in the prescribed Vehmic way, showing he was before the mercy of their judgement. The noose hanging round his neck made the point even plainer. The recommender of a rejected prospect was hung forthwith. This balanced the glory attaching to a successful proposal, for the Vehme wished their ranks to exclude all but the most promising recruits.
The Tribunal conferred, their heavy cowls lending privacy to the deliberations. The schoolmaster and all his brothers (and some sisters) waited patiently and in silence.
At last, the head of the Tribunal stood, a strategically placed torch bestowing a halo of fire around his head to those viewing from below. ‘We are minded to say yes,’ he announced. ‘Are there any who would disagree?’
In a belief-cum-organization-cum-conspiracy that aspired to democratic ideals, it was always left open for dissatisfaction to have its voice – or even its way, if feelings were strong enough. On this occasion no one spoke.
‘So it shall be,’ concluded the Tribunalist. ‘The Captain of Nemesis will arrange what is necessary.’
Therefore it was because of young Slovo’s precocious thoughts that an arrow took his father in the throat whilst he was out hunting. No one saw the archer, though a search was made; no one was ever charged with the crime. The flint-tipped and black-fletched little arrow still protruded through his neck when they bore him home, but the light had long since left his eyes. The whole household was inconsolable and even the boy Slovo, for all his famed control, could not hold back childish tears.
Madame Slovo simply vanished one day soon after, and that was even worse in its way. She was last seen busy in the dairy and then, no more. No note, no token, not even a spray of blood was left to account for her passing.
A brother died of the ‘sweating sickness’, an uncle hung himself for no good reason – one by one the Slovo clan went down. Neighbours began to get the message and avoided them.
The final barrier between the boy Slovo and the outside world was his aunt. She – because the Vehme, whilst never merciful, could sometimes be whimsical – ended up as the erotic plaything of a Syrian princeling. Even more strangely, lust and hatred slowly mutated over the years into affection and what started as abduction ended in honoured matrimony. This would have been small comfort for the child Slovo, even if he could have known or understood it.
Next, the Vehmgericht subtly incited the lawyer holding the Slovo estate in trust to pillage and defraud it (though he was going to do that anyway), so that at the age of eight, the boy Slovo found himself rapidly sans family, home and livelihood and the tender mercies of a far-away Church orphanage were extended to him.
The Ancient and Holy Vehme began one of their long and infinitely patient watching briefs.
‘Oh …’ said Admiral Slovo numbly, meanwhile engaged in the most heroic struggle of his life in order to control his features. There was a lengthy pause as, in some frigid inner sanctum, he strove to accept the long-suppressed suspicion. ‘So that was you, was it?’
The Vehmist beside him had taken the precaution of donning fine-mesh body armour beneath his gown before arriving. Not knowing that the Admiral’s favoured stiletto blow was a strike to the eye, he felt reasonably confident of survival. In the event, his trouble and present itchy discomfort in the heat were all wasted. Admiral Slovo prevailed in his supreme test, denying and overcoming the inner howl for revenge.
‘Sorry, yes,’ answered the Welshman. ‘You had potential, you see, but we had to find out what the world could make of you. For what we had in mind, a secure upbringing in the warm bosom of the family probably wouldn’t have been suitable.’
‘No,’ agreed Slovo, looking into a private middle-distance and speaking his words as though translating. ‘I can see that.’
‘It’s just a shame it was so hard on you personally,’ said the Vehmist, reasonable to the point of mockery.
‘Only to start with,’ Slovo reassured him.
‘Yes. That was noted at the time,’ agreed the Welshman, nibbling at a dried apricot. ‘You rapidly became endlessly adaptable – and that suited us very well.’
‘I’m pleased to hear my savage education gratified someone; tell me, who was reporting for you?’
‘Oh,’ mused the Vehmist, ‘a variety of people. Our first move was to replace the Orphanage Superintendent with one of our own folk.’
‘And what a sow she was!’
‘Only by necessity and only in your case, Admiral. Actually, she was quite a kindly person in normal life – I knew her well in her old age.’
‘I trust her death was attended with drawn-out pain and degradation,’ said Slovo.
‘No,’ replied the Vehmist. ‘It came very swift and merciful.’
Admiral Slovo looked away. ‘I’m heartbroken,’ he said.
‘Naturally, there were others. We would never rely on merely one opinion. Of course, your spectacular escape didn’t exactly make our task any easier. We lost you for a number of months.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that!’ said Slovo. ‘At the time, I had no idea I was inconveniencing anyone.’
The Vehmist smiled wryly, studying a flight of small birds winging overhead. ‘I dare say those whose throats you cut on the way were a trifle put out …’ he observed.
‘Mere youthful high spirits,’ explained Admiral Slovo, ‘added to a residual desire for justice.’
The Vehmist shrugged to signify his indifference. ‘Anyhow,’ he said, ‘there was no real harm done as far as we were concerned. We picked up your trail in Bohemia by dint of the local mayhem.’
‘Bohemian political life was ever thus,’ countered Slovo.
‘Quite so – but you added a delectable degree of style and art to the process. The refreshing change caught our local agent’s attention.’
In travelling memory lane, Admiral Slovo seemed to have found some consolation. His eyes looked on the sparkling sea with renewed favour. ‘I rather enjoyed life in that river-flotilla,’ he said. ‘Rising so fast entailed a lot of responsibility on my young shoulders, it’s true, but I found the work very … healing. Of course, between the Turk on one bank and the quasi-human frontier tribes on “our” side, we had quite a torrid time of it.’