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.
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.
His little finger sought his hidden dagger but could not reach. He bit carefully at the gag, to chew it loose. He tested the ropes and the nets that held him. He listened hard to the voices of his captors, but there were only three now-two on the seat in front and one in the waggon beside him-and they were all three taciturn.
Because he was not dead (it would have been as easy for them to murder him there and then cart his body to the river) he guessed that a delayed death was to be part of his fate. Perhaps Montfallcon hoped to torture the hiding place of his Confession from him before he died. He determined to enjoy the agony as best he could-and to enjoy their frustration when he died. It meant, too, that he had a chance to live, to escape, for these fellows were not quick-witted. Mere Kent Street cutpurses of the lowest caste, they might be bribed, threatened or deceived, once his mouth was free. He wondered which lieutenant Montfallcon had commissioned to question him. There were none he had trusted to this sort of work for a long while, save Quire himself. Quire further determined that Montfallcon must personally supervise his torture and death, and this gave him so much satisfaction that he settled in the cart as comfortably as possible and, to the consternation of his captors, began to hum a tune through his gag.
At length the cart stopped; he was dragged from it and humped up a number of groaning wooden steps until a room was reached. It smelled very strongly of coffee and he guessed that he was therefore in one of the many Flax Hill coffee-merchants’ warehouses. Two of his captors departed, leaving one to guard him. Quire began to wriggle across the boards to see what happened. He received a kick in the back. He subsided. The door was opened
