again and he heard a soldier tread, the chink of spurs, as of a man in authority. The hood and then the blindfold were removed and Quire grinned around his gag, believing he would see Montfallcon, then grinned wider (and more painfully) when he recognised, instead, the Caliph’s envoy, Lord Shahryar of Baghdad, who smiled benignly back at him through a dark, carefully groomed beard and fingered the large curved dagger which hung by golden cords at his gown’s belt. He looked towards the ruffian who stood unseen behind Quire’s prone body. “This is Quire?”
“It’s Quire, sir.”
Coins changed hands and the ruffian was through the door and down the steps as if he feared to witness what followed.
The Arabian drew the dagger from its sheath and, with a menacing movement Quire found rather too obvious, set it against Quire’s throat before swiftly cutting the gag loose and allowing Quire’s grin to come to magnificent bloom. “I’m exchanged, am I?” He was abnormally incautious. “For some favour you’ve granted Montfallcon?”
Lord Shahryar was mildly surprised.
“I mean,” continued Quire, “that he’s delivered me up to you. If so, he grows senile, as I half suspect, for I could tell you many secrets, as you doubtless know.”
Lord Shahryar sheathed the dagger and straightened up, folding his gown fastidiously around him, touching his burnouse lightly with a finger almost solidly covered by gold.
“I’m not your man,” Quire said, deciding that he had admitted too much. “Why have you had this done to me?”
Lord Shahryar rubbed at the point where his jaw met his skull, just behind his left ear.
“You are evidently,” Quire continued with clever indignation, “a gentleman. You are not a vagabond out for ransom. Why am I captured, sir?”
“For several reasons, Captain Quire. You think Montfallcon betrayed you? Well, perhaps he did. And you know who I am-that I am the uncle of Lord Ibram, whom you lured into thinking he was fighting a duel, then slew in a most cowardly fashion.”
“You suspect me of murder! My lord!” Quire steadied his eyes. “Then I beg you, sir, place me in the hands of Sir Christopher Martin’s constables, that I may be given an honourable trial. I am a scholar, sir. I was on my way to the inn where I stay, when in London. Where my wife is, sir. Send a messenger. They’ll vouch I speak truth. The name is Partridge.”
Lord Shahryar smiled again. “Are you afraid, Captain Quire? Do you understand that you shall die, painfully and linger ingly-”
“You’ve the common touch in your wit, sir. I’m the victim of ajape, eh?”
Lord Shahryar displayed some impatience. “I thought you were, at least, a professional rogue and that you would not try to deceive me in such a naive fashion as this, Captain Quire. I know you killed my nephew.”
“Lord Montfallcon hates me. He is jealous of me. He told you, eh?”
“You seem eager to believe Montfallcon your betrayer. Why?”
Quire blinked, then shut his thin mouth tight.
“Montfallcon will not protect you,” continued Lord Shahryar thoughtfully, “if that is what you mean. And he will not much regret my killing of you, Captain Quire. Now what motive has Montfallcon in betraying you, d’you think?” The Saracen was shrewd, but Quire saw no harm in answering the truth:
“Because he sees me as a threat, perhaps.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m the better artist.”
“Spying, murder and betrayal as art.” Lord Shahryar found this idea attractive. “I suppose it is-as much as war is regarded as an art. I understand you, Captain Quire. You appear to be without rival in your chosen vocation.”
He had made, because of recent circumstances, something of a friend. Quire determined to die as quickly as possible, without torture, and tell the Moor every secret he had. He could be generous-as any artist is when praise comes from an unexpected quarter.
“You have a reputation, Captain Quire, for honesty in your own field.”
“I have. You’ll not find me lying, save for specific reasons.”
“Your word is said to be your bond.”
“I give it rarely and never without full consideration of what’s involved. I believe in the truth, you see.” Quire shifted across the floor and inched up so that he could lean against the crumbling plaster of the wall. “An artist’s life is full, by necessity, of ambiguity. It does not do to let ambiguity exist where it need not. Therefore truth and plain- speaking must be cultivated.”
“You’re a strange creature, Master Murderer. I believe you. Are you mad?”
“Most artists are thought so, sir, by those who do not understand them.”
“You’re a dreamer, then?”
“Perhaps. It depends how you use the word. I’d be free of these ropes, sir, if you please. Would you be kind enough to cut them off? The strands of the net in particular are prone to bite quite deep.”
“You’ll give me your word you won’t make an attempt to escape?”
“No, sir. But your rogues must still be below. I’ll promise to offer no harm to your person, which is, in reality, a better oath.”
“I think it is.” His eyes narrowing, the Saracen sliced at the bonds with short, cautious movements.
Quire took a deep breath and remained seated, rubbing at arms and legs. “I thank you, sir. Well, Lord Shahryar, I might or might not have been delivered up by Lord Montfallcon, but I know you’ve no immediate plans to kill me, so therefore you intend to bargain with me, eh?”
“I should kill you. To avenge my nephew.”
“Who was robbing you, as you were aware.”
“Blood is blood. How do you know I shan’t kill you yet?”
“There are rituals attendant to these things, sometimes unconscious, as there are to all things-preliminaries, the working of oneself into a particular humour, the tone of the voice. I’ve heard many a death-song in my time, my lord, and sung many. I think I know all the tunes men sing before they kill. Similarly there are songs-words, phrases, rhythms, melodies, even-sung by those who would be killed. Have you ever detected such a song, my lord?”
“I do not hear you singing one, Captain Quire.”
“I would not, my lord.” Quire stood up and walked towards a bench, half-covered with old coffee beans. He swept the beans away. They rattled on the bare boards and echoed in that empty room. Quire watched them bounce. He stooped, seeing his hat nearby. He picked it up and dusted at it. “I relish life.”
“And death?”
“Not mine.” Now that he knew he was safe, for a while at least, Quire had regained all the pride his encounter with Montfallcon had temporarily taken from him.
“How many have you killed, Captain, in Montfallcon’s service?”
Quire became vague. “You ask me a political, not a personal question.”
“How many have you killed? How many lives have you taken, in your career?”
“An hundred, at least. Probably more. That is, myself. Score have died in fights and such. But I remember only a few.”
“My nephew’s?”
Quire cupped his hand to his hidden ear. “Aha. I think I detect you tuning for that song I mentioned.”
Lord Shahryar shook his head. “I’ll assume you recall his death, since it was so recent.”
“I remember only my best work, not the run-of-the-mill stuff There was a little girl-part of a family-whom I skewered whilst coaxing information from her dam. But it sounds nothing retold thus, and I haven’t the poetry to make it live for you.”
“By what morality do you justify these killings?” Lord Shahryar asked an honest question, though his tone was neutral. “I should like to know.”
“Morality? None. Morality plays no part in it. That would be offensive, my lord. I have killed for every possible reason-pleasure and gold and subtle sensation; curiosity, revenge, to preserve my skin, and so on-save one: I’ve never killed for a moral reason.”
“Montfallcon must pay you very well. Where does your gold go?”
