Gloriana

THE TENTH CHAPTER

It seemed so permanent,” said Lady Lyst, kneeling on her window seat and looking down into the February morning. “I thought the snow had come to stay forever. Look, Wheldrake, it’s melting. See, crocuses and snowdrops!” She stared over her shoulder at her untidy room, scattered with books, papers, ink, instruments, dresses, bottles, stuffed animals and living birds, where her tiny crimson-combed lover strutted, in a black dressing gown, a sheet of paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Um,” he said. “Well, spring won’t be long now. Listen"-and he quoted the sheet:

“And Ada’s Ardour’s slowly growing cold

’Neath leaden hammer blows

Of Slavic Prose,

As picking at his Academic nose

He’ll pass in Public as a

Wit And Labouring Iron transmute to Gold.”

“Well, what d’you think? Got ’im, eh?”

“But I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said. “A rival poet? Really, Wheldrake, you become increasingly obscure and decreasingly inventive as times goes on.”

“No! It’s him! He grows obscure!” Master Wheldrake’s arms flapped as if some primitive pterosaur tried desperately to take to the air for the first time. “Not me!”

“You, too. And I don’t know him.” Her lovely blue eyes were wider than ever as they regarded him with a certain distant sadness; her lovely golden hair fell in unruly strands across her golden face. “And I doubt, Wheldrake, dear, from your tone, if he knows you.”

“Damn him!” Wheldrake stalked, as best he could, through the rubble of her room. Parrots and macaws cackled and fled for the thicker growths of ivy near the ceiling. “He’s rich-because he panders to the public. Makes ’em think they’re intelligent! Bah! While I’m here, forever, dependent on the Queen’s patronage, when all I want is her respect.”

“She said how much she liked the last Masque, and Montfallcon murmured of an imminent knighthood.”

“I’m wasting my time, Lucinda, writing indifferent attacks on rival poets, self-pitying verse against women who’ve rejected me, and earning my keep by writing elephantine, grandiloquent farts to be performed by the Court’s Philistines. My poetry, my old poetry, is slipping away from me. I lack stimulus.”

“Arioch, Wheldrake! I’d have thought you’d have had enough of that to last you through a hundred sonnets at least!”

He frowned and began his return flight, ink from his pen splashing upon her upturned chests and draperies, her half-read metaphysical tomes, crumpling the paper as he came. “I told you. No more scourges.”

She turned again to the window. She was neutral. “Perhaps you should return to your North country to your borders?”

“Where I’m even more misunderstood. I’d considered a journey to Arabia. I have an affinity I believe, with Arabia. What did you think of the Grand Caliph?”

“Well, he was very Arabian. He had a good opinion of himself, I think.” Lady Lyst vaguely scratched her ribs.

“He was confident.”

“Aye, he was that.” She yawned.

“He impressed the Queen, you could tell, with his exotic sensuality. So much more than poor, bumbling Poland.”

“She was kind to Poland,” said Lady Lyst.

“Yet both departed, frustrated in their ambitions, with Albion unconquered. They made the mistake of laying siege when they should have delivered themselves as captives at her feet.”

Lucinda Lyst was dry. “You invent a Gloriana for yourself, I think. There’s no evidence…”

He blushed so that skin and hair were, for one radiant moment, of the same colour. He began to uncrumple his satire. A maid came in. “A visitor, your ladyship. The Thane.”

“Good. It’s the Thane, Wheldrake. A fellow countryman.”

“Scarcely.” Wheldrake sniffed and came to join her on the window seat, lounging a little theatrically, unaware that he had exposed a scrawny knee.

Gaunt but hearty, in strode the Thane of Hermiston, in flapping philibeg and monstrous bonnet, his sporran slapping and his hands already on his hips as he jutted out his red beard and grinned down at the couple. “Ye’re a pretty pair, just fresh from yer beds, eh, like lazy kittens. Well, well, well!”

Wheldrake brandished his accomplishment. “I have been writing, sir, a poem!” His voice squeaked with passionate indignation. “It has taken me all morning!”

“Oh, has it indeed? It has taken me all morning, Master Wheldrake, to cross five worlds, just to come here to pay a call upon old friends.”

Lady Lyst clapped her hands once, then paused, startled by the sound. “And what have you brought back from those metaphysical regions?”

“Your usual rude romances?” Wheldrake was sceptical. “Tales of gods and demons, of swords and sorcery?”

The Thane of Hermiston ignored the jibes. “I thought I’d captured a beast, but when I arrived here, it was gone. I intend, later, to confer with Master Tolcharde, who invented the carriage in which I travelled to those spheres.”

“A carriage pulled by spirits, eh?” said Wheldrake. “The spirits which drugged you and made you dream.”

The Thane laughed heartily. “I like ye, Master Wheldrake, for ye’re a fine sceptic, like meself I’d brought this beast, I told you. A great reptile. A veritable dragon. ‘Tis called an aligarta.”

“Virginia has them in her southern counties,” said Master Wheldrake. “They swarm in the swamps and rivers. Huge beasts. I have seen one stuffed. Like the Tigris crockodyl.”

“But this is bigger,” said the Thane, and sulked. “Or was,” he added. “Master Tolcharde’s carriage rocked and roared so, and I’d swear its invisible attendants played tricks upon the poor mortal they escorted. I caught my head a terrible blow, having already battled two demi-gods and survived unscathed.”

“By Hermes, sir, I’ll never know if you believe it all, inspired by that foul distilled grain you drink, or if you lie because you think it entertains.”

The Thane took this well. “Neither, Master Poet-it’s simpler. I tell the truth. I had a unicorn, too, but it was eaten by the aligarta.”

“You journey through lands that are nought but mere metaphors! The sort we poets can invent daily!”

“But I’m no poet to invent such places. I visit ’em, instead. Lady Lyst, d’ye come with me to Master Tolcharde’s manufactory?”

“I’ll dress.”

“I’ll come too.” Wheldrake was jealous, though he knew the friendship was innocent. “Unless there are secrets the chosen alone may share.”

“There are no secrets, Master Wheldrake-only knowledge. It is the open knowledge men always reject, though they look everywhere for secrets.”

As they dressed, the Thane poked about the room, picking up half-written theses, abandoned by Lady Lyst, opening books of philosophy and mathematicks and history, on alchemy and astronomy, being interested by none of them. He was a man of action. He preferred to test a metaphysical guess with the point of his sword if possible. Out they came again, Lady Lyst in rumpled blue silk, Master Wheldrake in black velvet, the pleats of his ruff unstarched and hanging loose around his throat, and they followed the gaudy Thane as he marched from the apartments, through the royal corridors, up the royal staircases, along the royal galleries, until they reached an older part of the palace, the East Wing, and could detect acrid smells, as of smelting iron and cooking chemicals, took one wide, near-derelict marble staircase, two flights of granite steps, and came to a gallery hung with faded lace, with a great dusty fanlight above it, to let in the morning’s watery rays, to a tall door which, in contrast to the roof and columns of the gallery, was cast in an ancient near-barbaric mould, the pointed style, with pitted timber, brass and black iron.

Upon this the Thane of Hermiston flung a fist, so that it shook and rattled and was opened almost immediately by a bespectacled, blinking youth, one of Master Tolcharde’s many apprentices, in leather apron and shirt-sleeves, whose scowl cleared as he recognised the Thane. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning to ye, Colvin. Is your master at his business or can we enter?”

“He’s expecting you I think, sir.” Young Colvin stepped aside and they all filed in, to dusty gloom, while he closed the door carefully behind them and locked it. A little smoke drifted into the ante-chamber, almost as if brought by curiosity to spy upon the visitors. Yellowed astrological tables peeled on the walls, while below them were stacked dusty, unused boxes and books. The smell was more intense, and Wheldrake began to cough, putting a kerchief to his mouth, afraid he might choke to death, coming last as they continued through several such chambers which opened out eventually into a vault so filled with curling copper tubing that it seemed they inhabited the guts of some extinct leviathan. Through this rococo maze they could see a bench on which retorts belched and, on the far side of the bench, a small, sharp-featured man with a fixed, unnatural grin, who sat watching the retorts and saying not a word.

Master Tolcharde appeared from behind a great copper sphere on which he had been hammering. “With this machine, Hermiston, I intend to send you off through Time!”

“Not today, I hope, Master Tolcharde.”

“Not for months. There is still a great deal to do, both theoretically and mechanically. Doctor Dee is aiding me. He’s not with you?” Master Tolcharde’s fanatical and friendly eyes rolled this way and that. He exposed his broken teeth in an enquiring grin. He wiped his bald head, on which sweat gathered.

The Thane shook bonneted locks. “But who’s this?” A thumb for the little man on the other side of the bench.

“A traveller. He came here not long since, by means of a glowing pyramid which dissolved and stranded him.”

Master Wheldrake turned away, studying his own features in the gleaming copper of the globe. “So there’s an exchange between the worlds?”

“Aye,” Master Tolcharde innocently responded. “The Thane brings many back-but many are taken, too. And some come and go without help of either the Thane or myself. If you would see some of the creatures…”

Master Wheldrake raised a wing. “On another day, sir. I would not waste your time.”

“But I am always willing to instruct those whose search for Truth is genuine.”

“Instruct me later, Master Tolcharde. You were telling us about your visitor.”

“His name is Calhoun and he claims to be from the White Hall-to be a Baron, indeed. He understands much of my scientific philosophy, but little of ought else. He’s sympathetic enough, however, of the same kidney as myself. But mad, d’you see? Aha! Here comes Doctor Dee.”

In brown, with white points jutting from chin and neck, the great sage strode, greeting all with some gusto until his eye fell upon Lady Lyst and he became embarrassed. “Very pleasant…I regret I did not…?”

Lady Lyst drew her brows together. She could think of no explanation for this display. “You promised me something, Doctor Dee?”

“Oh, madam, I beg thee…” He cringed. “I beg thee!”

Lady Lyst’s great eyes grew rounder still. “I’m at a loss, sir, but if my presence is unwelcome to you, I’d be pleased to leave.”

“No, no. It is an honour to have so famous an intellect among us. Indeed, there is someone"-he looked behind him, through the curling tubes-"there he is-you must meet, if you have not already.” Doctor Dee appeared to turn purple for a few seconds. He pushed an index finger between ruff and throat. “Harumph! Your Majesty!” In the darkness a voice cried:

“Here, Dee!” In a strong accent.

“King Rudolf. We are gathered near the sphere.”

It was the young Scientist King of Bohemia, strolling enthusiastically towards the bench to peer upon the retorts, his hands behind his back, clad in hunting green; doublet and britches and peaked cap. “What’s this?”

“I would introduce you to Lady Lyst.”

King Rudolf looked up with a smile. “We are old friends. We corresponded some years ago, when Lady Lyst’s first treatise was published in Prague. And we have spoken once or twice since I’ve been visiting the Court. I am most flattered to be in such company. And we have met, also, I believe, Master Wheldrake. I admired your poems. Though lately, I’ve seen little-”

“I am dead!” pronounced the miniature poet. “That is why. I have been dead for a long while.”

“Then you have come to Doctor Dee for resurrection?”

Doctor Dee smiled. “My reputation is a burden, Your Majesty. Many come with just that request-on behalf of relatives and loved ones, of course. But if you are right, then Master Wheldrake’s the first who’s asked in person.”

Wheldrake leaned his stiffening body against the curve of the globe.

“Perhaps you should ask Master Wheldrake to attend the Court of Bohemia,” suggested Lady Lyst. “He claims we’re Philistines here. And it’s well known that the Elfbergs are great artists in their own right-and scientists.”

Doctor Dee clapped the King on the back. “And this is the finest Elfberg of them all. Soldier, poet, scientist!”

“And I fear, a dreadful dilettante.” The Bohemian King was charming. (He had published three excellent books of verse, two scientific treatises and a work on natural history, and had led the successful Macedonian campaign against the Tatar Empire some five years before.) Wheldrake loathed him mightily and consoled himself with a brooding line or two (How condescending is this King/Who turns his hand to every thing/Let’s lesser folk his praises sing).

“Not as a scientist,” said Wheldrake aloud.

Lady Lyst looked about the laboratory. “Perhaps we should offer the King hospitality, Master Tolcharde?”

“Eh?”

“A drink of wine, perhaps?” said Lady Lyst. “Have you some?” She added: “Or anything?” She picked up a large phial. “This?”

“That’s the urine of a pregnant toad,” Master Tolcharde said. “I don’t think it’s alcoholic.”

Doctor Dee was helpfully knowledgeable. “Not urine, no. There are few kinds of urine which are.”

Lady Lyst had moved away from the bench, into the shadows, peering into alcoves. “What are these?”

“They are some of my mechanical comedians. I’m intending to make a whole set, then present them to the Queen.”

The metal figures, life-size, swung like corpses on a gibbet, and clanked a little: Columbine, Pierro, Captain Fracasse, Scaramouche-the latest costumes, the figures of the fashionable Comedie Parisienne, in bright brass, silver and glowing enamels.

“Excellent,” murmured Lady Lyst. She bent and picked up a dusty flask from the floor. “How do you give them life?”

“Cogs and springs, Lady Lyst, according to my own design.” He patted a dangling leg, which seemed to twitch. He reached up to turn the elaborate puppet; it stared, with an impression of dignity, into the space above his head. “There are rods, yet, to be positioned-and a mainspring-otherwise I would demonstrate.”

The Thane of Hermiston had flung an arm around King Rudolf’s shoulders and was pointing out some of the features of a baroque iron carriage on the far side of the vault, while Colvin kindly helped the senile Baron Calhoun from his chair and away into an ante-chamber. Doctor Dee joined Lady Lyst and Master Tolcharde to stare up at a silver-skirted Columbine as yet lacking hair, pirouetting, as if on an invisible surface.

“And who can say, Master Tolcharde, when your work is finished, whether these creatures are any less alive than we, of fresh and blood?” Doctor Dee became momentarily introspective. “Flesh and blood.”

“Ah,” said Master Tolcharde. “Indeed.” He rubbed, in a perplexed way, at his glinting head.

Doctor Dee cocked a significant eye. “And how goes your other work, Master Tolcharde…?”

“The sphere?”

“No, no. The work you do for me.”

“Of course!” Master Tolcharde exposed his potion-stained teeth. “Almost ready, Doctor Dee. The final stages, however, must be left to you.”

“I understand that.” Doctor Dee brightened. “So it goes well?”

“Modestly, I must say that it is probably my finest creation. My skills, my ideas, seem at their peak. Inspiration comes, as ever, fast and furious, but increasingly I have the means of translating that inspiration into disciplined, practical invention. The Queen’s praise, as always, spurs me. She was very pleased with the little falcon, so I heard, Lady Lyst.”

“I heard the same. A pity you gave it no homing instinct. It flew off, over Norbury Woods, in pursuit of a plover, and never returned.”

“They are easily made. I’ll produce another soon.” Contentedly Master Tolcharde turned back towards his benches.

Master Wheldrake handled a silver-framed mirror, of polished quartz, in which he saw his own bird-like features reflected and distorted. “A magic mirror, Master Tolcharde?”

“From the West Indies.” Doctor Dee took it. “Brought by Sir Thomasin Ffynne. Part of some Iberian booty, I gather, and originally used for summoning the images of gods (or demons) by the priests of the Ashtek Empire. Up until now we have had no success with it. It is always difficult, and sometimes dangerous, in these cases, to try incantations and potions at random. But we persevere, Master Wheldrake, in the Cause of Science.” He placed the mirror into a box of plain, polished wood and put the box under his arm. “The King seems ready to stay awhile. I’ll let the Thane escort him and get on with my appointments. I thank you, Master Tolcharde, for your good news. Lady Lyst.” He bowed. “Master Wheldrake.”

His brown gown lifting, as if he were about to ascend into the air, he hurried through the tangle of tubes towards the door.

Making the long, complicated journey back to the modern court, Doctor Dee left the old part of the palace behind and had reached the brighter, airier atmosphere of the Long Gallery when he came upon two of his fellow ministers in conversation with Sir Thomasin Ffynne himself The admiral wore plain black and white and was dressed for the open sea rather than the Court, in contrast to the lavish brocades, starched ruffs, puffed velvets, stomachers and chains of his companions, Lord Ingleborough and Lord Montfallcon.

Montfallcon’s bow to Dee was small and stiff, but Ffynne greeted him with the somewhat patronising good humour he usually reserved for Dee, whom Sir Thomasin regarded as a harmless and pleasant old eccentric serving the Queen rather as a jester might. “Good morrow, Doctor Dee! How go the spells and charts?” He had made use of Doctor Dee’s excellent geography more than once and, in return, had added information to the sage’s store.

“You are returned from another voyage, Sir Thomasin?”

“Your sense of dates is not your strongest point, Dee.” Tom Ffynne’s shrewd eyes shrank as he laughed and stamped his ivory foot upon the marble tiles. “I’ve been back from the Indies scarcely more than a month. No, I’m off this morning to trade with Tatary and take tolls from any Iberian ships I find in the waters we protect. I’ve come from the Queen a few moments since.” He held up a packet. “And have my documents. Now I bid farewell to my old friends. The Tristram and Isolde awaits me at Charing Cross, and the river’s free enough of ice to make the journey to the sea. So I go while I can. A month on land’s too much for me. I’ll keep an eye out for trinkets, Doctor Dee, of the sort you seek.”

“I’m always obliged to you, Sir Thomasin.” With a nod to Ingleborough and Montfallcon he was bustling on. “A safe journey, sir. Farewell! Oh! My apologies, boy!” He had bumped into Patch the page. “It’s you. Good lad. Charming. Farewell!”

Patch moved to be closer to his master. Ingleborough smiled fondly. “Are you harmed, Patch? What a blunderer is Dee!”

“In all things,” agreed Lord Montfallcon, scowling at the brown robe as it turned a corner, “save cunning. It pains me that he should so influence the Queen.”

“But in no important way,” said Tom Ffynne. “And, besides, my navigation’s considerably improved by his knowledge. He is not altogether a fool. He has done much for the mariner, Perion.”

Lord Montfallcon ignored this unwelcome praise. He folded his arms upon his broad old chest and looked down at his friend. “You must be careful, Tom, to abjure piracy. Particularly in the Middle Sea where witnesses abound. And no Moorish ships. No ships of Poland-and none, of course, of Tatary at this time.”

“That leaves Iberia, the Low Countries, a few independents…”

“Fair game, surely,” said the Lord High Admiral, in thoughtless support of a disappointed Ffynne. Absently, with a gnarled hand, he stroked the head of Patch. “Eh?”

“You know the rule, Tom. Do nothing to embarrass the Queen. Do nothing to bring shame to Albion. Do nothing to complicate my diplomacy.”

Tom Ffynne let loose a high-pitched chuckle. “Oh, aye-do nothing, in short. Methinks, I’ll stay in the Narrow Sea and try a little fishing. If the herring nation is still uninvolved in your plots, Perion!”

Montfallcon was adamant. “I know you will respect the Queen’s honour, Tom.”

Ingleborough nodded, becoming grave. “Albion is an example to the world.”

“I’ll remember. Well…” He put out two scarred, strong little hands and gripped the arms of his friends. “Let not the air of this peaceful Court lull you too softly or you’ll sleep so well you’ll never wake. And look to your health, Lisuarte.”

Ingleborough touched his pale cheek. “I merely suffer the common ailments of the winter. When you return, Tom, I’ll be ruddy and as active as ever.”

Then Sir Thomasin Ffynne turned on his ivory heel and rolled, clack-slap, clack-slap, away.

Montfallcon and Ingleborough, with the beautiful lad following a yard or two behind, continued their journey, upon a constitutional they often made when exercise outside was impossible, and their steps took them gradually from the populated, busy corridors of the palace towards the East Wing, into the parts John Dee had recently left behind, though they went deeper, through wider, vaster halls, full of decaying pageantry-banners, armour, weapons-dull and dusty, into the echoing gloom of that cathedral of tyranny, the Throne Room of Gloriana’s father, King Hern, where rats ruled now, and spiders danced their precise, oft-repeated steps; where shadows moved, scuffled, and were gone. Here only one beam of light entered directly: it fell upon a mosaic floor silvered by the trails of slugs and snails. In that pool of light Hern’s captives-any prisoner or perhaps a courtier who had fallen from favour-were once displayed to those who, with Hern, hid themselves in the shadows. The throne remained; its shape asymmetrical, its back like a warped half-globe, on a dais reached by thirteen black steps. Here Ingleborough and Montfallcon came to remind themselves of the iron past they had plotted to destroy and against the return of which they still worked. It was cold; but the two old men remembered when braziers had burned in the glooms, their bloody coals stinking and hissing. They remembered the whisperings, the vengeances planned and taken, the poison, the corruption of any innocent spirit who ventured into this arena.

Their human figures were dwarfed by obsidian statues of grotesque and anthropoidal aspect-brooding statues, perhaps still dreaming of the heated, morbid and fantastical past, when Hern’s Throne Room rang with the wailing of wretched victims and the coarse laughter of the drunken, the degenerate and the despairing, too fascinated or too frightened to depart from the addictive atmosphere accompanying the indulgence of self-hating Hern’s horrible appetites.

The place disturbed Patch, who moved closer to his master and took his hand, for comfort. “Was King Hern mad?” he whispered. “Was he, sir?”

“His madness brought wealth to Albion,” Montfallcon answered. “Possessions of all kinds. For though he had no political ambition, in the ordinary sense, he encouraged such rivalries amongst his courtiers that they were forever adding to their own wealth and Albion’s. However, towards the end, it was almost certain that everything would be lost. Our enemies were ready to snatch them from us, for they thought we should have civil war on Hern’s death. Instead, young Queen Gloriana ascended the throne-thanks to the efforts of men like your master and myself-and in the thirteen years of her rule our world has changed from a realm of dreadful darkness into one of golden light.”

“The only pity of it all,” said Ingleborough sadly, “is that we should have been touched by Hern’s madness. There isn’t one of us from that time who was not in some way corrupted, distorted or harmed.”

“Not the Queen!” insisted Montfallcon.

Lord Ingleborough shrugged.

“And not you, sir!” said Patch to his master in loyal astonishment.

“Lord Montfallcon and myself served King Hern and served him well, make no mistake. But we dreamed of a nobler future, Albion’s Periclean Age, if you like. We guarded Gloriana as the symbol of our hope, turning the King against those who supported him most strongly, filling his poor mad brain with evidence of plots against him so that gradually he destroyed the worst of his supporters and employed the best-men like ourselves who had no stomach for the things that went on daily in this room.” Ingleborough sighed and hugged the boy to him. “And the Queen has nine children, none of whom are legitimate. It terrifies me. She will not deny that they are hers. She cannot name the sires. If she should die…oh, it would be Chaos. Yet, if she should marry…”

“Strife,” said Montfallcon. “Sooner or later. Certainly, if it were a man of Albion, such as we should wish, it would silence certain tongues. But she’ll only marry the one who will bring her to-who will give her peace…. And none has ever succeeded.” He looked up at the grinning statues. “Gloriana falls-and Albion falls back to this-or worse-inturned, cynical, greedy, unjust and weak-we should become small again and we should rot. Arabia wishes to preserve what we have gained, there’s no question of it-but Arabia would rule Albion, and thus disaster would come, inevitably. Arabia is too intractable, too proud, too masculine…. We survive through the Queen, her character, her very sex. She fills our people with her own idealism, with a sense of all that is best in Albion. Indeed, she infects the world. But as some men would drag the sun from the heavens so that it might be theirs alone, so do some who love Gloriana most see her as the fulfillment of their private desires: unable to see that Albion created her as much as she has created this Albion, and that if they destroy the root they destroy the blossom, too.”

“Is there no Prince, I wonder,” said Ingleborough, “in all the world, who would give himself to Albion so that he might then win Gloriana?”

“None we have met.” Montfallcon turned suddenly, thinking he had seen a tall figure moving behind the statues. He smiled at himself. “And no one who matches nobility of spirit with the means of comforting the Queen. By Xiom-barg! Enough have tried, Lisuarte. Soon, I think, she must reconcile herself.”

“I fear a reconciled Queen might also become a moody Queen-a careless Queen-for I have it in my mind that Albion and Gloriana’s circumstance are interdependent-that should she ever lose hope, then Albion’s hope, too, vanishes.” Ingleborough led Patch by the hand from the old Throne Room. Montfallcon hesitated for a moment before following them.

As they left there came a rustling behind the throne itself and, cautiously, the ragged, unkempt frame of the mad woman rose to stand with one hand upon the chair’s black arm, poised on tip-toe, alert in case they should return. Then she danced gracefully down the steps, curtseyed once to the empty throne, and drifted away into the shadows as mist might join smoke.

Jephraim Tallow, who had been following her, emerged, standing with hands on hips, cat on shoulder, to look about him. He had lost the mad woman.

“Well, Tom, she’s led us nowhere. I’d hoped for a pantry, at least. I think we’ve exhausted her possibilities as a guide and must find some other old inhabitants to show us more secrets.”

He stalked to where a narrow stair ran up the wall to a gallery. He climbed. He found a bell-shaped arch and went through, crossing a narrow bridge with a parapet higher than his head. Above was darkness. Below were echoes, perhaps the sound of water. He walked quickly, found more steps and then was opening a door which took him onto a little balcony, set into a tower, and he was in daylight. He shivered, glancing down once at the two figures far below in the garden, before he went inside again.

Oubacha Khan, son of the Lord of the Western Horde and ambassador from Tatary to the Court of Gloriana the First, clad in a long ponyskin coat that reached to his ankles, ponyskin boots that reached to his knees, and a cap of chain mail lined with wool, was walking the grey garden with the Lady Yashi Akuya, who, kimono-clad, was forced to take several little steps for every stride of his but, since she was secretly in love with the thin Tatar, she bore all discomfort (including the cold) with an eager smile. Tatary and Nipponia had long been traditional enemies, which was why the two found one another’s company so comforting at this alien Court.

Certain that they were not observed in their distant and forgotten garden, they spoke casually of the matters most frequently upon their minds.

“Last night it was the little ones again, and the swimming pool,” the Lady Yashi Akuya informed Oubacha Khan, “or so I had it from my girl.” (She had introduced a geisha to Gloriana’s seraglio and now the geisha sent regular reports.)

“Followed by some obscure activity involving toy sheep, as I understand it,” said the young Khan, fingering long moustaches and causing Lady Yashi Akuya to blush. He maintained his own spy, Maurentanian, to keep him informed not of Gloriana’s specific amusements (if amusements they were) but of her condition, of her state of mind and her state of health. Several nations pursued a theory of diplomacy based very closely on their own interpretations of Gloriana’s private misery.

“But without result, as usual,” added the Lady Yashi sympathetically. She suffered much as Gloriana suffered, but rather less intensely. Also, she was convinced that she would soon know the pleasures of orgasm, when Oubacha Khan at last decided to have his will with her.

“She remains frustrated.”

The Nipponian ambassadress made a small noise through her rounded lips.

“And no suggestion that either Poland or Arabia visited her secret apartments?”

“None. Though both were eager. Attempts were made. Notes were sent, and the like. But in the end Poland left, assured of a sister in the Queen, while Arabia consoled himself with a page or two and-this is a mere rumour-the Countess of Scaith.”

“He hoped the Countess would provide a way to Gloriana. We can reasonably guess that it was with this in mind that he broke a lifetime’s habit.” The Tatar ambassador uttered a frosty chuckle to disguise the jealousy he felt. Although he had absolutely no ambitions concerning the Queen, he had for two years entertained a passion for her closest friend and would have courted her long since, had he not, when leaving home, taken the vow of celibacy demanded of all Tatar nobles who went as emissaries to foreign lands.

“And yet,” said Lady Yashi Akuya enthusiastically, “both Arabia and Poland appear to have committed themselves even more closely to their alliance with Albion.”

The Tatar nodded. “It is a tribute to Gloriana’s innocence and Montfallcon’s guile. I had thought, by ensuring Lord Shahryar’s discovery of the truth concerning Montfallcon’s part in his nephew’s murder, that I had provided a substantial subject for contention, but evidently Arabian ambition is so great they would relinquish all honour if it meant one slender chance of winning the Queen.” He was disapproving now. “If such a thing had happened to a Tatar, vengeance would have been taken immediately, no matter what the political gains at stake.”

Extended lashes fluttered. “Honour is not dead,” she said, “in Nipponia, either.”

He put habitual prejudice behind him. “The Nippon Isles are a synonym for selflessness,” he told her generously. “Our two nations stand alone as upholders of the old values in a world where pacifism has become a creed in itself. I am all for peace, of course-but a proper peace, won by victorious arms, a well-deserved rest after manly conflict. Battle clears the air, decides the issues. All this diplomacy merely complicates, confuses and suppresses problems a decent war would bring immediately into the open. The victors would know what they had won and the vanquished would know what they had lost-and everyone would have a perfectly good idea of their position, until things became cloudy again. As it is we know that Arabia wants nothing more than to go to war with Tatary but Albion frustrates her, and that is why Arabia grows degenerate, because her energies are not naturally employed.”

They had reached the door which led into Lady Yashi Akuya’s quarters. “How refreshing it is,” she said, “to listen to such direct and healthy talk. Would you consider it self-indulgent if I invited you to talk with me so that I might listen a little longer to your thoughts?”

“Not at all,” replied the Khan. “I am flattered by your interest.”

She stepped aside to admit him to a room which was, like all her rooms, excessively black and white. “And you must tell me more about the Arabian murder.” She clapped her hands for her servants to come to take Oubacha Khan’s tawny coat. “Montfallcon did it, you say?”

“His creature.”