CHAPTER 23
Once the crowds had departed, I went into the auditorium to sweep up the discarded tickets. I expected the place to be empty: most people had trains to catch and stragglers were unheard of in the City of Scoffers. I was doubly surprised, therefore, to see Wryneck sitting in one of the seats. He was lounging at the back of the stalls, and appeared to be scrutinising the arched ceiling.
When he caught my gaze he nodded.
‘The acoustics here are far superior to those in the cake,’ he remarked.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I don’t doubt it.’
He rose from his seat and began strolling around the auditorium. He peered at the pink chandeliers and classical decor. Then he went up to the grand tier and examined the quality of the upholstery. Finally, he mounted the conductor’s podium. He stood for a moment conducting an imaginary orchestra before joining me in the stalls.
‘This is the standard we’ll be seeking when the cake is restored,’ he announced.
Wryneck spoke as if we were continuing a conversation we’d broken off only a few minutes earlier, rather than renewing an acquaintanceship after several long weeks, but this was typical of him. He rarely bothered with such trifles as saying hello.
‘Enjoy the concert, did you?’ I asked.
‘Excellent,’ he replied.
‘How did you manage to get a ticket?’
‘On the black market.’
‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘you can buy anything here if you have the money.’
Despite Wryneck’s supercilious manner I was quite pleased to see him again. He was wearing his dandy coat, and the sight of it brought back memories of life in Fallowfields. I thought fondly of Whimbrel pottering around in the observatory; of Gallinule and his companions drinking in the Maypole; and of glorious sunlit evenings in the great library.
‘How’s Smew?’ I enquired. ‘Does he still have lemon curd for tea?’
‘He’s fine,’ replied Wryneck, ‘but the lemon curd ran out.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘So did the quince marmalade and the fortified wine.’
‘So you’re here for the black market, are you?’
‘No,’ said Wryneck, ‘I’ve come to find that young emperor of ours.’
The emperor! I’d forgotten all about him. His alleged antics at the university had led indirectly to all the recent upheavals: the occupation of the imperial capital; the resulting shortages; the displacement of the orchestra; not to mention my own sojourn here in the City of Scoffers. Yet for some reason he’d completely slipped my mind. It was odd to think that he was playing truant somewhere in the metropolis while the rest of us got on with our lives as best we could. Now, all of a sudden, Wryneck had turned up on a mission to find him and bring him to book. Or at least that was the presumed intention. His tone of voice certainly suggested he’d lost patience with our elusive sovereign. It transpired, however, that Wryneck wasn’t here simply to mete out chastisement. Seemingly, the person of the emperor was required for critical reasons of state.
‘We have reached a low ebb,’ Wryneck explained, ‘but there is a chance the situation can be saved. A few weeks back we received word that a great fleet of ships had landed on the western seashore. An envoy was dispatched and he returned with some remarkable news. The landing party claimed they were descended from the mariners who sailed into the west all those years ago. Evidently their forebears discovered a plentiful new world and soon became prosperous, but now some of them wish to return to the empire.’
Wryneck paused and smiled to himself before continuing.
‘These people aren’t a bit like us but they insist that they’re our closest cousins. I’ve met them and they appear to be very earnest, though I must say they take some getting used to. They speak in superlatives, they walk with a swagger and they constantly refer to themselves as “liberators”. Their wealth is derived from a range of processes we’ve never even thought of, and for some reason they want to share it with us. They took one look at the railway and instantly offered to buy it; they propose to restore the cake to its former glory; and they want to establish an automotive industry in Fallowfields.’
‘That’s all good news then,’ I remarked.
‘Good news indeed,’ said Wryneck, ‘except that they added a precondition.’
‘Which is?’
‘Greater Fallowfields must have a reputable cabinet headed by the emperor himself.’
‘So that’s why you’re here.’
‘Correct.’
‘How on earth are you going to find him?’
‘Good question,’ said Wryneck. ‘Obviously we can’t hope for any assistance from the local authorities: if we succeed they’ll have to give the orchestra back.’
‘Yes, I suppose they will.’
Wryneck glanced around the auditorium.
‘Actually, that’s why I came here tonight,’ he said. ‘I thought there was a possibility the emperor might wish to see his orchestra perform the famous ninth. The event has been advertised all over the city so he was bound to have known about it.’
‘Yes, he must have.’
‘Apparently, however, my high expectations were ill-founded: I saw nobody of his description.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘someone did sneak in just after the lights were dimmed. Maybe that was him.’
‘No,’ said Wryneck, ‘it was me.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’d been following a line of inquiry and it made me late.’
‘Did anybody check your ticket?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’d better have a look,’ I said. ‘I ought to know what these forgeries are like.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s a forgery,’ said Wryneck.
‘It must be,’ I retorted. ‘I was in charge of the box office and I wouldn’t have sold tickets to anyone who looked unscrupulous.’
‘See for yourself.’
Wryneck handed me his ticket and I examined it closely. True enough, it exactly resembled the tickets I’d been issuing all these weeks; which suggested that somebody had sold it under the counter.
‘But there’s only been me and Sanderling here,’ I said, ‘and he would never stoop to such depths.’
Wryneck regarded me for a long moment.
‘That reminds me,’ he said, ‘I need to speak to Sanderling about the arrangements for tomorrow.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘As a matter of fact I’m quite indebted to him: he’s really been most obliging during my search for the emperor. He helped me contact some dancing girls with whom he was intimate.’
‘Sanderling?’
‘No, the emperor.’
‘Good grief.’
‘I’ve been conducting interviews every afternoon between two and four.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet,’ said Wryneck, ‘but I intend to persevere.’
These revelations all came as a bit of a shock to me. Plainly Sanderling was a much darker horse than I’d imagined. Moreover, Wryneck was proving himself to be a very astute customer. Whether he’d taken matters into his own hands or was acting under Smew’s orders I wasn’t sure. Either way, it appeared likely that I’d soon be going back to Fallowfields to resume my seat in the cabinet; which meant I’d have to apply to Greylag for a travel permit. Technically he was still my employer, and I realised I needed to play this game very carefully over the next few days. Without any further explanation, Wryneck wandered off in search of Sanderling, leaving me to ponder his words.
So, Greater Fallowfields was to be liberated, was it? Well, perhaps; but I wondered at what price a final settlement would be achieved. These newcomers had begun making demands already, and I suspected that the empire was in danger of becoming a mere puppet state.
For the moment, of course, the whole subject remained in abeyance. Our priority was to find the emperor as soon as possible. The following day Wryneck renewed his investigations; I offered to accompany him but he politely informed me that Sanderling’s contacts were more valuable. The two of them departed shortly after breakfast.
Finding myself at a loose end, I dropped in on the musicians to see how they were getting on. To my astonishment the auditorium was deserted. In all the time I’d been attached to the orchestra I had never known them not to practise or rehearse, but today they were all absent. A short investigation revealed that some of them were still in bed, while others had gone sightseeing. Well, I had to admit they deserved it: they’d done nothing but work, work, work ever since I’d known them and clearly they needed a rest. What surprised me, though, was that they didn’t bother unpacking their instruments for the entire day. When they returned in the evening a good few of them had red faces and smelt of drink; it then dawned on me that they must have been out spending their wages. Obviously this would have been an experience for which they were poorly prepared, and doubtless they’d regret it in the morning.
I was then struck by a secondary thought: if the musicians were indeed going home, as now seemed probable, how would the new regime react to having an orchestra of serfs on its hands? Serfdom hardly fitted in with the idea of liberation as I understood it, and suddenly I pictured a lot of unanswered questions. Where, for example, would Greylag stand in all this?
It so happened he was difficult to track down too. Naturally, I expected him to exclude himself from any sort of holidaymaking, and guessed he would resort to the privacy of his study. Yet when I knocked on the door there was no reply. I noticed the door was off its catch, so gently I pushed it open and peered inside. The room was empty.
After some thought I remembered that Greylag had been greatly inspired by the railway engine we’d seen on our jaunt into the countryside; he’d composed some highly experimental music on the strength of it. Accordingly, I thought I might seek him out at the central station. When I got there the usual flurry of activity appeared to have abated slightly: although the coming and going never ceased, it was nowhere near the level I was accustomed to. A glance at the timetable told me a train was due to arrive from Fallowfields in the next few minutes, so I went to the designated platform. Sure enough, standing at the far end was a lone figure. When I drew nearer, however, I realised that it wasn’t Greylag, but Grosbeak. He stood immobile, except for an occasional glance at his pocket watch, and gazed steadfastly towards the west. I assumed he was waiting for a specific passenger or group of passengers; therefore, I stayed where I was and watched with interest. After another minute a whistle sounded in the distance. Then the rails began to hum as the train approached. Grosbeak continued to stand stock still, apparently lost in thought. I could now see the engine clearly: it had obviously received a new coat of paint recently and was gleaming in the pale winter sunshine. I also observed that it had been given a name: emblazoned along the side in bright gold lettering were the words EMPIRE OF FALLOWFIELDS.
The train pulled importantly into the platform, but when it came to a halt I saw that it was completely empty.
Dusk had descended when I returned to the concert hall. The lights in the foyer were glowing dimly, and from inside the auditorium I heard music being played. I looked in and saw Greylag sitting at the piano as if he’d been there all day. He was composing a nocturne by the sound of it, and every so often he would pause and make some changes to his manuscript. It was heartening to know that some things would never change in Greylag’s world. I decided this should be celebrated, so I went to the broom cupboard and collected a bottle of wine and two glasses. (The wine actually belonged half to Sanderling and half to me, but under the circumstances I felt he was hardly in a position to complain if I opened it.) I returned to the auditorium and poured a glass for Greylag and one for myself.
To my surprise Greylag refused his glass.
‘Not when I’m playing, thank you all the same,’ he said. ‘It seems somewhat unprofessional.’
So I sat under the pink chandeliers and drank alone, listening while Greylag resumed work on his nocturne. He was just about finished when Wryneck and Sanderling came back. It was very late and Sanderling looked quite flushed. The pair of them were disconsolate.
‘No luck then?’ I ventured.
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Wryneck. ‘The trail appears to have gone cold.’
‘We’ve tried everywhere,’ added Sanderling, ‘but nobody’s seen the emperor; not lately anyway.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘There’s only one solution,’ said Wryneck. ‘We’ll have to find a substitute.’