Michael Moorcock: Gloriana

“Of what, your honour?”

“My gold, of course.”

“I’m no thief.” Captain Quire’s voice is cold, bored rather than offended.

The Saracen reaches for his winecup, watching curiously as two of the whores begin to lead Master Wheldrake up the stairs and around the gallery, into a passage. “Arabia gathers power daily,” says the young man significantly. “You would be wise to cultivate her merchants; to consider advantageous trading alliances. Our fleets dominate Asia, second only to Albion’s.”

Quire darts him a glance, searching for irony. The Moor raises a glittering hand and smiles to reveal more gold. “I speak of mutual gain, nothing else. It is well known how much our young Caliph loves Queen Gloriana. Her father conquered us, but she redeemed us. She gave us back our pride. We remain grateful. It is in our political interest to retain her protection.” There comes a sudden yell from below and the flames of the fire roar up for a moment; a lamp has been flung into the grate. Two bravos battle, cutlass and dirk, amongst the benches. One is tall and thin, in worn velvets; the other is of medium height, altogether a better swordsman, and, in his leathers, almost certainly a professional soldier. The Moor leans forward towards the rail, but Quire leans back, fingering his lantern jaw, bringing thick, black brows together, considering his own thoughts. Meanwhile Master Uttley the innkeeper, acts with habitual speed, rolling across the filthy floor to the door. He is round-faced, pasty-fleshed, this publican; there are black spots under his skin, like figs in duff, giving him a piebald look. The door is opened and the rooms begins to chill. Master Uttley clears the crowd, this way and that, a dog with its sheep, leaving an avenue for the duellists, who gradually back towards the door, then disappear, clashing, into the night. Master Uttley bars and locks the entrance. He glares towards the sputtering fire. He stoops to pick tankards and plates from amongst the rushes and sawdust. One of his whores attempts to help him, knocks his shoulder, and is cuffed with a jug before Uttley returns to his own den, immediately below the gallery where Captain Quire and the Saracen sit. The fire throws long shadows and the tavern becomes suddenly still. “Possibly we should seek a warmer place?” suggests the Moor.

Quire sinks further into his seat. “This is warm enough for me. You spoke of mutual advantage?”

“I assume that you have shares in ships, or at least command of a vessel, Captain Quire. There is information to be acquired in London which would be denied to me, but which could easily be available to you….”

“Aha. You want me to spy for you. To learn of ventures early so that you may send your own ships ahead, to catch the rival’s trade?”

“I did not mean to suggest that you spy, Captain Quire.”

“Spy’s the word, though.” A dangerous moment. Was Quire offended?

“Certainly not. What I suggest is common practice. Your own people do it in our ports.” He is placatory.

“You think I’m the sort to spy upon my countrymen?”

The Arabian shrugs and refuses the challenge. “You are too intelligent for this, Captain. You deliberately bait me.”

Quire’s thin lips part in a smile. “Aye, sir, but you’re not being frank.”

“If you think so, we’d best terminate our conversation.”

Captain Quire shakes his head. Thick, long ringlets swing from beneath his sombrero. “I must tell you that I own no interest in a ship. I command no ship. I am not even an officer aboard a ship. I am not a seaman. I serve with no company, either ashore or afloat. I’m Quire, nought else but Quire. Therefore I cannot help you at all.”

“Perhaps you could help me more.” Significantly, yet uncertainly.

Quire raises the shoulder nearest the Saracen and leans his chin on it. “Now you intend frankness, eh?”

“We would pay for any kind of information concerning the movement of Albion’s ships, whether military or civil. We would pay for rumours from the Court concerning official adventures. We would pay considerably for specific news of Queen Gloriana’s private converse. I’m told there are means of overhearing her.”

“Indeed, my lord? Who told you so?”

“A courtier who visited Baghdad last year.”

Quire draws in his lips as if considering all this. “I’m not rich, as you may observe.”

The Moor pretends that he has noticed this for the first time. “You’d be improved by a new suit of clothes, that’s true, sir.”

“You are not a fool, my lord.”

“I think that I am not.”

“And you guessed from the first I was neither master nor merchant.”

“There are men of a certain disposition in Albion who affect poverty. One cannot judge….”

Quire nods. He clears his throat. Along the gallery now comes a scrawny, snag-toothed villain wearing leggings of rabbit fur, a torn quilted doublet, a horsehide cap pulled down about his ears. He wears a sword from the guard of which some of the rust has been inexpertly scratched. His gait is unsteady not so much from drink as, it would seem, from some natural indisposition. His skin is blue, showing that he has just come in from the night, but his eyes burn. “Captain Quire?” It is as if he has been summoned, as if he anticipates some epicurean wickedness.

“Tinkler. You are just in time to be my witness. This is the Lord Ibram of Baghdad.”

Tinkler bows, leaning one filthy hand upon the table. Lord Ibram looks uncertainly from Tinkler to Quire.

“The Lord Ibram, I’ll have you know, Master Tinkler, has just insulted me.”

The Moor is at last on his guard. “That is untrue, Captain Quire!” He cannot rise, for the table stops him. He cannot leave without pushing past either Quire or Tinkler, who is evidently a familiar accomplice of the captain’s. “This is to be a quarrel, then,” he says, drawing a sleeve back from his right arm. “Premeditated?”

Captain Quire’s voice grows colder. “He has suggested I spy upon the Queen herself. He tells me that young Sir Launcelot Teale revealed to him a means of doing this.”

“Ah!” says Lord Ibram loudly. “You know everything. I am trapped. Very well.” He makes to push the table back but Quire holds it. “I admit I attempted to make a spy of you, Captain Quire, and that it was a foolish attempt-since you are plainly already a professional. But I trust you are also a good diplomat and will understand that if I am captured, or tortured, or slain, it will have repercussions. My uncle is brother-in-law to the Emir of Morocco. I am also related to Lord Shahryar, ambassador to Albion, who arrives shortly I’ll leave now, admitting my folly.” He manages to stand at last. He lets his robe fall away to emphasise the fact that he is armed. He has made a further mistake, for Quire grins quickly and triumphantly at him.

“But you have, after all, insulted me, Lord Ibram.”

Lord Ibram bows. “Then I apologise.”

“It will not do. I am a loyal subject of the Queen. She probably has few better servants than Captain Quire. You are not a coward, sir, I hope.”

“Coward? Oh! No, I am not.”

“Then you’ll allow me…”

“What? Satisfaction? Here? You want to brawl, do you, Captain Quire?” With a dark eye cocked, the Moor draws on a jewelled glove and lets the gloved hand fall upon the ornate hilt of his curved sword. “You and your accomplice hope to kill me?”

“I’ll make Master Tinkler my second and give you the opportunity to seek a second for yourself. We’ll find some private place to fight, if that suits you better.”

“You intend to fight fairly, Captain Quire?”

“I have told you, Lord Ibram. You have insulted me. You have insulted my Queen.”