Michael Moorcock - Gloriana

He was unable to interpret his own state of mind; for this unexpected mood of hers had thrown him entirely off balance. He realised, with some astonishment, that he feared the mood, that he would do anything, pay almost any price, to lift it. And yet he had weathered worse humours in his time; why should he be so discomfited now?

It dawned on him, then, that he cared for her good opinion of him-or that, at any rate, he desired her to exhibit some kind of opinion. The desire was new. He sat up in bed and was considering waking her when, from several rooms distant, there came a shriek.

Gloriana was awake. “Eh?”

Quire began to scramble from the bed, pushing back the curtains. His long shift tangled his feet. He found his sword and went to the door to listen: a babble of women’s voices, coming closer. “Some maid,” he said. “A fit.” He opened the door. There was light in the rooms beyond-lamps, candles, torches. Shadows moving; women everywhere, like hens about a fox. A giant stumbled through a door. He staggered between the ranks of night-clad ladies; he was almost naked and blood pumped out of him from three or four wounds, falling on the writhing body of the little girl he held in his arms. It was the albino twin, the guard from the seraglio, and he was dying. Quire ran towards him. The girl was one of Gloriana’s children, perhaps the youngest. Gloriana took the child from the giant and said: “Do they fight? In there?”

Quire darted past the guard even as the man fell to his knees, then sprawled as the last of his blood burst from him. The little figure in his encumbering shift, the long Iberian sword in his right hand, ran into the semi-private rooms. He pulled back draperies, sought for the door to the seraglio and found it partly opened, broken by the giant’s weight, and he was squeezing past, running up the steps, hearing the screams ahead; through the dark gem-studded caverns he ran, with the deep carpets hampering his naked feet, to reach the door where the two guards had stood. The black twin was not at his post. Quire pushed through and was in the main seraglio, looking down at the giant’s corpse. “Arioch!”

Lurking bloodletters swarmed through the low-ceilinged vaults, slaying any that showed life. Even as Quire watched, the shrieks became fewer and fewer.

It was the rabble from the walls. They were slaughtering the entire seraglio. Already most of the poor, soft creatures were dead. A few ran here and there or hid themselves, whimpering; all the dwarves and geishas, the cripples and youths Gloriana had protected here in this menagerie of sensuality. A bewildered, lumbering ape-man crashed against a jewelled fountain and fell into the bowl, two long pikes sticking from his hairy back. A little boy ran past Quire, waving the stump of a severed arm. Elsewhere was butchery even more obscene: a hellish shambles.

The rabble had come through two or three of the secret entrances Quire thought only he had known about. He looked down the long central walk to the apartments where the children had been kept. There were corpses here, too, small and large: the girls and their guardians. Eight of the Queen’s nine children. Quire had known battlefields, ship-fights, massacres a-plenty, but never one as appalling. He was overawed by the scene. He moved through the knee-deep fresh-killed bodies, trying to speak.

Phil Starling came running towards him, all his bangles jingling on his oiled and painted body. “Oh, save me, master! Save me, Captain! I did not mean to let them in. I sought Alys!”

Quire made a movement to draw back, then realised Gloriana was behind him. He shrugged and went forward. “Phil-go through-quickly.”

But a scrawny swordsman had pounced, cutting Phil from the back of his neck to the base of his spine, opening him up as an expert fishmonger might open a sole. Phil fell forward, cloven, and was dead.

Phil’s killer stood over the body. He was panting, intoxicated by the terror of his own actions, searching for further eyes that might accuse him. He wore a fur cap, askew on his head, to match a twisted, snag-toothed face. His silk coat was all blood, as were his britches. Quire recognised him and cried:

“Tink!”

Tinkler blinked, motioned with his sword, looked hard through the semi-darkness. “Captain?”

Quire gathered himself. “Is it you leads this rabble?”

“In your name, Captain,” said Tinkler from force of habit. “In your name.” He began to gasp, as a man will who is plunged suddenly into cold water.

“Mine?” Quire moved his mouth in a horrible grin. “Mine, Tink?” Slowly he approached his servant. His voice was flat. “You brought them here and did this in my name?”

“Montfallcon gave me my instructions. He knew you had left me in charge of the mob-or guessed it. I don’t know. But you said to obey him. I could not find you, Captain. It was too dangerous to look for you. And then Montfallcon said that the Queen had ordered us to do it. That you agreed. It seemed he spoke the truth.” He looked past Quire to Gloriana. “He said that you desired the seraglio destroyed, Your Majesty. Did I do wrong?”

“Wrong?” Gloriana shared Quire’s hideous mirth. “Montfallcon…? Ah, vengeful, sullen Achilles!”

“Your Majesty?” Tinkler began to bow, as one who has accomplished a difficult task.

Then, with a cry both agonised and vengeful, Quire drew back his arm and drove his sword deep into his servant’s heart.

“Villain!” He sobbed. “Literal-minded sloplicker!” He withdrew the sword and aimed for another thrust.

The Queen was shouting at him. “No more! Call them off if you can. But no more death!”

Quire became calm as he lowered his sword above Tinkler’s twitching body. He cleared his throat and spoke loud and clear. “That’s enough, lads.” He knew he betrayed himself, gave her firm evidence of his connection with the rabble. “Come to me! This is your Captain. This is Quire.”

Slowly, in twos and threes, the weary ruffians presented themselves before him, almost eager, upon command, to pile their glistening swords at his feet.

He turned, saying to Gloriana: “I did not do this. Montfallcon ordered it.”

“I know,” she said, and went to find the palace soldiers.

As the rabble was led off, she and Quire squatted amongst the dead children, looking for life. There was none. He had expected arrest, with his men, but she had given no order of that sort, showed hardly any emotion at all as she looked into the faces of the girls she had borne. “This is what he meant, Montfallcon, when he asked me to give him permission to destroy ’all that was impure.’ And it was why he would allow no inspection of the walls. He used your mob against me. Against both of us, in a sense.” She sighed. “He asked my permission and I agreed. Do you recall me agreeing, Quire?”

He would not reply to her.

“It was my first true attempt at independent statecraft. I thought myself in command at last. Do you remember, Quire? I sent you away after that display.”

He nodded.

“I gave him permission to kill my children. My first decision.”

“You did not.” He reached out for her. Then his hand dropped. It was useless. He began to consider his own escape, certain that she must soon turn on him, realise the guilt he shared-for the mob and its commander had been his invention.

“Has Montfallcon been found?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Fled into the walls, it seems. Or perhaps somewhere in the East Wing.”

“Poor Montfallcon. I drove him to this.”

Quire saw two of the Queen’s older companions coming for their mistress. He stood up. He fingered his jaw. He wondered which route to take. He could go out to the town and hope for a ship-or go back into the walls, at least for a while: perhaps to search for Montfallcon and slay him. The Queen must soon grow vengeful. She was weeping now. She would want her scapegoat soon. The ladies who came to her were thrust back. She turned her dreadful face up to look into his. “Quire?”