James Roy - The Gimlet Eye

‘Good advice,’ Fontagu said. ‘I’m sorry, children, but this is grown-ups’ business. Grown-ups’ business for which I do not intend to be late. Goodbye.’ And with that said, he turned his back and strode away up the hill.

‘So…’ said Philmon.

‘This isn’t over,’ Tab replied.

‘Come on, Tab, it is over,’ Philmon said, gently pulling her away.

Tab yanked her arm free. ‘Philmon, tell me, what is the stupidest animal you know of?’

‘Stupidest?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know – a rat?’

‘No, rats are clever and cunning.’

‘Sheep?’

‘Well… kind of. But no. Here, watch this.’ She strode forward to where Jilka the street vendor was selling loaves of bread. A crowd of pigeons had gathered around, waiting for crumbs, and they only moved out of the way as someone approached the stall to buy something.

‘Hi, Jilka,’ she said. ‘Good sales today?’

‘So-so, Tab,’ Jilka replied.

‘Can you spare a crumb for an old friend?’

‘I can give you a whole loaf if you like.’ Jilka took a flat roll from the top of the pile and tossed it to Tab. ‘On the house.’

‘Thanks, Jilka,’ she said, tearing off a hunk and putting it into her mouth. As the crumbs fell around her feet, the pigeons, which were as bold as house pets, squabbled around her feet, pecking for the tiniest morsels.

Tab pulled off a small piece of bread and tossed it out into the middle of the street, and the pigeons turned and flapped after it. One at the front of the pack got there first, snatched up the bread in its beak, and flew away to eat in peace.

‘So?’ said Philmon.

‘Now watch,’ Tab said, pulling off another chunk and pretending to throw it. As she raised her arm, most of the pigeons rose into the air and tried to hover there, anticipating another offering of bread. When nothing came their way, they began to resettle on the ground.

‘Now, watch this.’ Tab bent and picked up a small, pale coloured pebble. She lobbed it gently away, and the pigeons spun as one and raced to be first to what they thought was more bread. One of them skidded up to the pebble, grabbed it with its beak, then dropped it suddenly.

‘See? Stupid.’

‘Fine, pigeons are stupid,’ Philmon agreed. ‘So?’

‘So we’re going to get into that palace after all. Come on.’

And she turned and trotted off up the hill towards the palace, with Philmon in confused pursuit.

‘I don’t understand,’ Philmon said.

Tab said nothing. Instead she frowned and looked around the Square of the People. Behind them was a newish fountain, and the statue in the middle was of Florian. It was quite a gruesome statue – it depicted a rather slim Florian holding up the head of some enemy or another, and the water in the fountain poured from the neck of the corpse at his feet. It was supposed to show the bravery and greatness of Florian, but pretty much everyone in Quentaris knew that Florian had never done anything brave in his life.

The fountain was of less interest to Tab than what was in front of them, however. Tall and imposing, the aft-side wall of the newest part of the palace was nearing completion. Some of the scaffolding was still in place, and was dotted with various workmen, who were busily adding gaudy gargoyles and decorations to the palace in time for Florian’s birthday. Over the last year the palace had gone from a grand but austere building to a huge, obscene monument to the huge, obscene ego of Florian. There was no end in sight.

‘Tab,’ Philmon said.

‘Shh,’ Tab replied. ‘I’m thinking.’

‘That guard over there is watching us.’

‘Let him watch. We’re not doing anything… yet.’

‘He doesn’t look Quentaran.’

‘He’s probably not. He’ll be one of those new guards that came aboard a couple of months ago.’

‘Oh yes, I remember. Was that -’

‘Shush! I’m thinking,’ Tab said. ‘Now, the new Great Hall is in there, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes, behind that wall with all the windows.’

‘Excellent.’ She smiled at Philmon. ‘I think I have a plan.’

Tab sat at the base of the fountain and leaned against it. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the statue. Besides, she wasn’t taking in the sights.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, as Philmon sat nearby to keep watch, and a pigeon on the other side of the square stopped pecking at the cracks in the pavement and stared into space with a glazed expression.

›››Don’t be alarmed

›››Good››Now, there’s something I need you to do

A moment later the pigeon rose into the air with a whirring coo, and flew up and up, past the scaffolding to one of the open panes at the top of the ornate window that provided so much natural light into the throne room of Florian the Great.

The thin-faced man in the velvet skullcap stopped in front of Fontagu and gave a very small, very unconvincing bow. ‘The Emperor will see you now.’

‘I should think so, too,’ Fontagu replied, slipping his long fingers under the gold-braid edge of his cape and giving it a flick. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here?’

‘You’d best show a little less of the superior attitude, if you know what’s good for you,’ the man in the skullcap advised. ‘The Emperor prefers to be the most important person in any room.’

‘Indeed.’ Fontagu’s throat was dry as he tried to swallow. ‘Of course. Thank you.’

The man nodded to one of the palace guards, who swung open the huge carved doors that led into Florian’s great chamber.

Fontagu gasped. It was a large room, full of shiny, ornate things, and people in expensive looking clothes, with shiny, ornate things hanging from them.

At the far end of the room, under the huge window, and flanked by a couple of statue-still guards, was Florian. His throne was made of marble, with a high carved back and a velvet seat-cushion. He lolled against one of the arms, his beady little eyes even more lost in his face than ever. The life of an emperor was a good one, especially the food he could ask for at any time, day or night. Evidently he asked for it day and night.

The man in the skullcap cleared his throat and announced the entry of Fontagu in his streaky voice. ‘Fontagu Wizroth, my lord.’

‘The Third,’ Fontagu muttered.

The man ignored Fontagu’s correction, choosing instead to bow low and back away to the side of the room.

Rather than speaking to Fontagu, Florian turned his head to address the tall young man who stood, hands clasped, beside the throne. ‘Janus, who’s this again?’ he murmured.

‘This is Fontagu, the actor.’ Janus said the word ‘actor’ with all the distaste of a contagious disease.

‘Oh yes, I remember.’ Florian sat up a little higher. ‘Come a little nearer, Actor,’ he said, in a louder voice.

Fontagu took another step closer, then dropped to one knee and bowed his head, just as he’d been instructed to do. ‘My lord, it is my truly great, great honour.’

‘Yes, yes, get up,’ Florian said, waving his hand lazily. ‘So, presumably you received Our missive?’

‘Your what? I mean, I don’t understand, my lord.’

‘Our missive. Our message. Our letter. Oh, never mind. You must have got it – you’re here now, aren’t you? So, what did you make of it?’

‘Your letter? Oh, I thought it was very good.’

Florian raised one eyebrow. ‘Good?’

‘Well worded. And the calligraphy was quite exquisite – did you do it yourself?’

‘What?’ Florian blustered. ‘Of course I didn’t do it myself! I’ve got… I mean, We have scribes to do that kind of thing!’