Magnus Mills - A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

‘I really think you should be careful when you criticise the empire,’ he replied. ‘It may only be a casual observation but you never know who could be listening.’

‘Don’t tell me you believe all that nonsense about treason?’

‘Well, you heard what Wryneck said.’

‘Take no notice of Wryneck!’ I snapped. ‘He only raised the matter because he’s got nothing better to do!’

‘Yes,’ conceded Whimbrel, ‘he does appear to have rather a lot of spare time on his hands.’

‘Besides,’ I added, ‘this is a thoroughly benign empire. It’s all jumbled and disorganised; we have a vast hierarchy with serfs at the bottom and the emperor at the top, but in between there exists a pecking order that’s vague and unfathomable to say the least; shopkeepers, publicans and postmen happily inconvenience officers-of-state whenever it takes their fancy; we have no police force; no army or navy; no tax collectors; and, finally, the emperor doesn’t even bother to turn up for cabinet meetings.’

‘Hmm, I see what you mean,’ said Whimbrel. ‘Treason would be pointless.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘There’s no tyranny to overthrow.’

When I approached the cake I heard music playing in such plangent tones that for an instant I was stopped in my tracks. Had some tragedy occurred, I wondered, of which I was yet to be informed? It was certainly a day for such thoughts. Dark clouds were blowing in from the east on a wild and bitter wind, while all the trees rustled with their dead leaves.

The playing stopped. I waited and listened and after a time it resumed again. Now I could hear the plaintive sound of a lone oboe. It reminded me of a despondent cry in some remote region far beyond my reach.

I was almost tempted to turn back and leave Greylag to continue his work uninterrupted; he was obviously making excellent progress with the overture. I decided, however, that as Principal Composer I should at least show my face occasionally. Therefore, I opened the postern door and went in.

The lone oboe had now been joined by several others, and gradually they built on the theme he had been developing. I arrived in the orchestra pit just as they embarked on a shrill rampage that took them into battle with the piccolos and flutes. Moments later the trumpets appeared as if to separate the squabbling woodwind. Then Greylag noticed me and brought them all to a halt.

‘Carry on, if you like, Greylag,’ I said. ‘It sounds marvellous.’

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ he replied, ‘but could you possibly listen to a particular section we’ve been practising, to tell me if you think it worthy of inclusion?’

‘Of course, Greylag,’ I said. ‘I am always at your service.’

My ill-chosen words caused Greylag to redden slightly, but he quickly recovered and turned to the orchestra. As usual, the musicians had been sitting in silent rows awaiting their instructions. I noticed that they had handwritten scores on their music stands; and that these scores already ran to several dozen pages. On Greylag’s orders they started leafing through to a certain point. Then, at last, they were ready to begin playing.

The music this time was different again. I recognised the same melody from the original theme, but now the entire brass section was on the march. When all the lower strings abruptly entered the fray I knew Greylag was building up to something. Cleverly, though, he allowed the whole orchestra to fade suddenly into nothingness. I now expected some sort of crescendo, but instead there appeared a distant horn which played half a phrase from the first theme. The notes were slightly discordant and it seemed like a mistake; yet actually it was a carefully laid trap because then with a mighty crash came the crescendo!! The trap had been sprung!! I shuddered as my ninety-eight musicians drove onwards, soaring up to greater and greater heights, then plunging down to new depths.

I was willing to listen to more of this, but without warning the orchestra ceased playing.

Greylag turned and looked at me enquiringly.

‘Well, well, Greylag,’ I said. ‘That was quite outstanding.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What was that trick you pulled with the horn?’

‘It’s known as a “mort”, sir,’ Greylag replied. ‘The call sounded by huntsmen to signify a kill.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’

‘May I take it that you approve then, sir?’

‘Yes, yes, without a doubt. You can do whatever you think is right. In fact, feel free to depart from the usual rules and conventions. Develop your themes in any direction you choose.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘By the way, when do you think you’ll be finished?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Greylag. ‘It seems to me that I’m only just beginning.’

‘But you’ll be ready in time for the twelve-day feast?’

‘I’ll do my best, sir. We’re working all hours as it is.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve observed the burning of the midnight lamp.’

I’d have liked to have been able to award Greylag and the orchestra a day off in recognition of their valiant efforts, but unfortunately this was beyond my gift. Furthermore, the constraints of time were pressing. The year was rolling steadily towards its close, and it was imperative that the overture was completed as soon as possible. With this in mind I decided to give Greylag as much praise and encouragement as I could, and then leave him to his own devices. For his part, he seemed so absorbed with his creation that the hours spent were not begrudged. As I left the cake he was already issuing new instructions to the musicians, who in their turn appeared similarly tireless.

I went outside and started walking across the park. As usual after hearing Greylag’s music I felt uplifted, as if the cares of the day had been erased. The dark clouds had passed overhead, the wind had eased and all felt peaceful.

However, this did not stop me from being surprised by the sight of a man standing beneath the branches of a tree. He stood perfectly still in a very unusual pose that reminded me of a statue. After half a minute he changed to another position, and thereafter remained motionless.

He was wearing a magnificent crimson coat, but as I drew near I realised that it was a very poor fit. It was plainly one size too small for him. When he saw me he relaxed his pose.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said.

This was a different ‘sir’ to those varieties spoken by Greylag or Hobby, being neither subservient nor falsely courteous. The delivery on this occasion was grand and self-possessed. Apparently I was being addressed as an equal, though the fellow was clearly some kind of vagabond.

I eyed him warily.

‘Apologies for our appearance,’ he said. ‘We were caught in a downpour a few nights ago and our cherished coat has shrunk.’

‘Why do you wear a coat like that anyway?’ I enquired.

‘You mean why do we dress in borrowed robes?’

‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

‘Because of whom we are, sir.’

‘Well, who are you?’

‘Gallinule,’ he announced. ‘Actor par excellence.’

The penny dropped at last. The strolling players! So the rumour was true after all.

‘Gallinule?’ I said. ‘Are you famous then?’

‘We have a circle of admirers,’ he replied, ‘although we are better known by our professional name.’

‘Which is?’

‘We are the Player King, sir. We specialise in all the royal roles: good kings, bad kings, kings in exile, deposed kings, begetters of kings, murdered kings, warrior kings, pretenders, tyrants, despots and usurpers.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘I’m Principal Composer to the Imperial Court.’