to be implying the opposite. For a moment I wondered if I hadn’t been paying attention properly. To my left I noticed Wryneck making his usual copious notes, a fact that suggested I’d missed something.
‘I’m talking about the so-called “friendly” cities in the east,’ said Smew, ‘although “friendly” is probably a misnomer: they’ve never been particularly “friendly” to each other or anyone else for that matter. They earned the name “friendly” as expressed in the term “friendly rivalry” rather than “friendly co-operation”. They were never in league with one another and remained rigorously independent. Unaffected by external spheres of influence, they were completely beyond the gravitational pull of the empire. Instead, each city followed a linear course that took it hurtling headlong towards its own destiny. They differed from us in many ways. For instance, we acquired gold by exploiting our sovereignty at sea, whereas they mined it directly out of the ground; our clocks had pendulums, while theirs employed a spring-balance mechanism; we favoured amateurs: they used professionals; we had palaces: they had castles; and so on. Our mastery of the seaways gave us command of the coast. Consequently, their people were confined many miles inland. In due course they became expert civil engineers: as well as constructing mines, they dug canals, drained the marshes, built bridges and finally developed iron railways. Our prowess at sailing meant we had no need for such innovations. We proudly carried on with our seafaring traditions, and hardly took any notice as these cities took turns to rise and fall.’
Smew paused again, and it appeared as though the talk had come to a natural conclusion, ‘rise and fall’ being a suitably ringing phrase with which to close. I was surprised, then, when he continued speaking:
‘We did not allow these cities to become entirely isolated, however. The empire’s sole concession to the east was to send her sons to one or other of their great universities. We recognised that in their struggle for improvement they had cultivated some important seats of learning. Hence, each prospective emperor enrolled at a revered institution whilst still an uncrowned princeling. The theory was that he’d study and learn thoroughly the ways of the east; then after a certain period he would return home and, following much thought and introspection, reject them. It was a tried and tested thesis, effectively put to use by generations of emperors right up to this very day.’
Now Wryneck closed his notepad and put away his pen, which told me for sure that the talk was over.
‘I never knew that,’ I said, ‘about the emperor going away to university.’
Smew said nothing in reply, but instead stood silently gazing at me from behind his lectern. Again I wondered if there was some important point that Wryneck had grasped but I clearly hadn’t. Or perhaps Smew was allowing a few more moments for it to sink in. Either way, I rose from my seat feeling somewhat bemused.
‘Like some tea?’ said Smew.
I’d decided in advance to say no if such an invitation was made, because I really ought to get back and attend to the needs of the orchestra.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘That would be nice.’
‘Lemon curd and toasted soldiers?’
‘Even better.’
Smew pulled the tasselled cord to alert Shrike. Meanwhile, Wryneck and I settled down in the comfortable chairs by the bay window. When Smew joined us he chose the chair nearest to his desk, on top of which lay Dotterel’s box containing the ceremonial crown.
‘Shouldn’t that be locked away somewhere safe?’ I enquired.
‘It’s safe enough here in the library,’ replied Smew. ‘Either Wryneck or myself are always present.’
A few minutes later Shrike returned with a fully laden tray. As he handed us our portions of toast the clock struck five and the setting sun cast its warm rays through the window.
‘Just perfect for teatime,’ I remarked.
‘Yes,’ said Smew. ‘Marmalade for breakfast; lemon curd for tea.’
Chapter 13
Whimbrel could always be found at the observatory, studying his charts and tables and peering at the sky through his telescope. He seemed to do nothing else these days. The only place he ever went was down to the counting house for his replacement sixpence. Brambling had finally accepted that Whimbrel needed to use his telescope constantly, and now always kept an appropriate coin ready at hand.
‘It’s a pity you don’t get more than a few minutes,’ said Whimbrel, after yet another clunk had signalled the end of his time.
‘What are you looking at tonight?’ I asked.
‘The Pole Star,’ he replied.