The Beating of His Wings

  There were suggestions, entirely true as it happened, that these blood-curdling sermons were fakes. But though it was true that they had been made up by Cale and Vague Henri and printed in secret, most people became reluctantly persuaded they were real and for two reasons. From the few refugees who had recently made it across the Mississippi from the territory now occupied by the Redeemers, there were numerous reports of the mass evacuation of entire cities, moving to the north and then the west. But there was also the disturbing truth that all the religions of the Four Quarters shared a belief in the same Good Book, and though most chose to ignore the many occasions on which God had demanded the divine massacring of entire countries, down to the last dog, it was no longer possible to do so in quite the same way. The inconvenient truth was that the promise of an apocalypse, whether local (Man Hattan, Sodom) or universal (the end time of Geddon), was woven into the very fabric of their oddly shared beliefs.

  For the next six weeks it was duck soup all round as Cale’s new government department, the Office Against the Redeemers (the OAR) found itself pushing at open doors everywhere. Partly this was due to fear of the Redeemers and partly fear of Thomas Cale: the story about him cutting off a man’s head for ordering him to bring a drink of water was now accepted truth. ‘You have a talent for being legendary,’ said IdrisPukke. ‘I wonder if that can be entirely a good thing.’ His access to Kitty the Hare’s red books also encouraged co-operation. After the replacement of the triad, everyone, for the moment, now relied for their position on Thomas, with the result that a new enthusiasm about his plans for everything began to permeate the halls of power. Much was done and much quicker than the OAR could have expected. But all this good news couldn’t last, nor did it. But the blow, when it came, was unexpected in its expectedness.

  Two months into their preparations they had planned the first delivery of supplies of food, uniforms, weapons and the wagons so central to their campaign. The boots, mostly designed by Cale and Kleist, had been contracted in detail according to a strict model – the Redeemer way. The same with the food. The same with the weapons – from the high quality but simple flails to the newly created crossbows designed for speed of loading and close fighting rather than power. Standing in the food depot, where the first lot of rations had been delivered, Cale watched as box after box was broken open to reveal tack biscuits infected with maggots and weevils. Those that weren’t were either tainted by rancid fat or adulterated with God-knew-what to make them not just inedible (soldiers could endure the merely inedible if they had to) but worthless in providing energy to fighting men. In the previous four hours he had been through the same routine with all the other supplies: the boots were already falling apart, the crossbows couldn’t fire a bolt powerful enough to break the skin of a child suffering from rickets. The wagons seemed to be built to their specifications but a thirty-minute ride with half a dozen of them showed they’d barely last a week of serious use.

  ‘I want those responsible,’ said Cale, as cold as anyone had ever seen him.

  But this turned out to be a good deal trickier than it seemed. Corruption in the matter of military supplies was rooted not just in the suppliers but in the people the suppliers corrupted in order to get the contracts. It was so grown into the business of procurement that those involved did not think of it as fraud. Worse than the fact that it was an ingrained habit was that control of procurement was exclusively in the gift of members of the Royal Family. It should not be thought that they actually did anything for the money except endure the strain of opening up their pockets, but the amount they expected for doing nothing was so great that there simply wasn’t enough money left to provide decent weapons and food and make any kind of profit.

  Warfare seemed almost easy next to this. If the OAR could not resupply quickly enough, and with the right quality of equipment for the likelihood of an early spring crossing by the Redeemers, they were finished. Yet the people responsible for creating this disaster were beyond Cale’s reach.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ said Bose Ikard who, to be fair, saw the problem clearly enough.

  ‘It has to stop. It has to be taken out of their hands. It’s mad. Don’t they realize the Redeemers will destroy them as well?’

  ‘They’re royal. Their lives are themselves a form of insanity. They are princes of the blood – a real power – an anointed power created by God flows through their veins. They’re not the same as you or me.’

  ‘And I thought the Redeemers were mad.’

  ‘Welcome to the rest of the world,’ said Ikard. ‘If I intervened I’d be in a cell within an hour. What good would that do you? There must be a solution.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It’s up to you. You’re in charge now.’

  ‘Do I have your support?’

  ‘No. But whatever you do, make it dazzle.’

  Gil had known for some time that Cale had managed to cover himself with, mostly, stolen glory from the great Redeemer victory at Bex, but everything he could learn was vague and generalized, not much better than the gossip people knew on the streets. He also had a third-hand account of Conn’s trial and a first-hand account of his execution, along with the widely believed rumour that Cale had laughed and smoked as Conn’s head bounced along the Quai des Moulins. If only, he thought, the claims made in Spanish Leeds about Redeemer spies were true – the only people he had in his pay were criminals, the only fellow travellers were outsiders and inadequates. But Gil was beginning to realize that it was no longer a case of separating fact from fiction when it came to Cale – it became important not to dismiss, however ludicrous, the stories of him being seven foot tall or blinding an assassin by holding his hand up in the air (though the story about him cutting off someone’s head because they’d told him to get them a glass of water struck him as all too plausible). Something about Cale caused people to clothe him in their hopes and fears – the fact that they were afraid of him and yet had ridiculous expectations of his ability to save them were bound up together. And it wasn’t just the stupid and desperate – look at Bosco. He was the cleverest man he knew and yet nothing could shake his belief in Cale. But that didn’t stop Gil from trying.

  ‘He’s becoming powerful, Your Holiness.’

  ‘Then,’ said Bosco, ‘it shows that Ikard and Zog are more intelligent than I gave them credit for.’

  ‘He either knows or can guess what we intend to do. This is a great threat to us.’

  ‘Not so, I think. His knowledge of our plan to attack through Arnhemland could have been serious – but at that time he was not able to persuade anyone to listen. Now we’re at the Mississippi in the north and have sealed off the Brunner Pass to Leeds in the south it’s perfectly obvious what we’re going to do. What he knows or can guess doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Only we’re not going to be facing some chinless wonder of Zog’s. He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Of course. What else would you expect from the Left Hand of God?’ He was smiling but Gil was not sure what kind of smile it was.

  ‘What does the fact that he directly opposes us say about your plan to bring about the promised end?’

  ‘I thought it was our plan – and God’s plan.’ Still the same smile.

  ‘I deserve better, Your Holiness, than to be mocked for a slip of the tongue.’

  ‘Of course, Gil. I stand corrected. The Pope begs your forgiveness. You have always been the best of servants to the harshest of all causes.’

  The smile had gone but the tone of his apology was still wrong.

  ‘What does it mean, Your Holiness, that Cale is against us?’

  ‘It means that the Lord is sending us a message.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s my fault that I can’t see what he’s telling me – but after all I am one of his mistakes.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he just tell you?’ This was dangerous stuff and once he’d said it Gil wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Beca
use my God is a subtle God. He made us because he did not want to be alone – if he has to tell us what to do and intervene on our behalf then we’re no more than pets, like the lap dogs of the rich sluts in Spanish Leeds. God hints because he loves us.’

  ‘Then why destroy us?’

  Why not, thought Gil to himself as soon as he said it, follow up a blasphemous question with an even more blasphemous one? But he’d not taken into account how intelligent his odd master was.

  ‘I have often thought that myself. Why, Lord, ask me to do this terrible thing?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘God moves in a mysterious way. I think perhaps he is more merciful and loving than I had thought. I was arrogant,’ he added bitterly, ‘because I was so angry at what mankind had done to his only son. I now believe that once all our dead souls are gathered together he is going to remake us – but this time in his own image. I think so. I think that’s why we must do this revolting thing.’

  ‘But you aren’t sure?’

  Bosco smiled, but this time it was easy to read – it was a smile of simple humility.

  ‘I refer you to my previous answer.’

  It was clear the audience was over and it would be best to get out before he said something even more stupid. Gil bowed.

  ‘Your Holiness.’

  He had his hand on the door when Bosco called out to him.

  ‘I will have some plans sent to you this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, Your Holiness.’

  ‘It will take some effort but I’m sure it’s necessary – better safe than sorry and all that. I want you to move the shipyards on the Mississippi back a hundred miles or so.’

  ‘May I ask why, Your Holiness?’ His voice clearly showed he thought the idea was absurd – but Bosco seemed not to notice. Or had decided not to.

  ‘If I were Cale, I’d try and destroy them. It’s wise to be cautious, I think.’

  Outside, as he walked down the corridor, one thought was repeating itself in Gil’s mind: I must find some way to leave him.

  27

  ‘What will you do?’ said IdrisPukke.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘You haven’t thought of anything, have you?’

  ‘No, but I will.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I meant to ask,’ said Cale, ‘if you’ve finished the plans about going over the mountains?’

  ‘As near as.’

  ‘We might need them sooner than you think.’ He was obviously thinking about something else. ‘Does this plan include the Purgators?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It should.’

  ‘You’ve got very sentimental.’

  ‘Sentiment has nothing to do with it – except my loathing for them has clouded my judgement. It’s time to count my blessings. Two hundred men who’ll do whatever you want, no questions asked, are worth having, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ said Cale to Vague Henri.

  ‘Don’t tell me there aren’t any cucumber sandwiches.’ Vague Henri was only partly joking. He was unusually partial to cucumber sandwiches, which had been invented only ten years before by the Materazzi dandy Lord ‘Cucumber’ Harris when the vegetables had first been imported to Memphis and no one knew what to do with them. Every day that he was not out and about taking care of business for the OAR Vague Henri took high tea at four o’clock (cucumber sandwiches, cream cakes, scones) and pretended it was done to mock his former betters. In fact, he looked forward to high tea as the greatest pleasure in his life next to his very frequent visits to the Empire Of Soap in the Rue De Confort Sensuelle.

  ‘The princes of the blood – they’re going to get away with it.’

  The three of them had discussed the retribution against the princes (Cale and Vague Henri always included Kleist even though he seemed indifferent to anything but his own particular tasks), as well as the manufacturers who bribed them, in terms of what should happen and how extreme and how public the acts of violence committed towards them would need to be.

  ‘Why?’ Vague Henri was no longer in a good mood. His fury at the shoddy material that had been delivered was as intense as Cale’s.

  ‘Because getting away with things that other people don’t get away with is what they’re good at.’

  ‘So you’re not going to cut their heads off and stick them on a spike?’ This had been Vague Henri’s preferred solution.

  ‘Worse than that.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re going to have to reward them,’ said Cale.

  ‘You want to give them a bung?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re not strong enough to move against them. I talked to IdrisPukke and Vipond and they put me right. There isn’t time to start a revolution. Bosco took twenty years to take down his enemies in Chartres and even then he had to move more quickly than he wanted to. We can’t kill a dozen members of the Royal Family – we can’t even afford to upset them too much. We have to bribe them to get out of the way. We need to make them anxious and then offer them a way out. Not too anxious, and a generous exit. Tricky but possible.’

  ‘And the factory owners?’

  ‘We can do whatever we like to them.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Bollocks!’ shouted Vague Henri, truly frustrated and angry. ‘Promise that if we’re still alive when this is over we’ll come back and fuck them up. Tell me we’ll do that.’

  ‘Put them on the list,’ said Cale, laughing. ‘Along with all the others.’

  Let us consider the acts of Thomas Cale and how they came about: the saving of Riba from a dreadful death, though only after he had run away; the somewhat reluctant return to save his not quite friends; the vandalous breaking of the beautiful Danzig Shiv; the killing of men in their sleep; the rescuing of Arbell Materazzi; the killing, sans merci, of Solomon Solomon at the Red Opera; the restoration of the Palace idiot, Simon Materazzi; Arbell saved again; the much regretted deliverance of Conn at Silbury Hill; the signing of the warrant of execution for the Maid of Blackbird Leys; the poisoning of the waters at the Golan Heights; the destruction and invention of the camps, in which five thousand women and children died of starvation and disease; the strangling of Kitty the Hare; the burning of the bridge after Bex; and perjuring himself at Conn Materazzi’s trial. To these he now added the kidnap and murder of the twenty merchants he held responsible for the trash delivered to his depots the week before. Naked as worms, the men were strung up in front of the palacios of the royal princes of the blood who had accepted bribes from them. Their bodies were horribly mutilated, noses and ears cut off, lips and fingers stitched together holding a coin in their tongueless mouths and clenched hands. Their left eyes were gouged, their gallbladders – held to be the seat of greed – removed. Around their necks a sheet of paper, later distributed in hundreds throughout the city, revealed the terrible nature of their crimes against every man, woman and child whose lives they were prepared to sell in pursuit of money. The pamphlet was signed ‘The Knights of the Left Hand’.

  To be strictly fair to Cale and Vague Henri, the men had been murdered as quickly and painlessly as time and circumstances allowed. The terrible torture inflicted on them as a lesson to the rest was done after they had been killed. History cannot judge: history is written by historians. Only the reader in possession of the facts can decide whether he could have acted otherwise in the circumstances or reasonably seen the consequences of his acts.

  On the walls of the palacios from which the bodies were hung a sentence was written in old Spanish, it being an affectation of the aristocracy that they should speak a language among themselves of a kind not spoken in Spain for several hundred years.

  Pesado has sido en balanza, y fuiste hallado falto.

  Broadly speaking this could be translated as ‘You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting’ – an observation that would be found meaningless to hoi polloi but menacing en
ough to the twelve princes of the blood involved in taking money from the dead men hanging upside down outside their mansions. Cale let them fret for twenty-four hours and then IdrisPukke, on behalf of the OAR, delivered a large paper bag of money to compensate them for the loss of revenue from their entirely legitimate contract with the late factory owners that the OAR had now been obliged, in the face of grave national emergency, to take over in the greater interest of all. The twelve princes of the blood acquiesced because they were not sure what else to do: they had been threatened although they did not know precisely how, and rewarded although they did not know precisely why.

  Not only was there very little fuss concerning the kidnapping, torture and murder of men who had faced no trial, let alone their accusers, rather there was a clamour to root out anyone else involved, and much support from the slums upwards for the Knights of the Left Hand and their methods.

  A week after Spanish Leeds had been set alight by the murders, Robert Hooke received a visit from Cale to hear his initial report on the possibility of manufacturing guns.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the idea of guns,’ said Hooke, as they looked over the expensively bought shooting iron. ‘It’s the practice that’s the problem. The villainous saltpetre that’s packed in at this end – it’s too much for the iron. That’s why it explodes. Simple as that really.’

  ‘Then get better iron.’

  ‘It doesn’t exist. Not yet.’

  ‘How long?’