Church could now understand the bitterness he sensed in Tom. ‘What incentive is there to do anything if you know exactly what’s going to happen?’ he asked.
‘Ah, it is not as simple as that, as if anything is. I see static images laid out before me, not live in all their multifaceted glory. It is like walking through an endless gallery where each painting shows a different scene of something that lies ahead. I have no idea how they relate, how any of them come to be. I know not if they are true representations or a warped perspective of what is yet to come. Yet they haunt me still.’
‘But what you saw led you to seek us out?’
‘To seek you out.’
Church weighed up whether he really wanted to ask the question. ‘What did you see?’
Tom weighed his reply just as carefully. ‘A stark choice: between humanity being freed of its shackles, or being confined to the mud for evermore. A war that could destroy men and gods. And you as the deciding factor.’
‘That’s the big picture. What did you see for me?’
For the first time there was a glimpse of sympathy in Tom’s eyes. ‘I think you know the answer to that,’ he said.
The lull that followed was heavy, and it felt as if the whole of the bar had grown still. Jerzy clapped an arm around Church’s shoulders. ‘Hope, good friend, is the key that unlocks many a door, and we carry it around with us always.’
‘All right,’ Church said to Tom. ‘You’re the man with the answers. What do we do now?’
‘Now,’ Tom said, ‘we prepare to take the upper hand in the coming war.’
Chapter Five
THE SWORDS OF ALBION
1
Venice, 26 December 1586
Fog blanketed the city by the lagoon, but even its chilly, damp embrace could not douse the hot emotions. The carnival was in full swing. Music swept out across Venice from the Piazza San Marco where hundreds of costumed and masked revellers danced in wild abandon or engaged in the subtle art of seduction. Before the Basilica of St Mark the Evangelist, with its towers and dome reaching up to the sky to denote God’s glory, men drank wine by the bottle and laughed loudly enough to drown out the fiddle players. Further into the shadows of the ornate building, couples kissed and slipped their hands beneath the folds of each other’s clothes, their masks hiding their identities even from themselves.
The Venetian Republic was at the height of its power. The wealthy enjoyed unparalleled access to all the best that life had to offer, free from the threat of war and suffering. And the carnival was the time when they could indulge themselves to the limit, unrestricted by the rules of society.
It was also the time when the boundary between the human world and all other worlds blurred, when mystery and magic ruled and anything could happen.
2
Through the crowds of carousing people moved a man in a dragon mask and a black and gold doublet and breeches with a garter of fine silk from Granada. With him was a woman, her arm looped through his, wearing a cat mask and a dress of deepest scarlet stiff with jewels and embroidery that set off the dusky gold tint of her skin. She paused to watch a skull-masked man in a black costume painted with white bones.
‘How do you Fragile Creatures cope with the constant presence of death?’ Niamh asked. ‘Living in its shadow can only bring fear, and that is so debilitating as to leach all pleasure from daily existence, thus removing the very reason for being.’
‘If you know you’re going to die there’s no point worrying about it.’ Church scanned the crowd, but the masks and costumes were so elaborate it was impossible to tell what he was seeing. ‘You have to make the most of what you’ve got. Make things good for yourself. More importantly, make things good for the people who come after you so they can lives their lives with a little less pain and suffering.’
‘How curious,’ Niamh mused.
‘Death focuses the mind. If you don’t have to die, you don’t have to drive yourself to achieve things quickly because there’s always plenty of time. The result is that nothing ever gets done. You drift along, saying, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” Life becomes an endless stream of nothing. Frittered away. Worthless. Meaningless. Death gives life meaning.’
Niamh observed a trio with lute, viol and recorder accompanying a madrigal. ‘So you are saying death is good?’
‘I’m saying it’s the piece in the tapestry that makes the picture complete.’
Niamh tapped her toe to the music, deep in thought. ‘If what you say is true,’ she began, ‘then rather than being at the centre of Existence, my people are … unnecessary. Pointless. Whatever meaning exists in the great sphere of things can only be divined, and defined, by Fragile Creatures. Death, then, is your curse and your gift.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And from that comes the sole conclusion that Fragile Creatures lie above the Golden Ones and not below.’