Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [76]
“You admire self-control?” he asked, and she took her chance. “I admire candour.”
He retorted instantly. “Oh, nothing better—in the right place. ‘It’s only right you should know’—I wonder how many that classic bêtise has driven to the river and the dagger and the pillow in a quiet corner. Truth’s nothing but falsehood with the edges sharpened up, and ill-tempered at that: no repair, no retraction, no possible going back once it’s out. If I told you I’d murdered my own sister you’d register appropriate feelings of hate and revulsion; and if you found later I hadn’t, I’d be sure of your interest and sympathy in twice the depth of your hate. Whereas, if you simply found proof positive that I had killed her …”
“… I might loathe you, but I’d respect your courage,” she said candidly. “Besides, that sort of truth wouldn’t hurt me, would it? It might affect you, but then you’d deserve it.”
She had surprised him into laughter. “Oh, God! Generously abstaining from the sword in order to macerate with a cudgel. Pax! Leave me some pride. Pretend at least that you wouldn’t collapse in a delirium of joy as I dance a vuelta on the widdy. In any case, I stick to my point. Not ninety-nine women out of a hundred really prefer that kind of honesty; and even if you are the hundredth, I’m the last to help you prove it to yourself. No. Si vis pingere, pinge sonum, as Echo rudely remarked. If you want a full study of me, then paint my voice. It’s all there is on display at present.”
“To be sure,” said Christian serenely. “And painting with breath is my stock-in-trade—you’d forgotten that, hadn’t you? I’m an architect in lexicography; I can build you a palace of adverbs and a hermitage of personal pronouns … and I can give you information about Crouch.”
For the first time, she felt him at a loss. She went on serenely. “Jonathan Crouch. The man you asked about. George Douglas sold him to Sir Andrew Hunter, who wanted to exchange him for a cousin, or something. Then Crouch escaped with someone—Hunter doesn’t know who, but he’s violently angry about it all, and swearing death to whoever released him.”
“I see—wait,” he said. “How do you know all this?”
“Because,” said Christian, rising, “he was overheard giving George Douglas two English names mentioned by Crouch, and he more or less asked Douglas to help track them down in the hope they’d lead to the man who freed his prisoner. I thought you’d be interested … and now I must go. Oh!” She sat down again, smiling. “Hadn’t you better tell my fortune first?”
To her glee, he sounded taken aback. “Oh, Johnnie looks after all that, although under certain circumstances I tell him what to say. Do you really want it done?”
She laughed. “Not really. It’d be more to the point, I think, if I could read yours.”
“Yes. Well, you’d qualify for M. Rabelais’s next Almanac if you could do that,” he said dryly. “But if you’re anxious, I’ll tell you something that’ll satisfy our misdoubting Tom. Your loof, lady. I’m sorry, a bit closer. The only candle is guttering like a drunk man’s fancy. Now.”
Firmly, her wrist was taken, and the fingers spread out. “A fine, capable hand. Line of life—hullo! You appear to have died at the age of seven.”
“The embalmers are exceedingly skilful nowadays,” she said gravely.
“But I will say this.… You’ll get the most out of life, never fear; and meet the sort of man you want, that too; and get your heart’s desire, I think, in the end—if you believe the results of Johnnie’s teaching. But what are we, after all? Charlatans, faiseurs d’horoscope …”
She did not know quite what to say. “It sounds like an exemplary future?”
“If you bring your own candle next time, I might do better. Equipment rather limited, imagination in free supply. Are you leaving Stirling soon?”
“On Tuesday. If Lord Culter can travel. All the Crawfords and Agnes are going back to Midculter: I shall go with them, and then on to Boghall until Christmas.” She hesitated.