The Emperor of all Things

by Paul Witcover

  At this, Quare realized that the servant had been following Master Magnus’s orders in conveying him here so roughly. The master had foreseen this moment from the first and had planned accordingly; truly, he had a better chance of trouncing the great Philidor across a chessboard than of winning a battle of wits with Master Theophilus Magnus, who had built the Most Secret and Exalted Order of Regulators into a secret service said to rival that of Pitt himself. Yet the knowledge that he was almost certainly overmatched served only to stiffen his spine. ‘I do not take kindly to threats,’ he said, glowering.

  ‘Think of it rather as a reminder,’ Master Magnus answered.

  ‘A reminder of what?’

  ‘Of the oath you swore upon becoming a journeyman of this company. Why, one would think you were trying to protect Grimalkin!’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s … Well, it’s …’

  ‘Out with it, sir!’

  Quare sighed. There was no help for it. ‘He … Grimalkin, that is … is a woman.’

  For a moment, the only sound was the purring of the cats. Quare had always found a cat’s purr soothing, but there was a peculiar quality about a roomful of purring cats that was, he decided, not very soothing at all. Master Magnus, meanwhile, studied him from behind those dark lenses filled with flickering flames. That wasn’t too soothing, either. Despite his twisted legs, or rather because of them, the master possessed unusual upper-body strength – Quare had seen him lift, with minimal effort, gear assemblies for tower clocks that two men would have struggled to raise – and to watch him now, propped upon his sticks, ominously silent, was to see not a crippled man but a coiled spring. ‘A woman,’ he said at last. ‘Grimalkin a woman, you say?’

  ‘There can be no doubt of it.’

  ‘Grimalkin, who has outfought the deadliest swordsmen in Europe and outthought their masters, not once but again and again, that Grimalkin, the spy supreme, the paragon of thieves, is a female.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe, I know. But it’s true. I saw her with my own eyes. That’s why I couldn’t— You said the moon was the only witness, master. But God was watching, too. How could I slay a woman in cold blood?’

  Master Magnus grunted as if he might be prepared to offer some practical suggestions. But instead he said, ‘Tell me everything that happened from the moment you first saw Grimalkin. Leave nothing out, Mr Quare, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’

  Quare related how he had seen Grimalkin emerge, wreathed in smoke, from the attic skylight of Lord Wichcote’s house, then shadowed the grey-clad figure from rooftop to rooftop under the gibbous moon, crept close enough to deliver a knockout blow, more by luck than skill, and at the cost of a painful gash to his leg, and then lifted the grey mask only to find himself gazing at a face unmistakably female. Apart from the lifting of the mask, and what he had found beneath it, it was all as he had related to Master Magnus the previous night, while his leg was being tended to.

  ‘Describe this woman,’ Master Magnus instructed with sceptical interest.

  ‘It was not a face I had seen before,’ Quare replied. ‘Youngish, I would say.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  ‘I was too taken aback to notice.’

  ‘Were you? In my experience, regardless of the circumstances, the attractiveness of a young female is among the few things a young male may be depended upon to notice.’

  Quare felt himself blushing. ‘The light was poor, and one side of her face was bruised and bleeding,’ he explained.

  ‘Did you move her? Staunch the bleeding?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘You did not … touch her at all?’

  Quare bristled. ‘What do you mean?’

  Master Magnus raised a bushy white eyebrow above the gold frames of his spectacles. ‘You would not be the first to take advantage of such an opportunity. Alone with a helpless young woman – a woman, moreover, who by her wanton actions might be said to have forfeited the protections a civilized society accords the weaker sex.’

  ‘Do you think I would spare a woman’s life only to violate that which is more precious than life?’

  ‘Fine sentiments, sir. They do you credit, I’m sure. Yet I cannot help but notice that you did not attempt to aid her. A strange sort of chivalry, that.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘No matter. Surely you questioned the woman once she had regained consciousness.’

  Quare started as a cat – the same calico he had evicted earlier – leapt into his lap. He stroked the animal, grateful for the distraction. ‘Er, no. In truth, I was worried that her blade had been poisoned. You will grant, master, that poison is a woman’s weapon.’

  At this, Master Magnus gave a stiff nod, as though compelled against his will to acknowledge the point.

  Encouraged, Quare went on. ‘I thought it best to return the timepiece to you as quickly as possible – before the poison took effect or any accomplices came to Grimalkin’s aid. I was loath to lose the prize so soon after having won it.’

  Master Magnus chuckled. ‘I do not mean to denigrate your bravery and resourcefulness, my boy. But even you must realize how unlikely – inconceivable, rather – it is that a regulator of your limited experience could take a seasoned agent like Grimalkin by surprise. No, sir, no. That alone proves – were the idea itself not absurd on its face – that the woman you overcame on the rooftop was not Grimalkin, but an imposter.’

  ‘An imposter! But she stole the clock from Lord Wichcote – and, by the sound of it, crossed blades with more than one adversary to do so!’

  ‘Pishposh. By your own testimony, you did not see what went on in that attic. For all you know, the woman was aided by an accomplished swordsman, who sacrificed his life – or at least his liberty – in order to facilitate her escape. That seems more likely, does it not, than a lone woman besting multiple swordsmen? No doubt the woman and her accomplice believed their chances of robbing Lord Wichcote would be improved if one of them dressed as the notorious Grimalkin. Such a stratagem would also enable the woman to conceal her gender beneath a mask – thus giving Lord Wichcote the mistaken impression that he was facing two men.’

  ‘But I saw no evidence of an accomplice!’

  ‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’

  ‘If only you had seen the speed and skill with which she moved, master. She very nearly skewered me! How do you explain that?’

  ‘You believed you were facing Grimalkin – and believing made it so. Preconceptions colour perceptions, my boy.’

  ‘What of your preconceptions, then? Because you cannot entertain the possibility of a female Grimalkin, you spin hypotheses out of whole cloth!’

  ‘No, sir, no,’ the master repeated, giving the floor another thump with his stick. ‘Why, it were as likely for me to dance a jig atop this desk as for Grimalkin to be a woman! Put the notion from your mind. That was not Grimalkin you fought. And a good thing, too, else you would not have survived, much less come back in triumph, bearing the prize.’

  Quare was not in a mood to be mollified. ‘If not Grimalkin, then who?’

  ‘That is precisely the question, Mr Quare. And you may rest assured that it is a question I mean to get to the bottom of. Not just the woman’s identity – and that of her accomplice, should he be proved to exist – but the identity of the person or persons who engaged them to steal that timepiece from Lord Wichcote. I do not believe they were common criminals. Far from it. They were in the service of England’s enemies, of that I have no doubt.’

  ‘Then perhaps they are allied with Grimalkin in some way.’

  ‘That is indeed a troubling possibility.’ Master Magnus adopted a severe expression. ‘You were wrong to try and keep this from me, Mr Quare , as you were wrong not to question the woman posing as Grimalkin. But I will forgive these wrongs, just this once, because you did bring the clock to me, after all, and played your part to perfection with the Old Wolf. Yet I must say, I find your account, even in its amended form, an odd one
– so odd, in fact, that I cannot help but wonder if you are holding something back even now.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything, master – I swear it!’

  ‘We shall see,’ he answered, and his expression turned more ominous still. ‘You were not my first choice for this assignment, Mr Quare. Had a more seasoned regulator been available, I would have sent him. But with the French, Russians, and Austrians moving against us on the Continent, as well as in Scotland and in Ireland, to say nothing of the Colonies, I’ve had to dispatch my best men far and wide, and you – to be blunt – were simply the best of what remained. I was, I confess, somewhat apprehensive as to your chances. Nor has your success in securing the timepiece against all odds laid those apprehensions to rest – on the contrary, in some respects what you have just told me has exacerbated them. If you are to continue as my special agent, I must have your solemn oath that you are prepared to harden your heart, put conscience aside, and act in the best interests of your country and your guild as circumstances require. Can you do that, Mr Quare? Because I assure you, if you cannot, I can find another man who will.’

  ‘I am your man,’ Quare said, anxious to assuage the master’s doubts. It had not only been from a desire to draw closer to the mysteries of time that he had accepted Master Magnus’s invitation to become a regulator; the master had promised to utilize his intelligence network on Quare’s behalf, to uncover the identity of his father. He did not wish to jeopardize that promise now. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Hmm … Perhaps there is someone I can assign to help you,’ Master Magnus said. ‘Someone with more experience …’

  ‘I thought all the experienced agents were on assignment,’ Quare said. ‘Anyway, I prefer to work alone.’

  ‘Your preferences do not concern me,’ the master answered. ‘There are regulators no longer on active duty but still competent enough to support you in the field.’

  ‘To spy on me, you mean.’

  This the master did not trouble to deny. ‘Do we have an understanding, Mr Quare?’

  ‘It appears I have no choice.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Then, yes, I agree, of course. Who will you assign to me?’

  ‘I must think on it.’ And with that, the storm clouds lifted from the master’s expression, and he looked younger, almost boyish – as if the flames dancing in his spectacles had burned away half a lifetime in an instant. The change did not make his appearance any more regular or pleasing to behold, yet it made Quare smile even so, for he had never yet witnessed this transformation in Master Magnus without being rewarded by some astonishing glimpse into the man’s fertile mind: a hint of some heretofore veiled mystery of time, or a wondrous invention like the stair-master, which put horological principles to unexpected use.

  ‘Now, my boy,’ said Master Magnus, a mischievous lilt to his voice, his stature seeming to grow straighter as he spoke, ‘would you care to have a look at the timepiece you have risked – and sacrificed – so much to procure?’

  3

  Three Questions

  USING HIS WALKING sticks, master magnus pulled himself across the floor of the study. He stabbed one forward, then the other, dragging his legs along behind with sharp wrenchings of his hips, like a man toiling through drifts of snow. Once again Quare was struck by the strength of his arms and upper body. Mewling cats slipped in and out of his path, rubbing against the sticks and his twisted legs. He ignored them.

  ‘Word of what I am about to show you can go no further,’ he said. ‘Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Quare, wondering what was about to be revealed to him. He would have risen to assist Master Magnus but knew from experience that any such attempt would meet with an angry rejection.

  The master paused before Quare, his face shining with sweat. Now it was his own reflection Quare beheld in the dark spectacles; though he was seated, his eyes were nearly level with the master’s, so pronounced was the curvature of his spine. ‘Swear it,’ growled Master Magnus. ‘Swear it on your honour .’

  There was more mischief than malice to the barb; still, Quare couldn’t help flinching as it struck home. ‘I swear it.’

  ‘One day I will perfect a set of mechanical limbs,’ the master said as he resumed his halting progress. ‘Think of it, sir. Legs for the legless. Arms for the armless. Hands as clever and supple as your own. Better, even. Stronger. Then cripples such as I will be envied instead of scorned.’

  His destination was the bookshelves. A cluttered space Quare could have crossed in five seconds was for Master Magnus a labour of as many minutes, though he did not once complain of it. But at last he stood before the solid mass of books and papers, his misshapen back to Quare. The phlegmatic rasp of his breathing was the loudest sound in the room, but it did not drown out the purring of the cats; it seemed almost to rise out of those lesser rumblings, riding above them like the foaming crest of a wave. Quare felt an answering vibration in himself, transmitted through the air, or through the calico cat still curled on his lap, as if all his nerves, pulled taut, had been plucked like the strings of a guitar. He got to his feet (displacing the cat, which leapt to the floor) and stepped – or, rather, felt himself drawn – towards the shelves. Was the timepiece hidden there?

  ‘Bring a light,’ said Master Magnus, who must have heard Quare move, for he had not turned to look at him, his attention fixed on the shelves before him. He reached up with one of his walking sticks to stab at the fat, leather-bound spine of a nameless volume. There came a clicking sound, and a section of shelving slid away from the rest, scattering cats as it pivoted through one hundred and eighty degrees to bring into view a worktable outfitted with all the familiar accoutrements of the clockmaker’s trade … and some not so familiar.

  Quare’s heart was beating fast as he joined the master, who motioned for him to set down the candlestick he had fetched along. This Quare managed with difficulty, as the surface of the worktable was strewn with disassembled or partially assembled clocks and watches – a spilled cornucopia of gears and gauges, wheels and wires and other glittery objects he would have given much to examine at his leisure. Though he had spent a fair amount of time in Master Magnus’s study of late, and had on occasion even assisted him in his researches, he had never before seen this hidden worktable, or so much as suspected its existence. How many other secrets were concealed here?

  ‘Now, where did I put the cursed thing?’ muttered the master. Having set one of his sticks against the worktable, he leaned upon the other as he rummaged one-handed, and with a roughness that made Quare wince, through the mechanical treasure trove atop the table. ‘I could have sworn … ah!’ His hand rose, still empty, and plunged into the pocket of his waistcoat, whence it emerged clutching an object about the size and shape of a quail’s egg. This he held up between thumb and forefinger as if presenting a precious jewel for Quare’s inspection.

  It was, he saw at once, a pocket watch of the type known as a hunter, the case of which included a metal lid covering the dial. The watch was ovoid, as he had already noted, the case of polished but otherwise unembellished silver, including the cover.

  ‘Well, sir?’ demanded Master Magnus.

  ‘But that is not the clock I brought you!’

  ‘No, it is not … and yet it is. Here, take it.’

  Quare accepted the watch. It was unusually thin, less than half the width of his index finger, and lighter than he had expected. He prised the cover apart with his thumbnail and swung it open, revealing a mi-concave crystal and an enamel dial with twelve black symbols – neither numbers nor astrological signs; at least, not any that he recognized – painted upon it. His horological studies had exposed him to the alphabetic and numerical systems of foreign lands: he could recognize Cyrillic, Chinese, and Arabic, among others, but these symbols were new to him, rendered in a style so fluid as to almost swim before his eyes, as if the marks were changing in subtle ways beyond his ability to register. He found it difficult to focus on them; th
ey seemed to squirm not only against the backdrop of the dial but, as it were, against the backdrop of his mind. The sensation was uncomfortable enough that he let his gaze slide away, to the inside of the silver cover, which he noticed was engraved. He held it closer to the candle, angling it until he could make out the initials JW in fancy script, and a date: 1652 .

  Quare frowned; given the thinness and lightness of the watch, he would have guessed it to be of more recent manufacture. The hour and minute hands were gilded and fancifully shaped to resemble the head and tail, respectively, of a dragon, and, as he determined after a quick check against his own pocket watch, were not positioned to anything near the correct time. He raised the watch to his ear, but heard no ticking; the mainspring had run down and was in need of winding. But the stem proved decorative only, and there was no opening for a key. Nor any indication that there ever had been. He shot Master Magnus a questioning look, but the master returned his gaze expressionlessly.

  ‘Well?’ he repeated.

  ‘An intriguing watch,’ Quare acknowledged. ‘Am I to infer that you found it secreted inside the clock I brought you?’

  ‘Like a pearl within an oyster.’

  ‘Was there a master with the initials JW on the rolls of the Worshipful Company in 1652?’

  ‘More than one,’ said Master Magnus, manoeuvring himself towards a nearby armchair covered with loose papers and cat hair, into which he collapsed with a grunt of voluptuous satisfaction. ‘Journeymen, too. But after studying the archives thoroughly, I have ruled out each of them as the maker.’

  ‘Perhaps JW was a foreigner,’ Quare mused. ‘Or an amateur, like Lord Wichcote—’ He paused, struck by a sudden notion: ‘What is that gentleman’s first name, by the way?’

  ‘It is Josiah,’ the master said, stroking a fat black and white cat that had wasted no time in leaping into his lap and settling itself there with an air of entitlement a pasha would have envied. ‘But that is mere coincidence. Why, the man was not yet born in 1652! And his father, the late Lord Wichcote, was named Cecil … and had no better acquaintance with the insides of a timepiece than does this cat. No, it is the watch you should be interrogating, sir, not me. The answers you seek lie there, provided you can unlock them.’