The Emperor of all Things

by Paul Witcover

  ‘Please, sir. I should like to find him anyway.’

  ‘And what would you do then? What would you say to him?’

  ‘I … I do not know.’

  ‘You are no longer a boy, Mr Quare, yet neither are you a man. Wait a while, sir. Complete your apprenticeship. Acquit yourself well in all that is asked of you, and then, in a few years, when you have attained the rank of journeyman, ask me again, and perhaps I will be disposed to assist you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Do you know, I was angry at Mr Halsted for sending you my sketches. But now I see that I have to thank him as well.’

  ‘Not everyone would be so thankful to learn themselves a bastard.’

  ‘My whole life, I believed myself an orphan – that is worse. You and Mr Halsted have given me back my father, or hope of him. I will work hard, sir. You shall see! I will acquit myself well – and come to my father as a man he will be proud to acknowledge.’

  ‘An admirable plan, young Quare. I hope you are not disappointed. But life has a way of disappointing bastards, I have found.’

  ‘I will pray to God that it may be otherwise, sir, and trust in his providence.’

  ‘Why, do you imagine that God cares a fig for bastards? Surely he has more important things on his mind.’

  ‘I … I don’t know, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I suppose he does. Have more important things on his mind, I mean.’

  The master’s leonine head nodded approvingly. ‘What sorts of important things?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’

  ‘Then I shall tell you. Time, Mr Quare. Time is the mind of God in motion. His thought, His intent, His very essence. We horologers, as much as or even more than the clergy, are doing His work, for every timepiece is a microcosm of the universe the Almighty created and set in motion. In making and repairing clocks and watches, we of the Worshipful Company expunge the errors and anarchies of the Adversary, restoring a small but significant measure of order to the world, without which the time appointed for the return of our Saviour might be indefinitely delayed, or never draw nigh at all. Do you think I exaggerate? Have you not felt the truth of it? In repairing a damaged timepiece, do you not also repair a part of yourself, some damaged spring or coil or counterweight of the soul, and, in so doing , for a while at least, draw closer to the master of clocks and men?’

  Now it was enthusiasm rather than embarrassment that brought a flush to Quare’s cheeks. ‘Yes! I have felt that, or something like it – and …’ He paused, groping for the right words.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, as if, in drawing closer to Him myself, I bring some measure of the world along with me. I know that sounds foolish – to think that my small labours can influence the entire world …’

  ‘But why should they not? The workings of a clock teach us how even the smallest part or movement can influence the greater whole. In life, as in horology, everything is connected, even if we lack the discernment or wisdom to perceive the nature of the connections. But do not doubt that they exist. Perhaps neither men nor clocks can be made perfect, young Quare, but they can both be made less imperfect, approaching, with each small improvement, in a kind of ceaselessly worshipful striving, ever nearer to that ideal of timeless perfection forever beyond the grasp, though not the aspiration, of mortal hand and mind. Each refinement in the measurement of time brings the world nearer to God, and to the moment, ordained since before the beginning of time itself, when we shall be ransomed from the prison of time and admitted at last into the hallowed precincts of eternity. Such, at any rate, is the belief of our guild, the consummation towards which we struggle.’

  ‘Mr Halsted never spoke to me of such things.’

  ‘I should be surprised to hear otherwise. In the guild, as in the wider world, there are gradations of knowledge, strata of understanding. Greater and lesser truths, if you will. Horology is a practical science, but it also has its mystical, or perhaps I should say esoteric, side. Just as the journeyman knows more than the apprentice, and the master more than the journeyman, so, too, do the elect of the Worshipful Company know more than the common herd. I have spoken to you now as I have, young Quare, because I judge that you possess the potential to be one of the elect – your designs proclaim it. Whether you realize this potential is another matter. That is up to you. I have but cracked a door open to give you a glimpse of the secret knowledge shining on the other side like the piled treasure of a dragon’s hoard; now I must pull that door shut, and I will not open it for you again. When the time comes, if it comes, you shall open the door yourself.’

  ‘I … I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘It would be a wonder if you did. For now, it is enough that you reflect upon all that I have told you, and that you keep the memory of it in your thoughts in the weeks and months – indeed, the years – that lie ahead. One more piece of advice I will give you: to the extent you may reasonably do so without causing offence, keep your own counsel. Do not let yourself get tangled in the petty cliques and Machiavellian intrigues that have come to infect the guild under the leadership of our present grandmaster. Steer a middle course, young Quare, for as long as you can. That course, I make bold to say, will lead to mastery in the end. Aye, and to your father as well, like as not.’

  ‘Why, is he a master horologer, then? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘I know not what he is, nor who, as I have said. But if you would have my help in finding him, then you must apply yourself as I have suggested. That was my meaning, no more and no less.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ he answered, and so he had … and now found himself in a prison cell deep beneath the guild hall. Had all the choices he had made, the actions he had taken, or not taken, led him inevitably to this moment, this place? The past could not be changed – but what if the same were true of the present and the future, and all the events of a man’s life were as if carved into stone from the day of his birth, or earlier still, set down by the hand of the Almighty at the beginning of time? Choice, then, would be an illusion, and the course of each man’s life would be as fixed as the movement of a clock. Perhaps there was some comfort in this view – useless, then, to struggle, to regret, to dream. Whatever happened, happened in accordance with God’s plan, and each human being merely played the part assigned to him or her. Yet Quare’s spirit rebelled against this comfort and the attitude of supine passivity it encouraged. He rejected them both. Illusory or not, he would act as if his actions mattered, as if the future were not set in stone.

  And how could it be, really? He himself was the proof of it – or, rather, the wound he bore, which by all rights should have been fatal: an assassin’s knife thrust between the shoulder blades and into the heart . Yet when death had come for him, somehow, by some means he did not understand, he had escaped. And if that prison had not been able to hold him, how could this one? He resolved that when Longinus or another servant returned, he would not sit meekly by and wait for whatever fate was in store for him. He was not helpless; he was a regulator, after all. It was time that he started acting like one.

  Quare rose from the pallet and crossed the room to the desk. Heedless of the noise, he lifted the wooden chair and, holding it by the back, swung the legs against the wall until, with a loud crack, one splintered; this he prised loose, and as quickly as that held a rude club in his hand. If he could knock whoever came to check on him unconscious, he could take the man’s keys, lock him in the cell, and try to make his way out of the guild hall. It was not much of a plan, but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. No doubt, once he was out of the cell, other opportunities would present themselves.

  Then, once he was free, he would have to clear his name. Until he did so, he would be a hunted man. But better that than to be hanged as a scapegoat for crimes he had not committed.

  He retrieved Mr Puddinge’s foul-smelling coat and arranged it on the pallet to give the impression of a curled and sleeping body. His hat he placed where his head might have been. Then
he went to the door, standing to one side, so that, when it was opened, he might surprise whoever entered. He waited, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps and watching for a telltale glimmer of torchlight behind the iron grille set into the door.

  Some moments passed. The only sound was the crackling of the fire. Quare’s eyelids began to grow heavy in the stuffy, overheated atmosphere of the room.

  ‘Waiting for someone?’

  The voice came from behind. Quare started then spun to face the speaker.

  ‘Longinus?’

  The servant standing in front of the fireplace nodded, a wary eye on the club in Quare’s hand. In his own hand was a belt and sheathed rapier: the very belt and weapon that Mrs Puddinge had taken from Quare and left with the Old Wolf.

  ‘Put that down,’ Longinus said. ‘We’ve no time for such foolishness.’

  Instead, Quare hefted the club and stepped forward. ‘How did you get in here? What are you doing with my sword?’

  ‘I’ve come to free you,’ Longinus answered. ‘But I would prefer not to receive a knock on the head in thanks for it.’

  At that, Quare stopped short. ‘You’re letting me out?’

  Longinus nodded, and for the first time, Quare noted that the servant’s normally fastidious appearance was anything but: his powdered wig had been knocked askew, and the powder on his face was streaked with sweat; his clothes were torn in places and spattered with what looked like blood – whether his own or someone else’s, Quare couldn’t say.

  ‘The Old Wolf has made his move,’ Longinus said. ‘He’s been preparing this for a long time, but I did not think he would strike so soon after Master Magnus’s death. Something must have forced his hand – I know not what.’

  ‘What do you mean, made his move? What’s going on out there?’

  ‘A purge,’ Longinus said, and grimaced. ‘A bloody purge – that’s what’s going on. Every regulator loyal to Master Magnus is being hunted down and killed by the Old Wolf’s men. I barely got away with my life … and your sword. Here.’ He tossed the belt to Quare, who, shifting the club to his other hand, managed to catch the sheathed weapon. Longinus, meanwhile, continued speaking. ‘You’re on the list, too, Mr Quare. Apparently the Old Wolf has decided that you’re worth more to him dead than alive. There’s not a moment to lose: we have to get out of here now. Master Malrubius is on his way here to kill you.’

  ‘How can I trust you?’ Quare asked. ‘How do I know this isn’t a trick?’

  ‘Because I know about the hunter and what it can do,’ Longinus replied. ‘I know that it drinks a man’s blood – and I know, too, that it killed Master Magnus.’

  ‘What? Killed him? How?’

  ‘As soon as we are safely away from here, I’ll tell you everything I know, I swear it. But for now, you’ll have to trust me. Master Magnus never had a chance to tell you, but he intended for the two of us to work together. Surely you recall his promise to assign a more experienced regulator to assist you. I am he.’

  ‘You? A regulator?’

  ‘Retired,’ Longinus said, and sketched a bow. ‘Now, Mr Quare, if you don’t mind, save your questions and follow me.’ With that, he turned and entered the fireplace, leaping as nimbly as Jack of the nursery rhyme over the burning logs to vanish into the back of the cavernous space. ‘Oh,’ came his voice from out of the cavity, ‘you might want to bring that appalling coat of yours.’

  This was a turn of events Quare had not anticipated. He didn’t trust Longinus, but neither did he want to take the chance that the Old Wolf really had dispatched men to kill him. With all that had happened, he found that he could not discount the possibility.

  The decision was made easier by the sound of voices and hurried footsteps in the corridor outside. It seemed that Quare was about to have visitors.

  ‘Quare!’ hissed Longinus from behind the flames.

  Quare rushed to the pallet, snatched up the coat, which he bundled into his arms, along with his tricorn, and, leaving the makeshift club behind, but clutching his sword and belt, ducked under the cowl of the fireplace.

  ‘Jump,’ came Longinus’s voice from out of the shadows. ‘It is quite safe, you shall see.’

  He heard the click of the lock turning in the door behind him. Without a backward glance, Quare closed his eyes and jumped over the burning logs, feeling the heat of the flames lick across his shins.

  ‘Good man.’ Strong hands took hold of him and pulled him forward, out of the heat and the smoke.

  Opening his eyes, Quare found himself in a small, square room with a bell pull in one corner and a railing that ran horizontally, at waist height, around each of the three walls; each wall bore a sconce with a burning candle. ‘Why, it’s the stair-master,’ he breathed in wonder.

  ‘Quite,’ said Longinus even as the door to the chamber slid shut, cutting off the shouts of consternation from the cell Quare had just vacated. ‘You would be surprised, I think, to learn just how widely the stair-master may travel throughout the guild hall. Or perhaps not, knowing Master Magnus as you did. He was a man who prepared for every eventuality save one: the bizarre circumstances of his own death. But who in this world could have prepared for such a demise? Who could have imagined that such a timepiece could exist?’ He gave a sharp tug to the bell pull, and the chamber began to move, lurching backwards so suddenly that Quare nearly fell, righting himself only with difficulty by dropping his coat, hat and sword belt and grabbing hold of the rail with both hands.

  ‘Wh-where are we going?’ he gasped out.

  ‘Up,’ said Longinus. And, as if that had been a signal, or rather a command, the stair-master jerked to a halt and then shot upwards. Quare’s stomach lagged behind, and his knees almost buckled. ‘Steady on, Mr Quare,’ said Longinus. ‘I hope you are not afraid of heights.’

  Quare shook his head, speech beyond him for the moment. He noted that Longinus had belted on a sword, and also that two large cloth bundles, each black as pitch and secured with an assortment of leather straps and clasps, were leaning against one wall of the now smoothly ascending chamber. The bundles looked unwieldy and lacked, as far as he could see, any shoulder straps. He could not imagine what purpose they might serve. Longinus wore a hint of a superior smile on his face as he regarded Quare, who continued to cling to the rail.

  ‘How high are we going?’ he asked, for, as the seconds ticked by, it seemed impossible to him that they had not yet reached the apex of the guild hall … assuming that was indeed their destination.

  ‘Why, all the way to the top, of course,’ said Longinus, and again, as if his words had served as a signal, the stair-master jerked, less violently than before, then glided to a stop. The door slid open upon a moonlit rooftop wreathed in drifting tendrils of fog; Quare had not realized how much time had gone by since his incarceration.

  ‘Buckle on your sword belt,’ Longinus instructed. ‘Gather up your coat and one of those bundles, and follow me.’ He had already lifted one of the bundles himself, which he proceeded to carry out of the stair-master.

  Quare buckled on his belt, picked up his coat and hat and the remaining bundle – which was heavier than it appeared, and covered with an unfamiliar substance that clung to his fingers – and followed Longinus onto the rooftop. From this height, Quare could see much of the surrounding roofscape of London, though indistinctly, as a mass of bulky shadows and spindly shapes in which, here and there, like the stars above, tiny flames winked without providing much illumination. To the south, through tears in the curtain of fog and coal smoke, he saw the dull shine of the Thames, a length of tarnished pewter. He was reminded of his rooftop pursuit of Grimalkin – had it really been only two nights ago? But the difference was that the roof of the guild hall was substantially higher than the surrounding buildings, and Quare saw no way to leap from their present perch to an adjoining one, as he had done while scrambling after Grimalkin. They were trapped. Did Longinus mean to betray him?

  ‘Stop gawking and come over here,’
said Longinus. ‘You will have plenty of time later to admire the view.’ The servant – though Quare supposed he could no longer think of him in that way – was kneeling beside a brick wall some distance away. He had his bundle open and spread out before him. As Quare approached, he saw that there was a large metal canister near by, from which a tube extended into the midst of the opened bundle. There was a hissing sound, as of escaping air.

  ‘What are you doing? What is that thing?’

  ‘Lay your bundle down there,’ Longinus replied, pointing to the wall where the canister stood.

  Quare placed bundle, hat and coat where Longinus had indicated, then turned, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘I want answers, Longinus. And I want them now. Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘You fool!’ the other hissed. ‘We don’t have time for this! Even now the Old Wolf’s men are climbing towards us – they will not let us escape if they can help it.’

  ‘Escape? Why, there is no escaping this rooftop – not unless we can sprout wings and fly!’

  Longinus laughed and got to his feet. ‘We shall do the next best thing. Behold another of Master Magnus’s wondrous inventions: the Personal Flotation Device. It will lift us from this rooftop and carry us safely through the air.’

  Quare’s mouth dropped open. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘You know as well as I what Master Magnus was capable of. This canister, which is connected to a substantial reservoir beneath the roof, is filled with flammable air, a gas that is lighter than the air around us – so much lighter that it provides sufficient buoyancy to lift a heavy object … a person, in this case. The device itself consists of a leather harness and a sphere of sailcloth coated with the sap of a Brazilian tree – the natives call it caoutchouc , or so I am told. This sap holds the gas within, while permitting the bladder to expand. Once airborne, the device can be manoeuvred by dropping carefully calibrated weights – packets of sand of varying sizes – and by releasing controlled bursts of flammable air from the sphere.’