The Emperor of all Things

by Paul Witcover

  ‘You are mad!’

  ‘I have used the Personal Flotation Device many times, Mr Quare. It is quite safe, over relatively short distances.’

  ‘Right. Safe, is it? I suppose that’s why the gas is called “flammable air”. Because it is so much safer than ordinary air. You know, the nonflammable kind.’

  ‘The gas is dangerous only if it comes into contact with a spark or flame.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very comforting. And if it does?’

  ‘Then, Mr Quare, we shall both go out in a blaze of glory. But if you would rather return to your cell or remain here on the rooftop to await the arrival of Malrubius and his men …’

  Quare grimaced. ‘I take your point. How does the damned thing work?’

  ‘There is not sufficient time to train you in its operation, unfortunately, so I am going to tether us together. Once you are aloft, touch nothing, do nothing, unless at my direction. Is that clear?’

  ‘As crystal,’ he replied.

  ‘Put on your coat,’ Longinus directed. ‘You’ll be glad of the warmth, believe me.’

  Quare did so, donning his hat as well. Then Longinus fitted him into the leather harness, strapping it snugly about his thighs and across his torso and shoulders. All the while, the sailcloth bladder expanded, retaining its spherical shape; it was bigger than he had realized, perhaps twice his own size, if not more. Soon the sphere rose gently off the roof and into the air, a dark moonlet seeking its rightful place in the sky. Quare could feel it tugging at him. By that time, moving with practised efficiency, Longinus had opened the second bundle and spread it out, attaching a second tube – or ‘umbilical’, as he put it. As the device began to inflate, he strapped himself into its harness, spurning Quare’s offer of help.

  ‘You would only hinder me,’ he said, ‘or fail to secure the straps properly, and, in your ignorance, however well-meaning, kill us both.’

  The whole operation did not take more than a few minutes, objectively speaking, yet all the same, Quare felt as if time had slowed to a crawl. He kept expecting to see armed men burst onto the rooftop, and so fixated was his anxious stare on the trap door that gave access to the roof that he was taken by surprise when, in a gust of wind, the sphere to which he was attached raised itself higher still, pulling him off his feet in the process. There he remained, dangling in the air above the rooftop like a puppet from its strings, secured only by the taut umbilical and the tether with which Longinus had bound their harnesses together. His hands clung to the ropes of the harness that rose from his shoulders to the sphere above as if by doing so he might somehow pull the device back to earth. It was all he could do not to scream. Then another gust of wind snatched the tricorn from his head, and he cursed loudly at the loss of it.

  ‘A moment more,’ Longinus said. He, too, would have risen into the air were it not for a pair of cables running from his harness to moorings set into the roof. His sphere bobbed below Quare like a cork.

  Seeming to strain with the effort, Longinus bent over the canister and turned a small wheel there. Then he slipped the cables from the moorings. Both inflated spheres sprang upwards, carrying their human cargoes along. The umbilicals, pulled free of the spheres, fell back to the rooftop; even amidst his terror, Quare retained sufficient presence of mind to marvel at Master Magnus’s ingenious design, which must have included some sort of self-sealing mechanism.

  ‘ Allez-houp! ’ cried Longinus.

  Quare contributed an incoherent cry of his own as the bladders zoomed up and away – and not a moment too soon, for even as the rooftop receded dizzyingly below them, the trap door opened. ‘Longinus!’ Quare shouted, hoping his voice could be heard over the rush of the wind.

  If Longinus responded, Quare didn’t hear it. He watched in near -panic as the men on the rooftop – four of them, as small now as dwarfs, and a fifth, seemingly smaller still: Master Malrubius, nearly as spherical as the inflated bladder that had swept him aloft – raised what could only be pistols and seemed to follow their progress through the air, tracking them with steady hands. Quare felt as if he must loom as vast and ungainly in their sight as an airborne elephant. He cursed as a cluster of bright flashes marked the flintlocks’ firing and strove to somehow make himself smaller. He recalled very well what Longinus had told him about the result should the flammable air in the bladders encounter a spark or flame, and he wondered what effect the strike of a ball would have. Even if the gas in the bladder did not ignite, it was a long way down.

  But the bullets did not find their marks – at least in so far as Quare could determine. Certainly he had not been struck, and it didn’t seem that the bladder carrying him ever higher and farther away had suffered injury, either. Nor did it appear that Longinus or his Personal Flotation Device had been hit. And their attackers could not reload fast enough to fire again. Quare watched in amazement, his heart aflutter like a frantic bird, as the men dwindled into insignificance, soon swallowed by shadows and the night.

  They had done it. They were free.

  A giddy exhilaration swelled in his breast, as if he had just swallowed a dram of strong liquor; under its influence, he could not forbear from shouting in triumph. Even his terror at dangling in mid-air like a mouse caught in the talons of an owl contributed to his sense of having escaped not only his prison cell and the fate Sir Thaddeus had planned for him but the laws of nature itself, as if it were an enchantment and not the application of scientific principles that had lofted him high above the city.

  Here the air belonged to a colder season. For once, Quare was glad of Mr Puddinge’s coat, for despite its stench – which the wind of their swift passage kept at bay – it provided some welcome insulation from that same wind’s icy probings. Still, the exposed flesh of his hands and face soon began to sting, and his eyes to water; his mouth had grown so dry that he clamped it resolutely shut.

  Longinus soared ahead of him, a dark shape visible against the softer coal of the night sky, where a ceiling of high cloud was silvered with moonlight, suggesting nothing so much to Quare at this moment as the surface of a great sail carrying the entire planet shiplike through the ether. That sail was torn in places, and through the ragged gaps he could see the glimmer of stars far brighter, it seemed, than he had ever perceived them from the level of the streets, even on moonless nights, and the moon, too, though not yet full, seemed, as it drifted behind the clouds, a brighter presence than he had known, a place it might, perhaps, be possible to travel to by this same method. What a journey that would make! What wonders might he find there!

  But there were wonders nearer to hand. A wider rent had opened in the clouds, and in the plangent wash of moonlight the whole of London was revealed, extending as far as he could see. From his unaccustomed vantage, it seemed a different city than the one he had come to know, a fairy metropolis spun out of shadow and suggestion, of soft, silvery light and slate-grey webbings of fog, insubstantial as a dream. He passed over a weird terrain of rooftops and spires, chimneys belching smoke, deep valleys of streets, and squares in which the occasional torch flickered like a lonely star reflected in the mirror of a placid lake. There was no sound from below, only the rushing of the air, as noisy – and cold – as if he had plunged his head beneath a freezing cataract. Perhaps they had reached the moon after all, and this was no earthly city but the capital of some lunar country …

  The undulating thread of the Thames, stitching in and out of the darker fabric of the night, gave Quare the means to orient himself, and he realized with a shock of recognition that he was passing almost directly above his lodgings – former lodgings, rather. Below him, Mrs Puddinge was no doubt enjoying the slumber of the just. What would she think if she looked up and saw her dead husband’s coat flapping overhead like a ragged spirit condemned to an eternity of restless wandering?

  That errant thought reminded him of more recent deaths, of spirits that clamoured for justice and revenge, if only in the court of his own conscience. Was the murderer Aylesford still at large
in London, seeking the timepiece that, in some fashion Quare did not understand, had both saved his own life and killed – at least, according to Longinus – Master Magnus? Sir Thaddeus had the hunter now, and Quare shuddered at the thought of what might occur as the Old Wolf subjected the device to a thorough examination. Grimalkin’s warning had been amply borne out, it seemed to him, and he wished that he had thought to question her more closely on the subject when he’d had the chance. He would have given a lot to see her again; she was as intriguing as she was beautiful, and he did not doubt that she could supply answers to many of the mysteries that had so thoroughly entangled him.

  As the vertiginous sensations of flight lost their novelty, Quare realized that he and Longinus were not at the mercy of every capricious breeze. They were moving with steady intent, like ships that hold to their course despite the vagaries of the wind. None of this was Quare’s doing. Tethered to Longinus, he could only follow where the other man led; though at times it seemed that he was leading and Longinus following as the two Personal Flotation Devices performed a drunken minuet, each seeking to rotate about the other in a freewheeling demonstration of pendular motion that would have engaged Quare’s mind had it not been so upsetting to his stomach. More than once they collided in midair, pushing themselves apart with grunts and curses before the lines of their harnesses could become fouled.

  It seemed impossible that the mere manipulation of sand and gas, as Longinus had described to him, could bring their flight under control. But such was the case. Though there was not sufficient light to observe Longinus, Quare marvelled at the visible results of the man’s unseen actions. Small, purposeful alterations in trajectory, height and velocity nudged the two devices in a particular direction, cutting westward across the city, angling closer to the Thames. Quare felt as if he had been caught up in a waking dream, or come under the influence of a magic spell. All his senses were heightened. He was drunk with wonder and fright.

  Then, after an interval that could have been seconds or hours for all his ability to judge it, they began to descend. The city rose to meet them, surfacing out of fog and shadow like a leviathan bestirring itself after a long slumber. Someone – confederates of Longinus, Quare supposed – had set a ring of torches burning atop a particular roof, and it was towards this marker that Longinus steered them now. But how did he mean to set them safely down? It occurred to Quare that landing might prove to be even more dangerous than flying. He watched apprehensively as – far too swiftly, it seemed – the Personal Flotation Devices came swooping in.

  He cried out, certain that he was about to die, but then a handful of figures ran into the torchlight, scurrying over the roof as if chasing something too small for Quare to see. Even as they passed above these men, who, he noted, wore the livery of servants, a strong jerk thrust him against his harness, driving the breath from his lungs. Urgent cries rose up from below. When he could breathe again, he saw that the men were holding tightly to ropes that Longinus had let drop from his harness. The servants had caught these ropes in mid-flight and tied them to moorings set into the roof. Now the men were hauling them in hand over hand. Quare smiled at his saviours with a gratitude that bordered on love. They did not spare him a glance, intent on their work, and he loved them all the more for it.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, eh, Mr Quare?’ came Longinus’s voice.

  Quare could only grin stupidly.

  But his grin faded as he took in the details of the roof. He knew them very well. There was the chimney behind which he had concealed himself two nights ago. There the skylight from which, wreathed in grey smoke, Grimalkin had emerged.

  Longinus had brought him to Lord Wichcote’s house.

  He was betrayed.

  7

  Lord Wichcote

  WHAT SECONDS EARLIER had seemed like salvation took on a very different aspect as the men on the rooftop – there were at least a dozen – reeled Quare in like an eel dragged from the Thames … though that hypothetical eel would have had a better chance of slipping the hook than Quare of escaping his harness. Longinus had liberated him from one jailer only to deliver him, snugly trussed, to another. Perhaps Lord Wichcote did not want him dead, as the Old Wolf did – though it occurred to Quare that he had only Longinus’s word on that – but his lordship was no friend of the Worshipful Company. Lord Wichcote would not have had him brought here out of benevolent philanthropy. He wanted something.

  The flickering torchlight imparted a hellish cast to the frantic activity below. Red-glazed hands reached up for him, taking hold of his legs and pulling him roughly down. Even before his feet touched solid ground, other hands were busy at the straps and buckles of his harness. Nearby, Longinus was being similarly attended to. The servants were well practised at this work, and in less than a minute had extracted both men. The Personal Flotation Devices were dragged to the far side of the roof; Quare surmised that the bladders could not be vented near the torches owing to the danger of an explosion. But that was the least of his worries.

  The servants had not taken away his sword, as he had feared they would. Nor did they make any attempt to restrain him. In truth, it was all he could do to remain upright. His legs seemed to have become unfamiliar with the ground … either that, or the ground had grown less stable in the time of his absence from it. He would have liked nothing better than to lie down on the rooftop and close his eyes until the world stopped wobbling and his queasy stomach settled. But this was no time to give way to weakness. A grinning Longinus was striding towards him. He had lost his wig in the flight, and his bare scalp gleamed in the torchlight, putting Quare in mind of a vulture. He drew his sword.

  Longinus stopped short, smile vanishing. ‘I confess I had expected a warmer thanks for having saved your life, Mr Quare.’ He motioned with one hand for the servants to stay back.

  ‘Take another step and you will find it hot indeed, I promise you,’ Quare said. ‘Why have you brought me to Lord Wichcote’s house?’

  ‘Ah, so you recognize it, then. Good.’

  ‘Lord Wichcote was no friend to Master Magnus, and he is no friend to the Worshipful Company, either.’

  ‘In that you are quite wrong,’ Longinus said. ‘His lordship has long been a benefactor of the Worshipful Company and a close associate of Master Magnus – I will not say a friend, because that gentleman, God rest his troubled soul, was not capable of genuine friendship with any creature besides a cat. But the two men, for all their differences, had a genuine respect for each other and worked together often, if behind the scenes. They did not always see eye to eye, but when it came to the interests of guild and country, there was no space between them. Only, it suited them to have the world believe them enemies. A secret ally is often of more value than a friend whom all the world can see, as this night has amply demonstrated. So put up your sword, Mr Quare. You have nothing to fear from Lord Wichcote.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Quare, his glance shifting to the surrounding servants, all of whom were watching intently. Yet not one of them made a threatening move in his direction. It seemed that Longinus had some authority over them.

  ‘A shame,’ Longinus said meanwhile, and, moving faster than Quare would have guessed possible in a man of his age, drew his own sword.

  The next few seconds were a blur to Quare. He had thought Aylesford a skilled swordsman, but Longinus was in another class altogether. Quare managed two weak parries before the sword was wrenched from his hand as if by an invisible force; it clattered to the ground, where one of the servants picked it up. Quare, clutching the wrist of his now empty hand, which had been rendered numb and useless by a blow he had not seen coming – or going, for that matter – could only gape in astonishment as Longinus sheathed his sword.

  ‘Your technique is woefully inadequate,’ the man remarked with a sad shake of his head. He did not appear in the least winded. ‘I see that I will have my work cut out to make a respectable regulator out of you, as Master Magnus wished me to do.’

  �
�And what of Lord Wichcote’s wishes?’ Quare demanded. ‘He is your true master, is he not? How much did he pay you to betray me?’

  ‘Why, nothing at all.’

  ‘I think I shall call you Judas rather than Longinus. The name suits you better.’

  ‘I prefer Longinus. But if you would call me something other, then my true name will suffice for now. Josiah Wichcote, sir, at your service.’ He gave a small bow.

  Quare’s mouth gaped wider still. ‘L-lord Wichcote?’ he stammered at last.

  ‘The same.’ As he spoke, it seemed to Quare that the man stood taller, straighter; it was as if he had cast off a subtle disguise. ‘No doubt you have many questions,’ he continued. ‘I will answer them as best I can. But first, I intend to change out of these clothes and enjoy a hot bath. I invite you to do the same. I will have you shown to your rooms; fresh clothes and anything else you may require will be brought to you there. Then, sir, we shall dine together, and I shall tell you everything I know about the circumstances of Master Magnus’s death … and other things you will, I dare say, find equally incredible.’

  With that, Longinus – Lord Wichcote, rather, if his assertion could be believed – bowed again and took his leave. Surrounded by a bevy of servants, he strode across the roof and descended through a trap door some distance from the skylight with the ease of a much younger man. Most of the remaining servants busied themselves with the Personal Flotation Devices and harnesses, but a pair of them – including the one who had picked up his sword – presented themselves to Quare.

  ‘If you please, sir,’ said the one holding his sword, ‘we will conduct you to your rooms now.’

  ‘Is that really Lord Wichcote?’ he couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes,’ the servant replied with a note of pride in his voice. ‘His lordship is quite the swordsman, is he not?’