Gwen had seen it too. “We’re not lined up! We’re going to overshoot!”
The eastbound gale was too strong, and the balcony coming too fast. Before they could work any farther south, they were passing the northwest corner. In desperation, Jack let go of a pincer and grabbed for the rail. He missed. His fingers hooked the nose of a dragon gargoyle instead, the northwestern extent of the structure. The QED jerked to a halt with a disturbing crick from Jack’s spine, swinging Gwen closer to the rail.
The clerk pulled herself onto the dragon’s back. She knelt between its wings, hooking an arm around the stone baluster beneath the rail and reaching for Jack. “Take my hand!”
As if he had other options. She hardly got out the words before his grip on the pincer failed. His arm dropped. Gwen caught his hand. Inch by inch, Jack scrambled up onto the dragon’s back, and the two climbed over the rail together, into the glaring green of the balcony spotlights. As soon as Jack had let go, the QED had shot away with the wind, fighting its way north in a futile attempt to return to the Keep. Apparently it wanted nothing else to do with a thirteen.
There was a great ratcheting click from the clockface below, and Jack peered over the edge. 11:47. If they failed to hand over the Ember within the next thirteen minutes, the Clockmaker would kill his father. Jack hurried to the nearest of the tall, arched windows surrounding the belfry and peered in.
The balcony spotlights shone through the windows, casting eerie green light into the square brick chamber, pitting shadow against shadow on the floor. The belfry was empty except for its five iron bell platforms, bolted to the floor beneath the five bronze bells. Jack saw no evidence of the Clockmaker or his dad. “It’s clear,” he whispered, cracking open the window and motioning for Gwen to follow him through. Inside, he blew into his hands and rubbed them together, grateful to be out of the wind. “Okay. We’re here. Where is this guy?”
Gwen gestured at the floor. “Where else? He told us to meet him at the Great Clock.” She pointed to the central bell, the largest of the five by far. “That’s Big Ben. The Great Clock Tower is what we’re standing in, and the real Great Clock is a big jumble of gears in the chamber beneath our feet.”
On the next level down, they found a narrow walkway that led between the four faces of the clock and the four big walls of lightbulbs that stood behind them. The Great Clock itself, Gwen explained in a whisper, was in an inner chamber behind the walls of lights, and the only entrance they could find was a small wooden door on the eastern side.
Gwen pulled Jack away from the door, whispering in his ear. “How are we supposed to sneak up on the Clockmaker if there’s only one way in? He hasn’t left us any options.”
Jack squinted up at the wall of lights above. At the very center, a heavy gear shaft projected out from a large hole, to power the hands in the clockface. The other three sides would be exactly the same. He backed away from Gwen and looked her over from head to toe, evaluating her size. “Or maybe he has.”
Seconds later, Jack threw open the chamber door.
“Ah, Lucky Jack. Right on time.” The Clockmaker leaned against the rail of a pen filled with slowly turning gears, grinning at his own pun. His hand rested on a wheelchair, where John Buckles the Twelfth sat with his blackened suede duster folded neatly in his lap and his head slumped to his chest. There were blistered burns on his cheeks.
Jack took a hasty step into the chamber.
“Stop! Not another step.” The flared brass barrel of the flamethrower emerged from the Clockmaker’s sleeve, an inch from his captive’s head. His grin became a snarl. “I hope for your father’s sake that you have brought my prize, mon ami. Otherwise, this meeting will be short and tragic. Most tragic, indeed.”
It was all a ploy, and Jack knew it. The implication, however veiled in threats, that either Jack or his dad had any chance of getting out of there alive was an obvious lie. As soon as Jack produced the Ember, the Clockmaker would fry him with the flamethrower, or release his clockwork beetles, or hit him with something equally deadly that Jack had not yet seen.
But Jack had thought of all that.
His gaze shifted to the structure above the Clockmaker’s head—a set of crossed I-beams running from wall to wall, supporting the shafts that powered the hands outside. An echoing click filled the brick chamber and the shafts rotated, turning the hands of all four clockfaces at once.
“That is another minute passed,” said the Clockmaker, holding out a gloved palm. “I told you before. I am on a schedule. Where is the Ember?”
“Take it easy.” Jack bent sideways to reach into his satchel with both hands. “I have what you asked for.” He fumbled in the bag, stalling for as long as he dared, then whipped both hands out at once. In one hand he held the box containing the Ember; in the other, a four-barrel dart gun with the wicked, serrated tips of its bolts protruding from the barrels. He leveled the brass weapon at the Frenchman. “But you won’t get it until my dad is safe. Now step away from the chair.”
The Clockmaker laughed long and hard, making Jack regret his effort to take command. He turned the flamethrower in Jack’s direction. “Do you really think your little darts will make it through the flames? Oh, Lucky Jack. You are not that lucky.”
Jack swallowed his fear and frustration and took another step toward his dad, keeping his weapon up. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you can stop my darts.” He thrust his chin at the wall above and behind the Frenchman. “But there’s no way you can stop hers at the same time.”
Gwen had made it through. She was perched on the I-beam next to the hole where the shaft went through the wall. As the Clockmaker turned to look, Gwen raised her own four-barrel weapon and aimed it at his head. “I believe Lucky Jack told you to step away, chum.”
“Shoot me,” growled the Frenchman, returning the barrel to his prisoner’s forehead. “Go ahead and try. Your father will be dead before your missiles find their marks.”
Jack had anticipated such a threat. “But they will find their marks, so you’ll be dead too.” He held up the Ember. “My dad was ready to die over this thing, Mr. Clockmaker. Are you?”
The gears ratcheted through another minute, filling the room with another echoing click.
Chapter 58
“FINE,” SNARLED THE Clockmaker. “I will play your game.” He moved away from the chair as Jack came forward. Each faced the other as they passed. Jack shot a glance at the overcoat folded in his dad’s lap and saw a flash of shimmering red from the lining. Unconsciously he bit his lip, daring to hope. “Dad! Can you hear me?”
John Buckles made no reply. He didn’t move at all.
“All right, Lucky Jack.” The Frenchman had reached the doorway. “You have your father. Now give me the Ember.”
Jack could hear Gwen drop to the floor behind him and creep to one side, changing her angle, using the pen full of gears as a partial shield. Even so, the Clockmaker still had his flamethrower. Oiled gears would not be much of a defense. If it came to shooting, Jack was certain at least one of them would get fried. He could only see one way out of the standoff. “Fine. You want it?” He eased open the catch on the Ember’s box. “Then take it!”
Jack thrust out the box, causing the lid to flap open and sending the Ember sailing toward the Frenchman. The jewel instantly brightened, igniting the air, an arch of flame trailing behind it.
The Clockmaker didn’t even flinch. He reached up and caught his blazing prize, and his glove and coat instantly caught fire. Soon he was howling with pain, utterly engulfed in flames.
Wasting no time, Jack snatched up his dad’s duster and held it up as a shield. The shimmering red liner matched those he had seen in the dragos’ coats at the Ministry Express station. The liners were made of dragon scales—they had to be. That was how his dad had survived the flamethrower.
Jack advanced, praying he could contain the Ember before it burned down the whole tower. But he only made it a few steps before stopping in stunned confusion. The Clockmaker’
s terrible howl had become a cackling laugh. He lowered his makeshift shield and saw the flames receding. Mystified, he retreated to his dad’s side. “It’s not working, Gwen! Shoot him!”
Both shot dart after dart into the fire, but they couldn’t see their target, and the laughing continued. Finally, the smoke and flames dispersed, leaving behind the blackened ruin that the fire had made of the walls and floor around the doorway. And the Clockmaker stood at the center of it all, transformed.
The black gloves and coat were gone, along with the wide-brimmed hat. His clothing had burned away, exposing a suit of plaited blue-green armor, complete with a mask. At his feet lay the discarded remains of the flamethrower and its miniature tanks. He held the Ember enclosed in a metallic fist. With his other hand, he held Nero’s Globe on high. “Did you think I was not prepared for the Ember’s power, Lucky Jack? Hadn’t you guessed? It was my ancestor, Robert Hubert, who discovered its secrets. It was he who unearthed the globe and learned how the alloy within its glass controls the jewel. Did you think I would not have continued his work?”
Click. The Great Clock advanced another minute.
“Midnight approaches, and justice must be dealt on a schedule—that is the British way, is it not? At the stroke of midnight, London will learn the true meaning of justice.” The Frenchman lifted his mask with a knuckle, revealing a twisted grin. “Good-bye, Lucky Jack. I am afraid your time has run out.”
With that, he opened his fist, exposing the Ember. Rivers of fire gathered inside the jewel, as if drawing heat from the air itself. Then flames shot out across the room.
“Get down!” Jack raised the overcoat to shield himself and his father. He felt the heat against his arm—intense heat, as much as he could bear—but the flames did not break through. When he lowered the smoking duster, the floor before him was blackened. The oiled gears behind him flickered with blue flame. And the Clockmaker had vanished, leaving a swarm of clockwork beetles in his place. Jack fired the last of his darts, dropping one of the bugs, but that did nothing to deter the rest. The swarm advanced into the room.
“Jack . . .” Gwen stood up behind the flaming gears.
“I see them.” He threw the dart gun aside and reached into his satchel. His hand wrapped around a copper ball—something like a yo-yo—and he let his finger slip through the ring on its chain.
The clerk drew a similar ball from the pocket of her coat. “Wait until they’re close.”
The beetles spread their formation, crackling with anticipation. Jack’s eyes widened. “I think they’re close enough, don’t you?”
“Now!” shouted Gwen, and both tossed their spheres at the same time.
The spheres snapped from the ends of the chains, spinning the magnets inside as they sailed into the swarm. The clockwork bugs attacked them with relish, sending out purple bolts of electricity. To their surprise, the copper targets fired back. Spidery patterns of lightning struck out from each ball. More than a dozen beetles dropped to the floor and exploded. The rest fell back, retreating through the door.
Gwen punched the air. “Well done! I knew the electrospheres would come in handy.”
Jack wasn’t ready to celebrate small victories. He turned and knelt before the wheelchair, gently taking his father’s hand. “Dad, can you hear me?”
“Jack, there’s no time for that.” Gwen rushed around the gear pen and checked his father’s pulse and breathing, nodding at her findings. “He’s all right for now, but you heard the Clockmaker. He’s going to combine the Ember with Nero’s Globe at midnight. He’s going to burn London. None of us will be all right for long if we don’t stop him.”
Jack didn’t answer. “Please, Dad. I can’t do this without you.” He reached into his satchel and withdrew the red-and-gold sphere he had found in the armory—the one that had been at the center of all the gear. “Look. I brought this with me. It’s so beautiful. It has to be important, right? We can use it to stop the Clockmaker. All you have to do is wake up and show me how.”
Click.
Gwen took a step toward the door. “It’s 11:53. Seven minutes. We have to go.”
“Please, Dad. I need you.” Jack opened his father’s palm and pressed the sphere into it, lowering his forehead to their joined hands.
“Jack?” The voice was not Gwen’s.
Jack looked up and saw his father gazing down at him with tired eyes. “Dad!”
“Son, the Clockmaker, he—”
“He’s gone. He took off with the Ember. But we can get it back . . . you and me, together.”
“Jack, I can’t . . .” His father let out a labored breath. “I know you wanted to save me, son, but millions of lives hang in the balance now. This is so much bigger than you and me, and it’s up to you to see it through.”
“Jack, what are you doing?” asked Gwen. “We’re running out of time.”
“Just give me a second!” He glared over his shoulder.
Click.
“Go, son,” he heard his father say. “You’re a tracker now. You can do this.”
By the time Jack turned back, his dad’s eyes were closed again. Behind him, Gwen had reached the exit. “Now, Jack!”
He picked up the duster and ran after her, stopping her at the door. “Fine, I’ll go, but I need you to stay with my dad.”
“What? Don’t be absurd.”
“He’s hurt, Gwen. He needs looking after.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t say anything, even though her lips had parted.
Jack saw the shift in the clerk’s expression at the same time he felt the blood slipping from his nose for the second time that night. He pulled a cloth from his satchel and wiped it away. “It’s nothing. Stay here. I’m going after him.”
“No way. You’re hurt. You can’t possibly—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. Jack backed into the hall and slammed the blackened door between them.
Chapter 59
JACK CROUCHED BESIDE the stairwell door, the green light of the belfry spilling over the threshold. The bleeding had stopped, for the moment. He tucked the cloth away and pulled the last of his little tricks from the satchel, a brushed nickel sphere that Gwen had told him was most definitely a scout.
He twisted the two hemispheres of the ball, winding it up, then tossed it through the door. The upper hemisphere snapped open into a set of propellers, spinning to keep it in the air. After a count of five, Jack held up a second sphere, a powerful magnet, and the scout zipped back into the stairwell. He snatched it from the air with his other hand, and instantly sparked.
The Clockmaker had opened the floor-to-ceiling windows on the eastern side of the belfry, exposing the one balcony that was sheltered from the wind. He had set up a bronze pedestal at its center, and was about to set Nero’s Globe in the bowl at the top.
The spark ended with another ratcheting click from the present. 11:55. In five minutes, the Frenchman would place the Ember into the globe and unleash its amplified power on London. With the gale outside, the flames would be unstoppable. But what could Jack do?
He did the only thing he could think of.
“Hey, Zippo!” Jack raced out into the belfry, diving for the platform beneath the nearest chime. A line of flame shot out from the Clockmaker’s palm, roaring around the plate iron structure. Only his father’s coat kept Jack from being singed. He poked his head up when the fire receded. “What is your problem?”
The Clockmaker finished placing the globe and laughed. “Lucky Jack, are you still here?” He opened his hand, sending another blast of fire at the stand. Smoky haze drifted through the air, colored green by the spotlights.
“You got past my little friends,” said the Frenchman, closing the Ember in his fist again. “Applause for you, mon ami. But it matters not. In a few minutes the small bells will chime and then the great bell will ring. And, on the stroke of twelve, the amplifier will release a thousand of the Ember’s children to the wind. There is nowhere for you to run. All of London will b
urn. Even the mighty Thames will boil.”
Jack made a dash for the large, central bell platform, dropping into a roll as fire shot over him. He made it to the shelter of the larger stand and threw his back against the iron plate. “Good!” he shouted, breathing hard. “Then we may as well chat while we wait for your apocalypse. We have nothing better to do.” The stand was halfway between the stairwell and the Clockmaker. If Jack could make it to the balcony, get past the fire and the beetles, maybe he could knock the globe over the rail, take away at least some of the Clockmaker’s power. He coughed in the thickening smoke. “So . . . tell me . . . why is it so important that London burns?”
Click. The hands in the four faces advanced another minute.
“Why? How can you ask why, Lucky Jack, when it was you who found the names of the dead? Or would you prefer to cover up the truth, like the first of your cursed line?”
“Johnny Buckles didn’t want to cover up those deaths.” Jack cautiously peered around the stand, gauging the Clockmaker’s position. “But the scandal of Bloodworth’s treachery would have broken England. He did what he had to do for his country. He was a patriot.”
“Wrong!” The Clockmaker paced in front of his pedestal, fists clenched in rage. “He was a traitor to his kind. Hubert was the true patriot. He sacrificed himself out of sorrow for the slaughter of his fellow commoners.”
A bolt of electricity snapped above Jack’s head. He swung out with his cane, smacking the beetle across the belfry. The Clockmaker was distracting him, keeping him from developing a plan. But why hadn’t he sent the whole swarm?
Click. Three minutes to go. Jack leaned out to take a peek.
The Frenchman stopped his pacing directly between Jack and the pedestal. His remaining beetles hovered at his shoulders. “The new London rose from the ashes of nameless thousands. Legions of this city’s poorest citizens became the very mortar of its buildings, and for three hundred fifty years, the millions that followed them have pretended the slaughter never happened—just like your ancestor.” His fist began to open, revealing the fire pulsing within. “A Hubert took the punishment in 1666. And so a Hubert will deal out the punishment now!”
The Lost Property Office Page 21
