The Emperor of All Things

6

Gears Within Gears



QUARE FELT AS if he had entered into an oppressive dream as the two servants frogmarched him through empty corridors. Mrs Puddinge preceded them in frosty silence, navigating the maze of the guild hall with an assurance that bespoke considerable familiarity. Quare held his tongue as well; in truth, speech was beyond him. He’d walked these hallways just yesterday, feeling himself judged and found wanting by the dour-faced portraits looking down from the walls. Now that gloomy gallery seemed to regard him with outright hostility. So, too, the servants who had bent his arms behind his back and held them in a grip of iron as they impelled him – rather more roughly than necessary, he thought – in Mrs Puddinge’s wake. What was happening? Why was he being brought to the Old Wolf in a manner more befitting a criminal than a journeyman of the guild? And how was it that Mrs Puddinge, of all people, had ordered the servants to lay hold of him … and been obeyed without hesitation?

Mrs Puddinge did not pause to knock at the door to Grandmaster Wolfe’s study but pushed it open and strode inside. The servants bustled Quare across the threshold behind her. The room was as sweltering as ever, yet Quare perceived a distinct chill in the air.

The Old Wolf sat behind his desk as if he had not risen from it since Quare had last seen him. He took a long-stemmed clay pipe from his lips and exhaled a dense cloud of smoke, through which he gazed at Quare as balefully as a dragon. Mrs Puddinge, meanwhile, still holding his sword and scabbard, crossed the room to the Old Wolf’s side and bent low to whisper into his ear. Quare felt his arms released; rubbing them briskly, he glanced back to see that the two servants had taken positions to either side of the now-closed door. They stared ahead like twin statues. Then the rumble of Grandmaster Wolfe’s voice pulled his gaze forward again.

‘Well, Mr Quare, it would appear that you’ve had quite a busy night and morning. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?’

‘I-I’ve come to warn you,’ Quare stammered, removing his tricorn and tucking it under his arm. He scarcely knew where to begin. He had so much to tell, so many questions to ask. Mrs Puddinge, standing beside the grandmaster’s chair with her arms crossed over her chest – she had laid his weapon upon the desk – gazed at him inscrutably. He marshalled his thoughts. ‘The French have sent a spy among us – a spy and a murderer. Aylesford, a journeyman claiming to be from Scotland, a man who—’

‘Yes, yes, we know all about Mr Aylesford,’ interrupted the Old Wolf, giving his pipe an airy wave. ‘Master Magnus was not the only one with a network of spies and informants, you know.’

Mrs Puddinge gave a satisfied smirk.

But Quare was not concerned with Mrs Puddinge at the moment. ‘Was,’ he echoed dully. ‘You said was. Is Master Magnus dead then?’

‘Dead?’ repeated Grandmaster Wolfe. ‘Regrettably, yes.’ Though if there was an iota of actual regret in his tone, Quare couldn’t hear it. ‘Murdered, in fact. But then, that is not news to you, is it, Mr Quare? Don’t bother to lie – I can see right through you, sir.’

In truth, it was no more than Quare had feared – yet that fear hadn’t prepared him for the reality. A kind of shudder seemed to pass through the floor, as if he were standing on the deck of a ship. Or perhaps the unsteadiness was his own. In any case, it was a moment before he felt in sufficient command of himself to reply. ‘I had heard … That is, Aylesford said …’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘Aylesford told me Master Magnus was dead. Said that he’d come to do the job himself, but that someone had beaten him to it.’

‘I don’t suppose he mentioned a name.’

‘No. But tell me, sir, how did he die? Who found him?’

‘You were working closely with him, were you not?’

‘Indeed, we were very close. That is why I wish to know—’

The Old Wolf overrode him. ‘You were present, I believe, at what the wits of the Worshipful Company have dubbed the Massacre of the Cats?’

Quare gave a wary nod.

‘And that unfortunate event, unless I am gravely misinformed, had something to do with an unusual timepiece, a pocket watch – this pocket watch, in fact.’ At which, with a triumphant flourish, he pulled from beneath the desk the silver-cased hunter that was at the centre of all that had occurred.

So, Quare thought with a sinking heart, despite all the efforts of Master Magnus to keep the watch out of his rival’s hands, Grandmaster Wolfe had ended up with it anyway. And now, he realized further, his own role in deceiving the grandmaster must come to light. He did not know what the repercussions would be, but he did not doubt they would be severe. This was not the time to mourn his master. Nor to solve the mystery of his death. His own life might well be hanging in the balance. He must weigh every word with the utmost care.

‘Well, Mr Quare? Do you recognize this watch? It was found in Master Magnus’s hand, clutched so tightly in death that, I regret to say, his fingers had to be broken in order to extract it.’

‘I …’ How much should he admit to? How much did the Old Wolf already know? ‘I may have seen it before …’

‘Do not fence with me, sir,’ barked Grandmaster Wolfe. ‘This is the very timepiece that you took from Grimalkin, is it not? The timepiece that originally belonged to Lord Wichcote?’

Quare sighed; it seemed he had no choice now but to reveal the truth – or, at least, that portion of the truth which was known to him. ‘Yes, though I didn’t realize it at the time. That timepiece – the one you are holding, I mean – was hidden within the one I took from Grimalkin. Or so Master Magnus told me.’ He judged it best to say nothing yet of Grimalkin’s gender.

‘And what of the clock you brought to me, sir?’

‘Master Magnus gave it to me.’

‘And the story that went with it?’

‘Master Magnus provided that as well.’

‘I see. Both were counterfeit, then. I will hear the true story of what took place on that night from you, Mr Quare. But first, you will explain to me why Master Magnus took such extraordinary precautions to keep this watch from me. For I have examined it, and in truth I find it baffling. It seems no more than a model, a toy. Exquisitely crafted, to be sure. But useless as a means of telling time. Yet it was coveted by Lord Wichcote, Grimalkin, and Master Magnus – three men uncommonly well versed in the horological arts, whatever else one may say about them. The French, too, desired it, and dispatched Mr Aylesford to acquire it for them, by hook or by crook. Shall I tell you what I believe? If this hunter does not tell the time, then it must perform some other function – and somehow that function must be related to the Massacre of the Cats. It is, in short, despite its appearance, a weapon of some kind. A weapon with the potential to win the war for whichever side possesses it – for what may kill a cat may kill a man as well. Have I struck close to the mark, sir?’

‘I do not know,’ Quare answered. ‘I cannot explain the purpose of that watch. I do not know the secret of its functioning. If Master Magnus knew these things, he did not share them with me.’

‘You would do well to reconsider your loyalty to that man,’ said the Old Wolf, frowning. ‘He cannot protect you any longer – you must shift for yourself now, sir. Master Magnus had a duty to turn over this timepiece to me immediately. Yet he did not. What am I to think of that? What is Mr Pitt to think of it?’ He held up a hand to forestall any response. ‘Now you come to me with news of a French spy in our midst – Thomas Aylesford, to be precise. A man who is implicated in the murders of three journeymen of this guild, as well as in the deaths of some young noblemen who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You yourself are wanted for questioning in the matter of these killings. Yes, I know all about your disgraceful exploits at the Pig and Rooster. I will be blunt, sir. Some suspect that Aylesford was not the only spy among us. That he had accomplices. Master Magnus, for one. And yourself, for another.’

‘What? That’s absurd!’ Quare exclaimed in disbelief. ‘Why, the man tried to kill me! Mrs Puddinge, you were there – you saw it!’

Mrs Puddinge shrugged and gave a tight-lipped smile, then addressed the Old Wolf. ‘I saw the two of ’em fighting, true enough, Sir Thaddeus, but I don’t know what caused the quarrel. I have only Mr Quare’s word for that. Perhaps they had a falling out.’

‘I didn’t even know the man before yesterday,’ protested Quare. ‘I met him for the first time last night at the Pig and Rooster – Mansfield brought him. Yet you don’t suggest Mansfield was a spy!’

‘We are looking into Mansfield, never fear, as we are everyone who had aught to do with Aylesford. But Mansfield is dead. You, sir, are alive.’

‘You say that as if it were a piece of evidence against me.’

‘As well it might be. But surely you can prove your innocence, Mr Quare … if, that is, you are innocent as you claim.’

‘I’m no spy,’ he repeated. ‘I’m a loyal Englishman. As was Master Magnus.’

‘Are you so sure of that? Sure enough to bet your life on it? I do not think you are sufficiently aware of your position, sir. Five young noblemen were slain last night. Witnesses have placed you at the scene, in the very thick of the brawl. Already, powerful voices are clamouring for your death. It is only with difficulty that I have been able to protect you. But that protection cannot last for ever. Either you will tell me the truth now, or we shall see how you fare in the hands of the watch. You will find their methods crude, but quite persuasive.’

Now anger crept into Quare’s voice. He was no less afraid, but he did not like being threatened. ‘I’ve told you the truth, Sir Thaddeus. I do not know the secret of that watch. And if Master Magnus knew it, he did not reveal it to me. Nor do I know why he kept the watch from you, unless it was part of some scheme he had to take your place at the head of the Worshipful Company.’

‘I can well believe that he sought my place. He was a brilliant man but also a vain and bitter one, always seeking to rise above his station and supplant his betters. But that is merely a slice of truth, not the whole pie. You can do better.’

‘You don’t want the truth,’ Quare said as understanding dawned. ‘You wish me to accuse Master Magnus. To testify against him. That is the price of my life, is it not?’

The Old Wolf sighed. ‘You are not going to climb on your high horse again, are you, Mr Quare? How tedious. More is at stake here than you realize. The war is not going well. Even now, the French prepare an invasion fleet – a fleet that will make the Spanish Armada look like an afternoon boating party on the Thames. There are rumours that Bonnie Prince Charlie will soon land once more in Scotland, if he is not there already, to rally an army of rebels to his cause – a distraction His Majesty can ill afford at present. In the midst of all this, a watch comes into our possession – a weapon, rather – which, properly understood, promises to be of more value than a thousand cannon. Yet instead of turning this marvellous weapon over to myself or Mr Pitt, Master Magnus keeps it for himself. And, with the aid of an accomplice – that would be you, sir – concocts a story to cover his tracks. I ask you, are those the actions of a loyal Englishman?’

‘He wasn’t keeping it for himself,’ Quare insisted.

‘For whom, then? Aylesford? Or was he in league with Grimalkin after all?’

‘You misconstrue my words, Sir Thaddeus. He merely wished to study it. To understand it before passing it on to Mr Pitt. What you call the Massacre of the Cats was an accident. The last I saw him, Master Magnus had no understanding of how it had happened. You see this watch as the answer to all our problems, a way to reverse the tide of the war. You think that it can be used to massacre men instead of cats. And you may be right. But consider this, Sir Thaddeus. That watch killed dozens of cats in the blink of an eye, by a means that neither Master Magnus nor myself could discern, let alone comprehend … and even less control. We did not direct its deadly effects; they could just as easily have struck us down. That watch is dangerous, sir. Too dangerous to be waved around like a loaded pistol.’

Grandmaster Wolfe’s florid features blanched, and he lowered the timepiece to the top of his desk with one hand while the other replaced his still-smoking pipe in its stand. Mrs Puddinge’s smug expression dissolved into a look of nervous apprehension, and she stepped away from the Old Wolf as if he had just laid down a hissing grenado.

‘Are you saying that we could be struck down at any moment?’ the grandmaster demanded.

Quare shook his head, once again remembering Grimalkin’s warning, which seemed to be coming true with a vengeance. ‘I’m saying I do not know. And that it is foolish to tempt fate by poking about in a science – if indeed it is a science – beyond our understanding.’

‘You surprise me, Mr Quare. I thought you a man of reason. What is this watch, then, if not an instrument of science? Some kind of magic talisman, perhaps?’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘Was Master Magnus dabbling in witchcraft?’

‘Witchcraft?’ echoed Mrs Puddinge with a little shriek. ‘God preserve us! I always knew that horrid man was up to no good. Anyone with a pair of eyes in their head could see he was in league with the devil. Master Mephistopheles, indeed! Why, I’ll wager he had hooves at the ends of those twisted legs. Yes, and a tail!’

‘We are men of science here,’ said the Old Wolf, shooting her a stern glance. ‘We deal in facts, my good woman, not superstitions or old wives’ tales.’

‘Superstitions, is it?’ she demanded. ‘Old wives’ tales? God knows I don’t have the learning of men like yourself and Mr Quare, but at least I can recognize the devil’s work when I see it! Spying is one thing, Sir Thaddeus, but I’ll not put my immortal soul at risk by dabbling in witchcraft – no, not if His Majesty himself were to ask it of me!’

‘Then by all means take your leave, Mrs Puddinge. There is no more that you can do here in any case. I’m sure I do not need to add that everything you have heard is to be held in the strictest confidence.’

Despite her words, and the grandmaster’s dismissal, however, she appeared loath to go.

‘Well?’ asked the Old Wolf, raising his eyebrows. ‘Your usual emolument will be waiting,’ he said. ‘With something extra added for your trouble and your diligence in bringing Mr Quare to us.’

‘It’s not that, sir,’ she said, wringing her hands together, her combativeness gone as if it had never existed.

‘What then?’

‘Mr Aylesford,’ she said in a whisper. ‘He’s still out there!’

‘My good woman,’ said Grandmaster Wolfe with the barely patient air of a parent schooling a child in the obvious, ‘you may set your mind at ease on that score. Mr Aylesford is no doubt on his way back to France by now. His cover has been blown. He knows there is naught for him here but interrogation and the hangman’s noose.’

‘Oh, aye, very sensible, I’m sure. But I looked into his eyes, Sir Thaddeus! The man is not sensible. He is a fanatic. A madman! Ask Mr Quare – he’ll tell you!’

Quare, who felt it was rather rich for Mrs Puddinge to be appealing to him now, said nothing.

The Old Wolf, meanwhile, sighed heavily. ‘I am far from trusting Mr Quare’s word on anything at the moment,’ he said. ‘But I will have a journeyman escort you home, Mrs Puddinge. And remain with you overnight. That should be sufficient to put your fears to rest.’

‘Aye, and what about tomorrow, then?’

‘I cannot guarantee your safety,’ the grandmaster said. ‘No one can. Why, just walking down Bishopsgate Street can be fatal. Not to mention the fact that you have chosen of your own free will to become involved in patriotic work that carries a substantial risk. This is something I told you at the outset of your service and have repeated many times since. But it would appear that my warnings have fallen on deaf ears.’

‘I never saw no harm in keeping an eye on my young men like you asked of me, Sir Thaddeus. It were only good business, after all. But this is different. Mr Aylesford is different. He killed three of my young men! Who will want to lodge with me now?’

‘Good Lord, madam, is that your concern?’

‘All I have is Mr Puddinge’s pension and that old house. Now no one will feel safe under my roof.’

‘Why, our journeymen are not so squeamish as that. Besides, the murders took place at the Pig and Rooster – surely it is that establishment which will bear the brunt of any opprobrium, not your own. In any case, Mrs Puddinge, they’ll lodge where I send ’em, and until you give me cause to do otherwise, I’ll keep sending ’em to you. Do we understand each other?’

‘I didn’t mean nothing by it, Sir Thaddeus,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘A woman’s got to make a living, ain’t she?’

‘Indubitably,’ the grandmaster agreed.

Mrs Puddinge glanced at Quare and coloured. ‘I hope as there are no hard feelings, Mr Quare. You was a good lodger. I only done my duty, and you can’t blame a body for that, can you?’

‘I would appreciate it if you sent my things on to the guild hall, Mrs Puddinge,’ he replied. ‘Once this matter is cleared up, I believe I will seek other lodgings.’

‘There’s no cause to get huffy,’ she said, flushing more deeply still. ‘Your things will be safe with me. I run an honest house, I do. But, not to put too fine a point on it, if it’s a French spy you are, Mr Quare, why, then by law your things are rightfully mine, as it were me that nicked you. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be holding on to them for now.’

‘I do mind,’ he said.

‘That’s as may be. If, God willing, you’re found innocent, then you can come and fetch everything – after payment of a small storage fee, of course. Good day, sirs.’ With a stiff nod to Quare, and another curtsy to Grandmaster Wolfe, she left the study, escorted out by one of the servants.

‘A formidable woman,’ said the Old Wolf once she had gone. ‘I sometimes think that if we could but ship a hundred like her across the Channel, the war would be won in no time.’

‘Sir Thaddeus—’

‘Have no fear for your possessions, Mr Quare. I have already dispatched agents to bring everything here.’

‘Thank you for that, at least.’

‘I have not done it for your sake, but so that we may examine your things with a fine-toothed comb. Once we are done, if you are judged to be a spy, then what is left – after the Crown has taken its share – will indeed go to Mrs Puddinge. That is the law. Now, sir. Let us return to the matter at hand.’

‘I will not lie about Master Magnus,’ Quare said. ‘He suffered enough calumny while alive. I’ll not add to it now, when he can no longer defend himself.’

‘Noble sentiments, no doubt.’ The Old Wolf leaned back in his chair – it creaked ominously – and regarded him for a moment, placid blue eyes unblinking. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he leaned forward again, to the accompaniment of further creaking, and placed his elbows on the desk, careful to avoid coming anywhere near the watch. ‘You must consider the living, Mr Quare, and leave the dead to bury the dead. That is my advice to you. Now that Master Magnus is gone, I will be taking his place at the head of the Most Secret and Exalted Order. In these perilous times, it no longer makes sense – if it ever did – to divide the reins of guild authority between two men. I have already appointed Master Malrubius to assist me.’

Quare flinched at the name. Master Malrubius modelled himself upon the Old Wolf in his style of dress, his mannerisms, even his very girth; but the man was physically and mentally smaller than his model, and the contrast made him an object of ridicule and contempt among the apprentices and journeymen. But he was also an object of fear, for his dull wits did not preclude the frequent use of his fists, which were not at all dull. They struck with the force of small hammers.

Meanwhile, the Old Wolf had continued to address him. ‘I do not yet know if Master Magnus was a traitor to his guild and his king – and do not imagine, by the way, that your testimony alone will acquit or convict him; you are not as important as all that, Mr Quare. It is the master’s own writings that will testify most strongly to his guilt or innocence, and we have only just begun to sort through them; as you know, he was not what could be called an orderly man, at least not where his papers were concerned. But regardless of whether or not he was a French spy, it is already clear that Master Magnus used the regulators as a kind of private army, keeping secrets from me and from Mr Pitt alike, while pursuing an agenda of his own. You, sir, were a part of that agenda. And for whatever reason, when it came to this particular timepiece, the master chose to involve you, rather than a more experienced regulator. Now, however lax he may have been in the disposition of his books and papers, when it came to matters of horology and spycraft, the master was meticulous, as I think you will agree. Thus I conclude that it was not by chance or circumstance that he dispatched you to procure this timepiece. Nor, though the Massacre of the Cats may have been an accident, as you say, was your presence there accidental.’

This had not occurred to Quare. But he was quick to dismiss it. ‘Master Magnus told me that all the more experienced regulators were on assignment. There was no one else close enough at hand to dispatch to Lord Wichcote’s.’

‘He told me the same, and I trusted him – I had no reason not to. Our rivalry was no secret, of course, yet I had always believed that, beyond these walls, we set our differences aside for the good of king and country. I know I did. But since his death – or, rather, since you came to me with that appalling and quite frankly fantastic tale of sparing Grimalkin’s life out of a finicky sense of honour, a tale I did not believe for one instant – since that bit of uncharacteristic sloppiness on Master Magnus’s part, as if events had taken an unexpected turn and forced him to a clumsy improvisation – I began to suspect that he had not been entirely truthful with me. I made inquiries. And so it proved. There were other regulators available that night, Mr Quare. Indeed, the master could have picked among half a dozen men with more field experience than you. And yet he chose you, a regulator still wet behind the ears, for a mission of, as it appears, extraordinary importance. Why would that be?’

‘I-I don’t know,’ confessed Quare, taken aback by this information. He did not think the Old Wolf was lying to him. With Master Magnus, there had always been gears within gears. Not that his opinion of the man’s loyalty had changed, but in this matter, he realized, he might have been too credulous. Loyalty, after all, did not preclude self-interest; aye, or the settling of old scores. ‘The master intended for you to suspend me from the regulators,’ he admitted. ‘That was why he fabricated that story.’

‘Now we are getting somewhere. You will tell me what truly happened between you and Grimalkin, Mr Quare. But first I will hear the reason that Master Magnus wished you suspended.’

‘I don’t know,’ Quare repeated. ‘He said he had some kind of special assignment in mind for me, one in which I would have more freedom if my connection to the Most Secret and Exalted Order was believed to have been severed, but he never had a chance to tell me what it was.’

‘Perhaps we will find a clue in his papers,’ mused Grandmaster Wolfe. ‘But I think you yourself possess many if not most of the answers I seek, though you may not realize it. Answers having to do with the nature and purpose of this watch, for one, and with Master Magnus’s relationship to Aylesford and Grimalkin, for another. Either you are withholding these answers to protect a perfidious scheme in which you are involved right up to your eyeballs, or, more charitably, out of misguided loyalty to a man undeserving of it, or you have simply failed to grasp the significance of certain details known only to you.’

‘Sir Thaddeus, I swear—’

‘Do not protest your innocence to me, sir. Or your ignorance. Mere words will not convince me of either. It is details I want. And details I shall have. Whether you provide those details willingly or require the persuasion of Master Malrubius is immaterial. Is that clear?’

Quare nodded. He did not see any alternative now to confessing everything: the fact that Grimalkin was a woman, along with her dire if imprecise warnings about the dangers of the timepiece – warnings that circumstances had borne out in such disturbing and incredible ways, from the discovery that the watch ran on blood, to the Massacre of the Cats, to his own unaccountable surviving of a wound that, to all appearances, should have been fatal. The watch was the key to all of these mysteries, and more, yet was itself, he felt certain, a greater mystery still. Its nature, its origin, its purpose – he knew none of these things, could not even begin to guess at them. He did not think he could convince the Old Wolf of what little he knew … or of how much he didn’t know. He could, of course, offer to demonstrate the watch to Sir Thaddeus – could prick his finger and let his blood drip into its bone-white workings. But even if the hunter reacted as it had before, seeming to come to life with stolen vitality, Quare thought it entirely possible that such an action would merely light the fuse of some new and still more terrible manifestation of the object’s parlous energies. ‘Sir Thaddeus,’ he began.

But the Old Wolf interrupted him again. ‘I do not wish to hear anything more from you at present, Mr Quare. No, I think it best that you have some time to ponder your situation. To review all that you have told me … and all that you have not. Solitude, I find, can be a helpful goad to reflection, a powerful stimulus to memory.’ He gave a nod, and Quare turned to see the remaining servant advancing upon him from his position beside the door. He backed away.

‘This isn’t necessary, Sir Thaddeus,’ he protested.

‘Oh, but I believe it is,’ the grandmaster said. He had risen while Quare’s back was turned, and now, moving with a swiftness at odds with his bulk, he laid hands on Quare from behind. The man’s aged, sweaty reek enveloped him. His grip was like iron, and Quare did not attempt to break free. The Old Wolf spoke low in his ear, his breath stinking of tobacco. ‘Think on anything that Master Magnus may have revealed to you, whether in words or actions or otherwise, about the nature of this timepiece and his plans for it. Review your encounters with Grimalkin and Aylesford. Meanwhile, Master Malrubius and I will make a more thorough examination of the master’s papers, and of your possessions as well. I think perhaps I will have him pay you a visit. I find he can be most persuasive. Be assured, if you attempt to mislead him, or hold anything back, I shall hear of it and take it as proof of your guilt, at which point I will not hesitate to turn you over to the watch – or to Mr Pitt himself, whose methods of interrogation, I am given to understand, are more exacting still. Do we understand each other, Mr Quare?’

‘We do,’ he said tersely, trying not to breathe in the man’s rank odours, as if they would leave a stain upon his insides.

‘Good.’ The Old Wolf released him, pushing him towards the servant, who did not take hold of him but gave every appearance of being prepared to do so should it prove necessary. But all the fight had gone out of Quare. He turned back to the grandmaster.

‘Where …’

A satisfied smile lit the fat, florid face. ‘You will be lodged with us, Mr Quare. We have rooms prepared for such occasions as this. Granted, it has not proved necessary to use them for some time, but they exist, and you will find them adequate, if, no doubt, lacking the amenities of Mrs Puddinge’s establishment.’ He nodded, and the servant spoke in the sepulchral tones cultivated by all his fellows.

‘If you would come with me, sir.’

Quare glanced at the man. His powdered features might have been carved of stone, and his slate grey eyes gave no hint of the thoughts and emotions – if any – that were present behind them. Was he judging Quare now? Did he believe him to be a traitor to his guild, his country? Quare felt a deep-seated impulse to justify himself, to break through that impenetrable façade and evoke some kind of bare human acknowledgement, as if it were this nameless servant, not Grandmaster Wolfe, who would decide his guilt or innocence. But he said nothing, merely nodded his acquiescence.

Nor did the servant speak again. He turned about and strode to the door, opening it and then stepping aside for Quare to precede him. This he did, without another word to the Old Wolf, or even a backward glance. When the door closed, he felt as if he had left a portion of himself behind, along with his sword: and even if the sword were returned to him in the fullness of time, along with his other possessions, as he hoped would be the case, it didn’t seem to him that the life those objects had ornamented would be as easily regained; indeed, that life seemed irretrievably lost to him, regardless of what happened next. Even if he were not expelled from the guild, he would never be elevated to the rank of master now. Instead, it seemed the best he could hope for was a beating from Master Malrubius, followed by an ignominious expulsion from the company.

He felt it likely things would go considerably worse.

It was in this morose frame of mind that Quare followed the servant down a series of candlelit halls and stairways clutching his tricorn as though it were a shield. They encountered no one. The only sound, other than the scrape of their footfalls, came from a bristling ring of keys that the servant held in one hand: a faint, discordant chiming that punctuated their progress. Every so often, he would pause before a particular door and without hurry or hesitation select a particular key from among dozens, unlock and open the door onto another hallway or staircase, wait for Quare to enter, then, after following him through, fastidiously lock the door again behind him before resuming the lead. All without a word. His grey eyes uninterested as mud.

At first Quare was equally uninterested, mired in his own muddy thoughts, but soon he began to take note of how, in their steady downward progress, the paintings and tapestries covering the panelled walls gave way to bare wooden panelling, which in turn gave way to stone, while, on the floor, tiles were succeeded by wood, then stone. The air grew cooler and damper, yet also cleaner, more pure. The candles in their wall sconces were set farther and farther apart, like stars in the night sky, so that the servant was finally obliged to lift one down and carry it before him to light the way. After this, whenever he had to unlock a door, the servant would pass the candle to Quare, then, on the other side, the door closed and locked again, take the candle back.

Quare felt as if he were descending through time as much as through space, traversing past iterations of the guild hall preserved intact like the chambers of a nautilus shell. How deep were the roots of this place sunk into London’s rich soil? Who had walked here before him in years gone by? He shivered not only from the chill but from the sense that he might, at any moment, encounter the ghost of a Roman legionary or one of Boadicea’s warriors; even the sight of a gnome did not seem out of the question.

But at last, without incident, they came to a section of passage lined with stout wooden doors, each, so far as he could tell in the meagre light, equipped with an iron grille set at eye level. Quare stopped in surprise and consternation. The servant had conducted him to a dungeon. He had not known, would not have guessed in a thousand years, that the guild hall even had a dungeon. Doubtless it was an atavistic survival of less civilized times, pre-dating the establishment of the Worshipful Company and perhaps the raising of the hall itself. Buried deep … but not forgotten. The Old Wolf had said that these rooms were kept ready, though they had not been used for some time. Quare wondered how long. Years? Decades? Who had been the last prisoner here, and what had been his fate? Such speculations were not helpful, yet he could not keep them at bay.

The servant, meanwhile, had stopped before one of the doors midway down the passage and was looking back at Quare. The raised candle imparted a ghastly cast to his powdered face, as if he were a shambling corpse. He did not speak but gave his ring of keys an eloquent shake.

Quare’s heart quailed at the prospect of being shut up here for however long Grandmaster Wolfe chose to imprison him, but, really, what could he do? Even if he escaped from this servant, and managed to avoid the others who would surely be sent after him, he had no hope of finding his way out of this underground warren. He could no more retrace the route they had taken than he could flap his arms and fly. The servant shook his keys again, more vehemently this time, and Quare, taking a deep breath, obeyed the summons.

The servant handed the candle to Quare, who accepted it wordlessly, feeling not only helpless but humiliated to be thus rendered complicit in his own captivity. The lock clicked open, and the man gave the door a firm push; it swung inwards on well-oiled hinges, evidence that, indeed, the rooms had been well maintained. Beyond was a darkness that seemed loath to yield even an inch to the small candle Quare held in his trembling hand. But before he could put that to the test, the servant reclaimed the candle and stepped past him into the room. Once inside he ferried the flame to half a dozen fresh candles set in sconces on three of the four stone walls. Quare, continuing to hover at the threshold, watched as the darkness melted away, revealing a comfortably appointed chamber with a narrow pallet for a bed, a desk and chair, a chamber pot, and – taking up much of the fourth wall – a cavernous fireplace in whose deep recesses a fire had been laid. This the servant now brought to roaring life with another touch of the candle, the flames springing up with such alacrity that for an instant they seemed about to leap to the man himself, who, however, drew back unflappably and turned to Quare.

‘I trust all is to your satisfaction, sir.’

‘My satisfaction?’ he echoed, disbelieving. ‘And if it were not?’

‘There are other rooms, though they are less well appointed.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ said Quare, and entered the room at last, looking about with wary interest. It was so far from the crude cell of his imaginings that, despite the bare stone walls and the scant, simple furnishings, he felt as if he had entered the bedchamber of a king. Already the heat of the fire was making itself felt. He tossed his hat onto the desk, then turned to the servant. ‘It’s not quite what I had expected.’

The servant raised an eyebrow. ‘You are a journeyman of the Worshipful Company, Mr Quare, and as such entitled to certain amenities. Should that change, your accommodations will change accordingly.’

‘Of course,’ Quare said. ‘How long must I remain here?’

‘Why, until you are sent for, sir.’

‘And how long might that be?’

‘It might be any time at all, from hours to days. That is for the grandmaster to decide.’

‘What am I to do in the meantime?’

‘That is for you to decide. My suggestion, if you don’t mind, sir, would be to spend your time in reflection, so that, when next questioned, your answers will prove more satisfactory. You will find paper and writing implements in the desk, should you care to avail yourself of them.’

‘I see,’ said Quare. He eyed the servant critically. ‘Was it you who conveyed me to Master Magnus the other day? In the stair-master?’

The servant gave a slight bow. ‘I had that honour.’

‘I thought there was something familiar about you. See here – what’s your name, my good fellow?’

‘You may call me Longinus, sir.’

‘Longinus … An unusual name.’

‘Perhaps I am an unusual person.’

Quare let this pass without comment. ‘What can you tell me of Master Magnus’s death, Longinus?’

‘Nothing at all, sir.’

‘Why, you must have seen or heard something.’

‘Indeed. What I meant was that I have been instructed not to tell you anything more about it than you already know. The grandmaster wishes you to probe your own memories, not mine or anyone else’s.’

‘Don’t you care that he was murdered, Longinus? Aren’t you at all interested in finding the killer and seeing justice served?’

‘Most assuredly, sir. That is why I volunteered to serve as your jailer – for, make no mistake, despite the comforts of this room, you are a prisoner of the Worshipful Company. The sooner you realize that, the better off you will be, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

Quare shook his head. ‘You are unusually solicitous, for a jailer.’

‘As I said, sir, so long as you are a journeyman of this guild, you are entitled to certain amenities.’

‘I see. And if that should change …’

‘Let us hope it does not come to that, Mr Quare. And now I must go. Either I or another servant will bring you food and drink this evening. Until then, I will leave you to your business.’

Quare said nothing until the man was through the door. Then he called out: ‘I’m no traitor, Longinus. And neither was Master Magnus.’

The only response was the shutting of the door and the click of the key turning in the lock.

Alone, Quare felt the weight of all that had happened settle once again on his shoulders. As an orphan, he had known his share of hopeless moments, but nothing quite like this, with the threat of a hangman’s noose staring him in the face. His friends and fellow journeymen were dead, murdered by a maniac who was still at large, perhaps even, despite what he had told Mrs Puddinge, still in the city. His landlady, whom he had heretofore thought of in maternal terms, had revealed herself as a spy – and what’s more, a spy motivated not by patriotism but by avarice. Nor did it seem to him that his own motivations in that regard were any purer, any less selfish, for hadn’t he become a regulator in order to advance his prospects in the guild, to acquire knowledge of horological innovations that would have been unavailable to him otherwise, and to learn the truth about his parentage? To ask the question was to answer it. No, he had no right to cast stones at Mrs Puddinge. He felt as if he had soiled his soul, and though Sir Thaddeus’s suspicions of his loyalty were unfounded, he could not really claim to be innocent. London, he perceived, was a great murderer of innocence. But who could hold the city to account for its crimes?

Without noticing it, he had begun to pace the room like an animal in a cage. This was all Master Magnus’s fault, he told himself bitterly. If only the man had not involved him in his schemes, he would not be here now, a prisoner of his own guild. And if the master had not been so damned curious, so fond of machinations mechanical and otherwise, he would very probably still be alive, for though Quare did not know who had killed Master Magnus, or how, he did not doubt that the man’s death was related to his pursuit and investigation of the pocket watch he had sent Quare to retrieve from Lord Wichcote.

Could Lord Wichcote have engineered the master’s death, having learned through his own sources of the master’s interest in that timepiece, perhaps believing that Grimalkin was in the service of the guild, as was rumoured, and had therefore been sent to his house that night on the guild’s business? It seemed possible. He was a wealthy and powerful man, used to living beyond the law. But Lord Wichcote was not the only suspect. Not by a long shot. There was Grimalkin, for one. And Aylesford, for another – despite his disavowal of the deed. Even the Old Wolf was not above suspicion; certainly he had wasted no time in turning the situation to his advantage by seizing control of the Most Secret and Exalted Order; after all, it was common knowledge that he had envied Master Magnus his leadership of that order and coveted it for himself. The same was true, to a lesser degree, of Master Malrubius, who nurtured not only his own ambitions but those of the Old Wolf as well. It sickened Quare to think that the Worshipful Company was so riddled with corruption and intrigue as to render the murder of one master by another an eventuality impossible to reject out of hand, yet, all things considered, he couldn’t argue against it. Whether that was a result of his own predicament or an accurate reflection of the facts, he was unable to judge.

By now the fire had raised the temperature of the room a considerable amount. Quare had long since divested himself of the second-best coat; only with difficulty had he refrained from throwing the odious – and odiferous – garment on the flames, reminding himself that his prospects were uncertain, and that he might very well be glad of a warm coat soon enough. It lay like a heap of refuse on the floor in the furthest corner. Quare, tired of his circular perambulations, sat on the edge of the pallet and stared into the flames as if their dancing shapes held the answers to all the questions that plagued him. Yet he found no answers there, only further questions, not the least of which was whether the fire had been lit not for his comfort but as a preliminary to other, graver tortures. He could not help recalling that Master Magnus had threatened him with devices as wondrous in their way as the stair-master, only turned to a darker purpose. Now the decision to introduce him to any such devices rested with the Old Wolf and Master Malrubius. Quare could not be sanguine at the prospect.

He considered scattering the logs to diminish the blaze, but to do so would have required him to enter the cavernous mouth of the fireplace, which was so deep that it might almost have been a separate room. Besides, there was no poker at hand, and he didn’t think his well-worn boots were up to kicking apart such a conflagration. He would have to wait for the fire to burn itself out. He wished now that he had thought to ask Longinus for water. When would the man return? How long had he been gone? Quare fished out his pocket watch: barely two hours had gone by since he’d left Mrs Puddinge’s house. He would have guessed twice that, and he found the discrepancy unsettling; his two clocks, the inner and the outer, so to speak, were usually in closer agreement, and the fact that he should be so badly mistaken in his estimate now seemed due less to the finicky nature of time than to the radical upending of his life. He was running out of true, and he did not know how to put himself right again.

As Quare’s anger ebbed, wilting in the heat, grief took its place – a grief that had been there all the time, biding beneath the agitated surface of his feelings. The faces of Farthingale, Mansfield and Pickens appeared to his mind’s eye as he last remembered seeing them, flushed with drink and laughter in the smoke-filled confines of the Pig and Rooster. Try as he might, he could not recall anything of the fight that had ended the night … and their lives. His memories cut off so abruptly that it was as if they had been surgically excised, and he wondered if the cause had less to do with the amount of alcohol he’d consumed than the watch that had somehow, or so he believed, protected him from what should have been a fatal wound.

The trio of grinning faces seemed to reproach him now – for what, exactly, he didn’t know. Perhaps for having survived. He mourned them, and in doing so mourned something in himself. He prayed for the repose of their souls.

His grief for Master Magnus was of a different order, mixed as it was with anger, guilt, gratitude, and a host of other emotions he felt keenly but could not put a name to. He well remembered his first sight of the man. It had been six years ago, in Mr Halsted’s Dorchester shop, late on a Saturday morning in June. Mrs Halsted, who usually manned the front desk, was busy in the kitchen, while Master Halsted and Quare’s fellow apprentice, Jim Grimsby, were in the back room that served as both a workshop and sleeping quarters for the two apprentices.

Quare had been examining a mantel clock brought in for repair by Mr Symonds, the vicar, who stood on the other side of the desk, gazing down at the disassembled timepiece spread out between them, an anxious look on his face as though it were a sickly living creature, a beloved pet, perhaps, and not a mechanical device. Elsewhere in the shop, the vicar’s wife and his beribboned young daughter, thirteen-year-old Emily, a vivacious blonde-haired girl whose bright blue eyes were of more interest to Quare at present than the insides of her father’s clock, were examining a case of pocket and pendant watches: Mrs Symonds with unfeigned interest, while Emily’s blue eyes kept rising to meet Quare’s gaze, then darting away, a pretty blush colouring her cheeks. This heated if innocent flirtation, which had been going on between them for months now despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that the participants had not spoken more than a handful of times, and then only to exchange platitudes in the constraining presence of their elders, had made for as diverting a morning as Quare could desire, but he knew at once, upon looking up at the jingle of the bell announcing a new customer, that things were about to get a lot more diverting.

Bustling into the shop like a fairy-tale figure sprung to life was a humpbacked dwarf dressed all in black who pulled himself along with a pair of slender but stout walking sticks, pivoting with each ‘step’ on twisted legs that, wrapped in metal braces, seemed more like clever machines than appendages of flesh and blood. He was lean as a whippet, with a head whose wild mane of white hair made it seem even larger than it actually was, as out of proportion to the stunted body beneath as the heavy head of a sunflower to its stalk. And as the head to the body, so the nose to the head: a carbuncled, tuberous growth that appeared to have usurped the place of a nose; and upon that prodigious organ, nestled there like a black and gold insect, a pair of spectacles so darkly tinted that it seemed impossible anyone could see through them.

Yet see through them he obviously could, and did, for the man – the apparition, rather, since fifteen-year-old Quare could scarcely credit what his own eyes were showing him – had stumped across the shop floor, bringing all conversation to a halt. Even Mr Symonds drew back from the new arrival as he came to stand beside him. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the man tilted his leonine face up at Quare – he scarcely topped the desk; yet Quare realized that the man was not in truth a dwarf, but only so hunched over as to be indistinguishable from one – and demanded, in a voice that had more than a touch of the lion in it as well, ‘Are you Quare?’

Quare gazed back open-mouthed.

‘Well?’ the man continued. ‘It seems a simple enough question. Are you or are you not the apprentice Daniel Quare?’

At that, he found his voice. ‘I am, sir. If you would but wait a moment, I will be with you as soon as I finish with this gentleman.’

‘I would see your master,’ said the man as if he hadn’t heard. He struck the floor with one of his sticks for emphasis, like a goat stamping a hoof, at which Quare started and Emily gave a cry from across the room. Quare glanced at her and saw that the poor creature was white as a sheet and close to tears, at which indignation rose in his breast.

‘See here, my good sir,’ interjected Mr Symonds before Quare could speak, recalled by his daughter’s distress to his paternal and churchly authority. ‘There is no need to be so brusque. Young Mr Quare is having a look at my clock, and—’ He got no further.

‘Clock?’ interrupted the man. ‘You call that a clock?’ He seemed amused and affronted in equal measure. ‘Why, I would wager that object is more accurate in its timekeeping now than it ever has been!’

‘More accurate?’ the vicar echoed, uncomprehending. ‘But it is broken, as you see.’

Quare rolled his eyes. ‘The gentleman refers to the fact that even a stopped clock is right twice a day.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Symonds. ‘Why, bless my soul, so it is …’

Again the petulant stamp of a walking stick. Again a girlish cry.

Quare felt himself losing the reins of his temper. He looked to Mr Symonds, but the man appeared to be engrossed in contemplation of the horological profundity just revealed to him. Perhaps, Quare thought, he was considering how best to work it into a sermon. At any rate, the task of dealing with this unpleasant little man had now fallen to him.

‘I ask you again to wait your turn,’ he said as politely as he could manage. ‘And to refrain, if you would, from upsetting Miss Symonds’ – this with a significant look in Emily’s direction.

The grotesque creature swivelled its body to regard the young lady in question, who burst into tears. ‘My pardon,’ he said, though there was nothing apologetic in his tone, ‘if my appearance has upset you, Miss Symonds.’ And here he sketched a bow, or something redolent of a bow; Quare could not decide if he meant the gesture to be as much of a mockery as it appeared, or whether his deformities, and the sticks and braces meant to correct them, rendered his movements, regardless of the intent behind them, naturally – or, rather, unnaturally – graceless and parodistic. ‘I am but as God made me.’

Mrs Symonds seemed to have no difficulty in deciding the question. ‘Come, Emily,’ she said, throwing an arm about her daughter’s shoulders and shepherding her, sniffling behind a handkerchief, from the shop, all the while staring daggers at Quare, as though he were somehow responsible. ‘Henry,’ she called from the doorway, at which Mr Symonds emerged from his trance.

‘Ah, yes, dear,’ he said, giving Quare a distracted smile. ‘I trust the clock will present no difficulties, Mr Quare?’

‘None at all,’ Quare affirmed. ‘It will be ready on Monday.’

‘So soon?’ queried the vicar. ‘I would not have you working on the Lord’s day, Mr Quare, not on my account or any man’s.’

‘We keep the sabbath in this shop, vicar,’ said Quare.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Mr Symonds and turned to the dwarf, who was watching this exchange with unconcealed impatience, lips twitching in his eagerness to speak. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

‘And to you, vicar,’ he growled. He did not even wait for the man to exit the shop before importuning Quare again, once more accompanying his words with a thump of his stick. ‘Now, Mr Quare, if it would not be too much trouble – your master, if you please.’

As if on cue, Mr Halsted poked his bald head through the door leading from the workshop. ‘What is that c-confounded noise, Da—’ He broke off upon catching sight of the dwarf. ‘G-good g-gracious,’ he stammered, stepping into the room, his ruddy complexion blanching to the paleness of a sheet. ‘As I live and b-breathe. M-master M-magnus.’

‘How are you, Halsted?’ the man inquired. ‘Glib as ever, I see.’

Quare’s master had a fierce stammer that emerged whenever he was flustered or excited; the neighbourhood street urchins mocked this impediment ruthlessly, both behind his back and, the better to elicit it, to his face, but Quare had not thought to find such cruelty in an adult.

Making a visible effort, Mr Halsted calmed himself, or tried to – with scant success, however. ‘Daniel, this g-gentleman is one of the g-great masters of our g-guild, come all the way from L-London, or so I imagine.’

‘You imagine correctly,’ said Master Magnus. ‘And a damned uncomfortable journey it was, too, with more bumps and jolts in the road than are to be found even in one of your utterances, Mr Halsted.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. M-mayhap you will take refreshment here. My home is yours. Daniel, c-close the shop. Oh – my apprentice Daniel Quare, m-master. A m-most promising young m-man. Mr Quare, M-master M-magnus.’

‘An honour, sir,’ said Quare, and meant it: though he was only fifteen, it had long been apparent to him that Dorchester was a backwater, horologically speaking, and that the only place for an ambitious and talented young man like himself was London. The journeymen who passed through town had whetted his appetite for years with stories of the great guild hall of the Worshipful Company and the masters who ruled it, led by Grandmaster Wolfe. Halsted had his own tales to tell, for he had travelled to London for his investiture as a master of the guild, and had returned twice, for brief periods, in the years since Quare had become his apprentice, lodging each time at the guild hall, and each time coming home full to bursting with the wonders he’d seen and experienced there. Now one of that august company stood before him in the flesh. And not just anyone, but Master Magnus – or Mephistopheles, as the journeymen had called him – a man they had variously termed a genius, a terror, a monster, a freak of nature, and whom Master Halsted, in hushed tones, as if he feared being overheard even at such a distance, had once compared to a spider in its web. Quare studied the man with fresh interest, wondering what secrets he could impart, what lessons he could offer; Quare had already absorbed everything Halsted could teach him, and his horological skills now outstripped those of his master. ‘I apologize for not recognizing you at once, Master Magnus.’

‘And how should you recognize a man you have never seen?’ came the sharp inquiry.

‘Why, your reputation precedes you, sir,’ Quare answered, ignoring Halsted’s cautionary glance. ‘The journeymen who stop by our shop on their travels speak of you as a man of great learning and application.’

‘Do they now?’ mused the master. ‘Are you quite sure, Mr Quare, that it is not the size of my body, rather than the size of my intellect or accomplishments, that precedes me?’

Quare saw too late the trap he had fallen into, for in fact the journeymen who had recounted Master Magnus’s accomplishments with awe had also spoken fearfully of his temper and sensitivity to any perceived insult or slight on account of his size or other handicaps.

‘C-close up the shop, now, Daniel, as I t-told you,’ Halsted interjected, coming to Quare’s rescue.

This Quare moved to do, blushing fiercely as he came around the counter.

‘To what do we owe the p-pleasure of your visit, master?’ Halsted continued, seeking to shift the conversation to safer ground. ‘If you had but n-notified me that you were c-coming, I would have received you with m-more ceremony.’

‘Bah, I require no ceremony, Halsted, as you should know very well.’

‘Still, I feel sure, after your long and d-difficult journey, that some refreshment would not c-come amiss. C-come into the k-kitchen, sir, and do me the honour of meeting m-my wife … and, of c-course, my other apprentice, James G-grimsby.’

‘A cup of tea would suit me very well,’ Master Magnus admitted.

Halsted conducted the older man through the door that led to the workshop and, beyond it, the kitchen, while Quare closed up the front of the shop. By the time he had joined the others, Master Magnus was seated at the kitchen table in a chair that accommodated him as well as it would have done a child of ten – less well, in fact, for his metal-caged legs did not bend at the knees but instead stuck out parallel to the floor. His chin barely overtopped the table, where a steaming cup of tea was set on a saucer, beside a plate of biscuits and butter; it did not escape Quare’s notice that Mrs Halsted was using her good china. His walking sticks were propped against the edge of the table, close to hand.

Standing opposite him on the far side of the table were Mr and Mrs Halsted, along with Grimsby. Halsted and his wife regarded their visitor with some apprehension, nervous smiles plastered on their faces, as if he were not entirely tamed and might be set off by a wrong word or gesture, while the freckled, red-headed Grimsby, who had listened, along with Quare, to tales of mad Master Mephistopheles from the journeymen who lodged with them on their way through town, gawped in open-mouthed astonishment. Everyone, save Grimsby, turned to Quare as he entered the room.

‘Mr Quare, thank the Almighty,’ said Master Magnus. ‘Sit you down, sir.’ His gesture encompassed the entire kitchen. ‘All of you, sit, please. You are making me feel like a baboon on display at Covent Garden. And Mr Grimsby, pray close your mouth, lest what little wit you possess escape entirely.’

Grimsby flushed to the roots of his red hair and shut his mouth with an audible snap. Mr and Mrs Halsted wasted no time in seating themselves, followed, seconds later, by Grimsby, which left but two chairs for Quare, one on either side of Master Magnus. He took the nearer.

A tense and expectant silence filled the kitchen, punctuated only by the regular ticking of a small tower clock situated above the hearth – an exact replica of Master Halsted’s masterpiece, in fact, the original of which resided, as did all masterpieces, in the vaults of the Worshipful Company; this modest timepiece was the pride of the house, horologically speaking, though it was, in Quare’s considered opinion, barely adequate as a specimen of the clockmaker’s art.

Master Magnus, as if oblivious to the strained atmosphere, reached with some difficulty for his tea, which he sipped noisily and with apparent relish, holding the china cup in both hands; the steam rising from the liquid testified to a heat that should have communicated itself to the cup, but Master Magnus gave no sign of discomfort, though he did blow, between sips, upon the top of the tea, as if to cool it. Quare noticed both the suppleness of the man’s hands and fingers and the fact that they bore a multitude of small scars, as if from a lifetime of nicks and cuts; later he would learn that the master’s hands, for all their dexterity, had not escaped the general blighting of his body: though able to discriminate by touch among gradations of pressure and texture too fine for Quare’s rough senses to perceive, his fingers were entirely numb to pain.

Master Magnus drank until the cup was empty, at which he smacked his lips and, once again contorting his body, replaced the cup on its saucer with a rattle that brought a look of distress to Mrs Halsted’s blue eyes, though her polite smile never wavered. ‘An exquisite brewing, Mrs Halsted,’ the master said graciously.

‘I try, sir,’ she answered, blushing beneath her white cap. ‘I do try. We do like our tea in this house, sir.’

‘You do more than try, madam. Why, it is plain that this house is blessed with two masters. Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest that you might dispense with clocks entirely and open a tea house instead.’

This barbed and backhanded compliment left his hosts speechless. Smiling, with the air of a guest fulfilling his conversational duties, Master Magnus turned his dark spectacles towards Grimsby, who actually flinched back in his chair.

‘Steady, Mr Grimsby – steady on, sir,’ he said as if to comfort the apprentice, who was Quare’s junior by two years. ‘I have read the reports of your work dispatched to me by your good master here. Amidst so much tedious verbiage, one word leaps out, and I find it so apt that I have already employed it in reference to you myself and am about to do so again. That word, if you cannot guess it, is steady. Your hands are steady, your mind equally so; in short, you are as dependable and dull as a bullock, destined, I have no doubt, for a life of plodding but honourable labour in the fields of time, much like Master Halsted himself. Of such as you is the backbone of our guild – and, indeed, our country – constituted, and I salute you, sir, most sincerely, in your majestic mediocrity.’

Grimsby’s face bore an expression of intense concentration, as if he were attempting, without notable success, to untangle majestic from mediocrity. ‘Er, you are too k-kind, Master Magnus,’ he said, seeming to have caught Master Halsted’s stammer.

‘Not at all,’ the master rejoined and turned now to Quare, who just managed to keep from flinching as Grimsby had done under that blank, reflective gaze, in which he saw himself not merely reflected but belittled. ‘Your master has written to me of you as well, Mr Quare. It is a duty I require of every master in our company, for how else am I to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were, crippled as I am and able to leave London only with the greatest difficulty and inconvenience?’

‘Yet you have come to Dorchester now, master,’ Quare observed.

‘Quite,’ said Master Magnus, and without further ado removed a pocket watch from within his black coat. This he laid upon the table, then pushed over towards Quare. ‘Do you recognize this, Mr Quare?’

Quare shook his head, mystified.

‘Go on,’ said Master Magnus. ‘Have a closer look.’

Quare picked up the watch. He was struck at once by the plainness of it: no lid covered the glass; the hands were simple stark pointers; the black numbers on the white face had been painted without embellishment; the silver backing was bare of any engraved mark or design. He held it to his ear and heard a steady ticking.

‘Well?’ asked Master Magnus.

The others looked on with mystified expressions.

He was being tested; that much was clear. But as to the purpose of the test, let alone its consequences, he had no idea. ‘It is very plain,’ he said, weighing his words with care. ‘But it seems well made for all that. I would need to open it up before I could venture anything more.’

‘Then do so,’ the master said, inclining his head.

Quare always carried a small tool kit with him; in a moment, he had prised the back of the pocket watch open. The inner workings of the timepiece did not match the drabness of its outer appearance. There were a number of small but significant innovations to the mechanisms that powered and regulated the watch. This in itself was unexpected; he knew very well – what apprentice did not? – that the Worshipful Company took a dim view of innovation, confiscating or destroying outright any timepieces that departed from what had been officially sanctioned. So it came as a surprise to have such a watch handed to him by no less an authority of the guild than Master Magnus. Surprise turned into something approaching shock a moment later when he recognized the innovations as his own. For some time now, Quare had been keeping a notebook that he filled with sketches of improvements to the mechanisms he worked upon each and every day in Master Halsted’s shop. But he had not yet found the courage to actually translate one of his sketches into reality. Nor had he shown the notebook to anyone. Yet here was a watch that incorporated not one but a good half-dozen of his ideas. It seemed impossible.

‘I ask again,’ said Master Magnus. ‘Do you recognize anything about this watch?’

Quare glanced up, surveying the faces that were regarding him in turn. With his eyes hidden behind his dark spectacles, Master Magnus’s expression was inscrutable. Grimsby’s mouth had fallen open again. Mrs Halsted’s blue eyes shone with a tender concern he blushed to see: the look of a fond mistress. Halsted looked away, his cheeks flaming, and Quare wondered if the man suspected what his wife and his apprentice got up to when he was away.

‘Well?’ Master Magnus prompted.

Quare swallowed, mouth gone dry. He felt as if he’d been manoeuvred into a trap. Just a moment ago, Master Magnus had spoken of reports he’d received from Master Halsted; he realized now that those reports must have contained copies of his sketches. He felt a sharp sense of betrayal – ridiculous, as he had betrayed his master’s trust in a more tangible fashion: but feelings are not reasonable things, and he felt what he felt regardless. Apprehension, too, crept along his veins, for he did not doubt that his sketches alone could result in a stiff sanction from the guild, if not outright expulsion. And then where would he go, with no family and no trade? Yet despite this, one other feeling surged through him, stronger than the others.

Pride.

Though he had not cut and filed the parts of this watch with his own hands, nevertheless they were realizations of his designs. Something that had existed only on the page and in his mind had been made real and tangible. And, at least as far as he could tell from such a cursory examination, the mechanisms worked as he had anticipated. How could he deny this thing he had created? To do so would be to deny himself.

‘I didn’t make this watch,’ he said, ‘but I suppose you could say that I designed it.’

‘Daniel, I—’ Halsted began, but Master Magnus, lifting a hand, overrode him.

‘So, you admit that the watch is based on your designs?’

‘Yes.’

‘By keeping those designs to yourself and not showing them to your master, so that he, in turn, could forward them to me for review, you have failed in your obligations as an apprentice of this guild. Do you dispute that?’

‘No. I don’t dispute it.’

‘Very well.’ Master Magnus nodded in satisfaction … or so it seemed to Quare. ‘I will tell you, sir, that the small improvements you have made were known to us already. This watch was not crafted to your specifications. I made it myself when I was a mere apprentice, more years ago than I care to admit. Nor is it the only such example in our archives. So you see, you are not as clever as you may think, Mr Quare – not by a long shot. You are not the first to have had these insights. Others have been here before you. Still, I won’t deny that you have talent.’

As soon as he had registered what the master was telling him, Quare had turned all his attention back to the watch. And indeed, now that he looked more closely, he could see that the various parts of the watch that reflected his sketches did not do so with the fidelity he had at first thought to find there. In some cases, it seemed to him that his design was the more elegant; in others he saw that, on the contrary, he had not found the best solution. But the truth was plain: the sketches he had struggled over in solitude, the innovations he had dreamed would revolutionize horology and win him acclaim and riches, were no more than instances of reinventing the wheel. Yet though he was disappointed, he was not as crushed as he might have imagined; instead, it was as if an unexpected vista had opened out before him. Who could say what wonders were to be found there? He seemed to see them in the distance, glittering like the gold-leafed spires and towers of a fabulous city: a city built entirely of clocks. At the same time, he feared that he would be denied entrance to that city, permitted only to glimpse its wonders from afar. He looked up at Master Magnus. ‘I assume I am to be punished?’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said the master. ‘Most dreadfully punished. To begin with, you may consider your apprenticeship with Master Halsted over.’

Again Master Halsted began to speak. Again Master Magnus silenced him with a gesture. No one else said a word.

So that was it, then. It was to be expulsion. Now, indeed, Quare felt crushed, the very breath squeezed out of him.

‘You will be coming back to London with me,’ Master Magnus continued. ‘You will continue your apprenticeship there, at the guild hall, under my supervision.’

‘I … what?’

‘Go and get your things ready, Mr Quare. We leave within the hour.’ He turned towards the others as a dazed Quare rose to his feet. ‘Mr Grimsby, your presence is no longer required. Perhaps you can assist Mr Quare in packing.’ Grimsby nodded, looking as dazed as Quare, and stood.

As Quare left the room, Grimsby trailing behind him, he heard Master Magnus’s voice: ‘If I might trouble you for another cup of tea, Mrs Halsted, your husband and I will work out the transfer of Mr Quare’s indenture.’

In the workroom, he hurriedly packed his things as Grimsby pestered him with questions he scarcely heard and in any case could not answer. His life had been turned upside down in an instant, and his thoughts, divided between what he was leaving behind and what awaited him in London, had no purchase on the present. In what seemed the blink of an eye, he was shaking Mr Halsted’s hand as his master – former master! – stammered out an awkward goodbye, then embracing a tearful Mrs Halsted, who pressed him to her ample bosom with more-than-maternal zeal, or so it seemed to Quare, though no one else appeared to find the embrace remarkable. Nor were his own eyes empty of tears; he was, after all, leaving the closest approximation to a family that he had ever known.

Then he was seated across from Master Magnus in a jolting carriage that bore the arms of the Worshipful Company – a great golden clock showing the hour of twelve, surmounted by a crown and cross, itself surmounted by a plumed silver helmet, which was in turn topped by a banded sphere of gold; the whole supported on one side by the figure of Father Time with his scythe and hourglass, and on the other by a monarch with a golden sceptre, and beneath it all, as if inscribed on a flowing scroll, the words of the guild’s motto: Tempus Rerum Imperator. Time, Emperor of All Things.

Quare watched the familiar sights of Dorchester pass by the open window of the carriage. Streets and buildings he had seen a thousand times without emotion tugged at his heart like burrs that had become fastened there without his knowledge and now came away grudgingly and not entirely without pain.

‘Dry your eyes, Mr Quare,’ commanded his companion, who even now, in the dim confines of the conveyance, wore his dark glasses. The man’s perch on the padded bench was a precarious one; each bounce and swerve threatened to throw him down and doubtless would have done so already were it not for a strap that was bolted to the bench and which he had drawn about his waist and torso upon first clambering onto the seat – ‘My own invention,’ the master had explained in response to Quare’s inquiry.

‘After a day or two in London,’ he continued now, ‘Dorchester will seem no more than a childish fancy, a dull dream from which you will be glad to have awoken. Your real life is about to begin, sir. It will not be easy, but you will have a chance to put your talents to their best use, I assure you.’

‘I can scarcely credit all that has happened to me today, Master Magnus,’ Quare said. ‘I hope I don’t seem ungrateful or ignorant of the honour you have shown me. I will do my best to be a good apprentice to you and assist you in all your labours.’

The master laughed. ‘You mistake me, sir. I do not require your assistance. Perhaps one day, if you are diligent and obedient, and progress to the rank of journeyman, I will make use of you. But that day will not come for years, and to be frank may never come. “Many are called, but few are chosen”, Mr Quare.’

‘Then whose apprentice will I be?’

‘Why, on paper, my own. But I have many such apprentices. Do not consider yourself a special case. I had other business in Dorchester, and it was convenient to fetch you at the same time; otherwise a journeyman would be conveying you now. Once settled in London, you will not serve a single master but will instead be placed at the disposal of all the masters of the guild hall. Your day-to-day training will be overseen by journeymen – more than that, I cannot say; I find such details tedious and leave them to others.’

‘What … what is London like, master?’

‘London? She is a painted strumpet – loud, boisterous, full of frantic energy, beguiling seductions, and desperate schemes. She will stroke you with one hand and pick your pocket with the other, and leave you with the pox besides. She is life itself, Mr Quare – and death. And the Worshipful Company of Clockmakers is a microcosm of that city. Life within the guild hall could not be more different than the cosy situation you are leaving behind. We are a brotherhood, true enough, yet Cain and Abel were also brothers, were they not? But you will discover all this for yourself soon enough, as I did. You may not believe it to look at me, Mr Quare, but I was once much like you.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ he inquired.

Again the master laughed. ‘I, too, came to the city full of dreams and ambitions, burning to make my mark on the world and to unravel the secrets of time. Like yourself, I have known the tender embrace of the workhouse – the memory is engraved on my bones, on my very soul. And like you, I escaped that hell on Earth and found refuge within the guild.’

‘Why, are you an orphan, too, sir?’

‘As good as. I know nothing of my parents – they abandoned me as soon as they had a good look at me. I suppose I can’t blame them; indeed, I am grateful they didn’t smother me in the cradle.’

‘Have you made no attempt to find them?’

‘To what end? A tearful reconciliation? I leave that to the scribblers. Nor has the prospect of revenge ever interested me. No, I consider my parents dead, and myself an orphan, as I said. It is simpler that way for all concerned. But what of your own parents?’

‘They died in a fire when I was but a babe,’ Quare said. ‘Or so I have been told. I have no memory of them.’ This was not quite true; in fact, Quare possessed certain vague memories – impressions, rather – that he associated with his parents. From time to time, most often as he was lying in bed, on the verge of sleep, a warm peacefulness would settle over him from he knew not where, all the strength would ebb from his limbs, and he would feel himself enveloped in a kind of tender, loving regard that he knew at no other moment in his waking life. As far back as he could remember, he had associated this feeling or mood with the presence of his parents, as if they were watching over him from beyond the grave. But he would not divulge such a private solace to Master Magnus or anyone.

‘I was raised in an orphanage,’ he continued, ‘and from there, at the age of seven or eight – to this day, I am not certain of my exact age – was sent to the workhouse, where I remained until, quite by chance, when I was ten, or perhaps eleven, I made the acquaintance of Mr Halsted, who often, out of Christian charity, hired some of us children to help in his workshop. He encouraged my interest in timepieces and, as my aptitude for the work became plain, arranged to take me on as an apprentice. I owe that gentleman everything. He was like a father to me, and more – like an angel, sir. A guardian angel.’ Indeed, as if the truth of that statement had not been manifest to him until he had spoken it aloud, Quare felt his throat constrict with emotion. He dried his burning eyes with the cuff of his coat and looked again out of the carriage window.

They had left the city of Dorchester behind and were travelling along a dusty road past open fields of rolling farmland. In the distance, under blue skies, he could see the glint of the sun off the River Frome. It was the furthest Quare had ever been from home.

‘What if I were to tell you that you are not an orphan?’

Quare’s head whipped back round to face his companion. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘An orphan is a child deprived by death of father and mother. It’s true your mother is dead – she perished giving birth to you. That is in the parish records. But your father remains very much alive, or so I believe.’

It took Quare a moment to gather his wits. ‘My father … alive?’

‘I have found no evidence to the contrary.’

‘Why has he not come for me? Why has he allowed me to believe I am an orphan for all these years?’

‘Because he does not wish to acknowledge you, sir. He does not wish to know aught of you, and he desires even less that you should know aught of him.’

‘But why?’

‘Is it not obvious? You are no orphan, sir, but a bastard. Some man’s by-blow.’

‘How do you know this?’ Quare demanded, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.

‘I make it my business to learn what I can about every apprentice.’

‘But then who is my father?’ A sudden foreboding came over him. ‘Is it you, sir? Is that why you have come to fetch me?’

At this, Master Magnus threw back his head and roared with laughter while Quare turned the shade of a beet. When the master had composed himself, he answered: ‘No, I am not your father, young Quare. Have no misapprehensions on that score.’

‘Then Mr Halsted! Perhaps that is why he was so kind to me.’

‘Nor is Halsted your sire. Put such thoughts from your mind.’

‘Then who?’

‘Why, I do not know,’ Master Magnus confessed with good humour. ‘What I have related to you is no more than any man could have found at any time simply by perusing the parish records. Your mother’s name was Mary Trewell. A milkmaid. No doubt seduced and cast aside. A common enough tale, though a sad one, I grant you.’

Quare was reeling; he felt as though he had slipped into a kind of dream. ‘Did … did Mr Halsted know this?’

‘Who do you think it was that examined the records? He dispatched the information to me. A boy, Daniel Quare, born to Mary Trewell, father unknown. Your name, sir, is a witty reflection of that fact, from the Latin quare, which is to say “from what cause”.’

‘I … I scarcely know what to say, what to think,’ Quare mumbled, passing a hand before his eyes. ‘Why have you told me this?’

‘Should I have kept it from you? Surely a man has the right to know the truth of his own parentage.’

‘But you have told me a half truth, no more. Now I must wonder at who my father may be. Does he yet live? And if so, does he dwell close by or far away? Have I seen him, all unknowing? Does he know of me? Perhaps he does not, and would acknowledge me if he but learned of my existence. I must find him! Sir, can you not help me?’

‘I might look for years and never find him. No doubt the trail has gone quite cold. And who is to say that he wishes to be found? A man might very well know that he has a bastard son and yet desire no more intimate acquaintance with him.’

‘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.’

‘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.