Paul Witcover
The Emperor of all Things
For Cynthia Babak
and
Christopher Schelling
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
You shall swear to be true to our Sovereign Lord the King’s Majesty, his heirs and successors, and at all times obedient to the Master and Wardens of this Fellowship and Society, and their successors after them, in all honest and lawful things touching the affairs of this Fellowship. You shall be ready at all manner of Summons, and bear scot and lot in all manner of reasonable contributions of and to this Fellowship, and the Fellowship of the Company of Clockmakers of the City of London you shall to the best of your skill, power and ability, uphold and maintain. You shall not know nor suspect any manner of meetings, conspiracies, plots, devices against the King’s Majesty, his heirs or successors, or the Government of this Fellowship, but you shall the same to the utmost of your power, let and hinder and speedily disclose to the Master or one of the Wardens of this Society. And this City of London and Fellowship of Clockmakers you shall keep harmless, as much as in you lieth: also you shall be ready at all times to be at the Quarter Days, and every other assembly, matter or cause that you shall be warned or called unto for the affairs of this Fellowship, unless you shall have lawful or reasonable excuse in that behalf. And all other Ordinances of this Fellowship or Society, ratified according to the laws of this Realm, or otherwise lawful for this Fellowship or Society to make and ordain, you shall, to the utmost of your power well and truly submit yourself unto and keep. So help you God .
PART ONE
Prologue
CLOCKS. CLOCKS EVERYWHERE, on the wooden shelves and tables, even upon the sawdust-covered floor of the attic room: clocks of all shapes and sizes limned in the light of a gibbous moon that did not so much pierce the skylight as sift through its sooty glass – tall clocks in finely carved and polished casings of exotic woods with brass pendulums winking back and forth; ornate mantel clocks of ormolu and mahogany, marble and tortoiseshell; clocks of gold and silver set into or alongside precious metal and porcelain renderings of human figures in varied states of dress and undress as well as representations of beasts real and fabulous: lions consorting with unicorns, eagles and gryphons roosting side by side; cuckoo clocks and carriage clocks and tambour clocks and skeleton clocks; even pocket watches with their chains and ribbons neatly coiled or dangling free and loose as slipped lanyards. The ticking of so many timepieces, no two synchronized, filled the space with a facsimile of whispered conversation, as if some ghostly parliament were meeting in the dead of night.
Scattered among the clocks were glass flasks and vials of assorted shapes and sizes, some containing clear or opaque liquids, others quite empty, along with mortars and pestles, iron tongs, funnels, crucibles, and other such instruments bespeaking the practice of alchemy. Set in a row along one wall were three brick furnaces, one in the shape of a tower and as tall as a man, the other two smaller and squat in shape, like ornamental toads.
A mouse was making its way across the surface of one table, nosing amid a clutter of clock parts and tools: pins, clicks, rivets, coiled springs, tweezers, clamps, winders, files, and like essentials of the horologist’s trade. Every so often it rose off its tiny front paws to sniff the air, whiskers twitching, eyes aglitter like apple seeds in a bed of ash.
From a shelf overhead, a black cat followed its progress with glowing tourmaline eyes. The noise in the back of its throat, somewhere between a growl and a purr, was cloaked by the gossipy muttering of the clocks. The tip of its tail lashed from side to side like a metronome.
When the meanderings of the mouse brought it conveniently near, the cat moved with the grace of a gliding shadow, seeming as insubstantial … until it struck. In leaping to the table top, it did not disturb a single item yet knocked the rodent onto its side, pressing the half-stunned creature down with one paw and slashing with its teeth at the grey fur.
The cat tensed and flattened at a sound from overhead: a faint click followed by a drawn-out creaking, as if the old house were settling on its foundations. Hissing, the cat darted a glance upwards as a thin rope dropped through the now-open skylight to dangle above the floor a few feet away. The rope had not reached the end of its length before the cat bolted, with less stealth or silence than just moments before; small gears and other items scattered under its paws as it fled into the shadows. An empty vial slipped to the floor and shattered. The mouse was long gone. Drops of its blood glistened on the table, dark as oil.
A svelte figure slid down the rope and dropped soundlessly to the floor. The intruder was dressed in grey: soft grey boots, grey breeches, a grey shirt beneath a grey cloak. Strapped to its back was a small crossbow, and a blade as slender as a rapier yet no longer than a short sword hung in a grey scabbard from its belt, as did six leather pouches, also grey. A grey kerchief pulled across the nose hid the bottom half of the face; a grey hood cloaked the upper; in between, eyes as dark as the mouse’s glittered as they probed the shadowy corners of the room. The intruder strode to one of the tables.
The timepieces on this particular table were clearly the work of master craftsmen. Many were made with precious metals; not a few were inset with jewels. A single one of these clocks, selected at random, would have made a rich prize for a thief. Yet the grey-clad figure reached without hesitation for a mantel clock that appeared as out of place as an ordinary goblet set alongside the Holy Grail.
At a whisper of displaced air, the intruder turned, clock in one hand, the rapier-like blade in the other.
The casing of a tall clock some twelve feet away swung open. Out stepped a gentleman of middling height wearing a powdered wig and an elegant sky-blue coat over a lace-adorned white shirt and embroidered waistcoat, yellow breeches with pale blue hose, and embroidered green silk slippers. His powdered face glowed corpse white in the moonlight; a conspicuous beauty mark adorned his left cheek, and his lips were as red as cherries half sunk in a bowl of cream. He had the look of extreme age masquerading as youth … or perhaps it was the other way around. But the most striking feature of his appearance was the cocked duelling pistol that he held in the most negligent manner imaginable, as though it was by the merest chance that this object happened to be pointing at the breast of the intruder. ‘So good of you to drop in, Grimalkin,’ he drawled.
The hooded figure executed a slight but meticulous bow. ‘Lord Wichcote.’
‘I had thought you retired – or dead.’
‘Merely … elsewhere. Now, as you see, I have returned.’
‘And come to pay me a visit. I’m honoured. But my guests generally call at the front door. Many of them are thieves, it is true, but few take the trouble to mask themselves. Are you a coward, sir?’
‘Simply modest, my lord,’ answered the one addressed as Grimalkin.
‘Why, damn me if you are not a smooth-tongued rascal! But I will see who is beneath that mask.’ He gestured with the pistol. ‘Remove it, sir.’
‘As your lordship can see, my hands are occupied at present.’
‘Then I suggest you un-occupy them.’
‘Gladly, but your pistol is making me somewhat nervous.’
‘Afraid it might go off? You should be.’
‘I am more concerned that, in my nervousness, I might drop the clock.’
The tremor that shook the hand holding the pistol was evident in the man’s voice as well. ‘If you damage that clock, sir, I will kill you.’