Paul Witcover - The Emperor of all Things

‘Then I demand to speak with your king at once. There is no time to lose.’

‘Perhaps you’ve not noticed that you are chained ter the wall in a prison cell. That is ’cause you are a prisoner. As such, Mr Quare, you are not in a position ter demand anyfing – certainly not an audience wif ’is Majesty.’

‘Then you must take him a message. Tell him—’

Cornelius kicked suddenly and viciously at the tray he’d deposited on the floor, scattering everything on it. The bowl struck Quare in the shoulder, dumping its slimy contents along the side of his face and down his neck; the thick goop smelled of mushrooms. ‘What, do you fink I’m to be ordered about like a bleedin’ errand boy? You fink ’cause I’m a lowly Morecockneyan, that makes you my master? Is that it?’

‘No …’

Cornelius ignored him. ‘You surface dwellers are all the same. Fink you’re better than us ’cause yer ’appen ter live under open sky. Well, that’s about ter change, fanks to ’is Majesty.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Quare protested, angry himself now. ‘Granted, you live below the surface of London … but this is still English soil, is it not? English blood runs in your veins. The bonds of history and family tie you to the surface and those who live upon it, burrow however deep you like. Yet you conspire with England’s enemies; indeed, you have given them a weapon more potent and deadly than you – or they – know.’

‘’At’s where you’re wrong, Quaresie. ’Is Majesty knows more than you fink. More than Aylesford finks.’

‘Who is your king?’ Quare asked.

‘Wouldn’t yer like ter know,’ Cornelius replied, laying a thick finger alongside his carbuncle of a nose. ‘Suffice it ter say, ’is Majesty knows very well what is likely to transpire when Mr Aylesford reaches France. Indeed, I dare say ’e is countin’ on it.’

‘Does he imagine, then, that what is about to be loosed upon the world will stop at the surface, and that you people will be safe from it here? If so, I fear he is very much mistaken.’

‘Might be ’e is. Might be ’e ain’t. I reckon we’ll just ’ave ter wait and see. But if I was you, I’d be finkin’ less about Mr Aylesford and more about me own prospects.’

‘I don’t imagine they are any too bright.’

‘They are not bright at all, Quaresie. In fact, you might say they are black as pitch.’

‘So, you mean to kill me, then.’

‘There’ll be a trial first. We ’ave judges and juries ’ere, just like up above.’

‘And what am I charged with?’

‘A capital crime. Trespassin’.’

‘What? Trespassing? You would kill a man for that?’

‘Aye, we would. If Mr Pitt should ’ear of us, ’e’d ’unt us down like so many rats. Don’t fink it ain’t ’appened before.’

‘Why not just kill me now and get it over with?’ Quare said bitterly.

‘That would be murder, not justice. ’Oo knows? Perhaps yer barrister will speak wif such eloquence as ter persuade the jury ter acquit – though I wouldn’t count on it. I wouldn’t count on it at all.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because ’is Majesty ’as done me the great ’onour o’ appointin’ me ter act in that capacity,’ Cornelius said. With a mocking bow, he turned to go.

‘Wait,’ called Quare.

Cornelius looked back from the doorway.

Quare raised his bandaged stump; he could not help but notice that the bloodstains had grown darker since he had awakened. His arm felt as if it were on fire. ‘I find I am more in need of a physician than I am a barrister …’

‘I regret we do not ’ave one available at present.’

‘But … what then am I to do?’

‘The trial is set for tomorrow,’ Cornelius said. ‘Until then – well, a man can pray, can’t ’e?’

After that, Quare was left alone … in a manner of speaking. Fever took him, and he sank into a fitful half slumber in which figures from his distant and more recent past appeared in the cell to harangue him in so tedious a fashion as to constitute a form of torture. Though he was aware for the most part that these interminable one-sided conversations – for he could not get a word in edgewise, try as he might – were hallucinations, that knowledge proved insufficient to escape from them. Fellow orphans he’d known in the workhouse, whose very existence he had consigned to oblivion, returned to tax him with the crime of having forgotten them, of having left them behind to suffer while he went on to a life of luxury as the apprentice of Master Halsted. And here came old Halsted himself, walking him step by step through the most rudimentary clock repairs, as if he were once again the untutored apprentice he had been so long ago. Grandmaster Wolfe, meanwhile, berated him yet again for having bungled his rooftop opportunity with Grimalkin. Master Magnus chimed right in, as if the two men were allies now. Nor was Longinus absent – in all his various guises, each more critical than the last. Aylesford, too, was present, as were Pickens, Mansfield and Farthingale, along with Arabella and Clara. Even Mrs Puddinge put in an appearance, hectoring him about the fate of her late husband’s second-best coat … and there as if on cue came the malodorous thing itself, flapping through the air like a disreputable ghost. Indeed, the cell was full to bursting with ghosts, not only people Quare recognized and remembered but others who seemed to be perfect strangers, as if another person’s hallucinations had spilled over into his own. They seemed to be getting on very well together, having a grand old time. Most disconcerting of all was the return of his missing hand. Yes, there it was, back on the end of his wrist, as if it had never left. Except now it seemed to have only perched there, for to his amazement it rose like a bird and took flight, joining the coat in its airborne perambulations even as it dripped blood with the perfect regularity of a clepsydra on all those below.

So vivid were these apparitions that it was some time before Quare became convinced a particular voice among the throng was real. Or at any rate so insistent that it compelled his attention away from all the others. Especially since it was accompanied by a stinging slap across his cheek. And then another.

‘Mr Quare! Can you hear me? Wake up!’

Quare attempted to focus his bleary gaze. Gradually the ghosts faded from view, until he found himself looking into fierce, dark eyes in a grey-masked and hooded face. His mouth worked to shape a name.

‘Drink this.’ A grey-gloved hand tipped a wooden mug to his lips. He drank the cool water, spluttering in his haste.

‘Easy.’ A strong hand slipped behind his head.

He swallowed until the mug was empty. Then spoke, his voice so faint as to be barely audible. ‘How …?’

‘Come on.’ The mug clattered to the floor. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

‘Can’t.’

‘I think you can.’

Quare found himself hauled to his feet. ‘No.’ He shook his head, trying to clear it. ‘Chained.’

‘Not any more.’

Sure enough, the cuff was gone from his ankle. Quare took a faltering step, then another, leaning heavily against his rescuer. He felt himself slipping back into his fever dreams and fought to remain anchored in the here and now. His tongue was swollen, his thoughts muddled, and his words slurred, but still he forced them out. ‘Aylesford. He’s got the hunter.’

‘Shh. Save your strength.’

‘We’ve got to stop him, Longinus. There’s no one else but us.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not Longinus.’ The rescuer reached up and pulled hood and mask aside. Blonde hair tumbled free.

‘You!’

It was the young woman from the rooftop. The false Grimalkin. Her expression was almost mischievous as she regarded him. The corners of her lips ticked upward in the hint of a smile. Then, compounding his shock, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.