Paul Witcover - The Emperor of all Things

‘Well,’ demanded that face, ‘are you going to lie there all day like a lazy dog? Get up, sir! Get up! We have much to discuss.’ And one of the walking sticks struck against his shoulder.

Or, no, not a walking stick. A cat, butting its head against him. In fact, numerous cats were prowling about his person, rubbing against him, patting him with their paws, purring as if very pleased indeed to find him stretched out upon the floor. No doubt they were just being friendly, but even so there were rather a lot of them. He sat up with alacrity, and they scattered.

‘I never figured you for a fainter,’ Master Magnus said with a sniff. ‘Does this happen often?’

Head swimming, Quare climbed to his feet. ‘I’ve never fainted in my life,’ he protested, steadying himself with one hand upon a stack of books that was almost more in need of steadying than he was. ‘I don’t know what—’ He stopped short at the sight of the handkerchief swaddling his finger.

‘God help me,’ sighed the master, rolling his eyes. ‘You’re not going to faint again, are you?’

Quare glared at him. ‘I appreciate your concern, Master. I’m quite well.’

‘I should hope so. What possible use will you be if you go around fainting every five minutes like some overdelicate young miss suffering from the vapours?’

‘I don’t know what use I can be at all,’ he answered. ‘You’ve told me nothing, explained nothing, just shown me something possible by no natural science with which I am acquainted – a watch that runs on human blood. My blood, as it happens, drawn without a by-your-leave! And you wonder, after such shocks to the body and the mind, that a man might find himself a trifle unsteady on his feet?’

Master Magnus shrugged. ‘ I did not faint when it happened to me. Oh, yes, my boy – how do you think I knew to prick your finger? I cut myself accidentally while examining the watch, and my blood was drawn into the movement just as yours was, and with the same intriguing if admittedly disquieting result. But why do you look at me so sceptically, sir? You have experienced for yourself the truth of what I am telling you.’

‘I am merely surprised to find that blood and not oil circulates in your veins.’

‘Hmph. Come, let us sit and talk.’ As he spoke, the master swung himself about on his sticks and led Quare to a small round table flanked by a pair of chairs, all three pieces of furniture covered with various combinations of books and cats and their respective sheddings of loose pages and hair.

‘Clear them away,’ he directed, and Quare evicted all the cats save one, a fat old orange tom that lay draped in a peculiarly boneless fashion over two books whose much-clawed bindings had the look of despoiled antiquity. This surly beast hissed and swatted a hefty paw at him when he made to remove it, and he balked at a further attempt, deciding that he had already been wounded enough for one day. Master Magnus, not so easily deterred, delivered a thump with his stick that sent the feline yowling in retreat.

‘The books as well,’ he said in a tone of impatience, gesturing with the stick as though threatening Quare with the same treatment.

‘Where shall I put them?’

‘Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.’

Quare transferred the books and papers to the floor. There was no organizing principle to maintain; Greek and Arabian treatises on horology lay alongside volumes by Newton, Descartes, Leibniz and Spinoza, which in turn sat upon anonymous pamphlets setting forth systems of astrology, alchemy and numerology. Interspersed throughout were pages covered with diagrams and calculations and Latin scribblings in the master’s own crabbed hand.

‘You should have all this put in the proper order,’ Quare admonished, not for the first time. He couldn’t help thinking that the books and papers – the property of the Worshipful Company, after all – deserved a kinder master, or at any rate a more meticulous one.

‘I like to keep them near to hand,’ Master Magnus said, manoeuvring himself in front of a chair and then toppling back into it with a grunt. His misshapen legs flew up, resembling the flippers of a seal. ‘This way, I know exactly where everything is.’ He laid his walking sticks against the side of the chair.

‘But what of the other masters?’ Quare persisted. ‘What if they should require a particular book? How will they ever find it?’

‘They will ask me, and I will procure it for them. The system is practical and convenient. Now, sit you down, sir.’

Quare began to brush cat hair from the upholstery of the remaining chair. But he soon gave it up as a lost cause and seated himself with a sigh. Master Magnus, he noted with some foreboding, was once again gazing at him with that unsettling grimace-cum-smile. Without a word, the master reached into his pocket. Quare flinched, fearing that he was about to draw forth the watch; despite his curiosity, he was not eager to renew his acquaintance with the timepiece just yet. But instead, Master Magnus produced a small tin whistle. Putting it to his lips, he blew three shrill blasts in quick succession.

A door opened, and a servant entered the room carrying a tray on which sat two glasses and a bottle of port. The man approached smoothly, something of a feat considering that he did not glance even once at the array of animate and inanimate obstacles bestrewing his path, but avoided them as if by instinct or some sense other than sight, his gaze fixed on a distant point. Quare studied him, trying to ascertain if this was the same servant who had fetched him in the stair-master, but there was no way of telling; perhaps if the servant had spoken he might have recognized the man’s voice, but he lowered the tray to the table without a word and then, with a stiff bow, his powdered face so devoid of expression that it seemed to indicate a lack of consciousness itself, turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The master filled the glasses. He lifted one and indicated that Quare should do likewise. Half wondering if he were still unconscious and dreaming, for he had that sense, peculiar to dreams, that the most fantastic events could take place at any moment, and indeed most probably would take place, and, moreover, if he but knew it, were very likely taking place already, Quare followed suit. Master Magnus made the toast: ‘To His Majesty.’

‘His Majesty,’ echoed Quare, rising to his feet and drinking.

‘No need to be so formal, Quare. It’s just the two of us, after all.’ The master refilled his own glass, then reached up with the bottle to refill Quare’s. ‘ Tempus Imperator Rerum .’

The motto of the Worshipful Company. Time, Emperor of All Things. A reminder that even His Majesty had a master greater still. As did all men.

Quare drank. The sweet wine went straight to his head, accentuating his sense of inhabiting a dream. He cleared his throat, set the glass down on the table as though to reassure himself of its solidity, and his own, and took his seat again. ‘How did the servant know to bring the wine, Master?’

‘Oh, I’ve got them trained,’ said Master Magnus, holding up the whistle. ‘They’re under strict orders not to enter unless summoned with this. I’ve devised a kind of code, you see, to communicate simple commands by means of the number and duration of blasts on a whistle. It’s quicker and more effective than calling them in here and explaining what I want. The Vikings used a similar method in bygone days. The longboats of a raiding party would speak to each other over great distances or through inclement weather by blowing upon their horns. My system adapts their barbarous custom for civilized use. I call it “Norse Code”.’

‘Impressive,’ said Quare. ‘But still, the servant must have been expecting the command. He appeared immediately with his tray.’