Paul Witcover - The Emperor of all Things

‘Despite all that has transpired, you remain observant. Excellent.’ The master gave a satisfied nod. ‘Yes, Mr Quare, he was expecting the command. I thought it only right that we celebrate your success with a glass or two.’

‘Then you knew I would succeed in opening the watch.’

‘Your horological talents have never been questioned. At least, not by me.’

Quare sighed, reminded of his interview with Grandmaster Wolfe.

‘Your suspension irks you,’ Master Magnus said. ‘You feel the insult keenly.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘Indeed, I would not! The Most Secret and Exalted Order of Regulators. Bah! How secret can they be when they are named thus?’

‘But, Master, it was you who created the Order. You who named it. You recruit the regulators from among the journeymen of the Worshipful Company, oversee their training, dispatch them on their missions—’

‘Then perhaps you will grant that I know what I am talking about,’ Master Magnus interrupted. He reached for the port, then seemed to think better of it, making a dismissive motion as if shooing the bottle away. ‘Oh, the Order serves its purpose. The regulators do good and necessary work in thwarting the efforts of our enemies and their agents. But they are men of reason. Men of science. And there are other forces at work in the world, as you have now experienced for yourself. Thus I require other agents. Agents who belong to no named order, however secretly styled.’

‘I am surprised to hear you, of all people, disparage reason and science.’

‘I do not disparage them. On the contrary, I embrace them as fervently as I can. I have struggled my whole life to see them triumph. Look at me, Mr Quare. What do you see in this twisted body of mine?’

Quare hesitated, uncertain how to answer.

‘Come now, sir. Am I a spawn of evil? Does my misshapen outer aspect proclaim a soul bent equally out of true?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Yet many would say otherwise, even today, in this supposedly enlightened age. Do you know how many years it has been since I dared to leave the safety of the guild hall? It is my sanctuary and my prison all in one, for I cannot walk the streets of London without being followed by whispers of the devil. Adults mock me, children hurl insults and worse.’

‘Ignorance and superstition. No thinking man believes such foolishness.’

‘Perhaps not. Unfortunately, there are few men who can truly be said to think, even among the so-called educated classes. Why, even here in the Worshipful Company, I am looked upon as a monster. Apprentices fear me. Journeymen mock me, call me Master Mephistopheles. And my fellow masters, while content to reap the rewards of my genius, keep me hidden away, buried alive in the very bowels of the guild hall.’

The master paused, but before Quare could interject a word, he raised a forestalling hand; taking this for an invitation, a blue-grey cat jumped into his lap. He stroked it as he continued. ‘Do not misunderstand me, Quare. I am grateful to the guild. It gave me shelter, a home. I do not believe I would be alive today if the guild hadn’t taken me in, a friendless orphan, and trained me. But am I permitted to express my gratitude openly, like other men? Can I acknowledge my debt before the world and be seen by the world to pay it back tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousand, so that people might say, “Behold Theophilus Magnus, a credit to his guild and to his city!”? No. I must keep to the shadows like a skulking kobold. Allow lesser men to take credit for my work and receive the rewards and honours that rightfully belong to me. While it is true that I have the ear of Pitt, I do not believe that His Majesty even knows I exist!’

‘But surely Grandmaster Wolfe—’

‘Do not speak to me of that mendacious mediocrity! He has stolen everything from me. Everything! Do you think he would stand at the head of our guild if my back and legs were straight? Eh? Sir Thaddeus, indeed! Where is my title, I should like to know?’ He gave a bitter laugh.

Quare had seen Master Magnus lose his temper, but never his self-control. Yet here he was, the legendary Master Mephistopheles, he of the iron will and clockwork heart, confessing a petty litany of secret hurts and thwarted ambitions such as might be found smouldering in the breast of any disgruntled apprentice set to scrubbing floors. It was a breach of decorum every bit as shocking as the baring of his hump would have been.

‘But here is one thing he will not steal,’ the master continued. He drew the still-disassembled watch from his pocket and brandished it triumphantly; the silvery movement winked between his fingers, looking more like metal than any kind of bone with which Quare was familiar. ‘With this, I will pull the teeth from the Old Wolf and— God in heaven!’

A spitting and hissing ball of blue-grey fury had replaced the cat purring placidly in his lap. Master Magnus stared goggle-eyed at the animal, the watch raised level with his ear.

‘Do you see, Quare?’ demanded the master. All peevishness had vanished from his voice, replaced by boyish enthusiasm. ‘As with Calpurnia a moment ago, her instincts tell her plainly what our vaunted intellects strain uselessly to comprehend! If only you could speak, Marissa!’ He brought the watch closer to the cat, intent on her reaction. ‘If only you c—’

He broke off with a curse as claws raked the back of his hand. Blood flew, and so did both cat and watch, the latter sailing high in the air behind the master, the former leaping after it as though it were a bird. Still cursing, Master Magnus groped for his walking sticks but succeeded only in pushing them out of reach, and, for good measure, knocking the bottle of port off the table. Quare, meanwhile, remained rooted in place, watching the timepiece as it tumbled through the air, the movement no longer silver but red: a baleful crimson eye.

‘Get it, you fool!’ cried the master.

The room was in an uproar. Earlier, Calpurnia’s distress had infected the other cats. Now the rage of Marissa transmitted itself, and when the watch fell to the floor in the centre of the room, bouncing twice on the thick carpet, what seemed a single furry mass of teeth and claws fell upon it with a ferocity that curdled Quare’s blood.

‘Mr Quare!’ the master half shrieked, having turned himself within the prison of his chair to gaze in horror at the frenzied swarm.

The anguished voice pierced the caterwauling, jolting Quare out of his daze. He did not relish the idea of wading into that angry mob, but neither, he discovered, could he allow such a marvellous timepiece to come to harm. He sprang from his chair.

A flicker of darkness. It was as though all the candles in the room had gone out at once, then rekindled. Or a great black wing had passed before his eyes. Had he fainted again? But no: he was still on his feet, the cats still …

He stopped short. His heart throbbed in his chest, as if he had run for miles across the rooftops of London and not merely taken a few quick steps across the floor of the study.

The cats …

In the stillness and silence of the room, the drawn-out howl that issued from the mouth of Master Magnus seemed all the more terrible. It was like the sound of a hinge creaking as a door was forced open that had been rusted shut for centuries.

Quare stepped wonderingly into the midst of them. They lay motionless in concentric circles radiating out from a point of pale silver that seemed to shine with a light of its own. The outermost rings were sparsely populated, giving Quare room to walk, if he placed his feet with care, but the inner rings were so packed with bodies that he knew he would have to clear a path if he wished to reach the centre. There must have been close to fifty, perhaps even more.