Paul Witcover - The Emperor of all Things

‘Quare, are they … are they all …’

‘It would seem so.’ He felt giddy, as if he might break into laughter, although in fact he had never been so frightened in his life. Yet he couldn’t turn away. Something held him, a sense of being implicated in what had taken place, not simply as a witness to it – or rather to its aftermath, for whatever had been unleashed here had done its work in darkness , in the blink of an eye – but as a participant, however unwilling or unaware. Perhaps it was that he had been spared. He and the master both. As if, because the watch had drunk their blood, they were connected to it now. Part of it somehow. And therefore complicitous in its actions – for despite how little he understood of what had happened, he had no doubt that the watch had lashed out in self-defence, like a living thing.

The words of Grimalkin came back to him: ‘This clock will not yield up its secrets to such as you – no, nor to your masters, not even the greatest of them. Believe me, rather than answer your questions, it will punish you for asking them – and it will be a punishment that strikes the guilty and the innocent alike.’

He shuddered, wondering if the effect was limited to this room or extended beyond it, into the rest of the guild hall, the city, the world. If Master Magnus should blow on his whistle now, who would answer the summons? Was there anyone left to answer?

From behind him came the sounds of ragged sobbing, and it seemed to Quare that the master was grieving a loss greater than his precious cats. But he didn’t want to learn the truth of it. Didn’t want to witness the master’s mourning or even acknowledge it. Instead, he picked his way among the outliers, stooping here and there as he went, looking for some sign of what had killed them, as if that were the only question that mattered. But he could find no evidence of injury: bodies unmarked, unbloodied, limbs whole and positioned with the regal insouciance common to sleeping cats, so that he found it difficult to remember at times that they were not sleeping.

When Master Magnus next spoke, his voice was raw. ‘And the watch?’

‘I-it appears to be undamaged, Master. But I need to clear a path—’

‘You shall not touch them!’

This was no voice he knew. Quare turned at the shrill and fearful cry, nearly crying out himself at the sight that greeted him. The master seemed to have aged ten years or more.

The horror that came over him then was so much greater than what he’d felt before as to deserve another name. He told himself that the watch was responsible, that it had killed the cats by aging them, and that Master Magnus – and, no doubt, himself as well – had been similarly aged. But then he realized that it was an illusion, a trick of candlelight and the naked play of emotions across the master’s tearful face. He had not grown older; rather, a customary mask had fallen away, a mask of iron self-control that disguised his true age, made him seem not younger, exactly, but ageless. Now that mask was gone, and Quare beheld a face that Master Magnus himself might not have recognized had he chanced to see it in a mirror: the ravaged face of a man whose greatest solace has been ripped from him. But the understanding of what he was seeing came as no relief to Quare. Nor did the swift return of the mask.

‘Forgive me, Mr Quare.’ The master’s voice was as it always had been … only more so. It made Quare shudder to hear it.

‘Of course, Master,’ he somehow managed to bring himself to say.

‘You are quite correct. It is the watch that matters. Clear your path and bring it to me.’

Quare hesitated. He had no desire to touch the cats, and even less, if possible, to touch the watch. ‘Perhaps the servants …?’

‘No,’ the master said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘There will be talk enough among the servants as it is. But the existence of the watch must remain our secret. At least for now, until we can understand better what has happened, and how. Move the cats aside. But do it gently, sir, I beg you. As gently as ever you can.’

‘Care for some company?’

Startled out of his reverie, Quare looked up to see a woman standing beside the table and smiling down at him, her eyes hooded by a ruffled blue bonnet but the rest of her face garishly painted, so that it was impossible to tell what her true features, or even her age, might be. ‘Sorry, love,’ he answered. ‘Not in the mood tonight.’

Like many such establishments, the Pig and Rooster had its share of prostitutes who either worked outright for the business or kicked back a share of their earnings in exchange for the right to troll the premises.

Rather than accepting the rebuff, the woman seated herself.

‘See here—’ Quare began.

She interrupted: ‘I believe you have mistaken me, sir.’

Quare knew that voice. Those dark eyes newly revealed in the light of the candle. ‘Grimalkin,’ he whispered.

With infuriating insouciance, she lifted his mug of ale, saluted him, and sipped from it. ‘I promised we would meet again.’

‘You are a fool to come here.’ He made to rise, then stopped as the point of a sword pricked his belly. He felt the blood drain from his face. The minx had drawn on him under the table.

‘Do not prove yourself a bigger fool. Sit down, Mr Quare.’

He settled back in the chair. ‘How do you know my name?’

The sword point did not retreat an inch, even as she took another sip of ale. ‘I have many resources at my disposal,’ she said with a smile made grotesque by the red paint smeared over her lips. When she lowered the mug to the table, a grey mouse darted from her sleeve, ran across the table top to his plate, and nibbled at his steak and kidney pie.

‘Look here!’ he exclaimed, and would have shot to his feet had not the tip of the sword impressed upon him the wisdom of remaining seated. ‘Can you not control that infernal rodent?’

‘Come, Henrietta,’ she called, and the mouse, after standing upon its hind legs to observe him, pink nose twitching, scampered back up her sleeve like a witch’s familiar.

‘Why do you carry that vermin upon your person?’

‘You have seen yourself how useful she can be,’ Grimalkin replied. ‘Now, sir: to business.’

‘I do not see what business you can possibly have with me, or I with you.’

‘Can you not? Have you forgotten that we are linked, you and I? Blood calls to blood, Mr Quare.’

‘Blood …’ He could not suppress a shudder. ‘Has this aught to do with that cursed timepiece?’

‘Cursed, is it? You were singing a different tune last night.’

‘I have since had the opportunity to examine its workings more … intimately.’ His finger throbbed at the memory.

‘Then you understand the danger.’

‘I understand nothing whatsoever! How it works, or how such a thing could even exist. ’Tis unnatural, an affront to God and science alike.’

‘That’s as may be. Yet it does exist.’

‘What do you know of it?’ he asked. ‘Who made it, and why?’

‘None of that matters now,’ she said. ‘I have come to ask your help – to beg it, rather.’

‘Beg, is it? At swordpoint? I believe the proper word is threaten.’

She winced at that, and, beneath the table, he felt the blade withdraw. ‘Your pardon. We must trust each other, you and I.’

‘You have given me no reason to trust you.’

‘I have not killed you. Is that not reason enough?’

‘You said yourself there were other reasons for that – reasons that have remained as cloaked in mystery as everything else about you. You wish my trust? Then speak plainly.’

‘Very well. Bring me the watch, Mr Quare. I would steal it back myself, but I dare not enter your guild hall. It is not safe for such as I.’