Paul Witcover - The Emperor of all Things

Farthingale, meanwhile, glared at Mansfield. ‘Lucky for you I have no honour, sir, or I’d be forced to demand satisfaction!’

‘Lucky for you I have no honour, or I’d be forced to accept!’

Pickens raised his mug. ‘To dishonour!’

Quare lifted his mug along with Farthingale and Mansfield, his voice joining with theirs: ‘Dishonour!’

There followed a pause, during which four mugs remained aloft and four pairs of eyes regarded Aylesford, who gazed back glumly.

‘Come on, Tom, old son,’ Farthingale coaxed, nudging him with an elbow. ‘Forget your troubles. Drink up!’

Aylesford sighed, rolled his shoulders as if divesting himself of a great weight, and lifted his mug. ‘To dishonour,’ he echoed, albeit without enthusiasm. The same lack, however, could not be ascribed to his drinking, as he gulped down what seemed like half the mug’s contents before lowering it from his lips, leaving a frothy moustache, which he wiped away with the back of one sleeve.

‘Well?’ prodded Farthingale after wiping away a moustache of his own.

‘I begin to see the merits of your argument,’ Aylesford admitted, and in fact the colour had returned to his cheeks, and his eyes shone.

‘Keep drinking – soon you will be completely convinced!’

‘Only until the effects of the ale wear off.’

‘What of that, eh?’ Mansfield scoffed. ‘Is there a shortage of ale in London? Conviction, once lost, is easily regained.’ He raised his mug. ‘To conviction!’

‘Conviction!’ echoed four voices, of which Quare’s was by no means the weakest.

QUARE WOKE TO find himself naked in an unfamiliar bed. An unfamiliar body, also naked, was nestled familiarly within the curve of his own, facing away. Wisps of blonde hair, edged with gold in the fall of sunlight past a drab curtain, tickled his nose. He smelled sweat and sex, stale beer and tobacco smoke. His mysterious companion was snoring; he had no idea who she was or how they had come to be together. There was a sour taste in his mouth, as though he had vomited during the night. His head throbbed, and his brains seemed to have been reduced to a semi-liquid state: the slightest movement sent them sloshing against the walls of his cranium. Meanwhile, his bladder burned. To relieve the latter misery was to invite the former; he lay still, suspended in a murky zone of suffering in which the flow of time itself seemed to have, not stopped precisely, but rather encountered an obstacle. It circled sluggishly, like a backed-up eddy in a street sewer.

The previous night was a smear of colour and noise across his memory. He recalled a succession of toasts that spread from table to table until the whole tavern was taking part. Songs were sung to the accompaniment of the one-eyed fiddler and his dancing monkey. Eternal friendships were pledged and broken and tearfully pledged again. He remembered conversing with the red-haired journeyman, what was his name, Argyle? No, Aylesford. The two of them sitting with arms flung about each other’s shoulders, commiserating over the sad lot of journeymen in the guild, the forfeiting of honour and other sacrifices that could only be alluded to … at least, Quare hoped he had gone no further than allusion. Surely he hadn’t said anything about the Most Secret and Exalted Order, his recent mission to Wichcote House, Grimalkin, or the uncanny pocket watch in the possession of Master Magnus. He racked his brains but could think of no indiscretion. This was not entirely comforting, however, since so much of the night was a blur.

There had been a disturbance. A fight … The Pig and Rooster in an uproar, chairs and fists flying, swords unsheathed, the little capuchin, its turban knocked off, screaming as it leapt from table to table and took refuge at last in one of the wagon-wheel chandeliers, where it crouched gargoyle-like within the swaying circle of candles, teeth bared, eyes agleam, seeming to preside over the madness below like some savage demigod. That nightmarish image was the last thing he remembered.

He disengaged himself from his companion, careful not to wake her, and sat up with a groan at a sharp twinge in his upper back, between his shoulder blades, as if he had pulled a muscle during the night. He thought for a second that he might be sick, but nausea receded as his bladder reasserted its primacy. He got to his feet, shivering in the morning chill, espied the chamber pot tucked beneath a cabinet across the room, and set out for it as though embarked upon a journey of miles. Other aches and pains announced themselves with each step. The bandage on his thigh bore a dark stain, as if the wound had opened again … though it didn’t seem to be bleeding at the moment.

He recognized nothing in his trek across the shabby room save his own scattered clothing. He hooked the chamber pot out with his foot and relieved himself with another groan, this one expressing a pleasure almost sexual in its intensity. When he had finished, he turned and saw that the sleeping blonde was asleep no longer. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow and regarding him with amusement, as if she was not only aware of his confusion but enjoying it. A dingy bed-sheet draped the plump swell of one hip, leaving pendulous breasts the colour of rice pudding exposed. Both her face and its expression were known to him.

He cleared his throat and assayed a smile and a bow. ‘Good morning, Arabella ,’ he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world to find himself here, stark naked.

Arabella smirked, tossed her blonde curls, and said, ‘I’m Clara.’

At which he blushed from head to toe.

Her laughter was easy and forgiving. ‘It’s all right, love. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. Share and share alike, that’s what I say.’ She sat up, rearranging the sheet to cover her breasts. ‘Where’s Tom got to?’

‘Tom …?’ Quare’s hands cupped over his cock, which, a bit slow on the uptake, had only begun to respond to the sight of her voluptuous body now that she had covered herself.

Clara seemed not to notice. ‘Your friend. Redhead, looks about sixteen or so?’

‘Aylesford.’ He had no memory of coming here in his company. Or, for that matter, coming here at all. Wherever here was.

‘That’s the one.’ Clara got to her feet, the sheet tucked about her, and approached him with short, mincing steps. He drew back to let her by. She looked back coyly over her bare shoulder. ‘Can’t a girl get a little privacy?’

He blushed again and turned away. ‘Sorry.’ What had happened last night? He retrieved his clothing from the floor and laid it out on the bed as, behind him, Clara’s forceful stream rang against the sides of the chamber pot. There were some unsavoury-looking stains on his breeches and stockings, and dark splotches of what appeared to be dried blood on his shirt and coat … and, he now saw, more bloodstains on the sheets as well. A cursory examination of his body revealed some minor scrapes and scratches on his arms and chest, not enough to account for the stains. He supposed it must have been the wound that Grimalkin had given him. Or perhaps Clara had started her monthlies.

‘What’s your rush, love?’ Clara called.

‘I’ve an appointment.’ According to his pocket watch, it was nearing eight-thirty, and nine-thirty was the time Master Magnus had set for their morning meeting. The actual time, he knew, must be somewhat later, as his watch bled minutes if not kept tightly wound, a duty he’d neglected to perform last night. He remedied it now. But even so, he had no idea what the true time was. The uncertainty only added to his sense of dislocation.

‘But I haven’t had a chance to thank you proper for last night.’