‘But why?’
‘Is it not obvious? You are no orphan, sir, but a bastard. Some man’s by-blow.’
‘How do you know this?’ Quare demanded, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.
‘I make it my business to learn what I can about every apprentice.’
‘But then who is my father?’ A sudden foreboding came over him. ‘Is it you, sir? Is that why you have come to fetch me?’
At this, Master Magnus threw back his head and roared with laughter while Quare turned the shade of a beet. When the master had composed himself, he answered: ‘No, I am not your father, young Quare. Have no misapprehensions on that score.’
‘Then Mr Halsted! Perhaps that is why he was so kind to me.’
‘Nor is Halsted your sire. Put such thoughts from your mind.’
‘Then who?’
‘Why, I do not know,’ Master Magnus confessed with good humour. ‘What I have related to you is no more than any man could have found at any time simply by perusing the parish records. Your mother’s name was Mary Trewell. A milkmaid. No doubt seduced and cast aside. A common enough tale, though a sad one, I grant you.’
Quare was reeling; he felt as though he had slipped into a kind of dream. ‘Did … did Mr Halsted know this?’
‘Who do you think it was that examined the records? He dispatched the information to me. A boy, Daniel Quare, born to Mary Trewell, father unknown. Your name, sir, is a witty reflection of that fact, from the Latin
quare
, which is to say “from what cause”.’
‘I … I scarcely know what to say, what to think,’ Quare mumbled, passing a hand before his eyes. ‘Why have you told me this?’
‘Should I have kept it from you? Surely a man has the right to know the truth of his own parentage.’
‘But you have told me a half truth, no more. Now I must wonder at who my father may be. Does he yet live? And if so, does he dwell close by or far away? Have I seen him, all unknowing? Does he know of me? Perhaps he does not, and would acknowledge me if he but learned of my existence. I must find him! Sir, can you not help me?’
‘I might look for years and never find him. No doubt the trail has gone quite cold. And who is to say that he wishes to be found? A man might very well know that he has a bastard son and yet desire no more intimate acquaintance with him.’
‘Please, sir. I should like to find him anyway.’
‘And what would you do then? What would you say to him?’
‘I … I do not know.’
‘You are no longer a boy, Mr Quare, yet neither are you a man. Wait a while, sir. Complete your apprenticeship. Acquit yourself well in all that is asked of you, and then, in a few years, when you have attained the rank of journeyman, ask me again, and perhaps I will be disposed to assist you.’
‘Thank you, sir. Do you know, I was angry at Mr Halsted for sending you my sketches. But now I see that I have to thank him as well.’
‘Not everyone would be so thankful to learn themselves a bastard.’
‘My whole life, I believed myself an orphan – that is worse. You and Mr Halsted have given me back my father, or hope of him. I will work hard, sir. You shall see! I will acquit myself well – and come to my father as a man he will be proud to acknowledge.’
‘An admirable plan, young Quare. I hope you are not disappointed. But life has a way of disappointing bastards, I have found.’
‘I will pray to God that it may be otherwise, sir, and trust in his providence.’
‘Why, do you imagine that God cares a fig for bastards? Surely he has more important things on his mind.’
‘I … I don’t know, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I suppose he does. Have more important things on his mind, I mean.’
The master’s leonine head nodded approvingly. ‘What sorts of important things?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
‘Then I shall tell you. Time, Mr Quare. Time is the mind of God in motion. His thought, His intent, His very essence. We horologers, as much as or even more than the clergy, are doing His work, for every timepiece is a microcosm of the universe the Almighty created and set in motion. In making and repairing clocks and watches, we of the Worshipful Company expunge the errors and anarchies of the Adversary, restoring a small but significant measure of order to the world, without which the time appointed for the return of our Saviour might be indefinitely delayed, or never draw nigh at all. Do you think I exaggerate? Have you not felt the truth of it? In repairing a damaged timepiece, do you not also repair a part of yourself, some damaged spring or coil or counterweight of the soul, and, in so
doing
, for a while at least, draw closer to the master of clocks and men?’
Now it was enthusiasm rather than embarrassment that brought a flush to Quare’s cheeks. ‘Yes! I have felt that, or something like it – and …’ He paused, groping for the right words.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, as if, in drawing closer to Him myself, I bring some measure of the world along with me. I know that sounds foolish – to think that my small labours can influence the entire world …’
‘But why should they not? The workings of a clock teach us how even the smallest part or movement can influence the greater whole. In life, as in horology, everything is connected, even if we lack the discernment or wisdom to perceive the nature of the connections. But do not doubt that they exist. Perhaps neither men nor clocks can be made perfect, young Quare, but they can both be made less imperfect, approaching, with each small improvement, in a kind of ceaselessly worshipful striving, ever nearer to that ideal of timeless perfection forever beyond the grasp, though not the aspiration, of mortal hand and mind. Each refinement in the measurement of time brings the world nearer to God, and to the moment, ordained since before the beginning of time itself, when we shall be ransomed from the prison of time and admitted at last into the hallowed precincts of eternity. Such, at any rate, is the belief of our guild, the consummation towards which we struggle.’
‘Mr Halsted never spoke to me of such things.’
‘I should be surprised to hear otherwise. In the guild, as in the wider world, there are gradations of knowledge, strata of understanding. Greater and lesser truths, if you will. Horology is a practical science, but it also has its mystical, or perhaps I should say esoteric, side. Just as the journeyman knows more than the apprentice, and the master more than the journeyman, so, too, do the elect of the Worshipful Company know more than the common herd. I have spoken to you now as I have, young Quare, because I judge that you possess the potential to be one of the elect – your designs proclaim it. Whether you realize this potential is another matter. That is up to you. I have but cracked a door open to give you a glimpse of the secret knowledge shining on the other side like the piled treasure of a dragon’s hoard; now I must pull that
door
shut, and I will not open it for you again. When the time comes, if it comes, you shall open the door yourself.’
‘I … I don’t understand, sir.’
‘It would be a wonder if you did. For now, it is enough that you reflect upon all that I have told you, and that you keep the memory of it in your thoughts in the weeks and months – indeed, the years – that lie ahead. One more piece of advice I will give you: to the extent you may reasonably do so without causing offence, keep your own counsel. Do not let yourself get tangled in the petty cliques and Machiavellian intrigues that have come to infect the guild under the leadership of our present grandmaster. Steer a middle course, young Quare, for as long as you can. That course, I make bold to say, will lead to mastery in the end. Aye, and to your father as well, like as not.’
‘Why, is he a master horologer, then? Is that what you mean?’
‘I know not what he is, nor who, as I have said. But if you would have my help in finding him, then you must apply yourself as I have suggested. That was my meaning, no more and no less.’
‘I will do my best,’ he answered, and so he had … and now found himself in a prison cell deep beneath the guild hall. Had all the choices he had made, the actions he had taken, or not taken, led him inevitably to this moment, this place? The past could not be changed – but what if the same were true of the present and the future, and all the events of a man’s life were as if carved into stone from the day of his birth, or earlier still, set down by the hand of the Almighty at the beginning of time? Choice, then, would be an illusion, and the course of each man’s life would be as fixed as the movement of a clock. Perhaps there was some comfort in this view – useless, then, to struggle, to regret, to dream. Whatever happened, happened in accordance with God’s plan, and each human being merely played the part assigned to him or her. Yet Quare’s spirit rebelled against this comfort and the attitude of supine passivity it encouraged. He rejected them both. Illusory or not, he would act as if his actions mattered, as if the future were not set in stone.
And how could it be, really? He himself was the proof of it – or, rather, the wound he bore, which by all rights should have been fatal: an assassin’s knife thrust between the shoulder blades and into the
heart
. Yet when death had come for him, somehow, by some means he did not understand, he had escaped. And if that prison had not been able to hold him, how could this one? He resolved that when Longinus or another servant returned, he would not sit meekly by and wait for whatever fate was in store for him. He was not helpless; he was a regulator, after all. It was time that he started acting like one.
Quare rose from the pallet and crossed the room to the desk. Heedless of the noise, he lifted the wooden chair and, holding it by the back, swung the legs against the wall until, with a loud crack, one splintered; this he prised loose, and as quickly as that held a rude club in his hand. If he could knock whoever came to check on him unconscious, he could take the man’s keys, lock him in the cell, and try to make his way out of the guild hall. It was not much of a plan, but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. No doubt, once he was out of the cell, other opportunities would present themselves.
Then, once he was free, he would have to clear his name. Until he did so, he would be a hunted man. But better that than to be hanged as a scapegoat for crimes he had not committed.
He retrieved Mr Puddinge’s foul-smelling coat and arranged it on the pallet to give the impression of a curled and sleeping body. His hat he placed where his head might have been. Then he went to the door, standing to one side, so that, when it was opened, he might surprise whoever entered. He waited, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps and watching for a telltale glimmer of torchlight behind the iron grille set into the door.
Some moments passed. The only sound was the crackling of the fire. Quare’s eyelids began to grow heavy in the stuffy, overheated atmosphere of the room.
‘Waiting for someone?’
The voice came from behind. Quare started then spun to face the speaker.
‘Longinus?’
The servant standing in front of the fireplace nodded, a wary eye on the club in Quare’s hand. In his own hand was a belt and sheathed rapier: the very belt and weapon that Mrs Puddinge had taken from Quare and left with the Old Wolf.
‘Put that down,’ Longinus said. ‘We’ve no time for such foolishness.’
Instead, Quare hefted the club and stepped forward. ‘How did you get in here? What are you doing with my sword?’
‘I’ve come to free you,’ Longinus answered. ‘But I would prefer not to receive a knock on the head in thanks for it.’
At that, Quare stopped short. ‘You’re letting me out?’
Longinus nodded, and for the first time, Quare noted that the servant’s normally fastidious appearance was anything but: his powdered wig had been knocked askew, and the powder on his face was streaked with sweat; his clothes were torn in places and spattered with what looked like blood – whether his own or someone else’s, Quare couldn’t say.
‘The Old Wolf has made his move,’ Longinus said. ‘He’s been preparing this for a long time, but I did not think he would strike so soon after Master Magnus’s death. Something must have forced his hand – I know not what.’
‘What do you mean, made his move? What’s going on out there?’
‘A purge,’ Longinus said, and grimaced. ‘A bloody purge – that’s what’s going on. Every regulator loyal to Master Magnus is being hunted down and killed by the Old Wolf’s men. I barely got away with my life … and your sword. Here.’ He tossed the belt to Quare, who, shifting the club to his other hand, managed to catch the sheathed weapon. Longinus, meanwhile, continued speaking. ‘You’re on the list, too, Mr Quare. Apparently the Old Wolf has decided that you’re worth more to him dead than alive. There’s not a moment to lose: we have to get out of here now. Master Malrubius is on his way here to kill you.’
‘How can I trust you?’ Quare asked. ‘How do I know this isn’t a trick?’
‘Because I know about the hunter and what it can do,’ Longinus replied. ‘I know that it drinks a man’s blood – and I know, too, that it killed Master Magnus.’
‘What? Killed him? How?’
‘As soon as we are safely away from here, I’ll tell you everything I know, I swear it. But for now, you’ll have to trust me. Master Magnus never had a chance to tell you, but he intended for the two of us to work together. Surely you recall his promise to assign a more experienced regulator to assist you. I am he.’
‘You? A regulator?’
‘Retired,’ Longinus said, and sketched a bow. ‘Now, Mr Quare, if you don’t mind, save your questions and follow me.’ With that, he turned and entered the fireplace, leaping as nimbly as Jack of the nursery rhyme over the burning logs to vanish into the back of the cavernous space. ‘Oh,’ came his voice from out of the cavity, ‘you might want to bring that appalling coat of yours.’
This was a turn of events Quare had not anticipated. He didn’t trust Longinus, but neither did he want to take the chance that the Old Wolf really had dispatched men to kill him. With all that had happened, he found that he could not discount the possibility.
The decision was made easier by the sound of voices and hurried footsteps in the corridor outside. It seemed that Quare was about to have visitors.