That errant thought reminded him of more recent deaths, of spirits that clamoured for justice and revenge, if only in the court of his own conscience. Was the murderer Aylesford still at large in London, seeking the timepiece that, in some fashion Quare did not understand, had both saved his own life and killed – at least, according to Longinus –
Master
Magnus? Sir Thaddeus had the hunter now, and Quare shuddered at the thought of what might occur as the Old Wolf subjected the device to a thorough examination. Grimalkin’s warning had been amply borne out, it seemed to him, and he wished that he had thought to question her more closely on the subject when he’d had the chance. He would have given a lot to see her again; she was as intriguing as she was beautiful, and he did not doubt that she could supply answers to many of the mysteries that had so thoroughly entangled him.
As the vertiginous sensations of flight lost their novelty, Quare realized that he and Longinus were not at the mercy of every capricious breeze. They were moving with steady intent, like ships that hold to their course despite the vagaries of the wind. None of this was Quare’s doing. Tethered to Longinus, he could only follow where the other man led; though at times it seemed that he was leading and Longinus following as the two Personal Flotation Devices performed a drunken minuet, each seeking to rotate about the other in a freewheeling demonstration of pendular motion that would have engaged Quare’s mind had it not been so upsetting to his stomach. More than once they collided in midair, pushing themselves apart with grunts and curses before the lines of their harnesses could become fouled.
It seemed impossible that the mere manipulation of sand and gas, as Longinus had described to him, could bring their flight under control. But such was the case. Though there was not sufficient light to observe Longinus, Quare marvelled at the visible results of the man’s unseen actions. Small, purposeful alterations in trajectory, height and velocity nudged the two devices in a particular direction, cutting westward across the city, angling closer to the Thames. Quare felt as if he had been caught up in a waking dream, or come under the influence of a magic spell. All his senses were heightened. He was drunk with wonder and fright.
Then, after an interval that could have been seconds or hours for all his ability to judge it, they began to descend. The city rose to meet them, surfacing out of fog and shadow like a leviathan bestirring itself after a long slumber. Someone – confederates of Longinus, Quare supposed – had set a ring of torches burning atop a particular roof, and
it
was towards this marker that Longinus steered them now. But how did he mean to set them safely down? It occurred to Quare that landing might prove to be even more dangerous than flying. He watched apprehensively as – far too swiftly, it seemed – the Personal Flotation Devices came swooping in.
He cried out, certain that he was about to die, but then a handful of figures ran into the torchlight, scurrying over the roof as if chasing something too small for Quare to see. Even as they passed above these men, who, he noted, wore the livery of servants, a strong jerk thrust him against his harness, driving the breath from his lungs. Urgent cries rose up from below. When he could breathe again, he saw that the men were holding tightly to ropes that Longinus had let drop from his harness. The servants had caught these ropes in mid-flight and tied them to moorings set into the roof. Now the men were hauling them in hand over hand. Quare smiled at his saviours with a gratitude that bordered on love. They did not spare him a glance, intent on their work, and he loved them all the more for it.
‘That wasn’t so bad, eh, Mr Quare?’ came Longinus’s voice.
Quare could only grin stupidly.
But his grin faded as he took in the details of the roof. He knew them very well. There was the chimney behind which he had concealed himself two nights ago. There the skylight from which, wreathed in grey smoke, Grimalkin had emerged.
Longinus had brought him to Lord Wichcote’s house.
He was betrayed.
7
Lord Wichcote
WHAT SECONDS EARLIER
had seemed like salvation took on a very different aspect as the men on the rooftop – there were at least a dozen – reeled Quare in like an eel dragged from the Thames … though that hypothetical eel would have had a better chance of slipping the hook than Quare of escaping his harness. Longinus had liberated him from one jailer only to deliver him, snugly trussed, to another. Perhaps Lord Wichcote did not want him dead, as the Old Wolf did – though it occurred to Quare that he had only Longinus’s word on that – but his lordship was no friend of the Worshipful Company. Lord Wichcote would not have had him brought here out of benevolent philanthropy. He wanted something.
The flickering torchlight imparted a hellish cast to the frantic activity below. Red-glazed hands reached up for him, taking hold of his legs and pulling him roughly down. Even before his feet touched solid ground, other hands were busy at the straps and buckles of his harness. Nearby, Longinus was being similarly attended to. The servants were well practised at this work, and in less than a minute had extracted both men. The Personal Flotation Devices were dragged to the far side of the roof; Quare surmised that the bladders could not be vented near the torches owing to the danger of an explosion. But that was the least of his worries.
The servants had not taken away his sword, as he had feared they would. Nor did they make any attempt to restrain him. In truth, it was
all
he could do to remain upright. His legs seemed to have become unfamiliar with the ground … either that, or the ground had grown less stable in the time of his absence from it. He would have liked nothing better than to lie down on the rooftop and close his eyes until the world stopped wobbling and his queasy stomach settled. But this was no time to give way to weakness. A grinning Longinus was striding towards him. He had lost his wig in the flight, and his bare scalp gleamed in the torchlight, putting Quare in mind of a vulture. He drew his sword.
Longinus stopped short, smile vanishing. ‘I confess I had expected a warmer thanks for having saved your life, Mr Quare.’ He motioned with one hand for the servants to stay back.
‘Take another step and you will find it hot indeed, I promise you,’ Quare said. ‘Why have you brought me to Lord Wichcote’s house?’
‘Ah, so you recognize it, then. Good.’
‘Lord Wichcote was no friend to Master Magnus, and he is no friend to the Worshipful Company, either.’
‘In that you are quite wrong,’ Longinus said. ‘His lordship has long been a benefactor of the Worshipful Company and a close associate of Master Magnus – I will not say a friend, because that gentleman, God rest his troubled soul, was not capable of genuine friendship with any creature besides a cat. But the two men, for all their differences, had a genuine respect for each other and worked together often, if behind the scenes. They did not always see eye to eye, but when it came to the interests of guild and country, there was no space between them. Only, it suited them to have the world believe them enemies. A secret ally is often of more value than a friend whom all the world can see, as this night has amply demonstrated. So put up your sword, Mr Quare. You have nothing to fear from Lord Wichcote.’
‘I think not,’ said Quare, his glance shifting to the surrounding servants, all of whom were watching intently. Yet not one of them made a threatening move in his direction. It seemed that Longinus had some authority over them.
‘A shame,’ Longinus said meanwhile, and, moving faster than Quare would have guessed possible in a man of his age, drew his own sword.
The next few seconds were a blur to Quare. He had thought
Aylesford
a skilled swordsman, but Longinus was in another class altogether. Quare managed two weak parries before the sword was wrenched from his hand as if by an invisible force; it clattered to the ground, where one of the servants picked it up. Quare, clutching the wrist of his now empty hand, which had been rendered numb and useless by a blow he had not seen coming – or going, for that matter – could only gape in astonishment as Longinus sheathed his sword.
‘Your technique is woefully inadequate,’ the man remarked with a sad shake of his head. He did not appear in the least winded. ‘I see that I will have my work cut out to make a respectable regulator out of you, as Master Magnus wished me to do.’
‘And what of Lord Wichcote’s wishes?’ Quare demanded. ‘He is your true master, is he not? How much did he pay you to betray me?’
‘Why, nothing at all.’
‘I think I shall call you Judas rather than Longinus. The name suits you better.’
‘I prefer Longinus. But if you would call me something other, then my true name will suffice for now. Josiah Wichcote, sir, at your service.’ He gave a small bow.
Quare’s mouth gaped wider still. ‘L-lord Wichcote?’ he stammered at last.
‘The same.’ As he spoke, it seemed to Quare that the man stood taller, straighter; it was as if he had cast off a subtle disguise. ‘No doubt you have many questions,’ he continued. ‘I will answer them as best I can. But first, I intend to change out of these clothes and enjoy a hot bath. I invite you to do the same. I will have you shown to your rooms; fresh clothes and anything else you may require will be brought to you there. Then, sir, we shall dine together, and I shall tell you everything I know about the circumstances of Master Magnus’s death … and other things you will, I dare say, find equally incredible.’
With that, Longinus – Lord Wichcote, rather, if his assertion could be believed – bowed again and took his leave. Surrounded by a bevy of servants, he strode across the roof and descended through a trap door some distance from the skylight with the ease of a much younger man. Most of the remaining servants busied themselves with the Personal Flotation Devices and harnesses, but a pair of them – including the
one
who had picked up his sword – presented themselves to Quare.
‘If you please, sir,’ said the one holding his sword, ‘we will conduct you to your rooms now.’
‘Is that really Lord Wichcote?’ he couldn’t help asking.
‘Oh, indeed, yes,’ the servant replied with a note of pride in his voice. ‘His lordship is quite the swordsman, is he not?’
The feeling was only just returning to Quare’s hand. ‘The best I have seen,’ he answered, flexing tingling fingers; it seemed to him that Lord Wichcote would be a match even for Grimalkin. And yet, he reminded himself, Grimalkin must have bested the man two nights ago, when she had stolen the hunter. Of course, that was no proof of superior swordsmanship, for he, in turn, had bested Grimalkin. Luck and surprise went a long way.
‘If you please, sir,’ the servant repeated, gesturing towards the trap door.
‘I am your prisoner,’ Quare said. ‘My pleasure has nothing to do with it.’
‘Our guest, rather,’ said the other servant, who had been silent until now. ‘His lordship has charged us to see to your comfort. We are at your disposal, Mr Quare.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Quare said. ‘In that case, I will have my sword back.’
The servant holding the weapon did not hesitate; he passed it back to Quare, hilt first.
Quare accepted it warily, fearing a trick. But the two servants regarded him placidly as he held it. For a long moment, their eyes met, and Quare considered then rejected the idea of fighting his way out; he suspected a second attempt would end no better than the first, and quite possibly worse. The return of his sword had not made him any less a prisoner; if anything, it had made him more conscious of his helplessness. Still, he felt better for having it. He sheathed the weapon. ‘Lead on,’ he said.
Later, as he basked in the waters of a hot, perfumed bath, taking care to keep his bandages dry, Quare reflected that there were jails and then there were jails. His cell in the guild hall had been spare but
comfortable
, with a pallet to stretch out on, a desk and writing implements, even a roaring fire. But the luxury of his present confinement beggared all comparison. Upon entering the rooms, he had caught his breath at the sumptuousness of the furnishings and other appointments; he had never seen their like, not even in the guild hall. Everywhere was colour and the shine of metal in candlelight; he felt like a savage stumbled into the midst of a civilization he could only marvel at without understanding. There were some objects here he had no name for and whose purpose was as far beyond his grasp as the moon, though their beauty was equally evident. Even the many things he did recognize – the oil paintings and tapestries on the walls, the gold-embroidered curtains hanging before the tall windows, the trompe l’oeil scene of receding clouds and cherubs upon the ceiling, the silk-upholstered chairs and settees, the great four-poster bed – seemed different from similar items in his experience not just in quality but in essence, as if he had entered a realm of Platonic ideals.
After descending through the trap door in the rooftop, he had found himself in a different part of the house entirely from the attic workshop that had been his destination two nights ago. This confused him, but he kept his questions to himself, trying to take everything in as the two servants Lord Wichcote had assigned to him bustled him down a set of stairs, along a sequence of branching corridors and thus into the rooms that, he was told, had been prepared for him; though whether that meant Lord Wichcote had always planned to bring him here, the men would not say.
He could hear them now, moving about behind the flimsy Chinese screen that did not confer privacy so much as the illusion of it. The unfolded panels depicted a vertiginous, mist-shrouded mountain landscape whose gentle colours and sinuous lines appeared drawn from dream rather than nature. It seemed to Quare, made drowsy by the scented waters of the bath, from which tendrils of steam rose like extrusions from the painting itself, that he might, by some small effort of will, drift across whatever boundary separated this world from that one, and thus make his escape. He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing upon those lofty crags, gazing into the fog-patched depths of a strange country.