Despite the warmth of the bathwater, a shiver rippled through him. He felt more alone than he could remember ever having felt since his orphan days in the workhouse. In that moment, the image of Grimalkin came to him, the memory of her moonlit face on the rooftop, and, later, that same face smeared with paint yet still lovely, exotic in its beauty. Who was she? Where had she gone? He could not help but feel that she knew the answers to his questions, if she would but speak plainly. He recalled how she had vanished from the rooftop, and disappeared in the blink of an eye from the Pig and Rooster, and he wondered if she, like Longinus, had access to the Otherwhere. Was she a traveller in that strange country … or a denizen of it? And what of the connection she claimed, the bonds of blood that linked them? Those bonds, if they existed, had not pulled her to him, or he to her, for that matter, when he navigated the Otherwhere or at any other time.
Quare’s ruminative gaze settled upon the Chinese screen that stood at the foot of the bath. The scene depicted there, of a peaceful, mist-wreathed mountain landscape, seemed to call to him as it had before. What would it be like to step from this world into that one? Longinus had asked if he could still see the path he had followed back from the rooftop, wondering if Quare possessed the same ability he did to traverse the Otherwhere, but whatever ability or instinct had guided Quare on the return journey seemed to have deserted him now. He saw no path, no doorway … unless the screen were itself a door. Yet he did not see a means of passing through it and into the remote but restful scene beyond, which, as he studied it with weary, unfocused longing, seemed to grow more real, though without becoming more immediate, as if he were gazing through a window that could neither be opened nor broken.
And then, as though it had been there all along, just waiting for the opportunity to show itself, a wingless dragon drifted into view, its long body eeling through the air, seeming to swim there: blue-scaled,
wide
-eyed, open jaws revealing teeth that looked sharp enough to shear through iron as easily as they might rend flesh and bone.
It hovered before him, within or behind the screen, the undulations of its body, like the gentle flexions of a water snake, holding it fixed in mid-air … and holding Quare’s attention, too, the movements deeply entrancing, as was the thing’s gaze, its eyes as big as plates yet placid as the eyes of a hare, sky-blue irises with centres of inky night.
Those eyes regarded him with shrewd intelligence … if
intelligence
was even the right word for what he saw there, and the longer he looked in mute fascination, the more certain Quare was that it was not, at least not by any human standard … though he had no better word, either. He felt a breeze caress his skin, and the tangy smell of limes grew stronger, more concentrated, seeming to emanate from the dragon itself. The scent had a stimulating aphrodisiacal effect; he felt himself grow hard, his erection pointing towards the dragon like the needle of a compass fixed at true north. He felt no shame – nor even excitement; the effect seemed to be independent of his will or desire, a reflex over which he had no control, exactly like what Longinus had reported of his erotic encounters in Märchen.
‘You may call me Tiamat,’ the dragon said without preface, and he felt neither surprise nor fear at hearing it speak. ‘But do not imagine that is my real name and think to use it against me. Three questions will I answer freely. Think well before you ask.’
Quare felt as if he had entered into a dream. ‘Three nights ago, I had a thief at my mercy. Grimalkin was her name. She, too, invited me to ask three questions, as in a fairy tale of old. She spoke of an ancient compact …’
‘The Law of Threes,’ the dragon said, its jaws spreading wide as if in silent laughter. Its teeth were the size and shape of scimitars. From its throat came a rumble of thunder. Then: ‘Do you think
I
am at your mercy?’
‘No,’ he said. And the knowledge was upon him from he knew not where: ‘Neither am I at yours.’
The dragon lashed its tail. ‘Not here,’ it admitted. ‘Not now. But know that things will go differently between us if we meet outside this screen and you do not please me.’
By
screen
, Quare understood the dragon – Tiamat, it had named itself – to mean not just the ornamental partition with its delicate Chinese brushwork but the barrier of time erected by so many clocks and watches ticking away in riotous disharmony. A distant part of him was amazed at his calmness, his ability to face the dragon without fear, naked and erect as he was, all but imprisoned within the narrow confines of the bath. Was he dreaming? Had he been drugged again? Or was the dragon casting some kind of spell over him? He did not know, and, strangely, it did not seem important. What
did
seem important was what questions he should put to the beast. He had wasted the three questions Grimalkin had offered him; he would not make that mistake again. ‘Two nights ago,’ he said at last, choosing his words with care, ‘I received a wound that should have killed me. Yet I did not die. How is that possible?’
‘All men die,’ Tiamat answered. ‘That is their nature, and the nature of all time-bound things.’
This was not illuminating. The dragon seemed to be suggesting that he had died after all. For the first time, Quare felt a frisson of real fear. It warned him to pursue the matter no further, lest he learn things he could not unlearn, truths that would destroy him.
‘Tell me about the watch,’ he said instead. ‘The hunter. What is its secret?’
Tiamat grinned, baring its formidable teeth again. ‘It is just what you have called it: a hunter. It hunts. That is its secret, or one of them. It has drunk your blood and left its mark upon you. That is how I sensed you. It will answer to you now, protect you … but do not imagine yourself its master. It is a weapon, a very great weapon – too great to be left in the hands of men.’
Too great to be left in anyone’s hands
, Quare thought to himself. ‘If you’ve come to get it back, you’re out of luck,’ he said. ‘I don’t have it any more.’
‘But you know where to find it,’ the dragon said. ‘You will bring it to me.’
‘Why should I – so that you can give it to Doppler?’
‘No … but what do you know of Doppler?’ the creature asked in turn.
‘Longinus has told me of his experiences in Märchen and the Otherwhere. He met a dragon there – Hesta was her name. Her master was a man called Doppler. Or, rather, a thing that wore the shape of a man.’
‘Longinus understands less than he imagines. But you are right that Doppler only wore the shape of a man. Just as I wear the shape of a dragon. Why? Because it is fitting – that is to say, it suits me. We are born of what you called the Otherwhere, and our true forms are beyond physical representation. To take on any form diminishes us – but some forms diminish us more than others, as they are in some sense further from our origins and what we truly are. But to answer your question – I do not serve Doppler. He is as much my enemy as he is yours. You must give me the hunter because I am the only one who can keep it from him. There is war among the immortals, a war in which the fate of all that lives hangs in the balance. Whoever holds the hunter holds the key to victory. If Doppler should win, he will use it.’
‘And you won’t?’
‘That is your fourth question. I could answer and put you in my debt. But to show my good faith, I will answer freely one last time. I have no intention of using the hunter. On the contrary, I mean to destroy it.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Quare said.
‘It is too dangerous to use. To dangerous to keep. It was a mistake to make it. It must be unmade. That is why I have come to you, Daniel Quare.’
‘Why me? Why not Longinus?’
‘Because you understand that it must be destroyed, while he does not. And
that
answer I do not give freely. You have incurred a debt.’
‘No,’ Quare said. Truly, he had not meant to ask another question. It had just slipped out. Unless the dragon had coerced him somehow …
‘You should have kept better count,’ Tiamat said, and its grin grew wider still, as though to devour him. ‘By ancient compact, I have the right to lay a geis – a fateful compulsion – upon you. And this right I do hereby invoke. Seek out the hunter. It has tasted your blood and will tug at you no matter where it may be. Once you have it, call to me and I will come.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You will,’ the dragon said. ‘Whether you fight it or not, whether you believe it or not, you answer to
me
now.’
Before Quare could reply, the dragon flexed its muscular coils, and there was something irresistible in the movement, a sovereign directive that sank deeper than reason, right into the animal heart of him. Suddenly he was ejaculating with a force that nearly bent him over in the bath, wringing him like a sponge. There was nothing remotely sensual about it; it seemed more like an act of rape.
The next instant, Quare jerked upright, shivering in water that had grown ice cold. The Chinese screen stood where it had always stood; of Tiamat, there was no sign. Someone was knocking at the door to his room.
16
A Whole Different Order of Drowning
QUARE LOST NO
time in rising from the bath. He wrapped himself in a towel and called to whoever was knocking at the door. A liveried servant entered the room.
‘His lordship requests that you join him downstairs,’ the man said.
‘I’ll not be long,’ Quare said.
‘If I may assist,’ the man began.
But Quare interrupted. ‘I’m capable of dressing myself. If you wait in the hall, I’ll be out directly.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the man, and left a bow.
Quare rubbed himself dry, his thoughts racing. If anyone had told him that he would one day converse with a dragon, he would have called that person a lunatic, yet he did not for a second doubt what had just occurred. The experience had left him drained in every way. His hands trembled, and his legs felt boneless as he stumbled to a nearby chair and collapsed into it. The only illumination in the room was from burning candles; the windows had gone dark behind their curtains; it appeared that he had been in the bath for some hours, though it had not seemed longer than a few minutes.
The dragon – Tiamat – had said that the hunter had marked him. There was a small cut on his finger, where Master Magnus had jabbed him, spilling his blood, but he did not think that was the mark Tiamat had been referring to. No, the dragon had been speaking of a deeper
marking
, a connection binding him to the watch, and the watch to him.
It has tasted your blood and will tug at you no matter where it may be
, the dragon had said.
It will answer to you now, protect you … but do not imagine yourself its master
.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel that connection. But, as with the link that Grimalkin had mentioned, he detected no tug, no hint of a presence pulling at him the way a lodestone might pull at a nail, or as the house had pulled at him when he’d stepped from the rooftop back into the Otherwhere. No, what he felt was weak. Empty. And afraid.
Whether you fight it or not, whether you believe it or not, you answer to
me
now
.
And as if to prove that claim, Tiamat had demonstrated just how little Quare controlled his own body. What if, when the moment came – if it came – and he held the hunter in his hand, a similarly irresistible compulsion took hold of him, and, despite his intent, he called out to Tiamat, summoned the dragon to him and gave up the watch? He did not believe that the dragon intended to destroy so powerful a weapon. Nor was he at all convinced that the creature was not one of Doppler’s minions.
He was in over his head. That much was plain. Had been for some time now. But this was a whole different order of drowning. He was used to the idea that he could not trust anyone else. But now it seemed he could no longer trust himself. He had to tell Longinus. Explain that he could not accompany him back to the guild hall. It was too dangerous. Too risky. They could recover the watch only to lose it again, and everything with it.
He dressed and belted on his sword. The servant led him down to the same room in which he and Longinus had breakfasted that morning. As before, enough food for a feast had been laid out. There, too, his host was waiting.
‘Ah, Mr Quare,’ Longinus said as he was ushered into the room, which was ablaze with light from a chandelier that bristled with creamy white candles. ‘I trust you had a good rest?’
It certainly appeared that Longinus had. The man – who had been sitting at the table, a plate of roasted chicken and a glass of red wine before him – rose to greet Quare energetically. He was wearing a bright
green
robe de chambre
with a red cap that stood up like the crest of a bird, and beneath the gown a ruffled white shirt, forest green breeches, and white stockings. The beauty mark that had been on his left cheek earlier in the day had migrated to the other side of his face.
‘Actually,’ Quare began … but got no further.
‘Capital,’ Longinus said. ‘Capital.’ He dismissed the servant with a gesture as he advanced to take Quare by the arm and guide him to a sideboard loaded with dishes of food: there were meats and pies, cheeses, soups, and pastries. ‘Refresh yourself, sir.’
‘I-I’m not hungry,’ Quare said.
‘Nevertheless, eat,’ Longinus directed. ‘You will be glad of it later, I assure you. We shall need all our strength.’ As he spoke, he prepared a plate of roast chicken for Quare.
Quare had no appetite; indeed, the sight of so much food, along with its attendant odours, was making him queasy. Yet even more unsettling was the fact that he had not succeeded in broaching the subject of the dragon. And not for lack of trying. From the point Longinus had dismissed the servant, leaving the two of them alone in the room, Quare had been attempting to tell his host about his monstrous visitor and what had passed between them. At first it had seemed that what prevented him was the difficulty of framing the event intelligibly, of finding the right words. But it soon became obvious that he could not speak of it at all. His will was not his own.