The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,200

the great house or the music of the hunter that only he seemed able to hear. Luck, it appeared, was with them.

A faint click from the door announced Longinus’s success. He stood, tucking his lockpick away and then drawing his sword. He locked eyes with Quare and Pickens in turn. Then, with a nod, he cracked the Old Wolf’s door open just wide enough to slip through. Pickens pushed in after him, and Quare followed, once again shutting the door behind him.

The instant he did so, sparks flared out of the darkness. Suddenly torches were ablaze, revealing perhaps a dozen guardsmen with pikes – and, in some cases, pistols – pointed in their direction. Revealed as well was the Old Wolf, who regarded them from behind his desk with a smile of predatory satisfaction on his fleshy, florid face.

Quare took this in through senses dulled by the wild din of the hunter; its song had skidded into a shrill caterwauling that had him pressing the hand that held the vial to the side of his head as if its light might somehow penetrate and soothe his skull. It occurred to him that perhaps the hunter hadn’t been calling to him at all. Perhaps it had been warning him away.

Pickens cursed, at which the Old Wolf heaved himself erect.

‘Drop your weapons, gentlemen. I shall not ask twice.’

Longinus seemed to consider his chances for a moment, then complied with the command. Quare followed his lead, lowering the crossbow to the floor.

Grandmaster Wolfe’s smile widened, and he leaned forward over the wooden desk, his large hands, with their glittering rings, laid flat on its surface. ‘I had hoped my little trap might snare the great Grimalkin, but I did not think to catch three. How positively profligate! Is this all of you, or should I be expecting more?’

No one answered.

‘Remove your masks,’ the Old Wolf said. ‘I would see your faces.’ After a moment, he added: ‘Do it, or I will have it done, and none too gently.’

‘You mean to kill us in any case,’ said Longinus in the gruff voice of Grimalkin.

‘Of course. But not before you are put to the question. A good deal of unpleasantness lies ahead for you, I’m afraid. A good deal of pain and suffering. But it need not begin now.’

Longinus pulled off his mask and flung it defiantly to the floor.

‘Lord Wichcote,’ said the Old Wolf without batting an eyelid. ‘I cannot say I am surprised. Your involvement in this affair has been most suspicious from the start. You should have stayed ensconced behind the walls of your estate, my lord. Your title will not protect you here, nor will His Majesty intervene.’

It struck Quare that the grandmaster had not recognized Longinus, the servant, but saw only the lord. Class, it seemed, could be a more effective disguise than any mask.

When Longinus did not reply, the Old Wolf shifted his gaze to Quare and Pickens. ‘And what of these two? Who else have we caught in our web? Shall I guess? Nay, it is no guess. If Wichcote is here, Quare cannot be far behind.’

Quare tugged his own mask down.

‘The prodigal returns. Alas, I’m afraid I cannot welcome you with open arms, Mr Quare. No fatted calf for you. But never fear: you shall receive the welcome you deserve.’ He looked to Pickens. ‘And you, sir? I confess, I cannot imagine who you might be. The servant who spirited Mr Quare away? Or the real Grimalkin, perhaps?’

The mask came off.

‘Mr Pickens,’ said the Old Wolf, straightening up and seeming surprised for once. ‘I am disappointed to find you in such disreputable company. For all your protestations of innocence, it would seem you are a traitor after all.’

‘It is you who are the traitor,’ Pickens shot back.

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, sir,’ the grandmaster growled, ‘or I shall keep it for you – in a jar.’ He addressed Longinus. ‘What game are you playing, my lord? Coming here dressed as Grimalkin like some urchin on Gunpowder Night! I suppose Mr Quare must have brought you.’

‘I am playing no game, I assure you.’

The Old Wolf chuckled, a phlegmy rumble. ‘Why, am I to believe that you are Grimalkin? A man of sixty or more? It is absurd on its face, quite apart from the fact that Grimalkin – the real Grimalkin – stole the very watch from you that you have come here to reclaim. Or was that theft a charade? Are you, perhaps, in league