The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,79

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.