The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,88

impossible to interpret. A gauzy light shone through the curtains that hid the windows. Drawing them aside, he saw that it was morning; his window overlooked a large green garden that, like the house itself, was filled with an abundance of timepieces. It reminded him of the time garden at the guild hall, but seemed even more capacious … and, if possible, capricious, for the variety of horological devices on display, even judged by outward appearance alone, surpassed anything in his experience, ranging from the primitive to the sophisticated to the downright incomprehensible, and, rather than being set aside for study and contemplation, as in the guild hall, the devices here were overgrown with vegetation, like ancient ruins peeking out from a resurgent wilderness. Whatever the truth of Lord Wichcote’s relationship to the Worshipful Company, Quare reflected, his relationship to time was an eccentric one.

He dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for him. His watch he found tucked into a pocket of the waistcoat; it had stopped running and thus was of no use in determining the hour. Still, the familiar heft of it gave him courage, like a friendly talisman amidst so much that was strange. Even more reassuring was the continued presence of his sword, which he now strapped to his side.

Dressed in clothes that were finer than he had ever worn, and that fitted better, too, than anything in his late and lamentable wardrobe, as though Lord Wichcote had known his measurements and had had the clothes tailored for him, Quare felt ready to confront his host. He half expected to find the door locked, but it opened freely. The hallway beyond was empty, lit by tapers set in gleaming sconces at intervals along the walls. Of his two minders from the night before, there was no sign. Quare paused, uncertain which way to go. But he supposed it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to retreat to his rooms and wait there to be summoned. With a shrug, he set off down the hall, his mind on exploration rather than escape.

Closed doors lined both sides of the hall; he stopped before them in turn and listened, but heard nothing from within; when he essayed one, he found that it was locked. Pushing on, he reached a stairway and followed it down; on the next landing, he again chose a direction at random. All the while, the only sounds were his own footsteps and the busy ticking of the many clocks set on the walls or upon shelves or small tables, all of them out of step with each other. His earlier impression had been of a sort of temporal anarchy, with every clock face displaying a different hour and the audible beat of the mechanisms following no common measure, like the mindless clamour of insects crowding a hot summer’s night, but now it struck him that there was order here, too, for it must take considerable effort to ensure that the clocks did not agree in any apparent way. The cumulative effect was claustrophobic; Quare felt hedged in on all sides, as if he were pushing his way through a dense, thorny thicket. The farther he went down the hall, the worse this sensation grew. The air itself seemed resistant to his progress. Was he actually moving more slowly? He halted and took a breath, trying to steady himself and clear his head.

A sharp edge was laid across his throat. A hand had snaked from behind to press a blade there; at its touch, his perceptions cleared, though he did not dare to so much as twitch a muscle. The voice of Longinus – Lord Wichcote, rather – sounded low in his ear.

‘Tick-tock, Mr Quare – you’re dead.’

Quare swallowed.

The knife lifted, and Quare turned – measuredly – to face the man who had either rescued or abducted him … he wasn’t quite sure which. Perhaps both.

‘’Tis worse even than I thought,’ the older man said as he appraised Quare from over the tip of the knife like a butcher examining a side of beef to determine how best to flense it from the bone. Like Quare, he had changed his clothes; but it was more as if he had changed his very skin, for there was no trace of the servant in the man who faced him now, dressed in the bright finery of a foppish aristocrat, complete with white-powdered skin and wig, and a dark beauty mark on his left cheek. Yet Quare,