The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,94
back into his chair. ‘It was I who killed Master Magnus. Not the hunter. His blood is on my hands.’
‘That … that is most interesting.’
‘Interesting? Is that all you can say?’
‘Your pardon. I understand your feelings. Yet you must not blame yourself. How were you to know what would come of handling that watch? Magnus himself did not comprehend it, nor did he forbear from risking his life to unlock its secrets.’
‘How did such a thing come into your possession in the first place?’
‘I will tell you. But first – what of your wound? Has it healed?’
‘Honestly, I have been afraid to look.’
‘Let us look now.’
‘Are you a physician, sir?’
‘I have some small skill in physic.’
‘Very well.’ Standing, Quare removed his coat and then his waistcoat and shirt, laying them over the back of the chair. Longinus, meanwhile, had come around the table to stand beside Quare, who now turned away from him, displaying his back. Quickly, using the dagger in his sleeve, he cut away the bandages.
‘Extraordinary.’ Longinus more breathed than spoke the word.
‘What is it? What do you see?’
‘It is as you said. There is a puncture below the left shoulder blade. I confess, I should expect to see such a wound upon a corpse, not a living and breathing man. There is no blood; the wound is quite clean. The flesh shows no sign of infection or of healing. And you say it does not pain you?’
‘There was some pain at first, but now it merely itches, like the bite of a bedbug.’
‘Most extraordinary,’ Longinus repeated. ‘May I examine it more closely?’
Quare nodded. He heard the rattle of metal from the table behind him and turned to see Longinus holding up a butter knife.
‘I do not have my instruments to hand, but this should serve admirably as a probe.’
‘I am not a scone, sir.’
‘That had not escaped my notice. Try to relax, Mr Quare.’
‘That is easy for you to say.’
‘I will stop the instant there is any pain.’ He motioned for Quare to turn.
Sighing, Quare complied and braced himself. He felt the cold but gentle touch of the butter knife at his back, then an altogether unsettling sensation as the flat blade slipped under a flap of skin and entered the wound. He shuddered, gasping, hands fisting at his sides; the knife halted but was not withdrawn.
‘Mr Quare?’
‘I cannot say it is pleasant,’ he answered through clenched teeth, ‘but there is no pain.’
The progress of the knife resumed, accompanied by an outbreak of cold sweat upon his forehead. His insides spasmed most unpleasantly, and he felt his gorge rise – less from the sensation of the intrusion than the unnaturalness of it. ‘Take it out,’ he said at last, when he could stand it no longer.
Longinus did so at once. ‘I apologize for any discomfort,’ he said.
Quare’s body was trembling beneath a sheen of sweat. Speech was beyond him. He held to the back of the chair to keep himself standing. Spots swam before his eyes.
‘You had better sit down,’ came Longinus’s voice; and then Quare felt the man guiding him into the chair. ‘Put your head between your knees.’
Again, Quare complied. It did seem to help.
‘Here.’
He raised his head to see Longinus offering him a tumbler filled with a dram of amber liquid.
‘Brandy,’ he said.
Quare took the glass and drained it at a swallow. The liquor flushed new vigour through his limbs. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You’re most welcome. I think I could do with one myself. Can I get you another?’
Quare shook his head and stood. He lifted his shirt from the back of the chair and began to dress. ‘Well? What is your diagnosis?’
Longinus, who had crossed to the side table to pour himself a glass of brandy, tossed it back before answering. ‘Diagnosis?’ he echoed, setting down the empty glass. ‘Asclepius himself could not diagnose your condition. You are a walking dead man, sir. A living and breathing impossibility. That is my diagnosis.’
‘But …’
‘I do not doubt that your surmise is correct, and the hunter is holding your death at bay by some mechanism unknown to me. Whether permanently or temporarily, I cannot say. It would be interesting to learn if you are proof now against all mortal injury – in short, whether the watch has conferred a kind of immortality upon you. Unfortunately, I can think of no way to test this hypothesis without risking your life.’
‘Yes, most unfortunate, that,’ Quare said, shrugging into his coat.