Clockwork Angels: The Novel (10 page)

Owen waited as the pressure built up, the channels filled with frothy impetus, the hydraulic tubes thrummed. Overhead, with a clicking rattle, chains pulled, gears turned, and the planets, sun, moon, and stars, began to revolve.

Owen saw the graceful swooping arcs as if he were in a time machine. The days, months, and years whirled by at dizzying speed. He raised his voice. “If this is the perfect order of the celestial vault, how is it different from the real stars and planets?”

The astronomer-docent clicked his tongue against his teeth. “At first, we believed our observations were faulty, but records go back for many years, even before the Stability. The planets stray from their paths, like unruly dogs. Rather than traveling in perfect circles, they change their minds at times, looping back in retrograde orbits before getting on the correct path again. That’s inexcusable! In a perfect universe, the stars, the sun, and moon all travel in exact circles, as should the planets. Everything else functions as expected.”

The astronomer-docent patted Owen on the shoulder. “But you can rest assured, young man, the Watchmaker has his best engineers working on calculations. He saved Albion with his Stability, and now he has turned his sights on the universe itself. Sooner or later, our loving Watchmaker will find a way to make the planets travel in circular orbits.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Owen said. And he meant it. Even the Watchmaker couldn’t stop thinking big.

B
y the time night fell at the end of such a long day, Owen’s body was exhausted from helping on the docks, and his mind was exhausted from seeing the great Orrery, not to mention the deluge of other amazing sights in the city. Thanks to the astronomer-docent, however, Owen was out of money, so he could not afford a room at any inn, nor did he have any friends here who might let him sleep in a spare bed.

He heard a town crier striding down the streets, calling out in a loud voice, “Ten o’clock, and all is for the best!” even though the clocks chimed on the hour throughout the city. As the crier walked away, Owen kept his eyes open for a place where he might find shelter. He would make do. “All is for the best,” he muttered to himself.

The streets had fallen quiet for the night; people returned to their homes to set their clocks, go to bed, and wake with their alarms the next morning. The city seemed large and crowded around him, and he felt small and alone. He walked along the boulevards, as if he had every reason to be there. He knew that a determined stride implied that he had a real destination. Maybe he would just keep walking until dawn. Under the glowing streetlight spheres of coldfire, the night was bright.

As he passed a shadowy alley that connected two main streets, he came upon a furtive figure, heard a rattle and a concentrated hiss. Though a tingle of fear went down his spine, Owen stepped closer. The man kept busy moving in the dimness, waving his hand in wild gestures as if performing some kind of incantation. Along with the thin hissing sound, Owen smelled paint.

“Hello? What are you doing there?” He tried to sound brave and important. He stood at the opening of the alley, where his dark silhouette must have made him look ominous.

Startled, the shadowy figure dropped something that made a metallic clatter on the alley pavement, then he bolted away with feral speed, dashing out the opposite end of the alley and into the street beyond.

Owen ventured into the alley, where he found a copper cylinder with a thumbwheel on the top; this must be what the man had dropped, the source of the metallic clang. He touched the thumbwheel, found a levered nozzle; when he depressed it, a spurt of bright paint emerged: scarlet. The stain spread like a splatter of blood across the bricks. Curious, Owen looked at the canister. A spray-dispensing device? He turned the thumbwheel to another setting, toyed with the lever again, and this time a blob of citrus green spattered the wall.

Then he recalled the graffiti symbol the two workers had been scrubbing so vigorously on his first day in Crown City, and the offending, provocative words the Anarchist had scrawled on the building across from the inn.

With eyes now adjusted to the alley’s gloom, he looked up to see the encircled “A” symbol prominent on the wall, along with another bold pronouncement: “THE STABILITY MAKES TIME STAND STILL!” and again, “WHO MADE THE WATCHMAKER?”

Now that he knew the “A” symbol was a signature of the Anarchist, he shuddered with the cold realization that he’d been within a few paces of the murderous man who was causing mayhem across Albion! The man who set bombs, blew up steamliner tracks, created havoc in daily life.

He heard marching footsteps out on the boulevard from which he had entered the alley, and he could tell by their perfect rhythm, a syncopated echo of boot heels, that this was the Blue Watch marching on their rounds, guarding the city against criminals . . . like the Anarchist.

Owen could sound the alarm, send the Regulators chasing after the criminal. The Anarchist had been here only moments ago! And if they apprehended the most-wanted man, Owen would be a hero, maybe even receive a medal from the Watchmaker himself.

But he suddenly realized that
he
was here in the alley, holding a copper paint sprayer, in front of freshly written treasonous statements.

He dropped the copper cylinder and bolted out through the alley. Behind him he heard the marching boot steps stop, then a succession of angry shouts, but he kept running so that the Watch would not see him. . . .

Panting and flushed, he returned to the tree-studded park where the carnival had performed. There were walking paths and flower gardens, as well as the expansive performing area where the Magnusson Carnival Extravaganza had set up. With droopy eyelids, shaking and exhausted, Owen sat beneath a large tree. This would be an adequate bed. He could lie back on the grass, look up through the branches at the night sky where the constellations were washed out by the glow of city lights.

He knew his adventure was almost over, and he would have to go home soon, but he was determined not to return to Barrel Arbor before he had a chance to see the Clockwork Angels. After many inquiries, he had learned that everyone in Crown City received tickets and dispensations according to their addresses, their professions, their stations in the city, as well as the day of the week. It was a complex formula, comprehensible only to the Regulators and the Watchmaker.

But Owen had come here on impulse, so he did not fit anywhere in the standard equation. He was a gear that had jumped loose from its train; he wasn’t supposed to be in Crown City. It was unsettling and certainly argued for following the Watchmaker’s perfect plan.

However, if he had remained content, hadn’t dared to break the rules, he would never have seen the most wonderful things in his life. Now, he lay back on the moist grass and decided that he had to stick it out. The universe had a plan.

After full dark, the empty park was quiet and peaceful—but the Blue Watch continued on their rounds with their lockstep gait, walking down the paths, following their precise route, regardless of the hour. Owen had dozed off but woke when a gruff-sounding Watch patrolman barked out, “Citizen, where is your place?”

Owen scrambled to his feet, brushing grass from his rumpled homespun clothes. “Why, right here under the tree, sir.”

“Your card, your papers, your ticket!”

“I don’t have any, sir. I’m from a country village, here to pay my respects to the Watchmaker.”

“Pay your respects? Did the Watchmaker send you a bill?” The Regulators seemed flustered. “You’re not allowed to sleep here— it’s a public park.”

“I’m part of the public,” Owen said, “and I was tired.”

The Blue Watch grabbed him by the arms and marched him out under the bright light of coldfire streetlamps. They frisked him, searched his pockets for money, weapons, or papers, but found only the wilted rose from Francesca, nothing else, which they considered even more suspicious.

Owen realized they must be wary because of the dangerous mayhem caused by the Anarchist, the violent explosions and sabotage, even the troubling graffiti. “I didn’t mean any harm, sir.”

“Nevertheless, you don’t belong here. Your very presence disrupts the Stability. We are required to escort you from the city.”

Owen had always considered “escorting” to be a more pleasant process. As they marched him roughly along the path, he feared he had gotten in over his head yet again. He pleaded with the Watch captain to let him go. The uniformed man said, “That is precisely our intention.”

For some reason, the prospect did not gladden Owen.

His unauthorized presence in the park had disrupted the timing of their rounds, which made the Watch members surly. “Now we will have to include this in our report,” complained the captain. “We’ve had no incidents in more than a month.”

Owen did his best to be rushed along. “No incidents? But didn’t the Anarchist blow up a steamliner rail just inside the city? And what about all that writing on the wall?”

The Watch captain sniffed. “Anarchist incidents fall into an entirely different category. None of our concern.”

They placed him in the back compartment of a chugging vehicle, which rolled down the empty streets. His retreat from Crown City was not at all like his arrival. In daylight, these streets were filled with vendors, performers, and pedestrians. But now Owen was no tourist, and the shadows seemed dark and frightening.

The Regulators were very efficient. Before 11:00 p.m., according to the clock faces he could see on the buildings as the vehicle rumbled along, they had evicted him from the city. They stopped the vehicle on the outskirts of Crown City, unlocked the back compartment to let him out. Disoriented, he had no idea where he was or how he could make his way to his village. Without answering further questions, the Blue Watch climbed aboard their chugging vehicle again, reversed the wheels, and rushed back into the city, eager to catch up with their rounds. They had a schedule to keep.

Owen stood blinking, hungry and lost. His father would have said that he had gotten exactly what he deserved. He never should have left Barrel Arbor, never should have broken with his past and ventured to the city where he didn’t belong. The barren outskirts felt primitive, barbaric. This was the way people had lived before the Stability, and he remembered the horrific images and stories from the pedlar’s book. How could a simple person survive alone out here? Where would he go?

Sooner or later, he would have to find a steamliner to take him back home; he had learned his lesson and would put away thoughts of such “foolishness,” as his father insisted, although he would secretly revel in his memories of adventure for a long time to come. At the moment, however, the experience did not feel particularly enjoyable.

Many steamlines radiated in all directions from the city, and the Blue Watch had dumped him far from where he’d first arrived. In order to identify the correct rail line to take him back to Barrel Arbor, he would have to go back to the central station in Crown City. What if the Regulators drove him out again?

He had always been taught that the universe had a plan, but Owen didn’t like the plan much right now.

He struck out away from the city in search of a friendly, well-lit home, even though everyone should be asleep by now. His muscles ached, and his stomach growled, and he wandered along. It was nearly midnight when he saw a glow up ahead, he didn’t wonder whether it might be solace or threat. He climbed the grassy hill and gazed down at a sprawling camp where the carnival had set up, lit up and full of activity even at this improbable hour of the night.

Owen blinked, then smiled. After all the surprises he had experienced, he did not question what he saw. He hurried down the hillside and out of the night shadows until he was bathed in the glow of carnival lights.

The Magnusson Carnival Extravaganza was not set up for a performance, but merely camped on the open field in between destinations. Even so, the carnies seemed as exuberant as they had been before an audience. They had set up bright pavilions, game tents, the fortune teller’s booth, even a practice wire for the trapeze and tightrope, as well as homey trailers and sleeping tents. Coldfire lanterns dangled from posts, but much of the light and warmth came from actual campfires, flames that burned real wood. The cheery orange glow and scent of smoke warmed Owen’s heart.

He ventured into the camp, waiting to be noticed, but no one challenged him. The carnies played their own games, throwing balls to knock down the stacked but reinforced beakers, which had caused such consternation to the customers. At the spinning clock wheel with colored prize sections, a gamer threw sharpened daggers instead of darts; each knife whistled through the air and thunked into the spinning wheel with a meaty sound, a prize every time.

The three carnival clowns hunched on the ground, dressed in vests and bright pantaloons; they passed a cup around in which they rattled lumpy, odd-shaped dice, each face marked with a tiny alchemical symbol. “Roll the bones,” one of the clowns said and spilled the dice onto the flattened dirt. Two of the men whistled, one grumbled in defeat; Owen couldn’t tell how the game was played.

Looking up, he caught his breath as he saw Francesca flipping on the trapeze, performing for an audience of stars. She swung back and forth, doing part of her routine and then simply playing, enjoying her own movements, the grace of acrobatics. She wore not the angelic white outfit, but a patched practice leotard. Her hair flew behind her like the tail of a black comet. Two other young carnies caught the trapeze as Francesca passed it to them. A little girl attempted to walk on the low practice tightrope, but fell; she caught herself on the rope, and then dropped the five feet to the ground. Unhurt, she scrambled up the pole to try again.

These people were not going through the show according to the Watchmaker’s approved routine; they were simply performing for the fun of it, the joy of doing what they wanted to do—an improvisation.