The Emperor of All Things (57 page)

‘Do you take me for a cold-blooded murderer?’

‘No – a regulator.’

This drew an appreciative chuckle. ‘Touché, Mr Quare. But they are not dead, merely rendered insensible by a salve on my dagger point. They will regain consciousness in a few hours, none the worse for wear. By which time we shall either be long gone … or it will no longer matter.’

‘But why …?’

‘Surely you could see that they were not to be trusted. Things are different down here. I have been absent too long. Jerry – that is, King Jeremiah – is dead. I confess, I hadn’t expected that. From the sound of it, I do not think my old friend died peaceably in his sleep. He had no heir, only a gaggle of bastards – no offence, Mr Quare. But it seems plain that Cornelius and Starkey serve whoever it is that now sits upon the mushroom throne. Had I allowed them to depart, they would have reported back to him and then returned here with others to wait for our exit. They would have set upon us, stolen the timepiece, and left us for dead. There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind.’

‘Well, you have made an enemy of them now … and of their new king, whoever he may be.’

‘Regrettable but necessary. With luck, I shall have time to make amends, if warranted, though in truth I have shown our friends here more mercy than they would have given us, had they not been too intimidated by the reputation of the Grey Ghost.’

‘Another of your aliases?’

‘A nickname bestowed by King Jeremiah. I am most sorry to learn of his death. He was a giant in stature and in heart – every inch a king. When we have finished here, I shall look into the manner of his death. If it be murder, I will see that justice is done, one way or another. I swear it. But that is for later. The hunter awaits us, and time is short. Come, sir – let us be about our business.’

With that, he laid hold of Cornelius’s bulky form and, again evidencing his surprising strength, dragged the man into the passage; Quare did likewise with Starkey, who was as light as a bird. Beyond the narrow opening, the passage widened considerably, and they were able to deposit the bodies off to one side, leaning the two men against the rock wall, their legs stretched out before them, heads lolling, so that they resembled two sentries napping on the job.

‘Should we not bind them?’ Quare asked.

‘No need,’ Longinus assured him. ‘One way or another, this will be over by the time they regain their senses.’

‘Still, I should rather be safe than sorry.’ Quare cut strips of cloth from the Morecockneyans’ clothing and secured their hands behind
their
backs. ‘That will slow them down at least, if they awaken sooner than you expect. I would not like to find them waiting for us when we return. Perhaps we should take their weapons as well …’

‘And dispose of them where, precisely? Caution is commendable, but what is required now, Mr Quare, is speed and stealth. From this point on, not a word unless absolutely necessary. We shall endeavour to escape detection and to avoid violence for as long as possible; with luck, we shall be in and out without any bloodshed. But if we are not so lucky, do not hesitate – strike to kill. Do you understand?’

Quare, however, did not reply.

‘Mr Quare, do you understand? What has come over you, sir?’

And indeed, Quare had not heard a word Longinus had spoken. Instead, he was listening to another voice: faint but insistent. It called to him like a siren’s song. Not at all the brutal invasion he had experienced earlier, as of invisible talons clawing at his heart. This was a gentle suasion, an invitation, a seduction. If this was the hunter, then what had assailed him before?

‘Mr Quare!’

He blinked, recalled to himself. ‘The hunter is here,’ he said. ‘It calls to me.’

‘I hear nothing,’ Longinus returned.

‘As you said, I have an affinity with the timepiece.’

‘Can you discern its location?’

Quare pointed upwards.

17

The Song of the Hunter

LONGINUS ASKED NO
more questions but drew his grey scarf over his mouth and nose. It was astonishing how the man vanished behind the mask; Quare could not have guessed, had he not already known, the age or even the sex of the person who stood before him. Longinus was gone: there was only Grimalkin, a lithe, shadowy figure exuding quietly coiled menace. As Quare drew his own mask into place, he wondered if he presented a similarly forbidding aspect.

Now, from one of the pouches at his belt, Longinus produced a glass vial whose contents were aglow with the same greenish light that emanated from the powder coating the unconscious Morecockneyans cap-a-pie. He gave this a shake, at which the light brightened; holding it upraised before him, he set off down the passage. From Quare’s perspective, trailing close behind, it was as if they were being led by a flitting firefly, or perhaps a fairy.

The latter association seemed all the more fitting in that the call of the hunter continued to beckon him onwards, or rather upwards, growing clearer and more enticing with every step, so that he had to keep himself from rushing ahead. The song was like no music he had ever heard; it was closer to birdsong, he decided, in that it seemed the spontaneous expression of a nature shaped to give voice to just that sound and no other; there was joy in it, a wild and carefree delight in being that lifted his heart on echoing swells, but there was also urgency, as if the watch were calling out for something needful, whose lack left it incomplete.

He recalled the words of Tiamat:
It is just what you have called it: a hunter. It hunts
. Was it hunting him? And, if so, for what purpose?
It will answer to you now
, the dragon had said,
protect you … but do not imagine yourself its master. It is a weapon, a very great weapon – too great to be left in the hands of men
. But was there ever a weapon that sang so sweetly?

He would not have stopped or turned back now even if it had been possible, impelled as much by his own curiosity as by any geis laid upon him by Tiamat or the hunter. Anticipation grew in him with every step. He felt that he was advancing to meet his destiny.
I am coming
, he thought, wondering if the hunter could hear him or sense his approach somehow. Perhaps his thoughts, too, made a kind of music.

At last, after a steady but not precipitous upwards climb, they reached a solid wall of packed stones. Longinus put his ear to the wall and listened. Then, satisfied, he set the glowing vial upon the ground to one side and began to prise out certain of the stones. Though they had appeared to be tightly wedged together, the stones slid out with ease, and soon there was room enough for the two men to crawl through, which they wasted no time in doing, Longinus still leading the way, the vial once again held before him.

The passage on the far side of the barrier looked no different than it had before, yet Quare sensed they had entered the precincts of the guild hall. The oppressive atmosphere lifted; it was as if they’d left a dense and gloom-ridden forest behind and, though still among the trees, had reached the outskirts of civilization. Perhaps, he thought, it was a subtle change in the hunter’s song that communicated this knowledge to him; he could not say for certain, but he did feel that the song, though wordless, had meaning … just as birdsong had its own meaning, hidden as it might be to human ears.

Longinus set a faster pace now, though he continued to move with the stealth and silence of his feline namesake. Quare, try as he might, could not match him in either respect, and he winced more than once as an errant footfall broadcast his presence. But no voices were raised in challenge, and he saw no glimmer of torchlight from ahead, just the lambent glow from the vial, preceding them like a will-o’-the-wisp.

The rough stone of the passage gave way to cut stone, and then to the long corridor of cells he’d last visited little more than a day ago – it
seemed
another lifetime! The corridor, too, was lightless, nor was there any hint of illumination behind any of the cell doors. He wondered if Longinus meant to make use of the same stair-master by which the two of them had escaped to the rooftop, but it appeared not, as the man passed cell after cell and made straight for the doorway at the end of the corridor.

‘Hsst! Who goes there?’ came a quavering voice from the last cell on the left.

Quare froze, as did Longinus; the green light winked out in an instant.

‘Who’s there?’ the shaky voice repeated from out of the dark. It was a voice Quare recognized but had not thought ever to hear again.

Receiving no reply, the voice grew louder, edged with panic. ‘For God’s sake, say something! Stop this damned torture and show yourself!’

Quare kept silent, following Longinus’s lead. But questions were swirling through his brain, clamouring to be asked.

‘Answer me, damn you!’ the voice cried angrily. ‘If you mean to kill me, come and try, you damned cowardly curs!’

At this, Longinus spoke at last. ‘Hsst! Quiet, man. I have no interest in killing you. I have no interest in you at all.’

Quare did not recognize this voice: a deep, intimidating growl. The voice of Grimalkin.

It did not intimidate the prisoner, however. ‘You’re not one of the Old Wolf’s gang, are you? Listen, if you get me out of here, I swear I won’t betray you!’

‘I could be a French assassin for all you know, come to murder your grandmaster.’

‘I don’t give a fig if you are! The bloody bastard means to murder me!’

‘You say you would not betray me, yet already you have offered to betray your country.’

‘This is not my country! I wasn’t born here, and I have no desire to die here. Let me out, damn you, or I’ll bring the whole nest down on your heads, I swear it!’

‘These walls are thick. No one will hear your cries.’

‘Let us put it to the test, shall we?’ And he began to scream: ‘Help! Murder! Help! Treason!’

‘Quiet!’ Longinus said. ‘Very well, I will see what I can do. Step away from the door.’

‘Gladly,’ said the voice.

The green light rekindled; by its glow, Quare saw Longinus approach the door of the cell. He hurried towards him. Longinus glanced at him and motioned for him to stay put. But he stepped close and laid a restraining hand on Longinus’s arm.

‘I know this man,’ he whispered. ‘It’s—’

‘Yes, there is no mistaking that uncouth accent,’ Longinus whispered back.

‘What do you mean to do to him?’

‘I’ll put him to sleep, as I did the Morecockneyans.’

‘We must question him first,’ Quare said.

‘There is no time.’

‘What’s going on out there?’ the voice demanded. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘I told you to step away,’ Longinus replied in the stentorian tones of Grimalkin. Reaching into another of the pouches at his waist, he produced an iron key and fitted it to the lock. There was a dull clank of tumblers turning. Then, after replacing the key, he drew his dagger. Quare drew his own. Stepping back, Longinus gestured for Quare to open the door.

The heavy door swung inwards; both men tensed, as if expecting the prisoner to hurl himself upon them, but no one emerged. Cautiously, the glowing vial held before him like a shield, dagger at the ready, Longinus stepped into the room; Quare followed, swinging the door shut behind him.

There, blinking in the weak light, stood Gerald Pickens.

Though Quare had recognized the voice and its bland American accent, seeing the man in the flesh was a shock. He had thought Pickens dead, murdered by Aylesford along with Mansfield and Farthingale that horrible night at the Pig and Rooster. But here he stood, very much alive – though the worse for wear. His once-fine clothes were torn and stained with what looked to be blood, and his once-handsome face bore
the
marks of a thorough beating. His left arm hung useless in a sling; the other was upraised as if to fend off a killing blow.

‘Who are you people?’ he asked now. ‘Why are you wearing those masks?’

‘You wound me, sir,’ growled Longinus. ‘Have you not heard of Grimalkin?’

‘I have … But I had not heard there were two of him!’

‘Who is to say there are not three, four, a hundred Grimalkins? But we mean you no harm,’ Longinus continued. ‘Who are you, and how did you come to be here?’

‘I’m Gerald Pickens, a journeyman of this company. As to how I came to be here, why, I scarcely know myself! But it seems I am a pawn in a larger game – a pawn about to be sacrificed.’

‘What do you mean? Quickly, now!’

‘Have you not heard of the foul murders that have set the whole city on edge? You called me traitor, but the real traitor is still at large somewhere in London!’

‘You mean Aylesford,’ said Longinus.

‘Aylesford?’ Pickens shook his head. ‘He is dead, another victim of the traitor, or so I am told.’

‘What traitor?’

‘Why, the infamous Quare, of course.’

‘What?’ The word burst from Quare before he could help himself.

‘Another journeyman of this company,’ Pickens explained. ‘A friend – or so I thought. But would you believe it, in the pay of the French all along. It was he who murdered Aylesford and the rest – including poor Master Magnus, God rest his soul. Only, don’t you see, the man has fled. To where, who can say? Back to his masters, no doubt. But now, with the city in an uproar, the powers that be require a scapegoat. You are looking at that unfortunate man. Quare attacked me at the Pig and Rooster – from behind, the blackguard! – and left me for dead, but I was only stunned. I survived. And this is my reward! I am to hang for the crimes of another man. My name is to be blackened, my family dishonoured. So much for the king’s justice!’

‘This is intolerable,’ Quare said.

‘There is naught to be done about it now,’ Longinus said.

‘Take me with you!’ Pickens cried. ‘I won’t give you away – I swear it! And I can help you navigate the twists and turns of this infernal labyrinth of a guild hall! I must be free to clear my name – to find Quare and bring him to justice.’

‘You have found him,’ said Quare, and pulled down his mask even as Longinus called out ‘No!’

Pickens sagged back as though struck a blow. Then, gathering his courage, he said, ‘So, traitor, have you come to finish the job?’