She considered. The kitten stopped mid-whirl to stare round eyed, considering as well. At length the girl sat up, straightened kilt. Taking time to order the folds, ordering thoughts. Family habit.
“’Tis a matter for the Laird of the clan, master,” she whispered. “You’d best ask him.”
I looked to the snoring Glocken. “Then I will wake him.”
The girl puzzled, then turned to gaze down upon the sleeper. “Ach, no. He’s Laird no more. Gobbled up by the Abominations, he was.” She gazed down fondly, made the string tickle the old man’s nose.
“Gobbled up?” I recalled the mad attack in my dining room. Yes, the tentacles had grabbed the ancient, pulled him into their green fire. A horrible end, but the girl made little of it. And why should she, when the fellow lay here in peaceful sleep? “Does that happen often?”
“Oh, it always happens,” she affirmed, solemn as child reciting catechism. “At least to a proper Laird of the Clockmakers. Them snake things will scrabble all about the hours for those traipsing twixt the world’s walls. Disturbs their sleep, they claim, the nasty wet things.”
“But he is right there,” I pointed out. “He isn’t eaten.”
“Course not,” she said shocked. “Who’d want to be there then, instead of here now? But it will have happened, and that puts end to his Lairdship. Clan can’t be led by a body in the belly of things wiggled out from behind twisted stars and spooky old stones.”
That seemed sensible. It also seemed mad. Perhaps this ambiguity was the threatened madness that took travelers overlong lost in the Hall of Time. Perhaps I was now mad. It seemed trivial. Perhaps it was important, but as a madman I didn’t feel it so. Perhaps I was a teapot. Mad thought, that.
Stirred by our voices, else by the dangling thread, the Glocken opened eyes. Blinked them, open, shut, open, shut, testing the ancient mechanism. The kitten leaped upon his chest. He considered it, then patted it. Began the labor of rising. I reached to help, but he shook head as he’d done in the tavern. He’d do this alone. Proud soul, and good for him. Girl, cat and spadassin waited, watching the long labor of regaining feet.
At length the Glocken stood. The Lamp Maiden handed him his hat. He accepted with a nod, placed it upon his head. Then sighed to behold his cane still asleep on the floor. What a long labor it would be, to balance, to bend, to fetch it from that distant surface, then rise again upright. So the girl scooped the cane up, held it out as sword to king. He nodded, pattered her upon the head same as he’d done the kitten. At last leaned on his cane to consider me.
A strange moment. No threat of violence between us. The girl returned to the throne, dangling the string. The kitten returned to chasing it. I’ve never felt less hurry in my life. As though we stood in a place where no clock ticked, where world’s wind never blew, storm waves could never wash. To feel more at peace, one’d need rest happy in one’s grave. The Glocken and I grew bored with measuring one another with looks. We turned and watched the girl and kitten and string. Till at last I shook myself awake.
“Where is the Espada bell?” I asked. “And if you say ‘you must find it in time,’ I will not laugh.”
“We may get to it, in time,” admitted the Glocken. “But first I shall ask a question.”
Riddles, distractions, it would be. Well, these people gave no straight answers. They walked no straight path… I reconsidered. They walked where they wished through walls and time. Just didn’t go straight to the point in conversation. I waved hand to say, ‘ask’. He nodded to say ‘shall’.
“Have you ever heard of a thing called ‘Parliament’?”
I thought. Sounded familiar. “Great building in Londonish. Blew up centuries ago.”
He nodded pleased. “And ‘House of Lords’? A ‘House of Commons’?”
Again, familiar sounding. Green had lectured a bored table upon the subject once. History not ancient enough to be interesting, not recent enough to be relevant. I shook head.
The Glocken smiled his lemon-sour smile. “They were the kingdom’s legislative bodies two centuries ago. Had Parliament not blown up, there’d be no Magisterium, no Aldermen’s Council. The rich and troublesome would meet now in a House of Lords, and a House of Commons.”
I considered, shrugged. “A rose by any other name.”
“Exactly,” said the Glocken. “There is no effective difference between the structure of government now, and if Parliament still stood.” Weary of standing, he looked about for somewhere to sit. Girl and kitten held the throne. He settled bony ass upon a chair arm.
“Now. Have you heard of a Corsican named Napoleon Bonaparte?”
I laughed. I knew this one. “In France during the last war. Living in a ruined farmhouse. Found his novel “Clisson et Eugénie”. Read it through in a night. It had promise.” I shrugged. “Bit reminiscent of Rousseau, particularly ‘La Nouvelle Héloïse’.” I felt urged to give a lecture upon French Literature. The kitten yawned. I refrained.
The Glocken nodded, raised a finger. “Now imagine his book were not so well received. “Suppose Messieur Bonaparte returned to his military ambitions, seizing the Revolutionary Government, leading French armies about Europe and the world?”
Absurd idea. A proper writer could no more lead armies than a kitten. Caesar excepted. I shrugged. “No more difference than ‘Magisterium’ and ‘House of Lords’. You still have ‘La Grande Armee’ of the Revolutionary Council marching about, stomping the troops of Germans and Spanish and Italians.”
“Exactly,” said the Glocken. “The wars are no longer ‘Napoleonic’. The Aldermen’s Council is not ‘The House of Commons’. The names have changed. The essentials, the same.
“Your point?”
“My point is that there is a direction to the river of history that shall triumph, for all you bravely splash the waters upstream or down.”
“That was a metaphor,” I asserted. “Unless you mean to say you threw the Espada bell in the Thames?”
The Glocken sighed. “The Charter to grant representation to all men of the kingdom was promoted in the middle of the 19th century, not the beginning. And it failed. The leaders were tried for treason and hung. Two centuries later, it is dust, a forgotten footnote.” He stamped the cane upon the stones, with a crack! that sent the kitten under the throne. “Or should have been. But you have succeeded in changing the river’s course. Not a nominal change, but one of direction.”
“Good for me,” I declared. “History’s a damned cruel mistress. River. Clockwork. What image you wish.”
The old man studied me a while, considering my judgement. At length he nodded.
“I sought long to see you lying dead, all up and down my metaphoric river, Master Mershon. Several places in your life I have set ambush, only to watch you stumble and stamp your way through. Quoting William Blake, often enough. Quite annoying, if a bit amusing.”
No reply to that, but the thing itself.
“’To hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour.’ And all you can think to do with such magic is set monsters running about in the dark, and script idiot murders?”
He shook head. “You build the future for those you consider your own. The commons, the clay humanity. As I have worked for my folk. I altering the past, not the future. It comes to the same. But you have tangled your goals with mine. Brought the family into the awareness of the mortal world, who must see them as dangerous threat or useful tool.”
My mind went back to Echoing Common, wonders of the Clockmaker clan filling tents and sky. Filling our clay folk minds with impossible music, unearthly visions. And then the Mac Tier and Harlequins marching to our aid when the fair threatened to turn to battle… a magical glory no doubt weighed the next day in banks and military offices, by minds sensing potential for profit and power.
“What was done, was done willing,” I declared. “I meant no harm to my wife’s folk.”
“You could have done no harm!” shouted the Glocken, thumping cane to floor again. The Lamp M
aiden jumped up, backed from the angry ancient. He ignored her. “You are a piece on the board, not a player. It is those who tangled you in our lives that are to blame. The old ones. They work against the purposes of the clans. But why?”
“Ask them.”
He snorted exasperation out twisted nose. “Do you think we casually meet on the road?” Widened eyes, tossed hands in air. “Did you suppose your beggar children and dead dragons and raven uncles were creatures to be called upon for tea and chat? They go where they wish. They are who they wish. And they are mad, Mershon. Far, far madder than any Mac Tier or Harlequin.”
I had no answer to that. Creatures such as Flower and Brick, Light and Uncle Birdman wandered in and out my path, making me smile before I hurried towards some goal of importance. Determining their secret intent was little different than seeking Grand Plan in the flutters of a butterfly.
The Glocken studied me, shook head, regaining his dusty composure. “You have no faintest idea of the nature, power or purpose of the beings for whom you have danced.”
I couldn’t argue that. The Glocken stood, dusted his shabby coat. Adjusted hat. Turned towards the dark of the endless hall. Spoke.
“My elders have defeated me. As I have defeated you. So we both have reached our ends. I leave the burden of setting the world aright to my son, the next Laird. When you seek the Espada Bell, ask my heir for guidance. He is fond of serving as guide. How he shall do leading, I cannot say.”
The Lamp Maiden put kitten in pocket. Then strode to the ancient, gave his dusty self warm embrace. Careful for his frail bones. He pecked a kiss upon her forehead. Gave last nod to cat, to girl, to lamp, then walked down the hall and into the dark. His steps sounding regular as clock ticks. The tap of cane, the clap of boots.
How far would he walk? Endless hall, endless dark. Perhaps he’d march onwards forever. As the funeral cart pulled by mechanical horse. Never stopping. Was that a horror, or a quiet sleep of a journey? I considered running after him, shaking from his dusty bones either answers or satisfaction. I stared into the dark, undecided. Till steps sounded behind me. I turned, hand to sword. Awaited the newcomer.
“It’s the new Laird of the clan,” said the Lamp Maiden with satisfaction. She scooped up the kitten, jumped atop the chair. She held the kitten high so it gained a fine view of the approaching prince and parade. It goggled astonished. So did I.
“Guide, sir?” asked a voice out from the dark. “Penny gets you where so ever you wish.” A boy’s voice. The boy himself appeared in the lamp light. No prince or parade following after. I considered the newcomer. A battered top hat, oversized coat dragging at heels. A face of wonderful delicacy, eyes like pools in some cave of wonder.
“Penn Zeit-Teufel?”
The Lamp Maiden put down kitten. Climbed down from chair, made a reverent curtsey.
“Welcome, sir. Great affairs of state are at hand.”
Penn goggled in wonder, same as the kitten. “Truly?” he asked, looked about. “Where?”
The Lamp Maiden nodded a chin at me, in hint.
Chapter 27
The Fair at the End of Time
We walked the dark hall, Penn leading, lantern high. The Lamp Maiden trailed behind, kitten in pocket. I pondered the Glocken’s parting words. He lamented we were both defeated. I didn’t feel defeated. Just weary and hungry. Normal battle-march conditions, familiar as an old coat. Perhaps he didn’t know I’d fulfilled the requirements of my obituary. The paper would declare me dead, by hand of an Espada. One can’t always trust the daily journals.
The damned ancient also boasted he’d long sought to see me dead. How far back in time? No telling. Who sees half the dangers they pass unscathed? When had I first near died? My thoughts turned to childhood, to a cave where some dread thing lurked. But the world is full of dread things. My life has been full of such I refused to declare the Glocken as author of half my tale.
Those hired swords in the tavern, for sure. Possibly the ones in the alley. Safe bet the murderous ancient set the more mad of his family against me. That old wolf of a Mac Tier laird. And the Harlequin tribe, not that they’d needed goading towards aught that smelled of murder or madness.
One coincidence had long niggled and nibbled my suspicious mind: why the hell-fire had Chatterton Espada been serving as shilling-a-day guard for a dockside warehouse? I knew he’d fled the Sanglair clan, come to the city. Needing employ. All quite logical. But he takes service with my dire enemy Alderman Black? Sits guarding the very books Green sends me to steal?
Coincidence; but the Laird of the Clockmaker clan would be Lord of Coincidence. Surely the Glocken arranged for the family’s most dangerous blade to wait in my path. And yet… that meeting had led me to join the family. Would not the Glocken wish to prevent just that? Better to suspect those whom he blamed for his fall: the elder ones of his family. Perhaps they’d set Chatterton in my path. For which the Glocken sent killers upon them… Bah. How would a chess game across time be viewed? Effect then cause, prophecy’s defiance fulfilling the prophecy. The chase led in circles, for all the hall ran straight before and behind. Meanwhile the new Laird led me onwards, lecturing on the very maze of Time. I’d best give him ear.
“’Tis not safe to journey over-far across the years,” he declared. A veteran instructing a new recruit in the dangers of the battle field. “Wander as stranger in distant times and climes, comes a shout, comes a stone, and you find yourself fleeing crowds shouting of witches, devils and whatnot.”
Sounded true as pebble in your shoe. I pictured touring some medieval village with Penn and the Lamp Maiden. We’d be locked in stocks by sundown, hung for witches by dawn.
“So we Clockmakers use fairs and such for door to distant times,” he declared grandly. Lairdship was suiting him fine. He tried a lordly hand wave, found it good. “Carnivals, festivals, circuses and such where a crowd expects to see odd costume, hear strange accent. None think twice for someone not knowing the name of the king or the beer.”
“We’re off to the fair,” whispered the girl to the kitten. “What fun!”
“You aren’t coming, girl,” snorted Penn. “’Tis a mission of high adventure. No, you shall return to duties, tending lamps for the travelers.”
“Don’t want to,” replied the girl. “Want to go adventuring. Bored silly with them lamps, I am.”
“I am Laird of the clan now,” reminded Penn.
“Aye, but you’re still a snit of a snot in pants bigger than arse.”
Penn stopped. An amiable person. Like his Uncle Zee, always a bit befuddled, a mite amazed. But no lordship shall tolerate ‘snit of a snot’. He turned the lamp upon the girl. She hung head, put hands behind, kicked at floor with bare feet.
“Sorry, your Importance. But oh, please? Want to come.” The kitten watched from the pocket. Penn glowered upon them both. Then, appeased with apology, he condescended to magnanimity.
“Very well. But mind you cause no trouble. Mind all this, and mind all that.” He considered whether these commands covered all possible needs. “Mind all one is supposed to mind.”
The girl twirled in joy, sending kilt swirling, kitten whirling. Penn turned, continued his grand explication.
“Now this fair we march to lies far, far in the future,” said Penn. “Ah, you’ll be astonished by their magical toys. Electricalities, the learned call them. You mustn’t stare. Nor at the girls. They’ll be half dressed.”
“The future sounds an interesting place,” I observed.
“Indeed it is,” declared Penn. Clearly claiming some credit for its fascinating nature. “Now this particular fair is excellent for our purpose, for they play in themes of other times. You’ll see folk dressed in steel armor and leather, in silks of several centuries. Loin cloths and animal skins, Roman toga and king’s ermine, sailor’s weave and pirate hats. It’s a dress-up game of a fair.”
“What will I wear?” moaned the Lamp Maiden. “Can’t join the game in an old clock kilt.”
&nbs
p; “You shall do fine,” sighed Penn. “So long as you don’t run out into their mad streets.”
“Why?” I demanded. “What waits in their streets?”
Penn shook head at truths too dark for our innocent souls. “Mad quick death with trumpets blaring,” he declared. “But stay within the bounds of the Fair, and all shall be well.”
We walked on. Penn lecturing the lamp. “Now, it is our learned opinion that the former Glocken hid the bell of the Blade clan in the far past. Fond of the old times, he was. Most fond of Sturbridge Fair centuries back. Largest fair in the world, in its day. Not much to it now.”
“Then why the blast do you speechify upon the future?”
“Ah,” he chuckled. “Cause the sly old thing will have expected you to seek the bell in Sturbridge past. No doubt he set bandits and mechanical beasts waiting. But it’s the bell you want, not the fair. That old chapel, they’ll be moving it in a hundred years, every last stone and brick. All across the sea! If you can believe it. To a new fair. Where they put the chapel all back together. With bell atop.”
“And no guards nor traps,” I realized. “Penn, thou art a marvel.”
“I am that,” he agreed. The Lamp Maiden snorted, in fond easy way.
* * *
We passed through dark door to bright day. Not to stand in dirty city alley, nor the back closet of my own home. No, of a sudden we stood blinking in sunlight slanting through great tall pine trees. The girl promptly ran off through the trees, laughing.
“Will she be safe?”
Penn puzzled at the question. “She tends the lamps of the Hall of Time, where clockwork monsters stamp and ghost winds blow, where mad travelers chase the shadows cast by past selves and future foes. What has a fair to make her blink?”
I blinked myself. For he was right. If that child pushed a cart through such a dark mad place, she must be used to such phantoms and dangers as would turn a clay-man’s hair white. Always so easy to underestimate the family. The youngest, most easily. I considered Penn, a slouching boy in street-urchin clothes, wide crystal eyes. And new Laird of the masters of the dimension of Time.
The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 19