The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 28

"Strike that, I'll meet you at, oh, Black Jack's Boozing-Ken at Hockley-in-the-Hole tomorrow evening, after the bear-baiting."

Jack had accompanied these improvised remarks with any amount of nods, gesticulations, nudgings, and shovings, all directed toward the a-mazed Tom and all meant to impel him toward the fabulous Jewel-trove in question. Finally Tom began to move that direction, but he walked backwards, keeping a sharp eye on Jack. "D'you really think Black Jack's Boozing-Ken is a good place to be cutting up the Sovereign's...o...b.."

"Cut it up where you will, bring me some bits in a sack. Whatever you think is fair. Off you go, then!"

Tom-who was about halfway to the claque of piratish-looking blokes-scanned the roofs of the storehouses while Jack spoke these words, expecting that this was all a sort of test of Tom's loyalty, and that if he made the wrong move he'd get a crossbow-bolt through the heart. But there was nothing to be noted save a few furious Highlanders starting to boil from the door of the White Tower. Which anyway forced him to make up his mind. "Right!" he exclaimed, then turned, and sprinted for the Jewels. Jack did not even see this, for he'd already bolted, along with de Gex, into the portal where Yevgeny had been awaiting them. Yevgeny barred the heavy storehouse door behind them.

"Your name?" Jack said to the Yeoman Warder.

"Clooney! And whatever it is you want-"

"Why, Yeoman Clooney, you make it sound as if I am some sort of nefarious villain. All I want is for you to be my boon companion these next several minutes, and to survive the night in good health."

"I should not love to be your companion for any length of time."

"Then I shall remind you that I am, in truth, a nefarious villain. You may follow me on your own two feet, or I shall have the Rus put a leash around your neck and drag you up and down stairs on your beef-stuffed belly."

"I shall walk," announced Clooney, eyeing Yevgeny. By this time he had probably watched the Muscovite do any number of appalling things and was more afraid of him than of Jack.

A brief, dark, tortuous walk through the bowels of the Tower followed. After the third change of direction Jack became utterly lost. He guessed that they'd broken the plane of the curtain-wall and entered the bastion of Brick Tower.

Then a stone stair was before them, descending into a gloom that was beyond the power of their lanthorns. A man more superst.i.tious than Jack might have recoiled, seeing it as a prefigurement of prison, death, and descent into the world below. But in the catalog of gloomy and hair-raising locations into which Jack had ventured during his lifetime, this scarcely rated notice. Down the stairs he traipsed, turning left at a landing, and then jogging left again at the foot of another flight. They must now be down in some oubliette of the Normans. But pa.s.sing through a door, he found himself under the sky on, of all things, a street: Mint Street. Directly across that street was a house, a wreck of a thing, nearly black with soot. The door of this house stood open, and a single light burned within. Door and street were guarded by three men-men well known to Jack-each of whom carried the ne plus ultra ne plus ultra of Mobb control weapons, a blunderbuss. And not without effect, for what crowd there was-a few grubby Mint workers-remained far away down the street, ready to duck for cover behind the elbow of Bowyer Tower if there was need. of Mobb control weapons, a blunderbuss. And not without effect, for what crowd there was-a few grubby Mint workers-remained far away down the street, ready to duck for cover behind the elbow of Bowyer Tower if there was need.

There was no need. Jack checked his stride in the middle of the street, set his black satchel down as if to rest a weary hand, and turned around to see what was keeping the others. This movement caused his gold-lined cloak to swirl around him in a flourish that could not be missed by the cowed Mint-men. As it turned out, the black-robe was right on his heels. So Jack turned again, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his satchel, and carried it into the house of the Warden of the Mint.

It was abandoned. Warden of the Mint was a profitable sinecure, usually granted to some man who knew little and cared less about coining but who had places in high friends. Such a man would not dream of living in this house, even though it was provided by the government for his use. He would as like live by a knacker's yard on the outskirts of Dublin than dwell on this smoky street in the midst of soldiers. And so most of the place went unused. But not all. Following the glimmer of lamp-light, Jack descended a stair to a vault-door, which hung open.

The vault itself was barely an arm-span in width, and the apex of the arched ceiling was scarcely high enough for Jack to stand upright. It was dank and dripping, for it was down close to the level of the moat. But it was soundly made. At the far end stood a table. On the table was a black chest with three hasps. Two of these were going unused at the moment, and opened padlocks dangled from their loops like freshly killed game from the butcher's hook. The third hasp was still closed by a padlock the size of a man's fist. Sitting before it on an overturned basket was a bulky man whose face was obscured by black hair hanging down. He was peering at the lock from a few inches away, gripping it in one great hand while the other manipulated its inner works with a steel toothpick. None of which was in the least remarkable to Jack, for he had expected all of these things, except for one.

"That's it it?" he exclaimed.

"This is the Pyx," answered the man who was sitting on the basket. He spoke as if he had entered the serene trance of a Hindoostani mystic.

"You know, in any other country, they'd go to a bit of trouble trouble, wouldn't they, to make it be dazzling. But this is just a b.l.o.o.d.y box."

"All objects that perform the essential functions of a box, are unavoidably boxy," said the other. "If it makes you feel any better, the locks are excellent."

"Those two don't appear to have been excellent enough," Jack remarked.

"Ah, but this this one. I am guessing that the other two were those of the Comptroller and the Warden. But one. I am guessing that the other two were those of the Comptroller and the Warden. But this this is the lock of the Master." is the lock of the Master."

"Newton."

"Yes. Some admirer-some royal sycophant from the Continent-must have given it to him."

Jack was conscious now of de Gex breathing behind him. He said, "You of all people ought to be more alive to the pa.s.sage of time."

"But Saturn was Time's lord, not its servant."

"Which are you?"

"Both. For most of the day and night, time oppresses me. It is only when I am at work on the innards of a clock-or a lock-that time stops."

"The clock stops, you mean."

"No. Time stops, or so it seems. I do not sense its pa.s.sage. Then something interrupts me-I become aware that my bladder is full, my mouth dry, my stomach rumbling, the fire's gone out, and the sun's gone down. But there before me on the table is a finished clock-" now suddenly a snicker from the mechanism, and a deft movement of his hands. "Or an opened lock." Saturn could not stand in this confined s.p.a.ce, but he sat up straight, heaved a vast sigh, then drew the padlock out of the loop of the third hasp with great care, not wanting to bang it up on the way out.

"I thought you said that Newton's lock was something extraordinary," Jack said.

Saturn held it up near a candle-flame so that all could admire its Baroqueness. It had been fashioned after the style of the portico of an ancient temple. The style was Cla.s.sical. But the tiny figures all around were seraphim and cherubim, rather than the G.o.ds of Olympus, and the inscription on the frieze was in Hebrew. "It is the Temple of Solomon," Saturn explained.

"There is no keyhole!" Jack said.

The front of the temple, between the pillars, was closed by a small doorway with more Hebrew on it. Saturn flicked this open with a blackened fingernail to reveal, hidden beneath, an impossibly complex keyhole, shaped like a maze. It had been cut into a block of what appeared to be solid gold, which was shaped like a flame burning on the temple's altar.

"You were right," Jack said, "it's b.l.o.o.d.y amazing."

"Decorative," Saturn admitted, "and clever. But still a lock."

He flipped open the vacant hasp, then grabbed the handle on the lid of the Pyx, and pulled.

The Pyx groaned open. Jack stepped forward. De Gex hastened to his side.

Shive Tor TWILIGHT.

ABOVEDECKS, BY THE LIGHT of the flaming Tor, the soldiers toiled with poles, pushing the hooker back from the conflagration one yard at a time. Below, in the gleam of a lanthorn that Colonel Barnes had had the presence of mind to bring over from of the flaming Tor, the soldiers toiled with poles, pushing the hooker back from the conflagration one yard at a time. Below, in the gleam of a lanthorn that Colonel Barnes had had the presence of mind to bring over from Atalanta Atalanta, Sir Isaac Newton and Daniel Waterhouse regarded the big locked chest, and listened to it tick.

Barnes had worried the point of a bayonet under the edge of the iron-bound chest and tried to lever it up, but they had seen no movement. "It is not that this is heavy heavy, though it is," Barnes had announced, "it is rather that the whole thing has been bolted to the very keel of the ship. And the bolt-heads are presumably locked up safe inside it."

Isaac was saying nothing. Indeed, he had been perfectly silent ever since he had descended into the hooker's hold with Daniel, and found it empty, save for the ticking chest.

For once, Daniel had Isaac at a disadvantage. Isaac had boarded this hooker still believing that he had sprung a trap on Jack the Coiner and was about to recover Jack's h.o.a.rd of Solomonic Gold. That he'd he'd been trapped by been trapped by Jack Jack was only just now trespa.s.sing on the frontiers of his awareness, and would take a good long time to march in to the core of his brain. was only just now trespa.s.sing on the frontiers of his awareness, and would take a good long time to march in to the core of his brain.

Daniel's instinct, of course, was to withdraw to the bow or stern, to get as far away from the device as he could. With luck he might then live through the explosion. But it was now clear that the hooker's keel would be snapped like a twig, and she'd go down fast in the cold dark water.

Daniel went abovedecks, carrying the lanthorn so as to literally leave Sir Isaac in the dark. He was afraid that if Isaac had light he might try to tamper with the Device. Barnes followed Daniel.

Shive Tor had become a red-hot obelisk jutting straight up from the sea.

The hooker's rigging had been sabotaged and her rudder cast away, so all she could do was drift where the currents and the winds might take her. This was very much in doubt, for the flows of the Thames and of the Medway here joined to war against the incoming tide in a wild melee of tows and vortices. But they would tend to drift into the center of the estuary, where the united rivers would flush them out to sea. The sh.o.r.e of the Isle of Grain was not so very distant; perhaps there was still time to summon Sergeant Bob, who was rowing about in yonder darkness salvaging the men of the First Company from the inrushing tide. Bob could not have failed to note the burning of the Tor; but he would have no way of guessing that an Infernal Device was bolted to the keel of the hooker.

Out of the hooker's butchered rig the dragoons had chopped down two spars, and were using them as push-poles, standing at the gunwales and hugging the spars to their chests (they were heavy) to jab them into the mucky bottom. When Daniel had gone below with Isaac a few minutes ago this had been strictly a matter of keeping the hooker from getting sucked into the flames of the Tor, and it had not been especially difficult, in that the water had been barely deep enough to float the vessel, so that the spar-tips found the bottom easily. Now it was different. They'd put a safe distance between them and the cherry-red pillar. The light was fainter now. It created extreme contrasts between what was lit and what was in shadow, so Daniel's mind labored to construct a picture of events from a few strewn arcs, points, and patches of light, and dreamlike s.n.a.t.c.hes of men's faces. But he could see that the dragoons were leaning dangerously over the sides, struggling to maintain control of the spars, most of which were now submerged. The tide had moved in on them, or they had pushed themselves out into a river-channel. At any rate, they were fast losing the power to affect their own movements.

The Tor-which was really the only thing visible outside of the ship-had until recently remained in a fixed position off their larboard quarter. But now it was executing a swift and dramatic traverse across the horizon, and it was dwindling. They were being pressed out to sea by the force of the rivers.

"What happens if you fire a musket while the ramrod is in the barrel?" Daniel inquired of the darkness.

"Sergeant Shaftoe thrashes you within an inch of your life!" answered a dragoon.

"But what happens to the ramrod?"

"Flies out like a spear, I suppose," said the dragoon, "unless it jams in the barrel and the whole thing blows up in your face."

"I would like to make a hole in a locked box," Daniel explained.

"We've an axe," said the dragoon.

"This box is bound and sheathed in iron," said Daniel.

But he had already discarded the idea of firing a ramrod, or aught else, into the ticking chest. For all he knew, this was as likely to detonate, as disrupt, the Infernal Device.

A sense of relief now washed over him as he came to a realization: they were altogether doomed.

He went belowdecks to inform Isaac. Daniel might have expected Isaac to be furious over having been left in the dark. But as the light of the lanthorn invaded the hold, it revealed Isaac curled up on the decking with one ear pressed against the side of the chest, like one of Queen Anne's physicians trying to make out whether she was still alive.

"It is a Tompion balance-spring movement," Isaac proclaimed, "of curiously ma.s.sive construction-like a watch wrought for a giant. But well well-wrought. There is no grinding in the bearings, the gears mesh cleanly."

"Shall we try to force it open?"

"The art of building lethal traps into lock-boxes is far more ancient than that of constructing Infernal Devices," Isaac returned.

"I understand," said Daniel, "but if the alternative is to do nothing, and be blown to bits-" But he stopped there, for Isaac's eyelids had fluttered shut, his lips had parted, and he shifted to press his skull even harder against the cold iron frame of the chest.

"Something is happening," he announced. "A pin was engaged. A cam revolves-" he opened his eyes and drew back as if it had only just entered his mind that he was in danger. Daniel caught one of Isaac's hands and a.s.sisted him to his feet-then caught him in his arms as the boat was heaved beneath their feet by a swell coming in from the sea.

"Well," Daniel said, "are you ready to find out what comes next?"

"As I told you, there is some mechanism-"

"I meant, after we die," Daniel said.

"For that I have long been ready," said Isaac; and Daniel was put in mind of Whitsunday 1662, when Isaac had repented of all the sins he had ever committed, and begun a ledger of sins committed since then. Did that ledger still exist somewhere? Was it still blank?

"And you, Daniel?" Isaac inquired.

"I made myself ready twenty-five years ago, when I was dying of the Stone," Daniel said, "and have oft wondered when Death would bother to come for me."

"Then neither of us has anything to fear," said Isaac. Which Daniel agreed with on a purely intellectual level; but still he flinched when a hefty mechanical clunk clunk sounded from the chest, and its lid sprang open, driven by a pair of ma.s.sive springs. Daniel missed what happened next because (as he was ashamed to realize) he had jumped behind Isaac. But now he stepped clear. He let the lanthorn drop to his side. It was no longer of any use. The chest was emitting its own light. Fountains of colored sparks gushed from several metal tubes that splayed from its rim, a bit like the iron pikes that adorned London Bridge's Great Stone Gate. Their light blinded him for a few moments. But when his eyes adjusted he saw a little carved and painted figure-a poppet-jutting from the top of the box, bobbling up and down atop a coil spring that had thrust it into the air. The poppet was adorned with a motley fool's cap with wee bells on the ends of its tentacles, and its face had been carven into a foolish grin. Illuminated from beneath by the fizzing sparklers, it wore a ghoulish and sinister aspect. sounded from the chest, and its lid sprang open, driven by a pair of ma.s.sive springs. Daniel missed what happened next because (as he was ashamed to realize) he had jumped behind Isaac. But now he stepped clear. He let the lanthorn drop to his side. It was no longer of any use. The chest was emitting its own light. Fountains of colored sparks gushed from several metal tubes that splayed from its rim, a bit like the iron pikes that adorned London Bridge's Great Stone Gate. Their light blinded him for a few moments. But when his eyes adjusted he saw a little carved and painted figure-a poppet-jutting from the top of the box, bobbling up and down atop a coil spring that had thrust it into the air. The poppet was adorned with a motley fool's cap with wee bells on the ends of its tentacles, and its face had been carven into a foolish grin. Illuminated from beneath by the fizzing sparklers, it wore a ghoulish and sinister aspect.

"Jack in the Box!" Daniel exclaimed.

Isaac approached the chest. The poppet had sprung up out of a mound of hundreds of coins. These had avalanched over the rim of the chest when the lid had sprung open, and were still tumbling to the deck in ones and twos. One of them rolled to within inches of Isaac's toe. He stooped and picked it up. Daniel, ever the lab-a.s.sistant, held the light near to hand. Isaac stared at it for a quarter of a minute. Daniel's lanthorn-arm began to ache, but he dared not move.

Finally it occurrred to Isaac to resume breathing. A tiny smacking noise came from his mouth as he re-animated his parts of speech.

"We must get back to the Tower of London straightaway."

"I am all for it," Daniel said, "but I'm afraid that the currents of the Thames and the Medway disagree with us."

Book 7

Currency There was the usual amount of corruption, intimidation, and rioting. There was the usual amount of corruption, intimidation, and rioting.-SIR CHARLES PETRIE, DESCRIBING A PARLIAMENTARY ELECTION OF THE ERA

Hanover.

JUNE 18 (CONTINENTAL) / 7 (ENGLISH) 1714.

Do not pity me. I am at last going to satisfy my curiosity about the origin of things, which even Leibniz could never explain to me, to understand s.p.a.ce, infinity, being and nothingness...-SOPHIE CHARLOTTE, QUEEN OF PRUSSIA, ON HER DEATHBED AT AGE THIRTY-SIX "ONCE UPON A TIME there was a penniless orphan girl named Wilhelmina Caroline, or Caroline for short. Father was a brilliant if odd man, who died young of the smallpox, leaving Mother at the mercy of his son by an earlier marriage. But this son had inherited neither his father's wisdom nor his love for the beautiful mother of Caroline; and, conceiving of her as a wicked stepmother, and of the infant as a future rival, he cast them out. Mother took little Caroline up in her arms and fled to a house deep in the woods. The two lived almost as Vagabonds for some years, making occasional sojourns in the houses of more fortunate relations. But when the compa.s.sion of her family was spent, Mother was left with no choice but to marry the first suitor who came along: a brute who had been hit on the head when he was a child. This fellow cared little for Caroline's mother and less for Caroline. He relegated them to a miserable life on the fringe of his household while he openly made love to his vile, ignorant, and wicked mistress. there was a penniless orphan girl named Wilhelmina Caroline, or Caroline for short. Father was a brilliant if odd man, who died young of the smallpox, leaving Mother at the mercy of his son by an earlier marriage. But this son had inherited neither his father's wisdom nor his love for the beautiful mother of Caroline; and, conceiving of her as a wicked stepmother, and of the infant as a future rival, he cast them out. Mother took little Caroline up in her arms and fled to a house deep in the woods. The two lived almost as Vagabonds for some years, making occasional sojourns in the houses of more fortunate relations. But when the compa.s.sion of her family was spent, Mother was left with no choice but to marry the first suitor who came along: a brute who had been hit on the head when he was a child. This fellow cared little for Caroline's mother and less for Caroline. He relegated them to a miserable life on the fringe of his household while he openly made love to his vile, ignorant, and wicked mistress.

"In time both stepfather and mistress died of smallpox. Not long after, Caroline's mother also perished, leaving the little girl alone, penniless, and dest.i.tute.

"Only one heirloom pa.s.sed to Caroline upon her mother's death, for it was the only thing that could not be separated from her by pestilence or theft: the t.i.tle of Princess. Without this inheritance, she would soon have ended up in a poorhouse, a nunnery, or worse; but because, like her mother before her, she was a Princess, two wise men came and bore her away in a carriage to a palace in a distant city, where a clever and beautiful young Queen named Sophie Charlotte took her under her wing, and gave her all she needed.

"Of all that was offered to Princess Caroline in the years that followed, two mattered above all others: first Love. For Sophie Charlotte was both an elder sister and a foster mother to her. And second Knowledge. For in the palace was a great library, to which Caroline was given a key by one of the wise men: a Doctor who was the Queen's mentor and advisor. She spent every minute that she could in that library, doing what she loved most, which was reading books.

"Years later, after she had grown to a woman and begun to have children of her own, Caroline was to ask the Doctor how he had been so clever as to know that she would want a key to the library. The Doctor explained: 'As a little boy, I lost my own father, who, like your royal highness's, was a well-read man; but later I came to know him, and to feel his presence in my life, by reading the books he left behind.' "

Henrietta Braithwaite trailed off hereabouts, and shaped her brow into a tasteful and courtly little frown. Her finger plowed a crooked trail back up the terrain of the last paragraph, like a pig's snout rooting for a truffle. "Rather fine to this point, your royal highness, but the story becomes confused when this Doctor enters into it, and you begin to jump back and forth between tenses, and tell things in his voice-pray, how does a Doctor enter into a faery-tale anyhow? Up to here, here, it's all palaces, stepmothers, and houses in the woods, which fit. But a Doctor-?" it's all palaces, stepmothers, and houses in the woods, which fit. But a Doctor-?"

"Es ist ja ein Marchen-"

"In English if you please, your royal highness."

"It is indeed a faery-tale, but it is also my my story," said Princess Wilhelmina Caroline of Brandenburg-Ansbach, "and story," said Princess Wilhelmina Caroline of Brandenburg-Ansbach, "and my my story has a Doctor in it." story has a Doctor in it."

She glanced out a window. Today's English lesson was in a salon of the Leine Schlo, on the side that faced away from the river. The view was across a small paved courtyard that spilled onto a busy Hanover street. Leibniz's house was only two or three doors down-near enough that she could shout a philosophical inquiry out the window and half expect to get an answer back.

"The next chapter will treat of persons, and happenings, not found in faery-tales," Caroline continued, after a pause to get the English words queued up in the right order. "For what I have written on the leaves you hold in your hands only goes up to when Sophie Charlotte died-or, as some say, was poisoned by the Prussian court."

Mrs. Braithwaite now turned in a workmanlike effort to conceal her horror and loathing of the fact that Princess Caroline had given voice to this thought. It was not that this Englishwoman had any particular love for the courtiers who infested the Charlottenburg. Mrs. Braithwaite, wife of an English Whig, would have taken Sophie Charlotte's side in just about any imaginable debate-supposing she had the kidney to choose sides. What troubled her was Caroline's forthrightness. But the ability to say things directly, and get away with it, was a birthright that came along with the t.i.tle of Princess.

"It has indeed been an eventful nine years since that dolorous day," Mrs. Braithwaite allowed, "but it would still read much like a faery-tale to the common reader, if you but changed a few words. The Doctor could become a wizard, the aged Electress a wise Queen-no one in England would object to that that change!" change!"

"Except for all those Jacobites who want Sophie dead," Caroline returned.

This was a bit like sticking her leg out in front of Mrs. Braithwaite when she was trying to tiptoe, skirts hiked up, down a t.u.r.d-strewn alley. The Englishwoman faltered and pinkened but did not come to a full stop. As everyone in Hanover, including Caroline's husband, had noted, she was the very soul of poise and grace. "The other characters and events of your last nine years-the handsome and brave young Prince, the long war against an evil King, a lost kingdom across the sea, rightfully yours, which sends emissaries-"

"Emissaries," Caroline said, "but other other busy persons too, not fit for faery-tales at all." busy persons too, not fit for faery-tales at all."