A Clockwork River, page 14
He would, perhaps, have preferred Sam to keep more outwardly respectable company, dressed more like the tall, serious man beside him. This man, impeccably outfitted in a black jacket that in its length and sweep encroached upon the category of the ceremonial robe, seemed however not at all to mind the propinquity of the Lock, Key and Fob Club, and even to listen in on them with interest, his conversation with Malachi having stalled. It was therefore with some relief that Malachi saw his daughter enter and stand bewildered by the sight of the drawing room as it now appeared – full of strangers arrayed in stiff-backed chairs before the auction block, or else wandering about and critically fingering the curtains, as if they too might possibly be for sale.
“You will remember Lord Cornelius Archer,” he intoned in his most impressive voice, rising to take Briony affectionately by both hands – which he was not accustomed to do – and then passing them into Lord Archer’s possession.
“Naturally, I remember,” said Briony, feeling a distant childhood recognition stir in her as she gazed up at a tall, hairless man with a fine-boned skull balanced proudly on his long neck and a prominent hawkish nose that lent his face distinction. Lord Archer, in turn, gripped her hands and looked at her with a mixture of admiration and astonishment very similar to that promised to young beauties by the glossy ladies’ circulars that were littered about Fanny Spurwell’s bedroom.
“The very picture,” he murmured appreciatively.
“Briony will be coming out at the Commissioner’s Ball,” said Malachi stiffly.
“I will be glad to see you there,” said Lord Archer, remembering himself, and offering her a chair with a correct bow, “though I must admit I prefer the delights of conversation to those of the dance floor, which is perhaps only a measure of my incompetence there.”
“I am wholly of the same opinion,” exclaimed Briony, feeling pleasantly flushed. Lord Archer was not handsome, like Florian – rather, he was attractive, in a reserved and stately way, but his handsomeness was a function of his character. In a painting, he might have seemed old and even a little stork-like, with his bony limbs and slender, cartilaginous features; in the flesh, these features seemed imposing and harmonious, welded together by the force of his personality and the taut intelligence of his speech. It was the habit of power – he was a man who commanded and was obeyed; his slightest gesture had the weight of government. Briony knew other men of authority, like Mr Spurwell, but the commissioner seemed like a man who could file many forms and attend many meetings and at length badger the opposition into a compromise, whereas Lord Archer, the head of the Imperial Guard, seemed a man who could change the world with a word.
This is now the third mention of the Imperial Guard and you must be wondering when I will produce an emperor. I am afraid you will have some time to wait. The actual business of politics in Lower Rhumbsford belonged to Parliament, a vast squabbling body of subcommittees and shifting alliances, while the day-to-day management of the city was carried out by throngs of bland technocrats ranging from the thrillingly capable to the wondrously incompetent. Still, one needed a reliable master of ceremonies to cut ribbons at public events, and heads of elected governments tended to be irascible, physically unattractive individuals with contentious opinions, so Lower Rhumbsford retained an emperor, even if the privileges of the position were reduced and the imperial menagerie had become a public zoo in an East Side park. The title was bestowed in recognition of philanthropic works, and it tended to be occupied by energetic, old industrialists passionately devoted to some single praiseworthy idea, like the establishment and maintenance of a public park in Bragwood or the donation of woolen stockings to scholarship students in vocational schools or encouraging everyone to eat more kidney beans, as good for the digestion. As a relic of the days when the Emperor was actively involved in political intrigues, he commanded a numerous guard, one or two of whom were ordinarily to be met with in the kitchen of the Imperial Palace, flirting with the maids and sporting the inscrutable, confident smiles of men who have oodles of concealed weapons under handsome fuchsia uniforms. This guard had become more extensive and influential than anyone could readily explain, given that its constitutional role was to safeguard the Emperor while he was awarding prizes at public banquets or the annual review of the Corps of Engineers.
“My dear Cornelius,” cheeped Doctor Longwilling effusively, tripping into their circle and extending two of his limp fingers for the nobleman to shake. “It is so good to see you here in these unexpected environs, although I understand you were once a habitué here. I see you have made the acquaintance of our charming Briony.”
The past weeks had given Briony no reason to soften her mistrust of the little man, and she received his compliment with the slightest of nods.
“Charming indeed,” replied Archer, with more enthusiasm, “though in fact we are old acquaintances, even if Briony was too young to remember when I held her on my knee. She was only a wisp of a thing then – not the lovely young lady she has now become. So like her mother, at the same age.”
Malachi broke in nervously. “Cornelius and I are old friends, and of course, nothing delights me more than to see the connection between our families re-established – a connection, I hope, which we will maintain, and even reaffirm, in future.”
“We have grown lax in our intercourse of late,” admitted Lord Archer in a gentle purr. “I have been distracted, of course, with affairs of state. Yet it also seems to me that you have grown less companionable, Malachi, since… Well, there is no need to speak it.”
“Of course our house is no longer as replete with gaiety as once it was,” Malachi admitted stiffly. “And I myself have largely withdrawn from society – grown more somber and thoughtful, in my contemplation of the transience of things.”
“It was very sad,” said Lord Archer with a soft expression of pity. He let his hand pause fraternally on Malachi’s shoulder, which shuddered at being touched.
“I understand from Doctor Longwilling that you too have suffered a bereavement,” said Malachi. “I am glad to think you can find solace in your work.”
“Has Lady Archer passed on?” cried Briony. “I am sorry to hear it. I remember your visits, long after Father stopped receiving other guests; Lady Archer was always very kind to me.”
“Ah,” said Lord Archer, with a shadow of a smile and a ghost of a regret.
“She was kind indeed,” interjected Doctor Longwilling, “but I am afraid the Lady Archer you knew died years ago. It is the most recent Lady Archer of whom we speak, my patient and particular friend, who passed on only this spring. She was in such good health and had such grace and youth and beauty, her death was a shock to everyone, especially,” Doctor Longwilling said, toying pensively with the ends of his powder-blue scarf, “to her physician. But of course, there are fevers that come without warning, and there is nothing to be done.”
“I am glad at least that I could provide her with the most expensive medical care Lower Rhumbsford has to offer,” said Lord Archer to the doctor, “and I thank you for your tireless efforts no matter what the outcome.” He paused to look enquiringly at Aggie, who had just popped through the double doors.
“You rang, sirs?” The housekeeper performed an earnest bob, eyes shifting anxiously between Malachi and Doctor Longwilling.
“Certainly not,” Malachi intoned, staring very hard at the servant’s strawberry-stained apron.
“There’s your culprit,” chuckled Doctor Longwilling indulgently, motioning toward Jane MacGow, who was in mid-arc astride the servants’ bell pull, apparently having mistaken it for a rope swing.
Aggie’s eyes lit up, no doubt at the idea of sneaking the young rascal to her kitchen kingdom to administer spoonfuls of jam, but just then, Lord Archer stepped forward and addressed her in a friendly tone. “Why, Aggie!”
“Well, Lord Archer!” Aggie beamed and performed her best curtsy, in which both knees knocked violently sideways in the manner of a camp chair collapsing. “Bless you! It’s been years!”
“I haven’t had a chance to thank you for sending round the little keepsake I requested,” the peer returned with a benevolent smile. “I trust you received the lace collars I sent in return.”
“Indeed, sir! It was so good of you to remember me, when I’m sure you must have been so cut up yourself.” She wilted a little, and her knobby chin betrayed the slightest wobble. “I’ll never forget how often you visited her those last days.”
Throughout this small exchange, Briony had stood quietly by, touched and surprised by the kindness Lord Archer showed her nursemaid. Now, knowing from long experience that another word about her mother would plop the old servant straight into a vale of tears, she touched Aggie gently on the elbow, saying, “But wait, the auction is beginning.”
In fact, the auctioneer had now assumed his position behind the podium. He puffed himself up importantly and cleared his throat, which proved, however, insufficient to attract the attention of the audience. The Lock, Key and Fob Club seemed especially disposed to ignore him. Margaret was giving the twins a not very tuneful singing lesson, and Terence actually took the opening of the auction as an opportunity to buttonhole Doctor Longwilling. “It has been drooping,” he confessed of his moustache in an anxious whisper, “especially on the left side, and in hot weather. Certainly, as a man gets older, his moustache will not be as thick and firm as it had been, but I had hoped, with frequent application of your bristle cream, to keep my whiskers stiff and sprightly well into old age.” Doctor Longwilling whispered that a weekly soaking in a bath of specially formulated salts, a sample of which he promised to forward, should maintain the moustache’s structure, at any rate in dry weather. In the meantime, the auctioneer banged his hammer on the block with increasing energy, until even the MacGows were forced to admit that the sale was in progress and to sit still in their chairs.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the auctioneer in a strong, nasal voice, “I declare the sale at auction of lot forty-nine, being a collection of claustral rarities. The first item to be cried is a tumbler lock, no key, in the Westingbridge style but not of the Westingbridge workshop”—an assistant held it up to the audience on a little crimson pillow—“between 200 and 240 years old, in exemplary condition. I will start the bidding at eight crowns. Do I hear eight crowns?”
“Eight!” squeaked one of the antiques dealers in the front row, flailing up his arm to ensure his bid would not go unnoticed.
“Eight from Mr Rorty,” observed the auctioneer. “Ten. Do I hear ten?”
“Ten!” declared John Gantry. A baleful sound escaped Margaret’s lips, and she peered about in anxious expectation.
“Ten from Mr Gantry,” announced the auctioneer. “Twelve. Do I hear twelve?”
As she heard these numbers, it flashed upon Briony that Sam’s locks, which she was used to dismissing as a psychological oddity, represented a carefully curated collection of genuine value. The piece in question was nothing much to look at. It was, she guessed, about the least valuable of the items to be cried. But twelve crowns was a pair of crystal champagne flutes, a week of the grocery bills now sadly in arrears, carriage fare to Templerside, a sun hat in the latest style, or the booking fee for the Riviera Suite of the Grand Hotel. She felt a surge of resentment that Sam had kept his locks to himself while the family was in such need. Then, watching the eyes in her father’s ordinarily impassive alabaster face grow glazedly faraway, she reflected glumly upon her brother’s absence and felt bound to supply some of the distress he would experience at his locks dispersing into unknown hands.
Another antiques dealer made an offer. Gantry countered it. No one from the Lock, Key and Fob Club participated in the bidding. In fact, they seemed less focused on the auctioneer than on the door, of which they made intent, expectant, study.
“Fifteen!” barked the auctioneer. “Do I hear eighteen?”
There was a long pause, and the auctioneer had raised his hammer to finalize the sale at fifteen crowns, when Rutherford Kennick burst in, wearing a white juridical wig over the russet profusion of his sideburns and waving a scrap of parchment thickly encrusted with wax seals. “I request a stay!” bellowed Rutherford, “on account of monies owing to the Lock, Key and Fob Club of Lower Rhumbsford!”
XIII
In which the chain of command could be clearer.
Professor Deligris, muffled up in his bearskin coat and a shaggy fur hat and gloves, leaned against the railing of his lookout tower. Behind him, a cageful of the carrier pigeons that connected him to the capital cooed and stank; before him, plumes of gray smoke and red, suspended grit billowed up from the construction site with thunderous claps. A mile to the east, a line of men in dirty, orange overalls and poorly ventilated, rubber boots had been walking uphill along the road carved into the cliff above the Oxhull River for a very long time already and seemed unhappy still to be doing it, especially when they were passed by the occasional orange-painted ox-carts, in which men dressed in the high-collared blue uniforms of the Detonation Regiment smirked and lounged on heaps of high explosives.
When Doctor Deligris had arrived two years before, the Oxhull Pass, ground by an ancient glacier into the sharp spine of red rock running across the continent, had boasted a fertile valley dotted with deep, clear kettle lakes and was surrounded by mild, mammarian slopes. Mud-plastered cottages thronged around kitchen gardens and thatch apiaries crawling with slow, sleepy bees; peasant boys in quilted jackets called to the cattle in the local language that rose and fell like birdsong and watered them with water from the river that ran along the bottom of the valley. Now the low-lying villages had already been evacuated, and only snakes and creeping ivy, which had no way of knowing they were to be drowned, crawled in and out of the open doors and shutters hanging loose on their hinges. The valley was scarred with trenches and the kettle ponds were red with churned-up mud. Fragments of wood scaffolding, blasting caps and discarded food tins littered the riverbanks and the abandoned cattle yards alongside it.
During his week in the capital, Professor Deligris had met with the Prime Minister and a five-star general and a dozen bureaucrats besides. Commissioner Spurwell of the Ministry of Fountains, who had studied above Deligris at the Hydraulics Institute and still taught master classes there from time to time, was a dogged but unavailing ally. With pedagogical patience they had walked the members of various commissions through dense calculations proving that, when one took into account the cost of the dam and the regions it would flood, the diversion of the Greeley across the Fairheight Divide and into the watershed of the Rhumb would do more economic harm than good. But the commissioners failed to understand the calculations, or else they could not oppose a project into which so much investment had so long been sunk, or else they could not afford to seem indifferent to the rapidly diminishing pressure in the turbines of Lower Rhumbsford even if they admitted the project was a boondoggle.
The bedraggled recruits had reached now the very peak of the pass, which fell away before them into a chasm swarming with workmen and dense with an acrid fog of smoke and silicates. Penetrating a sprawling encampment of clapboard boxes, the newcomers had scarcely removed their boots before tight-jawed men with short arms flung them tins of meat and obliged them, as soon they had wolfed it down, to pull their boots back on and go bash boreholes into a cliff face that was marked on the blueprints with a bold line in red ink and the black-letter inscription: “WARNING! LANDSLIDES! DO NOT DIG!”
With a high shriek of exasperation, Professor Deligris scuttled down the ladder and across the site, nearly upending several barrows full of waste rock along the way, and cried breathlessly in the vicinity of the commanding officer, “Wrong side! You are digging on the wrong side!”
The commanding officer, with two red stripes on his shoulder and a patch sewn over his breast pocket that identified him as Lieutenant Bonswell, settled a practised basilisk stare on the professor, apparently expecting that he would shrink away under its malevolent influence and leave an empty bearskin coat behind him.
“These men are under military orders!” he barked. “And I will ask you not to interfere.” With a glowery, gimlety narrowing of his eyes he returned his attention to the workmen, by which gesture he contrived to dismiss Professor Deligris from the burden of existence.
This was no doubt a fine tactic which had served the soldier well on other occasions, but Professor Deligris only jammed his hat more firmly over his ears and pronounced, “Five meters on the other side of that rock face is a pocket of glacial till. If you penetrate it, you will bury the entire worksite under a thousand tons of scree. The excavation is slated to continue to the north.”
The lieutenant’s head, which ran economically into his shoulders without the unnecessary luxury of a neck, swiveled from the professor to the crew and back again. With sudden decision, he stalked closer yet to Professor Deligris and, in a spray of spittle, shouted very loudly and very close to the professor’s face, “Stand down, civilian!”
Professor Deligris fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face with it. Then he fished out a fragment of cork, a pistachio, a mostly toothless comb in obvious desuetude, a coupon for Doctor Longwilling’s Follicle Inducement Lotion, a note from his daughter asking him to bring home a jar of pickled cabbage with garlic scapes, and a set of military papers identifying their bearer as Professor Sylvester Marcelius Deligris of the Imperial Hydraulics Institute, Vice Commissioner of Canals and Chief Site Engineer of the Oxhull Project. “You will stop work here immediately,” Professor Deligris insisted, thrusting the flurry of red ink into Lieutenant Bonswell’s face, “and continue, ideally with a rested and alert crew, on the north front.”
