Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Deadly confrontation
Such a dangerous device
Owen trudged all night long, following the steamliner tracks and looking more at his feet than at the glow of Crown City ahead. His encounter with the Anarchist had disturbed him like a stick hammering the beehive of his thoughts, and now he couldn’t calm himself. Owen did not like this, didn’t like it at all.
He was lost in the countryside, lost inside his ideas and experiences . . . Francesca, his imagined happy future, Barrel Arbor, the carnies, the Anarchist and his plans, the Watchmaker. Only yesterday, he had been in the center of the most marvelous universe of happiness, and now . . .
How could all be for the best? And who decided that?
He thought of the great mechanical Orrery. His entire life—like all those planets, stars, sun, and moon—had been affixed to a regular course, but now because of his impulsive decision to jump on the steamliner and leave his home, all those celestial bodies had flown loose from their connecting arms and tumbled everywhere, causing the end of his personal universe.
At dawn, another steamliner thundered past, but he had already reached the outskirts of Crown City. He no longer belonged with the carnies. The image of Francesca hovered before him, burned in his memory. He saw her in his mind’s eye, and in his heart’s eye, but he didn’t know what others saw when they looked at her. She had smiled at him, standing on her tightrope, beckoning him to step out on a precarious path, luring him. But it had turned out to be much higher up than a mere practice rope, without any safety net, and he fell. . . .
By now, the Magnusson Carnival Extravaganza would have packed up their camp and loaded their wagons and steam trucks. Within hours, they would roll into Chronos Square. He knew the routine so well. He should have been helping them, and he wondered if the carnies even noticed his absence.
After first learning of the summer solstice performance, Owen had imagined it was going to be—yet again—one of the most wonderful days of his life. But he wasn’t part of the show. Not today . . . maybe not ever again.
He did have his ticket, however, so he could get in, be part of the crowd. And he did want to see.
For years as he grew up, Owen had looked at his mother’s books, studied the chronotypes of the city, dreamed about the Angels. They had drawn him along with their benevolent mercy, blessed him with wonder. The Clockwork Angels, more than anything else, had tempted him to jump aboard a steamliner and ride off into the night to the city of his dreams.
He’d seen the Angels once with Francesca, but those memories were now tainted because of how she had scorned him. Tonight, with the carnival performing, he could go to the Square, lose himself among the people, and watch the beautiful Angels again, one more experience to catalog in his memory and in his heart.
Francesca had changed everything for him, first for the better, then for the worse. He had never met anyone like her, had never felt such a surge of real feelings. She was his lover . . . yet she had laughed at his suggestion that they be married, had shown him what a fool he was. I’d never let myself be trapped like that!
He wondered what she had told the carnies about why he was gone, if she had made up some story about how he abandoned the show. Or maybe she had told them all just how foolish he was. They would have had a deep belly laugh at his naiveté.
Or maybe that wasn’t what had happened at all.
They were his friends, and he wanted to see them again, even if just to say goodbye. He missed them already. The carnival was more than Francesca; there was also Louisa, Golson, Tomio, César Magnusson, the clowns, the barkers—more than just coworkers, they were friends. They were part of his family.
If he was brave enough, maybe he could be part of that family again. He had concluded that not knowing was worse than hurting. Maybe Francesca could explain herself . . . or maybe he was the one who needed to do the explaining. Perhaps he had misunderstood, overreacted, or just expected too much. Maybe he could have another chance, or maybe he should just take his bruises. He still felt he belonged among the carnies. And he could never forget about Francesca, no matter what. . . .
At the appointed hour the following night, Owen kept his head down, his porkpie hat pulled low. As he made his way to Chronos Square, he did not stare like a fool at every shiny object. In the surging crowds, he felt like a fallen leaf drifting down the river.
When he held up his ticket, the Red Watch guards showed no particular interest in him, and he slipped into the Square. The carnival had just opened for business, and Owen moved among the smiling, wide-eyed attendees, but he walked on eggshells, afraid to see how the carnies would react to him, but afraid to stay away.
Around the great square, under the glow of the dazzling coldfire globes, solstice banners had been strung across the faces of government buildings, with a particularly colorful one across the Cathedral of the Timekeepers. Ropes dangled from each banner, an odd and messy loose end that should have been tied up out of the way. He looked up at the clocktower from which the Angels would emerge. Somewhere up there, hidden from view, the Watchmaker himself would be observing the spectacle. . . .
As he wandered, letting the crowd keep him invisible, Owen walked past the bright red booth of the clockwork gypsy fortune teller. Though no customer had activated the mechanism of her body, her organic head was turned up toward the high tower. The ancient woman stared longingly, her eyes focused—as if she knew the Watchmaker was there somehow. He sensed some unspoken connection.
He wondered how old she was, if the Watchmaker’s specialized alchemy had anything to do with the arcane science that kept her alive. The fortune teller’s gaze did not waver from the closed tower windows, but the hint of a blue-tinged tear sparkled in her eyes. Owen slipped away before the fortune teller could notice him.
As part of his performance, the knife thrower made a great show of sharpening his blades on an alchemically driven grinding wheel that made blue-tinged sparks fly from the razor edges. Finished, he stood up and asked for a volunteer who might be willing to be cuffed onto the Wheel of Fate. “I promise, my daggers will strike only the wheel, no body parts whatsoever!” He looked around and teasingly reassured them by saying, “I usually don’t miss.” It was all an act though. When no one stepped forward, he threw his knives in rapid succession, and they thunked into the center of the wheel, exactly on target.
Tomio walked about, tossing his colored powders, cutting and thrusting with his sword as he yelled, “Presto!” in time with each small explosion. Owen nearly bumped into the bearded lady, but turned the other way. He longed to run to Louisa, laughing, to tell her he was back. But he didn’t want to answer her questions or, worse, hear her sympathy, should she have any for him.
How he missed these people, even after only a day. Owen strengthened his resolve to see them again, talk with them, but he couldn’t interrupt the show. He would wait until the performance was over, after the solstice festival wrapped up, and the Watchmaker had been pleased with the show. He would join them for the teardown, pitch in, and hope that they welcomed him back—if they had even noticed he was gone!
As the crowds grew, the carnival continued building in color and intensity. Levitating blue spheres shone down to illuminate the games, the clockwork Ferris wheel, and the other spinning, whirling rides. Golson flexed his muscles and awed the bystanders by lifting an unbelievable amount of weight on his barbell. In the audience, Owen was probably the only one who knew about the two plates Golson always kept padlocked together so he would never be tempted to use them.
People won prizes at the game booths, or lost to peals of laughter. Keeping his porkpie hat tugged low, Owen drifted along with a heart that felt warm but also heavy.
Even if Francesca didn’t love him, maybe he could find enough of a home here to make him stay. The alternative, he supposed, was Barrel Arbor, being an assistant orchard manager, marrying Lavinia, and spending the rest of his life remembering these days. . . .
He smiled to see the three clowns flitting, dancing, bouncing, and tripping through the crowd. Leke carried a swagger stick and was accompanied by Deke in common homespun clothes, walking stiff armed and stiff legged as if he were an automaton; Peke, meanwhile, wearing a colorful piebald costume adorned with feathers, frolicked and somersaulted along with them. Owen suddenly realized that they were meant to represent the efficient Watchmaker, a citizen like an automaton, and the wild Anarchist—although the symbolism went unnoticed by the common folk.
In his Anarchist act, Peke pulled feathers and colored kerchiefs from hidden pockets in his costume, tossing them every which way like explosions. Then he tickled a little girl’s face with a feather. She giggled, and the three clowns scampered off.
Members of the Blue Watch roved through the crowd. The uniformed men stopped at specific intervals and announced to the noisy crowd, “Citizens, remain vigilant! There has been a sighting of the Anarchist. He is wearing a brown hooded cloak to hide his features. We believe he intends to disrupt our loving Watchmaker’s great celebration.”
The news sent a ripple of anxiety through the people. No one knew what the Anarchist looked like, but Owen did. He felt a chill. Based on the man’s conversation the night before, he might indeed intend to do mischief at the performance. Owen looked around the sea of faces, searching for D’Angelo Misterioso.
If he reported to the Regulators, however, then he would have to identify himself, and the Watch would know he didn’t belong here, that he had no business being away from Barrel Arbor. The last time the Blue Watch had found him, they had escorted him promptly out of the city. His stomach twisted, as if the knife thrower had stabbed him with one of his blades and turned it. Owen kept his eyes open but saw nothing suspicious.
Owen made his way over to where the carnival trailers and equipment were set up. Since the carnies were performing, he knew that the place would be safe and out of the way. The trailers looked so familiar—the folded tarpaulins, the flatbeds, the temporary pavilions—that he felt a pang in his heart.
In the center of Chronos Square, César Magnusson called the crowd to attention, and their excited murmur quieted as all eyes turned to the trapeze and high wire. Floating coldfire globes drifted closer to the high wire, brightening into spotlights.
Owen caught his breath as Francesca climbed the wooden pole up to the first platform, as he had seen her do many times before. Now he looked through stinging tears, and she seemed to shimmer.
Her voice was so clear in his memory. I’d never let myself be trapped like that!
He almost turned away but found his strength. He wanted to be here. Francesca was stunning in her white leotard and short skirt—he would never think otherwise. Inky black hair fell down over the hidden pack of angel wings on her shoulders; she was confident, completely professional.
After he had stupidly opened his soul to her, Owen had run headlong into the night, all his dreams dashed. Francesca, though, didn’t seem bothered in the least. There she was, ready to perform difficult acrobatic maneuvers, not preoccupied at all. Did she even think about it? Did she feel even a fraction of the ache he carried with him?
Perhaps she had forgotten him already. Perhaps she had never thought of him much at all. . . .
Although breathing hard, he forced himself to watch as she stepped onto the thin rope. She was so beautiful, a goddess with wings on her heels. Francesca raised her hands, as if to fly.
Then the Clockwork Angels upstaged her. The glow brightened from beneath the flagstones of Chronos Square, and faint, sweet-smelling smoke wafted up. A kind of synergistic power rose from the crowd, all those hearts and minds giving their complete focus to the same thing.
Francesca paused where she was, suspended in midair.
Under the dark sky, the clocktower doors glided open with the ratcheting sound of an escapement clicking along gear teeth. Huge wheels turned in the tower—and the four beautiful female figures emerged to stare down at the imminent performance, as if they were Francesca’s most appreciative audience. The people caught their breath in awe, transfixed.
Keeping his gaze turned up toward the Angels, Owen drifted to the edge of the crowd. The four figures came forward and spread their wings, as if to diminish the small costume wings Francesca would reveal at the end of her performance.
While balanced on the rope, Francesca gave the Angels a deep, respectful bow and took gliding, even steps forward to cross the rope to the opposite platform, where she retrieved her trapeze, ready to begin her act.
While everyone’s gaze was turned upward, Owen spotted something out of the corner of his eye—furtive movement near Tomio’s wagon. Already sensitive to being where he should not be, Owen instantly became suspicious. He noticed small wooden barrels stacked against and beneath Tomio’s trailer. Out of place. Owen knew how protective Tomio was of his alchemical library in his wagon. Spare supplies were never stacked outside it. Ever. More troubling, the barrels were connected with wires to a mechanical striking gadget. On the opposite side, a shadowy figure was bent over, intent on attaching some strange device.
The man spun and looked up at him. A brown hooded cloak lay discarded on the ground near the wired barrels. He had covered the lower part of his face with some sort of filter mechanism, plugs in his nose, copper tubes extending to the breathing mask. Owen wondered if it was to keep himself from inhaling the giddy, suggestive smoke in the air. Owen could see only the man’s eyes—black coals, obsidian fire—a face of naked evil that turned his blood to ice.
“I know who you are!” Owen said.
In his tattooed hand, the Anarchist held a complex contraption, a set of braided pocketwatches, interconnected like Siamese twins, the hands of clocks set with winding screws and spinning gears.
Seeing the kegs, the wires, the detonator, Owen rushed forward. “Stop!”
He knew that what the Anarchist was doing now was far more dangerous than spraying treasonous graffiti or disrupting Crown City’s clocks. Those barrels were surely packed with explosives to create a bomb that would kill countless people crowded in the square for the solstice festival—including Francesca, Tomio, and all the others! It could also cause a chain reaction in the nexus of coldfire that simmered beneath Chronos Square.
The Anarchist had described such a scenario just before leaping aboard the rushing steamliner last night, but Owen couldn’t believe even a madman would cause such a disaster. Taking a step backward, the Anarchist adjusted the detonator.
Owen knew he had to save everyone—the whole crowd. No matter what happened, he could not let them come to harm!
The Anarchist actuated the device in his hand with a scritch, a smell of flint and steel. A liberated spark sustained across the poles set the clockface hands whirling, aligning.
High above and far away, the Clockwork Angels looked down at the crowd, captivating all of the spectators as Francesca started her act. They weren’t paying any attention to his struggle here. Owen yelled out an alarm, “Help! The Anarchist! He’s here!”
Even then, the Anarchist didn’t seem to panic; instead, he smiled. He tossed the dangerous device toward Owen—who, with the reflexes he’d developed as a juggler, instinctively caught it.
A companion device was mounted to the wired barrels, a sympathetic contraption with its own building arcs of lightning. While Owen stood by the wired barrels, struggling to disarm the detonator and save everyone, the Anarchist fled.
“Somebody, help!”
Fumbling with the device, Owen saw the clockwheels spinning, the secondhand whirling about, all the times converging. Not much time! He turned the winding screw, tried to pry off the crystal face, anything to stop the hands. The sustained lightning that arced across the poles burned his finger when he attempted to smother it.
With only seconds remaining, he smashed the crystal face against Tomio’s iron-shod wagon wheel. The watchface cracked, the back of the detonator popped off; gears and springs spilled out. The sparks died.
In response to his shouts, the crowd turned toward the disturbance, and Regulators marched forward in double time. Breathing hard, hoping he had stopped the explosion, Owen stood near the brown hooded cloak that lay on the ground. Relieved, he held out the smashed detonator. “Nothing to worry about,” he wheezed.
“The Anarchist!” someone in the crowd shouted. The Regulators surged toward Owen like a battering ram, and someone else took up the cry.
Owen looked at the detonator in his hand.
“Get the Anarchist!” someone yelled.
He realized they were talking about him.