Clockwork Angels: The Novel (19 page)

The Watchmaker entered the well-lit analysis halls with more than curiosity; he suspected that the fate of the world might be at stake, thanks to the interactions of seemingly trivial people.

For many days now he had set his destiny calculators to work— sealed, energized engines that scanned and calculated timelines, like cosmic clocks that could be set forward in time to capture glimpses of the future. If properly aligned, with the compass needle set, the destiny calculators were alchemical crystal balls that could predict—with fair accuracy—what a target person would do.

The Watchmaker followed the blueprint of a person’s life, a complex decision-tree diagram that extended the length of the hall and around the corner. He followed the branch points, each intersection marking a choice that led to other choices in a widening cascade. The stagger-path mapped out possibilities, decisions made and not made, like the chemical reactions of fate.

The Watchmaker had been keeping his eye on one young man. At the beginning, his pattern had been perfectly regular, just like everyone else’s, until several months ago, when suddenly the branch points shattered in surprising directions, like the crystalline angles of a snowflake.

From his destiny calculators, the Watchmaker knew that was the point at which the Anarchist had decided to recruit the young man. Owen Hardy from Barrel Arbor. A nobody, a common villager, a human grain of sand on a vast beach; he had merited no special attention whatsoever, but was made significant because the Anarchist had noticed him.

And so the Watchmaker had to notice the young man as well, so he could tug him in the opposite direction with subtle grandiosity. Not only would he steal back Owen Hardy’s loyalty and contentment, as it should be, he would also impose a devastating symbolic defeat on his rival. With his destiny calculators, the Watchmaker could plan every tiny event in detail, forward and backward, decision and consequence, first order, second order, third order.

The Anarchist had no such powerful tool; he had only
unpredictability
. And the Watchmaker vowed that would not be enough.

That impulsively chosen young man, Owen Hardy, could be a key to continued Stability, or a horrific reign of chaos and disorder. The young man’s decisions could make him important in different ways, depending on his choices.

Owen Hardy was such a tiny speck of dust that none of the Watchmaker’s Regulators, analysts, or calculating experts understood how he could possibly be important.

Even a pebble could disrupt the most delicate gears.

He walked down the hall, paying careful attention to the geometrical river of branchpoints. He followed Owen Hardy’s journey, tracing the path with his eyes, until he reached the current end, the decision point the young man faced now: either to go home to his calm and stable life in Barrel Arbor, or to sneak back into Crown City and see the carnival again.

He touched his finger to the vertex on the wall, the possible paths Owen could take, but he knew exactly which direction the young man would choose. With his fingertip, he erased the alternate decision point and stood back to assess the young man’s future.

Of course, Owen would choose to see the carnival again.

O
wen 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?

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 her, 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 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.