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Authors: Kevin J. & Peart Anderson
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the ground with barely a hair out of place. She landed in front of Owen, who could do nothing more than gasp while the rest of the crowd applauded.
With a flourish and a secretive smile, Francesca removed the rose from her mouth and extended it to him. He didn’t know what to say. His hands trembled as he took it, and she rewarded him with a bright burst of laughter, then bounded off, leaving his whole world out of balance.
Owen was so stunned that he didn’t notice the hush that rippled through the crowd. A troop of Regulators, twelve men with perfect tricorn hats and crisp blue uniforms, marched past the game booths, issuing orders to shut down the carnival.
The Blue Watch marched to where César Magnusson stood with his top hat and tails, straight-backed, not looking at all intimidated. “How may I help you gentlemen?” He stroked his long mustache.
“Irregularities were found in your permit,” said the lead Regulator. “Your allotted performance date has expired. By decree of the Watchmaker, you must shut down these operations and remove all items by sundown. You may reapply for a proper performance permit in twenty-four hours.” The Regulator reached into his buttoned jacket and withdrew a citation slip, which he presented to the ringmaster.
Magnusson accepted the paper without protest, took off his top hat, and bowed. “We shall do as the Watchmaker wishes. All is for the best.”
INTERLUDE
The Watchmaker
While our loving Watchmaker loves us all to death
T he Watchmaker sat in the highest clocktower in the land of Albion and contemplated the universe.
His chalkboards were covered with equations; worktables held blueprints with precise drawings of how the world should be ordered. In more than a century of Stability (he no longer let the people know exactly how many years it had been), he had accomplished much, but so much more remained to be done. The world was such a large and chaotic place.
His adept engineers and physicists understood cause and effect, the epiphany of straight lines and perfect circles. His alchemistpriests, once considered magicians, understood the clockwork interaction of atoms and elements. But to him, the Watchmaker, fell the greatest responsibility: he was the prime mover, the gear that turned all gears, the precision spring that saved the scattered and inefficient populace of Albion from debilitating disorder.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He pulled the chair close to his desk with its neatly stacked papers, his ruler and compass, his many-keyed adding engine. From here, he could hear the relentless mechanism of the tower’s huge timepiece, brute-force gears that beat time into submission. The loud ticking provided a rhythm as comforting as a heartbeat, and without variation. Though the Watchmaker’s own pulse might quicken when he thought of a new idea or when he learned news of yet another disruption caused by the Anarchist, the tower’s great clock maintained its perfect tempo. It helped him concentrate.
The Watchmaker was a clean-shaven man with a face full of years that even his own rejuvenation treatments could not erase; the barber came in at precisely 7:30 a.m. every day. His gray hair was cut to what he deemed to be the perfect length. His nails were clipped once a week, manicured exactly even.
At precisely 10:00 a.m., his assistant brought in a tray and poured him a cup of hot tea. The Watchmaker pressed a dipper into a honeycomb in a bowl beside the tea set, then dripped exactly the right amount of golden syrup into his tea. Two complete circle stirs with the silver spoon, and the cup was perfect.
He hated to disrupt the perfect hexagonal wax in the honeycomb, but it was a necessary bit of disorder. The angles, the interlocking chambers in the comb, a natural geometrical perfection rarely seen; it fascinated him. Bees innately understood order, the perfection of geometry. If only people could so instinctively learn the lesson of lowly
With a flourish and a secretive smile, Francesca removed the rose from her mouth and extended it to him. He didn’t know what to say. His hands trembled as he took it, and she rewarded him with a bright burst of laughter, then bounded off, leaving his whole world out of balance.
Owen was so stunned that he didn’t notice the hush that rippled through the crowd. A troop of Regulators, twelve men with perfect tricorn hats and crisp blue uniforms, marched past the game booths, issuing orders to shut down the carnival.
The Blue Watch marched to where César Magnusson stood with his top hat and tails, straight-backed, not looking at all intimidated. “How may I help you gentlemen?” He stroked his long mustache.
“Irregularities were found in your permit,” said the lead Regulator. “Your allotted performance date has expired. By decree of the Watchmaker, you must shut down these operations and remove all items by sundown. You may reapply for a proper performance permit in twenty-four hours.” The Regulator reached into his buttoned jacket and withdrew a citation slip, which he presented to the ringmaster.
Magnusson accepted the paper without protest, took off his top hat, and bowed. “We shall do as the Watchmaker wishes. All is for the best.”
INTERLUDE
The Watchmaker
While our loving Watchmaker loves us all to death
T he Watchmaker sat in the highest clocktower in the land of Albion and contemplated the universe.
His chalkboards were covered with equations; worktables held blueprints with precise drawings of how the world should be ordered. In more than a century of Stability (he no longer let the people know exactly how many years it had been), he had accomplished much, but so much more remained to be done. The world was such a large and chaotic place.
His adept engineers and physicists understood cause and effect, the epiphany of straight lines and perfect circles. His alchemistpriests, once considered magicians, understood the clockwork interaction of atoms and elements. But to him, the Watchmaker, fell the greatest responsibility: he was the prime mover, the gear that turned all gears, the precision spring that saved the scattered and inefficient populace of Albion from debilitating disorder.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He pulled the chair close to his desk with its neatly stacked papers, his ruler and compass, his many-keyed adding engine. From here, he could hear the relentless mechanism of the tower’s huge timepiece, brute-force gears that beat time into submission. The loud ticking provided a rhythm as comforting as a heartbeat, and without variation. Though the Watchmaker’s own pulse might quicken when he thought of a new idea or when he learned news of yet another disruption caused by the Anarchist, the tower’s great clock maintained its perfect tempo. It helped him concentrate.
The Watchmaker was a clean-shaven man with a face full of years that even his own rejuvenation treatments could not erase; the barber came in at precisely 7:30 a.m. every day. His gray hair was cut to what he deemed to be the perfect length. His nails were clipped once a week, manicured exactly even.
At precisely 10:00 a.m., his assistant brought in a tray and poured him a cup of hot tea. The Watchmaker pressed a dipper into a honeycomb in a bowl beside the tea set, then dripped exactly the right amount of golden syrup into his tea. Two complete circle stirs with the silver spoon, and the cup was perfect.
He hated to disrupt the perfect hexagonal wax in the honeycomb, but it was a necessary bit of disorder. The angles, the interlocking chambers in the comb, a natural geometrical perfection rarely seen; it fascinated him. Bees innately understood order, the perfection of geometry. If only people could so instinctively learn the lesson of lowly
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