The vacillating man was still lining up for his roquet. His ball was now slightly submerged in the turf, having been tentatively stood on so many times. “Allow me,” said Cabal cheerfully, and took his mallet. The man immediately shied away, protecting his head. Cabal reached down and drew a croquet hoop from the ground. “You weren’t using these, were you?” he said, and walked off.
En route for the faux-Oriental gazebo, he snagged and pulled down a length of vine from a statue of a man in a toga looking thoughtful. At the gazebo, he reached over the young man’s fitful game of shove ha’penny and took one of the brass discs. On closer inspection, he realised that they were indeed meant to be halfpennies but looked unfinished. Somehow rushed. On the way out, he passed the architect.
“You’ve got my cup,” he protested. An edge that might have been returning intelligence glimmered in his voice. He was sounding dimly peeved.
“You’ve got a poor eye for detail,” replied Cabal, showing him the disc. “And here” — he showed the architect one of the ivy leaves — “no veins. Very poor, could do better.”
“It’s not easy, you know. Remembering all these details.”
“I didn’t say it was. But if a job’s worth doing — ”
“You pompous prick.” The architect threw the saucer down and glared at Cabal.
“It’s worth doing well,” grated Cabal. “Look around you. We’re all here because you made the simplest and most ridiculous mistake. No exit. I believe you made another simple and ridiculous error. I need your cup to prove my hypothesis and, incidentally, get us all out of here. Now, are you going to help or just stand there insulting me?”
“Help? Help how?” the architect asked. His curiosity was outrunning his rancour. Currently, he was curious as to why Cabal was lashing the teacup to the end of the croquet mallet’s handle with the ivy.
“Mainly by staying out of my way,” said Cabal. He finished tying the cup in place and then started trying to balance the mallet on the edge of his hand. After a few adjustments, he had it seesawing sedately in place. “Look like the centre of gravity to you? It does to me.” Marking the place with his thumb, he started to hack at the wood with the edge of the disc. To his dismay, the wood started to re-form slowly. Apparently, it wasn’t only the animate that had immortality here. “Nothing for it. I don’t need this to function long; I’ll cut a new notch just before I need it.”
Cabal stepped outside the gazebo and looked up into the sky. The rain showed no sign of changing in intensity. “Perfect,” he said out loud. He placed the croquet hoop against a vertical strut at head height and was about to hammer it home with the mallet when he realised that it had the teacup at the other end. “Damnation!” he swore. “I should have done that penultimately. Getting difficult to plan ahead. You!” He pointed at one of the croquet players. “Give me your mallet!”
The woman looked at him uncomprehendingly. “You’ve already got his,” she said, indicating the vacillating man.
In a few long strides, Cabal was standing before her. He tore the mallet from her grasp. “And now I’ve got yours.”
He was gathering a small crowd as he hammered the hoop into the gazebo’s doorframe. He relocated the mallet, ivy, and cup assembly’s balancing point and feverishly started to hack a notch into the handle there. His ability to forward-plan was being eroded as his sense of time evaporated, he could feel it. He also had an unpleasant feeling that if this experiment failed, the jig would be up with him. He could look forward to an eternity of repetitive actions, just like everybody else here. In fact, he could forget about the luxury of being able to look forward at all.
The notch was cut. Its ragged edges were already starting to smooth as he settled it onto the wire of the loop. The strange construction wavered gently and settled. “I want my mallet,” said the vacillating man, and stepped forward to take it. The architect pushed him away.
“Idiot!” he barked. “Can’t you see what it is?” He glared at the vacant faces. “God’s teeth, it’s a water clock! Don’t you see?” He looked cautiously in the china teacup, anxious not to disturb it. The trickling run-off draining from the gazebo roof was quickly filling it. “Time,” he spoke reverentially. “We have time.”
As the cup filled, the arm of the mallet bearing it dipped slowly, but gathered speed as the centre of gravity moved over the fulcrum. Abruptly it dipped low, and the contents of the cup spilled out. “One Cabal Chronal Unit,” intoned Cabal. The cup swung up again and started to refill.
Somewhere in the causal clockwork of the little universe, a pendulum — long still — began swinging.
“Do you think it will work?” asked the architect.
“It already is,” replied Cabal. It was true: the light was beginning to change as the clouds scurried across the sky. “You know, I think we may be in for some fine weather.”
“The sun!” exclaimed the architect, laughing. “The sun!”
They walked to the sundial. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle illuminated by shafts of sunshine breaking through the clouds. They waited until the dial was caught in light.
The architect leaned low and examined the plate where the gnomon’s shadow fell. “It’s about three o’clock,” he said. Then to Cabal he said, smiling, “Just about time for tea.”
Cabal said nothing but smoothed the raindrops from the writing on the edge of the plate. The disturbed metal had resolved itself, inevitably, into the word “FUGIT.”
“Time will be …” the architect started to say, but Cabal stopped him.
“Time is …” he corrected.
Time was when people thought they could stand against us!” roared Rufus.
“Hurrah!” exulted the Maleficarian Army, who were nothing if not uncritical.
“That time has passed! See how our enemies are consigned to oblivion!” He gestured to Cabal’s gladstone bag, still lying where he had put it down to blow his nose. Of Cabal himself there was no sign. The army had been very impressed when Rufus had made Cabal vanish like that. “See how resistance crumbles before us! This very day, that town down there will be ours!”
“Huzzah!” This was great. A popcorn vendor could have made a fortune.
“And soon this country! This continent! The wor — ”
“Oooooh!” chorused the army, looking straight past him at Cabal’s bag. Some of the more proactive pointed. Rufus cast a cursory glance over his shoulder and committed a gross double take that made his plus fours flap in disbelief. Cabal was back. Oddly, in the thirty seconds he’d been gone he seemed to have been caught in a shower, although there wasn’t a rain cloud in the sky. He brushed himself down, took his hat off, combed his fingers through his hair, and replaced the hat.
“Hello, Rufus. You’re probably surprised to see me.”
“But… but I … I consigned you …”
“To oblivion. Yes, well, I didn’t have time for it. Although, in a sense, yes, I did.” And he smiled one of his smiles. Several of the more nervous Maleficarian soldiers whinnied with trepidation. “All of which is by the by. As I was saying, that town belongs to me, Rufus. Continue at your peril.”
“You have tasted the least of my power once, Cabal! Prepare to suffer its full fury!” Once more Rufus tilted his head, placed his fingers on his temples, and started to chant under his breath.
“I must admit, that translocation caught me unawares. You’re not a very impressive warlock, but you have your moments. Thus” — Cabal picked up his gladstone bag and opened it — “I’m not prepared to take any more risks with you.”
Rufus ignored him, muttering in the lost tongue of a pre-human civilisation that had worked great sorcerous happenings yet had never invented the vowel. Cabal continued talking as he fished around in his bag.
“Your problem, Rufus Maleficarus, is that you never understood why magic was superseded by science. If you listen to the sad old wizards up in their keeps and the witches in the dales, you might believe it had something to do with the passing of the Seelie and the Unseelie from our world. Or the dust-sheet of cynicism settling on our hearts and driving out the wonder. Or children refusing to say that they believe in fairies. Poppycock. I’ll tell you why. Convenience. I only practise necromantics because there’s no other way of doing it. But when it comes to applied sciences, technologies, any spotty Herbert with a degree and a lab coat can perform greater wonders than Merlin.”
Rufus was working himself into a frenzy. The summation of his hexing could only be seconds away. Still Cabal seemed unconcerned.
