God of Clocks

yet Rachel could see little in this darkness except for a single shaft of light that fell upon a circular table fifty paces ahead. From all around came the sound of ticking, whirring clocks-the thunk-thunk of heavy cogs, tinny metallic chimes, and the dull brassy peals of larger bells. Underlying this orchestra Rachel could just discern a faint hissing sound, like trickling sand.

Her future self stood waiting beside the god of clocks. Sabor was grey-haired and grey-winged and clad in a suit of dull chain that lent him an air of stiff authority. He frowned at the table before him and did not look up as the three newcomers approached. Then he reached under the table and tugged at some unseen mechanism.

Rachel heard a clunk.

“Garstone,” the god of clocks called out, “please refocus lens number six hundred and twenty-three on level ninety-two-the Buttercup Suite should now be situated seventeen minutes ago, but something seems to be causing a distortion. Did you clean the window glass in there, Garstone? Did you check the timelock lens seals?”

Out of the darkness overhead replied a chorus of many droll voices. “The windows are pristine, sir… One of me shall attend to the lens seals forthwith… However, I fear it is already too late… The Buttercup Suite is about to end its current cycle.” The hidden speakers had uttered their words in complete harmony.

Iron Head began, “Greetings, Sabor. Here-”

“A moment, please, Reed,” Sabor cut in. He withdrew a book from under the table, thumbed through it quickly, and then called out again in a raised voice, “Wait until the suite completes its cycle before you change the seals, Garstone. It's due to slip backwards nine weeks, three days, ten hours and…” He turned the page. “… three minutes. That's night time.”

“Yes, sir,” the voices called down.

Sabor closed the book, and returned his attention to the circular tabletop.

As Rachel drew nearer, she could see the object of the god's scrutiny more clearly. The table was actually a shallow basin made of white ceramic, and upon its smooth surface moved tiny figures. The god of clocks was studying a moving image: a bird's-eye view of streets and houses all wreathed in smoke.

A camera obscura?

Rachel had heard rumours of such devices. In theory they were simple to construct. A series of lenses and mirrors, set high upon a tall building, projected an image of their surroundings down into a darkened room.

Sabor glanced up at the newcomers. His gaze settled on Iron Head, and he called up into the darkness. “Your brother Reed is here, Garstone. No doubt he wishes to speak to you.”

“I am aware of that, sir,” replied the many voices. “One of me will attend to him.”

“There's really no need, Eli,” Iron Head replied. “I can see you're busy.”

“One of me always has time for you, brother,” the multiplicious speakers replied. A pause followed, and then a single voice said, “I'll be down forthwith.”

The captain grimaced.

Rachel gazed down in wonder at the ceramic depression. The image there was warped and blurred in places, yet she recognized the scene instantly.

Burntwater.

Fire consumed the entire wharfside, sending billowing mountains of black smoke into the air. The neighbourhood beyond lay smothered in dust, but she could see that it had been completely destroyed. Here and there, a few smaller, isolated fires had taken hold. The remains of hundreds of buildings lay open to the sky, their roofs staved in and their walls smashed apart. Piles of rubble clogged every street. But there was no sign of Dill, or the other giant automatons. The settlement was utterly deserted.

“Where's Dill?” Rachel asked, grabbing the edge of the table.

Sabor made an adjustment to some hidden mechanism beneath the table. Rachel heard wheels turning. The projected image gave a sudden lurch, and then scrolled rapidly across the tabletop. Rachel caught a glimpse of the shore flying past her fingers before the view moved out over the lake. For several heartbeats she saw nothing but water, but then the image settled again on the opposite shore-this side of the Flower Lake. Rachel's breath caught in her throat.

An arconite was dragging itself out of the water and up into the forest beyond. Rachel's heart screamed at her that this wasn't Dill, that it couldn't be him-that it had to be one of Menoa's angels. But her head told her that this wretched thing was indeed her friend. His wings and armoured back plate had been ripped off, exposing his naked spine to the sky. The shattered vertebrae trailed behind his neck like a broken chain, barely held together by a tangled assortment of pipes. One of his legs was missing entirely; the other ended at the knee. His left arm had been crushed in three places and flailed pathetically in the muddy shore behind him. His jaw was gone, and his skull had been smashed open, revealing the machinery and gleaming crystals within. Chemical blood leaked from the engine in his chest and stained the waters black.

But he was still alive.

With his one good arm, Dill pulled his broken body further into the trees above the waterline.

Seventeen minutes ago?

The image vanished, leaving nothing but the plain white surface.

“What happened?” Rachel cried. “Get it back.”

Sabor raised his head and yelled up into the darkness above. “Garstone?”

“As I feared, sir,” came the chorus in reply. “The room's cycle has now finished. It is currently recharging.”

The god of clocks nodded. He glanced at Rachel and then at her future self. “That particular view has ceased to be.”

“This happened seventeen minutes ago?” Rachel said. “But that means Dill is down there now. We have to go back.” She spun to face the Burntwater captain. “Iron Head, I need your help.”

“Wait,” Sabor said.

Rachel stopped.

“There isn't time,” Sabor went on. “The suite that returns you to this morning will complete its own cycle shortly. You must go back now or lose this opportunity.”

“No.” She turned to go.

“Light the lamps,” Sabor yelled.

Far overhead a light flickered and brightened, immediately followed by another, and yet another. In moments the whole chamber became illuminated.

Rachel felt suddenly giddy.

The interior of the castle resembled a twisted cylinder or vortex, much like the spiraling body of a whirlwind. It consisted of hundreds of levels, each with a multitude of inward-facing doors set around its circular gallery. Stairs of curlicue metalwork connected one level to the next, all canted to follow the crooked walls. The towering room terminated far overhead in a glass hemisphere, from the center of which descended a complex optical array of interconnected brass tubes, mirrors, lenses, and cogs. Rising above their heads, its burnished metal columns formed a towering spine in the center of the room, from which many more links extended sideways to disappear into the surrounding walls. This queer arrangement of glass and metal occupied most of the space between the galleries. The image of Dill had issued from its lowest tube, suspended mere yards above Sabor's viewing table.

The god of clocks straightened. “Please forgive my discourtesy, but we simply do not have time for arguments or discussion. Miss Hael,” he inclined his head towards Rachel, “you must go back to the past, in order that the rest of us might deal with the issue of your giant friend. If you refuse, and choose instead to leave my castle now, you will endanger all that we have achieved, and will subsequently achieve.”

Rachel glanced over at her other self, and was startled to see the fear in the woman's eyes. Her twin caught Rachel's inquiring look and said, “Just listen to him.”

“She's right,” Mina said. “Rachel, we'll look after Dill.”

“I can't just leave him,” Rachel said.

“You aren't leaving him,” her future self said. “I'm here, and I'm you. For the gods' sake, just go and let us do this.”

“Go where?”

“This way.” Sabor beckoned her over to the nearest staircase. “Hurry-I'll explain as we go.”

Rachel glanced at Mina, who nodded.