Clockwork Destiny Read online

  Clockwork Destiny

  Kevin J. Anderson and Neil Peart

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Afterword: The Measure of a Life

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  Dedication

  To Neil, of course, with all the love and respect.

  Epigraph

  “Time is the true Anarchist.”

  —The Watchmaker

  Chapter 1

  The Watchmaker was dying, and nobody knew.

  In his office high above Chronos Square, the bookshelves groaned with the weight of thick, nearly identical volumes, each one a collector’s edition, but flawed. Only so much dead weight now.

  Synchronized clocks covered his walls, ticking a resonant lullaby, accompanied by the ratcheting click-clack of the big gears as the ponderous pendulum of the Watchtower’s great clock swung back and forth.

  “It is time for you to tell my story, Marinda Peake.” Though raspy, his voice carried the weight of authority. “For two-and-a-half centuries of my Stability, the hours have been ticking away.” Like a gear on an axle, the Watchmaker swiveled to face her with a serious expression. “Tick-tock.”

  Marinda studied the lines on his face, his sunken cheeks, the immense age and wisdom that shone through a hint of blue coldfire in his eyes. She sensed something different from the other times he had brought her into his office in the past.

  The Watchmaker stepped away from his crowded bookshelves and paced back and forth, back and forth, like one of his Regulators patrolling the streets of the city. “For so long I measured my life by the fear and respect I inspired. After a few lifetimes of contemplation, I wonder if honesty might be a better measurement.”

  As his guest—and she would never dare to refuse the Watchmaker’s summons—Marinda sat in an overstuffed, leather-upholstered chair that reminded her of a throne for readers. The first time she had come to his office, many years ago, young Marinda had been determined to learn the true history of her father, Arlen Peake. Now, decades later, the Watchmaker knew more about her, and perhaps he also felt awkward to realize the dangerous things Marinda knew about him.

  While other citizens of Albion would have been awestruck in his presence, Marinda was more sanguine. “After all this time, you want me to write your biography?” Such a daunting task should never have been put off for so long. She leaned forward in the chair, too old to waste time on timidness and tact. “You could have given me your complete story decades ago with a drop of blood in my volume of Clockwork Lives, but when I asked for it, you sent me away across the sea.” She paused, then added in an acerbic voice, “Maybe even the Watchmaker makes mistakes.”

  He said, “All is for the best.”

  Marinda had experienced many hard years, and time had taken its toll, but she wouldn’t have changed a moment of her life. Without a hint of rancor, she answered, “Yes, all is for the best.”

  And it was. Though some adventures had been difficult or nerve-racking at the time, they enriched her life. And she had found true love with Hender, her husband, who gave Marinda her happiest and most exciting years.

  She considered the task of being a biographer. “But Clockwork Lives is full now. I’ve compiled other stories over the years, but I was never able to recreate my father’s alchemical book. He took many of his secrets to his grave—most of them, in fact.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of the leather chair. “If I agree to chronicle your story, are you willing to tell the truth?”

  “Ah, the truth,” the Watchmaker mused. “The truth is indeed a vital part of any story.”

  After studying the volumes on his shelf, he plucked the last tome on the left and carried it over to Marinda’s seat. “This would be a good place to start: The Watchmaker’s Official Autobiography, the final edition from six months ago when I stopped revising them.”

  She made no move to take it. “Rubbish. If that’s the story you want to tell, then you don’t need my help. Why did you really bring me here?”

  The wall of clocks emitted a sing-song cacophony of dings, bells, and whistles that interrupted their conversation. A resounding chime rang out from the top of the tower.

  “It is 11:45 in the morning, Miss Marinda,” said the tinny voice of her mechanical companion, who stood beside the chair. “Would you like me to remind you at noon, so we can plan for lunch?”

  Marinda smiled at the endearing contraption that had been her comrade for so much of her life. Her father had invented three clockwork Regulators back in Lugtown, but only Zivo remained. Barely four feet tall, Zivo had a central casing for the coldfire motivator, steel limbs with pulleys and cables instead of muscles, and an oblong copper sphere for his head on which eyes had been painted. A screen mesh for a mouth emitted the artificial voice. Though he had previously worn a red uniform, now Zivo was dressed in an oft-patched Black Watch jacket and tricorne hat. A stubby toy sword hung at his side, though he had never had an opportunity to use it. The blade looked more like a letter opener than a deadly weapon. A tiny snort of steam came from his exhaust port as he waited for her answer.

  “That won’t be necessary, Zivo.” She glanced up at the ancient man who stood nearby. “The Watchmaker will provide everything we need.”

  With painstaking care, the Watchmaker bent down before the clockwork Regulator. “A deceptively simple yet marvelous device. I am amazed it still functions after all these decades. My own clockwork Dalmatian long ago wore down to a few gears, pulleys, and bits of fur. Ah, poor Martin . . .”

  “My father built the clockwork Regulators to last,” Marinda said, “but Zivo is cobbled together with parts from the other two. Woody and Lee both ran down years ago. Even combined, only the tiniest spark of quintessence remained, and it was barely enough to animate the one.”

  The Watchmaker straightened. “On your last visit to my tower—how many years ago was it?—I offered you the help of my best engineers to keep your mechanisms going.”

  “Oh, I did fine on my own. There’s a part of my father in me after all.” She felt defensive, then lowered her voice. “And I’ve learned t
hat there is a price to pay for the Watchmaker’s free benevolence.”

  He was not offended by her effrontery; rather he seemed to find it refreshing. “Indeed.”

  In her travels as she gathered stories, Marinda had crossed paths with the Watchmaker multiple times. She was an old woman now, and he carried more years than any other human being. He had always appeared ageless, but this time, he was actually showing signs of his immense age. The Watchmaker looked weary, partly cynical and partly used up.

  When she’d come into Crown City, called out of retirement, she had noticed unexpected flaws, the delays in steamliner traffic, the rundown buildings, the concerned expressions on people who had previously shown only confidence in the Stability.

  She learned that the loving Watchmaker had not made a formal appearance out in the city for at least a year, and the only official pronouncement he’d given was to tell the people that “all is for the best.” Even his Clockwork Angels, who would emerge from the top of the Watchtower so the crowds could behold them, had been silent for weeks.

  “Why do you want it written now?” she asked. “After all this time.”

  “Because it is important for the people to be prepared. They must realize that I am not permanent, nor am I infallible. Someday, they will have to live for themselves.”

  Though puzzled, Marinda respected him for admitting this. “The world seems to be a more uncertain place these days. I heard about the accident on the coast—a cargo steamer from Atlantis driven up on the rocks. Its hull split open, spilling volatile powders and chemicals into the sea, triggering runaway reactions. I hear there were explosions, colored smoke filling the sky. The ocean boiled red, and dozens died. A disaster.”

  The Watchmaker remained unruffled. “An occasional disaster makes us appreciate calm normality.”

  “Was it the Wreckers?” Marinda asked. “Have they returned to prey upon helpless cargo ships? Or was it the Anarchist?”

  He snorted. “The Wreckers are long gone, as is the Anarchist. Don’t ascribe to bad intent what can be explained by mere bad luck. All gears wear out. All clocks wind down.”

  The Watchmaker reshelved the thick volume of his official autobiography. “These previous stories are sanitized and exaggerated, to serve a purpose. But perhaps the greatest tale is, in fact, the real one, the whole story. There may not be much time.”

  “Not much time?” Shifting in the leather chair, she paid closer attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Have I done what I needed to do? Will the world go on without a Watchmaker? Has the Stability made them forget how to run their own lives? Tick-tock.”

  A heavy, unnatural silence crashed down in the office—a stutter of peculiar quiet behind the myriad ticking clocks on the wall. Marinda realized that the loud syncopating click-clack of the tower’s main clock had gone silent.

  A ripple of fear crossed the Watchmaker’s ancient face. “The clock,” he said under his breath. “My clock!”

  Moving with unexpected speed, he lurched to his back office doorway, which opened to a steep set of steps leading upward.

  Marinda pushed herself out of the leather chair, and she and Zivo hurried after him. Climbing to one landing after another, she felt the protestations of her muscles, but also the urgency. The mechanical man did his valiant best to clatter after her, steam rising from his enclosed boiler.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the cavernous gear room at the top of the tower, where the big steel wheels drove the clock hands. But the gears had seized up.

  From the apex of the tower, the pendulum hung down several stories to swing in perfect rhythm, hour after hour, year after year, no doubt century after century. And now it had gone still.

  Already clockkeeper experts in red overalls rushed into the gear chamber carrying toolboxes, monkey wrenches, heavy prybars, and delicate calipers. They spoke in low voices that held a rising tide of panic. Wielding their wrenches and levers, they pulled on the clockwork gears. One hammered on the iron catch, trying to disengage it from the gear tooth. A young man with a determined frown leaped onto the pendulum, using his full weight and momentum to nudge it into motion.

  When the red-suited workers saw that the Watchmaker had arrived, another wash of alarm crossed their expressions. But he didn’t yell, did not ask for explanations, simply said, “Fix it.”

  Across the room, Marinda saw four closed alcoves that faced out onto Chronos Square, two on each side of the great clock face. She knew they held the towering white Angels, sealed away now. Her father had been locked in this tower room, forced to work for the Watchmaker, trying to fix them. . . .

  With a clatter of rhythmic footsteps, Zivo finally reached the gear chamber and stood at attention. “May I help, Miss Marinda? I have an understanding of gears.”

  “This is beyond either of us, Zivo.”

  From outside in the square below came a rising murmur of unease as the crowds realized that the clock had stopped.

  A mustachioed clockkeeper shoved against the pendulum and the youth who dangled from the stem, his arms and legs wrapped around it. Together, they threw more weight into the effort, and finally the seized gears began to groan and turn. The pendulum reached the end of its arc with the boy riding it, then swung back. The iron catch released to let the gear turn, then clamped down on the next tooth, advancing time by one more second.

  Unable to hold on any longer, the young man sprang from the pendulum stem and landed on the floorboards. The crew of clockkeepers were giddy with relief, but terrified.

  The Watchmaker remained stern, but he did not respond with anger. “When the clock stopped, we lost several minutes. Time once lost can’t be regained.”

  The eager boy stood before him, his face flushed. “I’m nimble enough, Mr. Watchmaker, sir. I’ll climb out onto the clock face. I can adjust the big hand, pull it into place.”

  A distant smile came to the Watchmaker’s papery lips, and the glow brightened behind his eyes. “You have all the time in the world, young man. Go correct the error and get us those few minutes back.”

  The boy sprang to the access window just behind the enormous clock face. Taking no rope and no tools, he scrambled out onto the big round face. Keeping a precarious balance with the toes of his shoes on the prominent numbers, he was able to reach the long hands that stood so close to noon.

  Marinda observed the boy’s silhouette from behind the colored clock face and marveled at his liveliness. From her perspective, it was a strange shadow-puppet show, and she feared the young man would fall at any moment. He reached the minute hand, wrapped his hands around it, and pushed with all his might as he kept his balance. He tugged, strained, and finally the clock hand moved. Time was reset.

  The boy scrambled back down the now-moving hands and swung himself into the gear chamber. “All is in order now, sir.” He seemed unaware of the peril he had just faced, young enough to think he was immortal.

  “Yes, thanks to you.” The Watchmaker gave him a paternal smile. “All is for the best.”

  The boy looked as if he had just received a chest full of the Watchmaker’s gold.

  The ancient man turned about to face Marinda. “We cannot so easily buy back time, though. Follow me, Marinda Peake. I have more for you to do, an interim task.”

  After they returned to his office, the Watchmaker seemed to become a different person, as if the gears of life inside him had reset themselves.

  Shaken by the unexpected breakdown of the legendary clock, Marinda asked, “What is it you need from me, sir?”

  “I learned much from my destiny calculators, and we are running out of time. Tick-tock. This is the real reason I called you here.”

  He took a seat behind his large desk. “The greatest treasure, the greatest weapon, and the greatest hope may come from the most unlikely of places.” He folded his hands together. “Before you begin my biogr
aphy, I need you to go to the carnie camp. I have sent numerous messages but received no response at all, and if I dispatched an army of my Regulators, that would entirely defeat the purpose. But you have a different rapport, Marinda Peake. You can speak to him, convince him to come.”

  Marinda was puzzled. “Who?”

  The Watchmaker had a strangely urgent look in his eyes. “Find Owen Hardy—and bring him here.”

  Chapter 2

  “I’m not napping—I’m dreaming,” Owen said, cracking open one eye. “And dreaming is hard work with important consequences.”

  He saw the woman of his dreams in the afternoon sunshine, so he decided he might as well be awake. He lay on the soft grass, with his head propped against the trunk of an apple tree, and nibbled a blade of grass. Francesca stood over him, resilient like a willow tree. Her long raven hair, bound by a red scarf, was more steel gray than black now, but she still looked as beautiful to him as when he’d first met her nearly fifty years ago.

  “Maybe you should start dreaming about getting those pumpkins to the cottage. We have preparations to make.” She could not hide her smile. “The carnival is due to come home today.”

  “As I well know.” He pulled the grass blade out of his mouth and sprang to his feet to remind himself—and more importantly to remind Francesca—that he was much too limber to be old. He swept her up in a kiss, which she reciprocated, while expertly maneuvering him toward the pumpkins she had cut from the dying vines.

  The corn had been harvested, and the shocks stood dry and brown like half-folded tents. The apple orchard was picked clean, bushel after bushel, and the apples sat in the cool, dark cider house for pressing. Running the cider press was hard work, but Owen found it gratifying, a heady activity that produced as much nostalgia as it did juice.

  Back when he was a young man in the quiet village of Barrel Arbor, Owen Hardy had worked as assistant apple orchard manager . . . before he’d hopped on a steamliner long after midnight, fallen in with the mysterious Anarchist, met the Watchmaker, joined the Magnusson Carnival Extravaganza, and found the lovely Francesca. Owen lived and relived those adventures every day.