The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 21

"Uncommon low. Why, feel how the river's current bears us along, hastening to the sea."

"Why does the tide rush out to sea?"

"The influence of the sun and the moon."

"Yet you and I cannot see the sun or or the moon. The water does not have senses to see, or a will to follow them. How then do the sun and moon, so far away, affect the water?" the moon. The water does not have senses to see, or a will to follow them. How then do the sun and moon, so far away, affect the water?"

"Gravity," responded Colonel Barnes, lowering his voice like a priest intoning the name of G.o.d, and glancing about to see whether Sir Isaac Newton were in earshot.

"That's what everyone says now. 'Twas not so when I was a lad. We used to parrot Aristotle and say it was in the nature of water to be drawn up by the moon. Now, thanks to our fellow-pa.s.senger, we say 'gravity.' It seems a great improvement. But is it really? Do you understand understand the tides, Colonel Barnes, simply because you know to say 'gravity'?" the tides, Colonel Barnes, simply because you know to say 'gravity'?"

"I've never claimed to understand understand them." them."

"Ah, that is very wise practice."

"All that matters is, he he does," Barnes continued, glancing down, as if he could see through the deck-planks. does," Barnes continued, glancing down, as if he could see through the deck-planks.

"Does he then?"

"That's what you lot have been telling everyone."

"Meaning the Royal Society?"

Barnes nodded. He was eyeing Daniel with some alarm. Daniel, cruelly, said nothing, and let Barnes simmer until he could stand it no more, and continued, "Sir Isaac's working on Volume the Third, isn't he, and that's going to settle the lunar problem. Wrap it all up."

"He is working out equations equations that ought to agree with Mr. Flamsteed's that ought to agree with Mr. Flamsteed's observations. observations."

"From which it would follow that Gravity's a solved problem; and if Gravity predicts what the moon does, why, it should apply as well to the slos.h.i.+ng back and forth of the water in the oceans."

"But is to describe describe something to something to understand understand it?" it?"

"I should think it were a good first step."

"Yes. And it is a step that Sir Isaac has taken. The question now becomes, who shall take the second step?"

"You mean, is it to be he or Leibniz?"

"Yes."

"Leibniz has not done any work with Gravity, has he?"

"You mean, it seems obvious that Sir Isaac, having taken the first step, should be better positioned to take the second."

"Yes."

"One would certainly think so," Daniel said sympathetically. "On the other hand, sometimes he who goes first wanders into a cul-de-sac, and is pa.s.sed by."

"How can his theory be a cul-de-sac if it describes everything perfectly?"

"You heard him, a short time ago, expressing concern about Leibniz," Daniel pointed out.

"Because Leibniz has Sophie's ear! Not because Leibniz is the better philosopher."

"I beg your pardon, Colonel Barnes, but I have known Sir Isaac since we were students, and I say to you, he does not strain at gnats. When he is at such pains to gird for battle, you may be sure that his foe is a t.i.tan."

"What weapon could Leibniz possibly have that would do injury to Sir Isaac?"

"To begin with, a refusal to be over-awed, and a willingness, not shared at this time by any Englishman, to ask awkward questions."

"What sort of awkward questions?"

"Such as I've already asked: how does the water know where the moon is? How can it perceive the Moon through the entire thickness of the Earth?"

"Gravity goes through the earth, like light through a pane of gla.s.s."

"And what form does Gravity take, that gives it this astonis.h.i.+ng power of streaming through the solid earth?"

"I've no idea."

"Neither does Sir Isaac."

Barnes was stopped in his tracks for a few moments. "Does Leibniz?"

"Leibniz has a completely different way of thinking about it, so different as to seem perverse to some. It has the great advantage that it avoids having to talk rubbish about Gravity streaming through Earth like light through gla.s.s."

"Then it must have as great disadvantages, or else he, and not Sir Isaac, would be the world's foremost Natural Philosopher."

"Perhaps he is is, and no one knows it," Daniel said. "But you are right. Leibniz's philosophy has the disadvantage that no one knows, yet, how to express it mathematically. And so he cannot predict tides and eclipses, as Sir Isaac can."

"Then what good is Leibniz's philosophy?"

"It might be the truth," Daniel answered.

Cold Harbour THE SAME AFTERNOON.

THE T TOWER MIGHT HAVE ENDURED forever with very little upkeep, had it not been for a nasty infestation of humans. From a janitorial standpoint, the problem with this particular race was not that they were forever with very little upkeep, had it not been for a nasty infestation of humans. From a janitorial standpoint, the problem with this particular race was not that they were de- de-, but avidly con con-structive, and would on no account leave off bringing new building-stuff in through the all-too-numerous gates, and fas.h.i.+oning them into shelters. Left to the elements, such improvisations would break down naturally in decades or centuries, leaving the Tower as G.o.d and the Normans had intended it to be. But the difficulty with a human was that where he found a shelter he would occupy it, and when it broke, fix it, and if not prevented, build annexes onto it. To the management of the Tower, it was less an infestation of termites than a plague of mud-daubing wasps.

Every time the Constable brought in a surveyor, and compared his work to the plan his predecessor had drawn up some decades before, he would discover new nests that had insensibly grown in the corners, as dust-b.a.l.l.s under a bed. If he went to eject the people who lived in them, so that he could tear them down, he would be confronted with doc.u.ments and precedents, showing that those people were not squatters but tenants, and that they'd been paying rent for decades to some other other squatter-c.u.m- squatter-c.u.m- tenant, who in turn paid rent or performed necessary services for some Corporation or Office or other sui generis sui generis queer ancient Ent.i.ty that claimed long standing or warrant Royal. queer ancient Ent.i.ty that claimed long standing or warrant Royal.

Short of a concerted arson campaign, the only brake on this infestation was a lack of s.p.a.ce within the walls that circ.u.mscribed the hive. It came down, then, to a question of how much crowding human beings could endure. The answer: not as much as wasps, but still rather a lot. In fact, there was a certain type of human who thrived on it, and those types gravitated naturally to London.

Dart the Barber lived in a garret above a storehouse in Cold Harbour. Most of the year, Cold Harbour was cold without a doubt. To Dart and his roommates-Pete the Sutler and Tom the Boot-black-it was also a sort of metaphorical harbour. But beyond that the name made no sense at all. It was nowhere near the water, and performed no harbour-like functions. Cold Harbour was a patch of turf and a few storehouses in the middle of Tower Green, just off the southwest corner of the ancient Conqueror's keep called the White Tower.

A wee hole had been worried through the wattle near the vertex of the gable, just large enough to admit a pigeon, vent smoke from a rush-light, or frame a man's face. At the moment it was giving Dart a sort of dove's-eye-view of the Parade. Accounting for about half of the Inner Ward, the Parade was the largest open s.p.a.ce in the Tower. A well-tended patch of English turf it was. But it was scarred, below Dart, with ridges of rain-worn stone: the exposed foundations of walls that had been thrown down, aeons ago, by long-dead Constables. For perhaps the only thing that could stir a Constable to use force against the gnawing accretion of sheds, annexes, pop-outs, &c., was the combined awareness of (a) his own mortality and (b) the fact that there was no place left in the Tower complex to dig his grave. At any rate, there was evidence here that Cold Harbour had once been a bigger thing than it was now. From ground level, these ruins were a meaningless maze of tripping-hazards. From Dart's privileged viewpoint they could be made out as a page of rectilinear glyphs stroked in gray and yellow paint on green baize.

If Dart had been as keenly interested in the several centuries just past as he was in the several hours just beginning, he could have decyphered that gra.s.sy palimpsest to tell a tale about the fortifications of the Inmost Ward, and how they had changed over time, from a picket to keep out die-hard Angles, to the innermost of half a dozen lines of circ.u.mvallation, to a security checkpoint for a royal palace, to an outmoded slum, to a tripping-hazard. The part where Dart dwelt had only been suffered to remain standing because it was easily made over into storehouses.

And if Dart were one for profound introspection he might ponder the queerness of his circ.u.mstance: he (an illiterate barber), a sutler, and a Black-guard (as boys who polished boots were called) sharing an apartment twenty paces distant from William the Conqueror's chief Fort.

However none of these thoughts came to him, or even came near near him, as he peered out through the gable-vent on the afternoon in question, heaving ruby-colored blood up from his lungs onto a crusty brown rag. Dart was living for the moment. him, as he peered out through the gable-vent on the afternoon in question, heaving ruby-colored blood up from his lungs onto a crusty brown rag. Dart was living for the moment.

The Parade stretched an hundred paces from east (the line of barracks huddled along the footing of the White Tower) to west (a wee street of warders' houses backed against the west wall). A hundred and fifty paces separated its north (the Chapel) from its south (the Lieutenant's Lodging). The Cold Harbour dwelling of Dart the Barber, Tom the Black-guard, and Pete the Sutler was about half-way 'long the eastern edge of it. So to his left Dart had a good view over the northern half of the Parade, but to his right all was obliterated by the high White Tower, which squatted in the heart of the complex like a solid cube of stone. Its formidable lines had been cluttered, on its western and southern sides, by low skirts of identical barrack-houses, jammed in wall-to-wall so that their peaked roofs merged to form a sawtooth fringe. Two companies of the Guard regiment lived in these and similar ones near by. The other dozen companies were packed into various s.p.a.ces around the periphery of the Inner Ward, along Mint Street, or wherever s.p.a.ce could be found for them. All told, they numbered near a thousand.

A thousand men could not live without victuals, which was why sutlers' houses had been allowed, nay, encouraged to occupy various crannies around the Tower and the Wharf. Pete's was one such; he was the tenant of this garret, and he sublet hammock-s.p.a.ce to Dart and, more recently, to Tom.

The Queen's Own Black Torrent Guards often drew duty of a ceremonial nature, such as greeting foreign amba.s.sadors on Tower Wharf, and so they were more than normally concerned with the upkeep of their kit. This meant no lack of work for Tom and the other boot-blacks. And any congregation of humans required barbers to dress wounds and see to the removal of redundant hairs, whiskers, bodily humours, and necrotizing limbs. So Dart had been permitted to wind some b.l.o.o.d.y gauze round a pike and plant it outside a certain door in Cold Harbour as the customary hall-mark of his trade.

He was not plying that trade now but nervously honing a razor, again and again, on a leather strop, and peering down the line of barracks doors, watching Tom the Black-guard make his rounds. Most of the garrison was extra muros extra muros on Tower Hill; in their absence Tom was going to each door in turn to polish the boots that had been left out by the soldiers. To look at him, Tom was a boy of about twelve. But he spoke with the voice, and answered to the urges, of a grown man, which made Dart suspect he was really a bloke who'd not grown properly. on Tower Hill; in their absence Tom was going to each door in turn to polish the boots that had been left out by the soldiers. To look at him, Tom was a boy of about twelve. But he spoke with the voice, and answered to the urges, of a grown man, which made Dart suspect he was really a bloke who'd not grown properly.

Tom had been doing this for the best part of two hours and had settled into a fixed routine, which was that he would squat down to polish a pair of boots, then stand up when he was finished, as though feeling a need to stretch, and look idly around the Parade, then glance up into the sky to see if any change in the weather was coming. Then he would turn his attention to the next pair of boots.

The only thing more tedious than to perform this duty was to watch it. Even though Dart had been told that he must on no account take his eyes off Tom, he found it hard going to keep his eyes open. The sun was beating against a white haze that steeped the garret in drowsy warmth. Cool gusts found their way to Dart's face from time to time and reminded him to open his eyes. True to form, he, being the barber, had the worst shave in the whole Tower. His stubbly chin p.r.i.c.ked him awake when he nodded off and let it rest on the dove-s.h.i.+t-covered sill of the tiny window. The only thing he could do while he bided his time was to whet the tools of his trade. But if he did so any more, they would become transparent.

Tom the Black-guard had a yellow cloth slung over his shoulder.

It had not been there a minute before. Dart was seized by guilt and fear, and already justifying himself: I did not take my eyes off him for more than a heart-beat!

He looked again. Tom bent down to start in on another pair of boots. The yellow cloth stood out like a lightning-bolt against the usual black-stained rags.

He closed his eyes, counted to five, opened them, and looked a third time to be sure. It was still there.

Dart the Barber stepped away from the window for the first time in two hours, raked his strops, shears, and razors together into a bag, and made for the stairs.

The garret had been turned into a maze by stacked sacks of flour and kegs of salted meat, as well as by hams and gutted rabbits dangling from the rafters, and the hammocks where Dart and Tom and Pete slept. But Dart moved through adroitly, and minced down a fatally precipitous stair to the ground floor, where after a brief scamper down a stunningly foul-smelling pa.s.sage no wider than his shoulders he was discharged into a somewhat wider L-shaped alley that ran from the b.l.o.o.d.y Tower gate to the Inner Ward. Scuttling round the bend of that L, he emerged onto gra.s.s before the southwestern angle of the White Tower. Then, reversing his direction round to the left, he entered the Parade.

He'd been warned not to look about, but could not help glancing at Tom, hard at work over a boot. Tom was turned his way. Though his head was bent down over his work, his eyes were rolled up in their sockets so far that they had turned white, enabling him to mark Dart's progress over the gra.s.s.

Dart made bold to glance this way and that, trying to guess what Tom had seen. For it had seemed, during those two hours, as if Tom had been scanning the sky for something. Over the western wall of the Tower, nothing was visible except for the columnar Monument, some half a mile distant, and beyond that, the dome of St. Paul's. He turned his head to the right and looked north over the storehouses and barracks that lined that edge of the Inner Ward. Here was something: shreds of smoke were climbing up to vanish against the white sky. The source seemed near to hand. But not as near as the Mint, which lay just on the far side of those barracks. He guessed it was coming from Tower Hill. It was probably not from gunpowder, for Dart had not heard the Guard discharging any weapons. Possibly someone had lit a rubbish-fire in one of the courts tucked away in the maze of the Tower hamlets. Or possibly 'twas something more than a rubbish-blaze.

He faltered. He had made it most of the way across the Parade. But suddenly the door of No. 6, one of the warders' houses, had opened. Three Sentinels were there, in place of the usual one. It seemed that the Scotsman was due to be aired out. A Yeoman Warder emerged. It was Downs. He lived in No. 6 with the Scotsman, and he had been very particular about getting a good shave this morning. Now he'd gone it one better by donning his best coat. He was followed by Lord Gy, a bulky man in a kilt. Then out came his maidservant, the big red-head, with a basket over her arm. Lord Gy and Yeoman Downs began to walk due south towards the Lieutenant's Lodging, beneath the parapet of Bell Tower. The three Sentinels formed a triangle around them and the red-head brought up the rear. Dart stopped to let them pa.s.s in front of him, and doffed his hat. The Laird ignored him; Yeoman Downs made an answering wink. All of this pa.s.sed from Dart's mind as soon as it moved out of view. Few events were more routine than a social call by a n.o.ble prisoner on the Lieutenant of the Tower.

A lone Sentinel-a private soldier of the Black Torrent Guard-was stationed before the door of No. 4. Like No. 6, No. 4 was a Tudor sort of house that wouldn't rate a second glance if it were dropped along a village green in Ess.e.x and its peculiar occupants replaced with a petty tradesman and his family.

When Dart drew close enough to make it obvious he was headed for No. 4, the Sentinel reached round behind himself and rapped on the front door. A moment later Yeoman Clooney thrust his head out an open window nearby and inquired, "Visitor for my lord?"

"Barber," answered the Sentinel.

"Is he expected?"

Clooney always asked this. It was the most feeble of challenges. Even so, Dart had to stifle a momentary impulse to run away-or, worse, to break down and confess. But he could sense the Black-guard's eyes prodding him in the back like a pistol-barrel. "Sir," he gargled. He had to cough up some b.l.o.o.d.y phlegm and swallow it before he could continue: "I told my lord I would come this week, he is due."

Clooney's head drew back into the house. A brief exchange of murmurs could be heard through the open window. Then floor-boards cracked and door-locks snapped. Yeoman Clooney opened his front door and nodded in a confidence-inspiring way to the Sentinel. "His lords.h.i.+p will see you," he proclaimed, in a trumpety heraldic tone that reminded Dart what an honor it was to mow an Earl's scalp, and how unworthy Dart was of it. Dart hunched over, picked up his bag, and hustled into the house, tipping his hat at the Sentinel, then making a nod at Yeoman Clooney.

The house had a front parlour looking out on the Parade through the very window Clooney had been using to exchange words with the Sentinel. The light was good there, and so that was where Dart spread out his drop-cloth. He set a chair in the middle of it.

The Earl of Hollesley was spending the twilight of his life in this house because he had been entrusted with some of H. M. Government's money during the War of the Spanish Succession, and had used it to put a new roof on his country house, instead of buying saltpeter in Amsterdam. He was near sixty, and as far as Dart knew, his entire life consisted of sitting in a chair and having his hair cut. Other prisoners strolled round the Liberty, killed themselves, or staged spectacular, improbable escapes; the Earl of Hollesley spent all his time in No. 4. Except for Dart, once a fortnight, he rarely entertained visitors. When he did they tended to be Catholic priests, for the Earl had gone Popish in his dotage. When he entered the room on Yeoman Clooney's arm, Dart said to him, "M'lord," which was all he was encouraged to say.

Yeoman Clooney had the easy, but unfathomably tedious job of keeping an eye on the Earl twenty-four hours a day. He took a chair in the corner while Dart got the Earl seated and tarped. "Sir," said Dart in a kind of stage-whisper to the yeoman, "I'll take the liberty of shutting the window, as the day's a bit gusty, and I don't want hair blowing round your tidy abode."

Clooney feigned interest in the window for a few moments, then drifted off. Dart went to it, looked out across the Parade, and found Tom the Black-guard gazing back at him. Before pulling down the sash Dart drew his rag from his pocket, loudly and distinctly hacked into it, then spat on the ground.

It went without saying that the Earl of Hollesley wore a periwig. But he still had to be shorn every so often. He preferred to have his head shaved. It ruled out lice.

By the time Dart had got his brushes and razors organized, and taken up his tonsorial post beside the Earl, Tom the Black-guard was half-way across the Parade, and staring at him curiously through the window. Which was well. For otherwise Dart could never have done, nay, even contemplated it. An Earl, or even a Yeoman Warder, was so great, so potent, so terrible to an insect like Dart. But there was a cold power behind Tom the Black-guard that overbalanced even an Earl. Dart might evade a Justice of the Peace, but blokes like Tom could nose him out even if he ran all the way to Barbados. If Dart did not do as he'd been instructed, he'd forever be a rabbit, trapped in a warren, pursued by an army of ferrets. Which is what gave him the courage-if courage was the right word for it-to announce: "Yeoman Clooney, I say that I have a blade to my lord Hollesley's throat."

"Er-what?" Clooney had been very close to drowsing off.

"A blade to his throat."

The Earl was reading The Examiner The Examiner. He was hard of hearing.

"So, you are giving him a shave as well as a haircut?"

This was unexpected. Clooney was supposed to understand a blade to the throat of a Lord.

"I am giving him neither, sir. I am making a threat to kill my lord."

The Earl stiffened, and rattled his Examiner Examiner. "The Whigs will be the death of this country!" he announced.

"What possible reason could you have for doing such a mad thing?" Clooney wanted to know from the corner.

"The Juncto!" the Earl went on. "Why don't they come out and call it by its real name, a Cabal, a Conspiracy! They are trying to drive Her Majesty into her grave! It is a.s.sa.s.sination by another name."

"I know naught of reasons. Reasons are for Tom. Tom is at the door," Dart said.

"It's all right here!" the Earl continued, and leaned forward suddenly, so that he'd have cut his own throat if Dart hadn't reacted in time. "The Duke of Cambridge. What, his German t.i.tle isn't good enough for him? You'd think he was a proper Englishman, wouldn't you?"

There came a knock at the door from the Sentinel. "Boot-black," came the call.

"Admit him, sir," Dart said, "and make no sign of distress to the Sentinel, for Tom shall be watching you avidly. Tom shall explain all."

"No wonder Her Majesty is wroth! 'Tis a calculated insult-calculated by Ravenscar. Where Age and Ague have failed to bring down our Queen, he shall do it with Aggravation, may G.o.d forbid!"

Clooney left the parlour. Dart stood for a few moments with his blade-hand a-tremble, expecting that the Sentinel would appear in a moment to blow his head off with a pistol-shot. But the door opened and closed without any commotion, and Dart could now hear the slithering voice of Tom the Black-guard, speaking to Clooney in the entrance-hall.

"That Sophie is a circling vulture," Lord Hollesley proclaimed. "Not content to wait for a dignified succession-she sends her grandson before her, like a kite to peck at our Sovereign's withered cheeks!"

Dart was straining to hear the conversation between the Black-guard and the Yeoman, but the Earl's fulminations and paper-rattling drowned out all but a few words: "Muscovite...Wakefield Tower...vertebrae...Jacobites..."

Then all of a sudden Tom thrust his head into the parlour and gave him a flat inspection, like a coroner viewing a corpse. "Stay here," he said, "until it happens."

"Until what happens?" Dart asked. But Tom was already on his way out the door, and Yeoman Clooney beside him.

Dart stood there, resting his tired blade-hand on the Earl's collar-bone, and watched the two of them angling across the green toward Wakefield Tower-where, according to scuttle-b.u.t.t, a one-armed Russian had been chained up the night before.

There was nothing else to do. So he began to soap the Earl's head. Presently he began to hear the ardent tolling of several bells on the north side of Tower Hill. This was a fire-alarm. Somewhere beyond the moat, a building was burning. Normally Dart would've been one of the first on the scene, for he loved a good fire. But he had solemn obligations here.