Chapter 100

The brass sun swings up on its arm, clunk, exactly on time. Every clock on the planet reads 8:00.

A single figure shuffles up the long spiral stair that runs round the outside of the tower: Trollmage, in his slippers, robe and grandmother's scarf, the crow on his head, holding a paper bag of wrong-hour bread from the Unwound bakery. Alone. Unarmed. Yawning.

stopping on the stair to catch his breath, looking out over the city.

on his head, shaking its feathers.

The Marka at the dock, Vigolas at the bow on his crutch, Drekk below with the bucket. On every gear-bridge into the harbour, Timekeepers are massing: hundreds of them, batons ticking, Sekund at their head with six new watches.

grinning down at the army.

Trollmage climbs in through the vent at the top of the pendulum's swing, slowly, badly, and falls onto the floor in a heap of robe.

on her brass throne, perfectly upright, staring at him.

one finger rising.

the finger hovering.

holding up the paper bag.

Trollmage shuffles to the window: a numeral of the great dial, glowing amber from the morning outside. Beneath it, against the wall, a plain wooden bench nobody has sat on in three hundred years. He sits on it. Pats the space beside him.

completely still.

The Timekeepers charge the gear-bridges. Smurjan holds the north bridge alone, open palm, off-beat, three shadows. Rougeina dances the south bridge with seven blades (the eighth is gone), Swapping on the tock. Kali holds the east bridge one-armed, cracked sickle wired together, cursing nonstop.

swinging.

Otur, after a long moment, stands. Her gown ticks. She walks across the throne room, very upright, and sits on the far end of the bench, as far from Trollmage as possible, hands folded.

side by side, looking out through the glowing numeral at the morning. Trollmage offers the paper bag.

taking a piece of bread. Looking at it as if it were a strange animal. Taking a very small bite.

chewing. The tiny clock-hands in her eyes slow down.

They sit. Nothing happens. The brass sun creeps across the sky outside the numeral. The crow cleans its feathers. Trollmage's eyes are half-closed.

restless, fingers twitching.

A wave of Timekeepers breaks through the north bridge past Smurjan and charges the dock. Kompis stands in front of Drekk and the bucket with Mingus at his heel, Subtick-grey eyes, and Lilla Ulv barks a wolf-cub bullet that ricochets off-beat through six batons.

holding the bucket in both hands as Timekeepers swirl around him, perfectly still, counting.

on the bench, hands loosening in her lap. She looks out at the sun moving.

and something cracks in her voice.

eyes still half closed.

looking at him for the first time like a person.

opening his eyes. Violet, gentle.

on the bench between them, gloved and brass-plated. After a long moment, Trollmage's big grey-green hand rests near it. Not on it. Near.

The harbour is a battlefield: Timekeepers everywhere, the crew holding at every bridge, bleeding, off-beat, laughing. At the bow, Vigolas raises his hand toward his own ship. Below, Drekk raises the bucket. On the bollard, Smurjan's third eye blazes, counting.

quietly, to the Marka, one hand flat on her rail.

turning the key. Once. Twice. Three times. It's stiff with three hundred years of never.

Its lid lifts. A tiny brass comb plucks a tiny brass drum, and it plays something clumsy and sweet, a lullaby slightly out of tune, slightly too slow, unscheduled.

♪ …ting… ting-ting… ting… ♪

As the music box plays, every bell in the tower begins to swing. The great dial's remaining hand reaches the top. Across the whole planet, a bell rings out.

DONG.

(One.)