“You continue to view my 1677 actions in the worst possible light.”
“Not so, Daniel. I am aware that you thought you were showering favors on me. Nonetheless, I say that what happened in 1677 must be looked on as permanently disqualifying you from being allowed to handle alchemical literature around open flames.”
“Very well,” said Daniel. “Good night, Isaac. M’Lord. Monsieur.” Upnor and Fatio were both looking a bit startled by Isaac’s cryptic discourse, so Daniel bowed perfunctorily and backed out of the room.
They resumed their previous conversation as if Daniel were naught more than a servant who’d nipped in to serve tea. Upnor said, “Who can guess what notions have got into his head, living for so many years in that land, over-run with the cabals of crypto-Jews, and Indians sacrificing each other atop Pyramids?”
“You could just write him a letter and ask him,” suggested Fatio, in a voice so bright and reasonable that it annoyed even Daniel, who was rapidly backing out of earshot. He could tell, just from this, that Fatio was no alchemist; or if he was, he was new to it, and not yet inculcated to make everything much more obscure and mysterious than it needed to be.
He turned around finally, and nearly bumped into a fellow whom he identified, out of the corner of his eye, as a merry monk who had somehow got grievously lost: it was a robed figure gripping a large stoneware tankard that he had evidently taken out on loan from one of the local drinking establishments. “Have a care, Mr. Waterhouse, you look too little, for listening so well,” said Enoch Root affably.
Daniel started away from him. Locke was still standing there embracing his book; Root was the chap he’d been talking to earlier. Daniel was caught off guard for a few moments; Root took advantage of the lull to down a mouthful of ale.
“You are very rude,” Daniel said.
“What did you say? Root?”
“ Rude,to drink alone, when others are present.”
“Each man finds his own sort of rudeness. Some burst into houses, and conversations, uninvited.”
“I was bearing important news.”
“And I am celebrating it.”
“Aren’t you afraid that drink will shorten your longevity?”
“Is longevity much on your mind, Mr. Waterhouse?”
“It is on the mind of every man. And I am a man. Who or what are you?”
Locke’s eyes had been going back and forth, as at a tennis match. Now they fixed on Enoch for a while. Enoch had got a look as if he were trying to be patient-which was not the same as being patient.
“There’s a certain unexamined arrogance to your question, Daniel. Just as Newton presumes that there is some absolute space by which all things-comets even!-are measured and governed, you presume it is all perfectly natural and pre-ordained that the earth should be populated by men, whose superstitions ought to be the ruler by which all things are judged; but why might I not ask of you, ‘Daniel Waterhouse, who or what are you? And why does Creation teem with others like you, and what is your purpose?’ “
“I’ll remind you, sirrah, that All Hallows’ Eve was more than a month since, and I am not of a humour to be baited with hobgoblin-stories.”
“Nor am I of a humour to be rated a hobgoblin or any other figment of the humane imagination; for ’twas God who imagined me, just as He did you, and thereby brought us into being.”
“Your tankard brims over with scorn for our superstitions and imaginings; yet here you are, as always, in the company of Alchemists.”
“You might have said, ‘Here you are in the center of the Glorious Revolution conversing with a noted political philosopher,’” Root returned, glancing at Locke, who flicked his eyes downward in the merest hint of a bow. “But I am never credited thus by you, Daniel.”
“I have only seen you in the company of alchemists. Do you deny it?”
“Daniel, I have only seen you in the company of alchemists. But I am aware that you do other things. I know you have oft been at Bedlam with Hooke. Perhaps you have seen priests there who go to converse with madmen. Do you suppose those priests to be mad?”
“I’m not sure if I approve of the similitude-” Locke began.
“Stay, ’Tis just a figure!” Root laughed rather winningly, reaching out to touch Locke’s shoulder.
“A faulty one,” Daniel said, “for you are an alchemist.”
“I am called an Alchemist. Within living memory, Daniel, everyone who studied what I-and you- study was called by that name. And most persons even today observe no distinction between Alchemy and the younger and more vigorous order of knowledge that is associated with your club.”
“I am too exhausted to harry you through all of your evasions. Out of respect for your friends Mr. Locke, and for Leibniz, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt, and wish you well,” Daniel said.
“God save you, Mr. Waterhouse.”
“And you, Mr. Root. But I say this to you-and you as well, Mr. Locke. As I came in here I saw a map, lately taken from this house, burning in the fire. The map was empty, for it depicted the ocean-most likely, a part of it where no man has ever been. A few lines of latitude were ruled across that vellum void, and some legendary isles drawn in, with great authority, and where the map-maker could not restrain himself he drew phantastickal monsters. That map, to me, is Alchemy. It is good that it burnt, and fitting that it burnt tonight, the eve of a Revolution that I will be so bold as to call my life’s work. In a few years Mr. Hooke will learn to make a proper chronometer, finishing what Mr. Huygens began thirty years ago, and then the Royal Society will draw maps with lines of longitude as well as latitude, giving us a grid-what we call a Cartesian grid, though ’twas not his idea-and where there be islands, we will rightly draw them. Where there are none, we will draw none, nor dragons, nor sea-monsters-and that will be the end of Alchemy.”
“ ’Tis a noble pursuit and I wish you Godspeed,” Root said, “but remember the poles.”
“The poles?”
“The north and south poles, where your meridians will come together-no longer parallel and separate, but converging, and all one.”
“That is nothing but a figment of geometry.”
“But when you build all your science upon geometry, Mr. Waterhouse, figments become real.”
Daniel sighed. “Very well, perhaps we’ll get back to Alchemy in the end-but for now, no one can get near the poles-unless you can fly there on a broom, Mr. Root-and I’ll put my trust in geometry and not in the books of fables that Mr. Boyle and Sir Elias are sorting through below. ‘Twill work for me, for the short time I have remaining. I have not time to-night.”
“Further errands await you?”
“I would fain bid a proper farewell to my dear old friend Jeffreys.”
“He is an old friend of the Earl of Upnor as well,” Enoch Root said, a bit distractedly.
“This I know, for they cover up each other’s murders.”
“Upnor sent Jeffreys a box a few hours ago.”
“Not to his house, I’ll wager.”
“He sent it in care of the master of a ship in the Pool.”
“The name of the ship?”
“I do not know it.”
“The name of the messenger, then?”
Enoch Root leaned over the baluster and peered down the middle of the stairwell. “I do not know that, either,” he said, then shifted his tankard to the other hand so that he could reach out. He pointed at a young porter who was just on his way out the door, bearing another pile of books to the bonfire. “But it was him. ”
HARERODE AT ANCHOR, LANTERNSa-blaze, before Wapping: a suburb crooked in an elbow of the Thames just downstream of the Tower. If Jeffreys had already boarded her, there was nothing they could do, short of hiring a pirate-ship to overhaul her when she reached blue water. But a few minutes’ conversation with the watermen loitering round the Wapping riverfront told them that no passengers had been conveyed to that ship yet. Jeffreys must be waiting for something; but he would wait close by, within view of Hare, so that he could bolt if he had to. And he would choose a place where he could get strong drink, because he was a drunkard. That narrowed it down to some half a dozen taverns, unevenly spaced along the riverbank from the Tower of London down to Shadwell, mostly clustered around the stairs and docks that served as gate-ways ‘tween the Wet and the Dry worlds. Dawn was approaching, and any normal business ought to’ve been closed half a dozen hours ago. But these dockside taverns served an irregular clientele at irregular hours; they told time by the rise and fall of the tides, not by the comings and goings of the sun. And the night before had been as wild as any in England’s history. No sane tavernkeeper would have his doors closed now.