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.
The small party hurried after Sabor, who led them up a metalwork staircase that curved towards the first tier of his castle.
“This fortress,” Sabor said as he ran up the stairs, “offers one the opportunity to explore paths back through Time.” He indicated the many doors situated on the tiers of galleries above him. Iron steps rattled under his feet. “Each of these doors leads to a timelock, and behind each timelock is a suite. And each of those suites exists in a separate moment in the past: whether one hour ago or three hours, two days in the past, a year, a month—it all depends on the suite's current cycle. The Obscura's engines keep the whole thing ticking.” From a pocket under his mail shirt he withdrew a chart, quickly unfolding it to many times its original size. “Each room's temporal reach changes with the passage of Time. They cycle through various set permutations. It has been my life's work to map them all.” He stabbed a finger at the huge sheet of paper. “Right now, for instance, the Larollen Suite on the thirteenth floor looks out upon the new moon of four months ago. But when it finishes its cycle, a year from today, it will only be able to take a traveler back five days.”
They reached the first gallery. A walkway with a smooth dark wood banister encircled this level of the giant chamber, with a second staircase then rising up to the next gallery. A dozen or so doors led off this platform, each one boasting a round glass window like a ship's porthole as well as a tarnished gold dial similar to the locking mechanism found on a safe. Some of the portholes were dark, while light shone through others. Tubes from Sabor's camera obscura ran into the adjacent walls.
Here were the clocks Rachel had heard from downstairs. On the walls between doors hung every sort of timepiece, from the modest to the ostentatious. Hands ticked around faces in short halting steps past numerals and dates and diagrams of suns and moons.
As they hurried past the first door, Rachel glanced through its porthole. Beyond the timelock she glimpsed a comfortable room full of many more clocks, handsome furniture, and bookcases stuffed with ancient tomes, cabinets of astrological instruments, and an enormous brass device set upon a tripod before the exterior window. This, she thought, must be one extension of Sabor's obscura, and it was currently looking out through an outer window upon a dark and starry sky.
“How is that possible?” she said.
Sabor glanced back at the dial on the door, and then checked his map. “That particular room exists forty years ago,” he said. “The temporal register appears to be in accordance with the clocks inside. This therefore remains part of our current timeline, our actual history.” He raised his head. “Garstone? Where are you, Garstone?”
Rachel gazed back at the porthole in awe. “So stepping through that door would take you back forty years?” She found herself racing to catch up with the others again. “Why don't you go back and change the past, stop the portal from opening at Coreollis?”
“It's too late for that,” Sabor replied. “This castle was intended to be an observatory, not a vehicle for would-be time travelers. One can safely journey back to the dawn of Time, so long as one remains inside the castle. But the moment you set foot outside these walls, you threaten the natural order of Time. Then every action you take, no matter how small, might alter history and thereby create a parallel universe. Time would split, like a fork in a branch. Thereafter, that room would become a junction, a crossroads between two realities—the one you left behind and the one you created yourself.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Faster—the cycle change is due any moment.”
“If it's so dangerous, then why am I going back?”
Sabor threw up his arms. “Because our own timeline has already been corrupted,” he cried. “It's failing, rotten. The universe outside these walls is dying a slow death, and nothing we do now is going to make it any worse. It might last another hundred years—or ten, or a thousand—but the cancer has already spread out of control. All we can do is hack at it with a knife and try to buy ourselves some more time. Right now, you are that knife.”
Just as they reached the second staircase, one of the doors on the first level flew open and a stooped old man, wearing a garishly striped brown and red suit, stepped through it. He had his nose buried in a book, but when he noticed the group he nodded to Sabor and then to Iron Head before disappearing through the neighbouring door. A heartbeat later a third door on the opposite side of the circular gallery opened, and the same old man stepped back onto it. This time he was wearing a plain blue suit and scribbling notes in his book. He spotted the group again, nodded two times more to the captain and the god of clocks, and then vanished through an altogether different door.
“Who were they?” Rachel said.
Iron Head grunted. “That's my brother, Eli. Just call him Gar stone. He's the only one of us who still uses our old man's name.”
“Indeed,” Sabor concurred, glancing at his pocket watch again. “However, that is not the version of Garstone I was looking for. For the work to come we require a much younger man.”
“But how can he be two different ages?” Rachel enquired.
“Not just two ages,” Iron Head said. “Travel back ten minutes in this place and you'll meet yourself before you step into the timelock you've just used. And if there's no longer any reason for your original self to step inside the timelock, then there's suddenly two of you. My brother is every age from now until his death. He keeps overlapping himself.”
“Garstone winds the clocks,” Sabor added, “but it's becoming hard to keep track of him all.”
The god of clocks now urged them up the next set of steps, to the second gallery. It was identical to the first in every way except for an even greater variety of clocks set upon the walls. Garstone was here, too, albeit in greater numbers. Rachel counted three separate versions of the stooped old man, all winding clockwork, opening and closing doors as he moved between different rooms. He went about his business quietly, frowning over the books he carried, but with unfailing politeness, for each copy of him nodded to Sabor and Iron Head—and even to his other selves—in passing.
“How many of him are there?” Rachel asked.
“There must be several billion of him by now,” Sabor replied. “He has worked here, in this labyrinth of Time, for more than thirty of his own years.” He shot another glance at his pocket watch, and then quickened his pace. “Three minutes until the cycle change.”
Rachel stared after him in confusion, but then Iron Head took her arm, urging her on. “That's how long we have until the particular window you need to take into the past ends,” he explained, as their boots rattled up the metal stairs. “All these rooms change their positions in Time. They reorder themselves to allow for the celestial movement of this planet.”
Somewhere below, a large timepiece began to chime, its loud clangs resounding throughout the vast chamber. Several smaller clocks answered with a chorus of silvery notes, like songbirds responding.
“Too much stress in space-time would tear the fortress apart,” Sabor called back over the ruckus. “Thus, to maintain balance in the cosmos, the Obscura's engines make constant temporal adjustments to certain rooms—cycle changes. You!” He halted, and made a gesture at one of the galleries above. “Come down here at once.”
A head appeared over the banister of one of the levels high above them, peering down. This version of Garstone appeared to be much younger than th
e others. “Me, sir?” he replied. “I'm on my way, sir.”
“Two minutes,” Sabor said to the group. “Hurry. We have one more level to climb.” He ducked under a brass lens tube and set off again around the curve of the gallery, one of his wing tips brushing the banks of ticking, whirring clocks against the wall.
Rachel felt dizzy and uncertain now, suddenly unable to decide if she was doing the right thing. The whole group seemed intent on shoving her back into the past for no good reason. To build rafts? Those rafts hadn't helped Dill escape. Even Rachel's future self had admitted as much. Wouldn't it be more sensible to stay here and protect Dill now?
But then she realized how foolish she was being. This was an opportunity to be seized, a ten-hour window during which time she could alter the course of recent history.
She might still be able to save her friend.
“What else do I need to know?” she said to Sabor.
“You need to know how to chop wood and lash logs together,” the god replied.
“No, I mean about Time… about this castle.”
“Nothing.”
“You called it a labyrinth in Time, which means that there are hundreds of doors back into the past. If one plan fails, can't we simply try another?”
“Do not deviate from the current plan,” Sabor said. “It is the best way to limit the damage already done. Every single time we step outside the Obscura Redunda there are consequences, unforeseen paradoxes, and further stresses on the whole continuum.” He consulted his timepiece yet again, and frowned. “You must understand: The Obscura itself is eternal and indestructible—it cannot exist solely in one point of Time. At any given moment, large numbers of its rooms are in the past. So if the castle exists at time X, other parts of it also exist at time X minus an hour, or X minus ten years. And because those rooms lead back into this very chamber, the whole fortress carries the entire history of its own existence wherever it goes.”
“He just means,” Iron Head added, “that it's older than it looks.”
“Older?” Sabor grunted. He had reached the third staircase, and now raced ahead up it. “There are paths in here leading back through the vast emptiness of the cosmos,” he said over his shoulder, “to times long before the birth of this galaxy. These are routes impassable to humans, which are traveled solely by the gods. Several copies of myself are currently attempting to map them. Other gods, too, no doubt, from aeons past. Countless billions of explorers! And because the castle existed at the birth of the multiverse, then one must be able to move it, eventually, to every point in space. My observations lead me to believe that space is collapsing in upon itself, and the multiverse is shrinking. At one point it may indeed have been no larger than this fortress itself, which begs the question: Were all possible universes created inside this castle?”
He reached the top step and glanced around him. “This way!”
“But if that's true, then who created the castle?” Rachel asked.
“Ayen did.”
“After the… multiverse was already created!”
Sabor looked at her with an expression of faint distaste. “The lower orders have trouble wrapping their heads around that paradox. Ayen is, as you say, part of the universe, and yet by creating the castle she may well have created the very reality she now occupies. This castle is a singularity. Unfortunately it is this truth that will make it so difficult to reach Heaven.”
“You know why we're here?” Rachel asked.
“Of course I do. You told me earlier, or later.” He waved a hand in frustration. “It hardly matters now. Here is the timelock we seek, the entrance to the Greengage Suite!”
He strode over to a nearby door and examined the dial below the porthole. “Less than a minute left,” he said. “We made it with scant time to spare.” He pulled down a huge brass lever and swung the timelock door open. “This will take you back ten hours before now.”
Rachel just shook her head in confusion. “I still don't understand,” she said. “You said the universe around us is failing, but the castle is eternal and indestructible. Why can't you use it to reach a time before Ayen sealed the gates of Heaven?”
“ Thirty-two seconds,” Sabor said. “I don't have time to explain. You need to go now.”
Rachel's thoughts were still spinning. She looked from Iron Head to Mina, and then at her future self. She felt suddenly afraid. “What happens to me?” she said.
“You end up standing on this very spot trying to persuade your past self”—she pushed a finger into Rachel's chest—“to step through a sodding door.”
Sabor glanced at his watch again. “Twenty seconds.”
Rachel peered inside the timelock. It was a small cylindrical chamber with an identical door and porthole on the opposite side. Through this she could see a library with its own extension of Sabor's pipe-work obscura and a window overlooking a dull, misty landscape. By the texture of the light, she judged it to be early morning outside, rather than late afternoon as it should have been.
Just as Rachel was about to step inside, her future self said, “No offense, sis, but one of me is quite enough.”
She shoved Rachel roughly into the timelock, and then slammed the door shut behind them both. Air hissed. Immediately, her twin threw open the other door and pushed Rachel through.
The assassin landed on her backside on the library floor. She scrambled to her feet, and spun round.
The twin had already closed the library door behind her. She waved once through the porthole, and stepped back out of the timelock.
And then she vanished.
The outer timelock porthole was empty. Mina, Sabor, and Rachel's future self had disappeared. Nothing but an empty landing. A version of Garstone strode past, carrying his book, and gave her a polite nod.
Rachel went over to the window and pressed her hands against the chill glass. Fog blanketed the mountain outside, forming a bleak tapestry of black and grey that reminded her of a coal quarry. She could not even see the lake from here. Low in the east, the sun glimmered as faintly as a brass penny.
She turned away from the window, angry that her other self had denied her the right to make her own decision, and resolved to find Sabor. She stormed across the library and threw open both timelock doors.
Garstone stood on the landing. “Good morning, Miss Hael,” he said. “I am so sorry I missed you later this afternoon. Sabor required a younger me than those older replicas of myself that were available at the time.”
And indeed this version of Sabor's assistant was younger, though not nearly as youthful as the figure who had peered over the banister a few moments ago. This Garstone looked middle-aged. A creased brown suit hung about his shapeless shoulders. The chain of a pocket watch dangled from his breast pocket. From his hand-wringing posture to his watery blue eyes, everything about him exuded meekness. He stood there on the gallery surrounded by the tick, clatter, burr, and chime of countless clocks.
“How did you get here?” Rachel asked. “You weren't in the room.”
“No, miss. I missed your departure by just moments, so I was forced to travel here by an alternative route.”
“An alternative route?” Rachel's anger rose. There had been another way to get back here after all. All that rushing around had been merely to get her out of the way quickly, to consign her to a menial task that Sabor had deemed to be a necessary part of whatever grand scheme he'd concocted.
“An initial leap of ninety-four days through the Lavender Suite,” Garstone said, “after which I stepped back four more days, and then six months more before I rediscovered the correct timeline. Then all I had to do was wait—a refreshing sojourn in the main Obscura Hall. Thereafter I picked up the path again via the Farthing Suite.” He bowed his head. “The entire journey took me no more than fourteen years.”
“Fourteen years?”
He looked peevish. “I did miss one connection, which cost me eleven days. I'm afraid I'm no longer the youthful version of myself that Sabor
had enlisted for the task.”
Rachel studied him. “How many different timelines are there now?”
“It's hard to say, miss. There are two main lines, as it were, but changes made recently in each of those have created many smaller branches. Temporal corruption is rife throughout the whole continuum. Excuse me, but you are Miss Rachel Hael, are you not?”
She nodded. “And you're really Iron Head's brother?”
“His given name is Reed, miss. Reed Garstone. I disapprove of that vulgar moniker used by his men. But, yes, as you say, he is my brother. Older by one year, three months, nine—”
“Okay,” she said impatiently. “How do I get back to Burntwater? I'm going to need a boat to take me across the Flower Lake.”
“Burntwater, miss? But we are to proceed no further than Kevin's Jetty. I was led to believe that that was all explained to you. Upon our arrival I shall endeavour to negotiate a contract with the Hericans for the construction of a flotilla of small craft. After which—”
“Yes,” she said through her teeth. “I know all that, but I'm not doing it. Building those rafts was a waste of time.”
“If you deviate from the plan, you will change history,” Garstone said. “Sabor's calculations have been quite meticulous. We need to build—”
“His original plan changed history,” she cried, “and accomplished nothing!” She couldn't shake the image of Dill from her mind, dragging his shattered body from the lake. Right now she had a chance of preventing his destruction.
“But… Miss Hael, in our future those events have already happened. We are here to ensure that they do happen, that they continue to have happened, if you will. If we stop those events from occurring, the multiverse will create another new branch to accommodate our failure, and the entire continuum will be further weakened as a result.”
“Where is Sabor?” she demanded.
“I have some drawings of the proposed rafts…” Garstone went on, with evident distress. “If we—Miss Hael, where are you going?”