“And of what significance is that?” Jack demanded.

An awkward silence.

Tom could be seen looking a bit pale.

De Gex sidled up and whispered something into Jack’s ear.

“Oh, yes, of course, the Jewel Tower,” Jack said. “That’s where they keep the, what do you call them-”

“The Crown Jewels, sir,” whispered Tom, now quite rattled.

“Yes, now I see where you are going-yes-of course! The Crown Jewels. Right.” He considered it for a good long time. “Would you like to have a go at stealing the Crown Jewels, then, as long as we are here?”

“I thought that was the entire point of the Lay, sir,” Tom answered, seeming very boylike indeed now.

“Oh, yes! To be sure!” Jack hastened to say, “by all means, yes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted, really, to have some great bloody lump of gold with jewels stuck in it to put on my head. Diamonds, rubies-I’m mad for them really-go! Run along!”

“Don’t you wish to-?”

“You’ve done splendidly to this point, Tom, and that lot in the corner seem trustworthy. Go and see what you can find in Jewel Tower and I’ll meet you back here-”

Yevgeny cleared his throat.

“Strike that, I’ll meet you at, oh, Black Jack’s Boozing-Ken at Hockley-in-the-Hole tomorrow evening, after the bear-baiting.”

Jack had accompanied these improvised remarks with any amount of nods, gesticulations, nudgings, and shovings, all directed toward the a-mazed Tom and all meant to impel him toward the fabulous Jewel-trove in question. Finally Tom began to move that direction, but he walked backwards, keeping a sharp eye on Jack. “D’you really think Black Jack’s Boozing-Ken is a good place to be cutting up the Sovereign’s Orb?”

“Cut it up where you will, bring me some bits in a sack. Whatever you think is fair. Off you go, then!”

Tom-who was about halfway to the claque of piratish-looking blokes-scanned the roofs of the storehouses while Jack spoke these words, expecting that this was all a sort of test of Tom’s loyalty, and that if he made the wrong move he’d get a crossbow-bolt through the heart. But there was nothing to be noted save a few furious Highlanders starting to boil from the door of the White Tower. Which anyway forced him to make up his mind. “Right!” he exclaimed, then turned, and sprinted for the Jewels. Jack did not even see this, for he’d already bolted, along with de Gex, into the portal where Yevgeny had been awaiting them. Yevgeny barred the heavy storehouse door behind them.

“Your name?” Jack said to the Yeoman Warder.

“Clooney! And whatever it is you want-”

“Why, Yeoman Clooney, you make it sound as if I am some sort of nefarious villain. All I want is for you to be my boon companion these next several minutes, and to survive the night in good health.”

“I should not love to be your companion for any length of time.”

“Then I shall remind you that I am, in truth, a nefarious villain. You may follow me on your own two feet, or I shall have the Rus put a leash around your neck and drag you up and down stairs on your beef-stuffed belly.”

“I shall walk,” announced Clooney, eyeing Yevgeny. By this time he had probably watched the Muscovite do any number of appalling things and was more afraid of him than of Jack.

A brief, dark, tortuous walk through the bowels of the Tower followed. After the third change of direction Jack became utterly lost. He guessed that they’d broken the plane of the curtain-wall and entered the bastion of Brick Tower.

Then a stone stair was before them, descending into a gloom that was beyond the power of their lanthorns. A man more superstitious than Jack might have recoiled, seeing it as a prefigurement of prison, death, and descent into the world below. But in the catalog of gloomy and hair-raising locations into which Jack had ventured during his lifetime, this scarcely rated notice. Down the stairs he traipsed, turning left at a landing, and then jogging left again at the foot of another flight. They must now be down in some oubliette of the Normans. But passing through a door, he found himself under the sky on, of all things, a street: Mint Street. Directly across that street was a house, a wreck of a thing, nearly black with soot. The door of this house stood open, and a single light burned within. Door and street were guarded by three men-men well known to Jack-each of whom carried the ne plus ultra of Mobb control weapons, a blunderbuss. And not without effect, for what crowd there was-a few grubby Mint workers-remained far away down the street, ready to duck for cover behind the elbow of Bowyer Tower if there was need.

There was no need. Jack checked his stride in the middle of the street, set his black satchel down as if to rest a weary hand, and turned around to see what was keeping the others. This movement caused his gold-lined cloak to swirl around him in a flourish that could not be missed by the cowed Mint-men. As it turned out, the black-robe was right on his heels. So Jack turned again, snatched up his satchel, and carried it into the house of the Warden of the Mint.

It was abandoned. Warden of the Mint was a profitable sinecure, usually granted to some man who knew little and cared less about coining but who had places in high friends. Such a man would not dream of living in this house, even though it was provided by the government for his use. He would as like live by a knacker’s yard on the outskirts of Dublin than dwell on this smoky street in the midst of soldiers. And so most of the place went unused. But not all. Following the glimmer of lamp-light, Jack descended a stair to a vault-door, which hung open.

The vault itself was barely an arm-span in width, and the apex of the arched ceiling was scarcely high enough for Jack to stand upright. It was dank and dripping, for it was down close to the level of the moat. But it was soundly made. At the far end stood a table. On the table was a black chest with three hasps. Two of these were going unused at the moment, and opened padlocks dangled from their loops like freshly killed game from the butcher’s hook. The third hasp was still closed by a padlock the size of a man’s fist. Sitting before it on an overturned basket was a bulky man whose face was obscured by black hair hanging down. He was peering at the lock from a few inches away, gripping it in one great hand while the other manipulated its inner works with a steel toothpick. None of which was in the least remarkable to Jack, for he had expected all of these things, except for one.

“That’s it?” he exclaimed.

“This is the Pyx,” answered the man who was sitting on the basket. He spoke as if he had entered the serene trance of a Hindoostani mystic.

“You know, in any other country, they’d go to a bit of trouble, wouldn’t they, to make it be dazzling. But this is just a bloody box.”

“All objects that perform the essential functions of a box, are unavoidably boxy,” said the other. “If it makes you feel any better, the locks are excellent.”

“Those two don’t appear to have been excellent enough,” Jack remarked.

“Ah, but this one. I am guessing that the other two were those of the Comptroller and the Warden. But this is the lock of the Master.”

“Newton.”

“Yes. Some admirer-some royal sycophant from the Continent-must have given it to him.”

Jack was conscious now of de Gex breathing behind him. He said, “You of all people ought to be more alive to the passage of time.”

“But Saturn was Time’s lord, not its servant.”

“Which are you?”

“Both. For most of the day and night, time oppresses me. It is only when I am at work on the innards of a clock-or a lock-that time stops.”

“The clock stops, you mean.”

“No. Time stops, or so it seems. I do not sense its passage. Then something interrupts me-I become aware that my bladder is full, my mouth dry, my stomach rumbling, the fire’s gone out, and the sun’s gone down. But there before me on the table is a finished clock-” now suddenly a snicker from the mechanism, and a deft movement of his hands. “Or an opened lock.” Saturn could not stand in this confined space, but he sat up straight, heaved a vast sigh, then drew the padlock out of the loop of the third hasp with great care, not wanting to bang it up on the way out.