Sunday Fiction :The Watchmaker

With tweezer hands he laid the gilded gears in place. He closed the sell, whistling softly as he completed the delicate work. This was the artisan’s finest creation, a watch for the king himself. The watchmaker rocked back in his chair, tasting the air. It was different today, the familiar musk of his workshop was overshadowed by acrid tones. He was a success; his skill unmatched; the slave turned artisan.
The boy sat silently in the corner. He was a good child. A faithful child. The watchmaker had insisted upon it. Only a boy of faith could be trusted with such an important delivery. He carefully wrapped the watch in leather and beckoned the child closer.
“You understand, you must go directly to the king. Do not falter, he must receive his gift tonight.” The boy nodded mutely and darted out through the door.
The boy loped through the crowded streets, sticking close to the dusty market canopies. Merchants pitched gibberish to nobody in particular as he passed. He checked his pocket. It was still there. He caught sideways glances from strangers but none would meet his eyes. No, it must be his imagination, they couldn’t know what he carried.
The guards allowed the boy to pass with a nod. The watchmaker had arranged everything. The boy climbed the stairs, taking the route the watchmaker had inststed he memorise, and recite, over and over till it had become second nature.
The king smiled at the boy’s arrival, begged him to come close with a weary finger. He drew open the pouch, his eyes salivating. It was perfect, he shooed the boy, his eyes not leaving the glittering object. Servants presented dinner, he dismissed them with a wave. No-one else could see it, it was for him and him alone. The watch ticked on his eyes transfixed. Then midnight, the hands aligned in perfect symmetry. A click, a hiss a puff of smoke, a boom rendered voiceless by the cavernous halls. The watch was gone and with it the king.
The watchmaker smiled in his chair, his greatest work complete.