A Calculus of Angels (47 page)

“And so you shall, Monsieur, and it will make your blood boil, I assure you.”

Charles smiled broadly, clearly pleased by Bienville’s reaction. “Captain Teach shall join us in a moment,” he said. “In the meantime—”

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“Sir?” Ben interjected impatiently. “Your Majesty, may I have a brief word with you in private?”

“Of course,” Charles replied, frowning. “Pardon us, gentlemen.” He rose and guided Ben into an antechamber.

“I have you to thank for the decision,” Charles told him. “You swung opinion our way.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, ”twas my intention.“

“But now you must explain in detail,” Charles went on. “The leaders of the factions are all met. We convinced them with shouting; now we must convince them with more reasonable words. Especially, we must keep your friends in the ships here, for we will have need of them.” He frowned slightly. “You
do
know how to defeat these flying ships?”

“Of course I do,” Ben lied. “But I will see Newton before I publish it to you.”

Charles’ eyes grew colder. “What?” he said slowly.

“Majesty, I believe I was clear.”

“Are you blackmailing me? We must speak to these men
now,
explain your magical solution
now.
You can go see Newton immediately after.”

Ben pursed his lips and decided to modify himself a bit. “Sir, I must needs obtain something from Newton to be convincing. Feed them dinner, give them wine. Persuade them in other ways, and I will return as quickly as possible.”

“Mr. Franklin, do not try me.”

“Do not try
me,
Your Majesty. I am willing to help you, as you helped me in Prague. But you must let me go about it my own way.”

Charles’ frown deepened, and then he nodded. He beckoned one of his men over. “Lieutenant, take this fellow to the madman on the island. Bring him back in an hour. If he will not come, bind and gag him and return him here. Do A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

not let him stray from your sight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles turned away from Ben. “Go,” he said.

Ben spent the gondola ride knotting and unknotting his fingers, acutely aware of time slipping away, of the depth and possible repercussions of his lie. He knew of no certain way to defeat the Muscovite airships. Oh, he had an inkling, but it all depended upon Sir Isaac.

The men on the island looked suspiciously at him when he came ashore, but Hassim—sent along as a translator— reassured them some, and the note hastily scrawled by Hassim’s father even more so.

The sun was half past meridian, the harbor gold-flecked lapis, antique, Egyptian. The building—a church? a castle?— wavering witchlight. Newton had brought one of the large aegises with him, perhaps built into the very boat.

“Where has he been heard?” he asked one of the men, through Hassim. The fifteen or so Janissaries regarded the ensorcelled structure balefully, and one of them pointed.

Alone, Ben strode to that point, and when he felt the slick-cool surface of the aegis, stopped. “Sir Isaac!” he bellowed, and then again, “Sir Isaac!”

A long pause followed, and then, thinly, “Benjamin?”

“Yes! Let me in. I have to talk with you.”

Another considerable pause. “Is King Charles with you?”

“No, sir. He has pressing business, and you are angering him with your demands. Sir, if you would live, I suggest you speak to me. There is no other chance!” Try as he might, he could not keep the desperation from his voice.

“Move to your right fifteen paces.” The reply floated down. “I will unbar the door and unhook the aegis for a few seconds. Only you may enter. Do you A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

understand?”

“Aye!”

Teeth grinding, he did as directed. After perhaps ten minutes he heard a bolt slide, and an instant later a weather-pitted stone wall appeared. He quickly opened the heavy wooden door and stepped in, and was staring at a distorted image of his own face, framed by a sphere of sea and sky. He cried out softly as he understood he was facing the automaton that he had seen, dormant, in the Black Tower.

No longer dormant, it reached for him, and he threw himself violently aside, feeling just slightly foolish when it continued past him, and closed and barred the door.

Silently, it turned, crossed a dusty floor of red marble, and began to ascend a stair of verdigris stone. Ben followed the thing up, fascinated despite himself at the way its artificial muscles flexed and bunched.

Newton looked worse than Ben had ever seen him. His stained waistcoat was open, the shirt beneath a dirty ivory rag. His hair hung in greasy strands about his face, and his eyes stood like carbuncles in black abscesses. That febrile regard darted to Benjamin, lit on him for an instant, and then flitted randomly about the room.

“I’m glad to see that you survived and escaped the fall of Prague,” Newton muttered, his voice somehow uncertain. “Are you? Well, no thanks to you, you will admit.” Newton shrugged. “I did what I thought was best. Who is more valuable to the world, you or me?”

“Oh, that’s a pretty robe to put on coward’s ways,” Ben returned, surprised at how calm he felt. “But to the devil with you, sir, in any case. I came for Lenka.”

“Lenka?” Newton asked.

Ben gasped in abrupt horror. “God! She was in the hidden place in the boat!”

He had a sudden image of her, locked there for six days with no food or water, Newton oblivious to her pounding and cries.

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“Oh!” Newton said. “The girl. Really, Benjamin, I think it was rather extreme of you to pack one of your little bunters for the journey—”

“God rot you!” Ben snapped. “She was no doxy, you stupid old man. Is that all you see when you look at a woman—any woman? A whore? No, don’t answer me. I don’t even care. Just tell me where she is.”

Newton’s eyes suddenly snapped into focus, as if seeing Ben for the first time.

“Benjamin,” he said, “I am really most remorseful about abandoning you. I regretted it instantly, I assure you. I just—” He faltered, and Ben gathered that Newton was weeping. “I’ve never learned, you see. People are so difficult.

Much more difficult than calculus and optics. Much more.”

Ben paused, feeling his throat catch, and for an instant he was three years younger, on that terrible and wonderful day when Newton had asked him to be his apprentice. “Sir, I—” No. He could not let himself be distracted. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. She was here, then she wasn’t.”

“What?”

“She was here, ranting, annoying me. I told her to go and find King Charles. I suppose she went to do that. I haven’t seen her in several days.”

“You—” He broke off, thinking furiously, trying to ignore that Newton now had his face down in his hands.

Hassim had said that no one had seen Lenka. What had happened to her? Had she been snatched up by the Turk for some harim? Had she drowned, trying to swim to Venice?

“Lenka!” he cried, running around the room, searching for other doors. He descended the stairs, shouting her name, spinning dust into clouds, sending rats chittering into darker corners until his body—still much the worse for wear

—began to fail. Panting, leaning against a smooth, cool wall, he slid down to the floor.

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She was alive, he was certain of it. She was alive, in Venice or— He squeezed his eyes shut. Not on the beylerbey’s ship, already a day gone! Would she have been taken slave so quickly? Was there a trial or something, before a free woman was made slave?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know
anything
about Turks.

He did know that he would find her, somehow. This was his fault. This was his fault, and he—

Nothing. He nothing. He would find her because she deserved to be found.

And then he saw, with a blinding clarity, what that actually meant. It meant staying in Venice or sailing to Constantinople or wherever the bey’s ship had gone. He had to admit that he might need more than three days for that.

In three days, the Muscovites would be here.

All in all, it was a very simple equation. He would have to save Venice, as he had promised.

Taking a deep breath he rose, steadied himself, and went back up the stairs.

He found Newton as he had left him.

“Well,” Ben said, “it seems you are correct.”

“This girl meant something to you, I take it?”

“She was a person, so she meant more to me than to you.” He winced at his tone and held his hands up. “Let it pass,” he whispered. “I will find her. I have something else to speak to you about.”

“Oh? And will you remonstrate with me further?”

“I don’t know. That depends upon you, sir.”

“Meaning?”

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“Meaning, what are your plans now?”

Newton looked steadily at him. “I promise you, Benjamin, I will not leave you again. This time, we shall go together. Somewhere safe, where I can carry on my work.” He brightened a bit. “Look! See you my talos?” He waved at the man-thing.

“Oh, indeed, I did see it, and have seen it before,” Ben replied dryly. “A useful servant, I should think—perhaps a replacement apprentice?”

“No, no. Benjamin, it is more than it looks. It is the key to the wisdom of the ancients. To describing the malakim!”

“I see.”

“No, you do not. But I can teach you, Ben. Many secrets are in our grasp now, many new systems. It is more than ever I dreamed.”

Ben felt a bit of hope stirring, but he had heard Newton speak so before.

“Listen to me, sir,” he said. “Know you that the Muscovite fleet comes here now?”

“Here? Why here?”

“It is too long in the telling. They come to conquer Venice; that is enough.”

“Well then, we must flee immediately.”

“No!” Ben snapped, amazed that he could be so angry at Newton for planning nothing more or less than what he himself had been contemplating an hour before: find Lenka, convince Cotton Mather to sail, and leave Venice to her fate. He couldn’t do that now, because Lenka was here somewhere, and suddenly he felt a tower of righteousness. It was astonishing what was lying there below his pragmatism, and he marveled to hear it come out.

“I have fled Boston, I have fled London, I have fled Prague. By God, sir, here, for once, I stand and fight.”

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“With what? You saw the ships at Prague.”

“I did see—and I know, sir, that you must have noted that they are propelled by caged malakim.”

“Yes. Mrs. Karevna must have thieved away my design.”

“Be that as it may. You made these things, sir. Can you not
unmake
them?

Loose the affinities that bind the malakim to their service and let them fly free, so the proud Muscovite ships plummet earthward?”

Newton’s eyes widened as if he had never thought of that, and for a long space Ben watched the problem churn behind the master’s eyes. At last the philosopher looked up at him. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But it is too dangerous. I will not risk myself so for a city I owe nothing to.”

“Tell me,” Ben snarled. “I shall do it. I care not what the danger might be.”

“But
I
do, Benjamin, and I will not expose you to it.”

“But you would expose me, unprotected, to the bombs and shot of the Muscovites? For I swear to you, I am standing with King Charles in this.”

“I would expose you to nothing. I would have you travel on with me.”

“I have friends who will not abandon me at their slightest fear,” Ben mocked.

“I have friends who love me and whom I trust. You are not one of those, Sir Isaac. You are
not
one of those, and I would rather take my chances with musket fire in defense of my friends than escape with a man I do not trust and do not like!”

“Benjamin—” Newton began, and then again, “Ben—our work is more important than this. You must believe me.”

Ben let out a measured breath. “Oddly, sir, I do believe you. But I must do what I must do.”

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“Then I cannot help you.”

“Is there nothing I can do to stop the ships?”

Newton shrugged. “Perhaps. You have always been the handy one with contrivances, Benjamin. Perhaps you will invent something. Now, if you please, my talos will show you back down. I must ready for another flight, it seems.”

Ben paused as he approached the stairwell, but did not turn as he said, “You best fly quickly. Charles was talking of having you bombarded, so as to keep you from Muscovite hands. Farewell, sir. I do not think we shall meet again.”

His only reply was the faint bell of the talos’ feet on stone.

Red Shoes shook his head to clear it, glad to be back in the open air, even the fetid air of Venice. His initial impression of the city had only been confirmed.

The paths of water between the houses, the sinking, decaying buildings, the smell! He found himself always looking for enemies. Whatever had attacked him in Algiers was here: he knew it, could feel it. Below the waters of Venice, something dread waited to claim him.

He had meant to try and sort out what the “quiet” council had agreed, but he found he could not force himself to care. No matter what was said or done, a battle would be fought here, and he, Red Shoes, was going to be a part of it.

Ostensibly, it remained to hear from Benjamin Franklin what plans he had for attacking the flying warships. In truth, it was decided.

Europeans could not bear to be alone, among aliens. It was a sentiment he could understand. Away from his people, what was true and right began to lose its meaning; and he was fast becoming a chip of wood, tossed about on the water, weighed down by it, closer to sinking each day. Nairne, Mather, Bienville—even Blackbeard—might be from different nations, but it was clear that they thought themselves a sort of tribe apart from the Muscovites and the Turks. Venice might be ruled by the Turks, but in their hearts they thought of it as the last remaining part of a world that had once held England, France, Spain. Venice was all that endured of the Europe they knew, and they would fight to save her, he was sure. The Americans would not let Riva and King Charles die. Even Bienville now saw a chance to save his doomed colonists, A CALCULUS OF ANGELS