Empire of Unreason (22 page)

Crecy and Lomonosov finished their exercise and saluted each
other. “That’s plenty for me today,” the young man said.

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“Mademoiselle, I am much in your debt for the lessons. A man of
my low station has little chance to study the art, much less at the
hands of a master—ah—mistress—” His mouth worked on another
word or two but didn’t finish. He was blushing again. “Well, I
suppose I look foolish enough now,” he finally managed. “I think I
will bid you all good night.”

“A moment,” Adrienne interrupted, “while I seem to have you all
together. This voyage will be long and at times tedious. I have
decided to institute a coffee at midmorning each day, where we will
discuss matters scientific. This is in addition to any tutoring you
receive.”

“Mademoiselle, I think that a most excellent idea,” Lomonosov
said. “I very much look forward to it.”

“Good. Then I want you to be the first to prepare a lecture on some
item of interest. For tomorrow.”

If Adrienne expected dismay at that, she was disappointed.

Lomonosov beamed back at her and nodded enthusiastically. “Very
well. I must go and prepare, then. So if the ladies will allow me?”

He picked up his hat, bowed to them, and hurried off.

“Mistress, hey?” Elizavet said. “What else have you been teaching
the young man, ”mistress’ Crecy?“

“Hush, you impudent creature,” Crecy replied, though her tone
made the remonstration light, “and go find some mischief
elsewhere. I need a private word with Adrienne.”

“Oh, I see,” Elizavet replied. “What a bore. Here am I, a girl in the
bloom of youth aboard a ship full of soldiers and sailors, and you
expect me to find entertainment easily? Well, I suppose I will make
a go at it…”

“No, you’ll return to your cabin and study fluxions,” Adrienne said.

“You have a tutorial in the morning before the coffee. Good night,
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Elizavet.”

“So
you
say. It is not proving itself so to me.” She drew herself up
and left them alone. Linne and Breteuil had vanished somewhere,
as well.

“It’s good of you, Crecy, to play the tutor.”

“I’ve been restless. And I need the practice. I very nearly failed you
yesterday, Adrienne. I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. You saved us, Veronique. Is this why you wanted to
speak to me?”

“In part. You didn’t ask me about Oliver.”

“So I didn’t. I’ve learned, over the years, that the way to learn your
secrets is to
not
ask you about them. It seems I’m correct.”

“I would have told you about him long ago, if I thought to ever see
him again. We met when I was very young— fourteen—and parted
years before I met you. I supposed him dead.”

“He was your lover?”

“My first. He found me—usually our kind work alone, but
sometimes we are brought together. He came to teach me—the use
of arms, espionage, the pleasures of the body. He taught me very
well.” She chuckled. “I was so young, so silly, that I even thought he
loved me. A foolish thought. We… killed a man together, he and I—

a mathematician, a musician. He made certain that it was I who
struck the death blow, that I was the last thing the man saw. After
that, he left. I never saw him again—until now.”

“And Oliver—is he with your old faction, the
malfaiteurs
?”

“He was. At least I think he was.”

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“Hmm. I think the politics of the malakim are considerably more
complicated than we thought.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Crecy said. “Theirs is an unseen kingdom,
and we can only accept what they tell us. No one understands that
better than I. No one is more skeptical of their claims now.

Anything and everything they tell us might be lies.”

Adrienne smiled. “I once had the same opinion of you.”

Crecy did not return the smile. “I was their tool then, and my habits
of thought were theirs. I hope that I have improved. I hope that I
have become your true friend.”

“My truest,” Adrienne replied. “Truer than I deserve, I daresay.”

“Hercule is also your friend,” Crecy hinted.

“I know. I have not used him well, I admit. I will talk to him soon. I
think we cannot be lovers again, but we can be friends.” Her chest
tightened, and her eyes moistened. “I hope I have not gone too far.

I don’t want to lose him.” She moved to the rail. Below was nothing,
a sea of dark air. It seemed to welcome her, cajole her, beg to
swallow her up.

“I feel as if I’ve been dreaming,” she murmured, “a dream with no
pain or joy, a dream in which the loss of Nico did not hurt so much,
but in which—” She broke off. “I will not go on like this.”

“Perhaps you should,” Crecy said, joining her at the rail.

“I will not, but I will make the things right that I can. The things I
cannot…” She shrugged. “What is most important, above all other
things, is that my son is alive. It’s as if I’ve been lost in the woods,
and now I see a light through the trees.” She gripped Crecy’s hand.

“But is it right that I’ve made it your quest and Hercule’s?”

Crecy squeezed her fingers. “For my part, I have been happy
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enough following you through this enchanted forest of yours, but
for years I’ve been rather… bored. Philosophy, the adventure of the
mind—I don’t have the brains for it. Danger, travel, battle, sex—the
adventure of the body, that’s what I’m made for.”

“Well,” Adrienne said, “I think you shall have it.”

Crecy leaned dangerously over the rail, flirting with the distant,
unseen landscape below. “This has been a damn good start,” she
said, “a good start indeed.”

She and Crecy had some wine, and she returned to her quarters in
far better spirits than she left them. She fumbled with the latch,
realizing that she had perhaps overindulged a bit.

Inside was very dark. The lanthorn was covered— something she
did not remember doing. Puzzled, she shuffled toward where she
could just make out her desk.

She heard a small sound, one she recognized: the lock of a pistol
drawing back.

“Go on to the lamp,” a voice whispered. “I want to see your face
when I kill you.”

3.

A Tale

Red Shoes kicked Tug awake. Flint Shouting was already on his
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feet, gathering his things.

“What th‘ devil—?”

“It’s time to ride, Tug,” he whispered.

For the moment, the very size of the camp hid them, but that would
not last long.

“Who the hell’re they?” Tug asked, stabbing his finger at the
woman and the Russian.

“Later.”

Around them was chaos. The sound of gunfire had raced ahead of
the news, and here on the fringes of the camp it was clear that the
warriors believed themselves under attack. Slapped-in-the-Face
and his party were armed, and stared curiously at them.

“The Sun Boy was attacked,” Red Shoes explained. “Horsemen—I
don’t know the tribe—in the center of camp.”

“Who is this man?” Slapped-in-the-Face demanded, jerking his
chin toward the Russian. “Why does he wear iron ropes?”

Red Shoes said in French, “Close your eyes. Now.”

Slapped-in-the-Face, who spoke no French, frowned.

Red Shoes clapped his hands over the Awahi woman’s eyes, closed
his own, and lit the air more brightly than the sun. The Wazhazhe
shrieked.

Red Shoes and Tug helped the Russian onto a horse as Slapped-in-the-Face and his men rolled about on the ground, trying to salve
their eyes with their palms. The woman and Flint Shouting leapt
upon mounts on their own; and moments later, taking advantage of
the renewed pandemonium around them, the five of them rode off.

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Both the Russian and the woman seemed at home on horseback,
which was good.

They made it almost to the edge of camp before they were
challenged by a group of ten horsemen of the short, dark-skinned
folk, accompanied by a young man in green Russian uniform. The
Russian shouted something, and they all turned toward them. A
few of the horsemen produced muskets, but most had wicked-looking bows made of bone.

Red Shoes gathered his shadowchildren to attack them— and a
concussion almost knocked him from the saddle. He tasted blood,
and his head seemed ringed by a halo of sparks.

His vision cleared just in time to see the scalped man riding toward
him, shrieking, ax whirling over his head.

Guns barked and the scene was lit by the flash of a
kraftpistole,
but
Red Shoes had eyes only for the scalped man. A half-dozen one-eye
spirits flew before him like flaming bees, tearing into Red Shoes’

shadowchildren. One died immediately, ripped to shreds by the
one-eyes. It felt like losing a piece of his soul—for the good reason
that his shadow-children
were
pieces of his soul. A terrible,
unnatural remorse overcame him.

Why live?
his sick heart asked. He drew out his ax, blinking blood
out of his eyes. Where had the blood come from? It didn’t matter.

He ducked the scalped man’s vicious stroke, and their horses
crashed together. Now anger spun up through the grief. If he was to
die, he wouldn’t die alone, but take the source of his misery with
him. He dug his fingers into his opponent’s clothes and swung, felt
the blade strike something, but at a bad angle, so that it skidded off.

For an instant they were face-to-face, the scalped man’s eyes
burning red, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Then their horses
wheeled apart. Red Shoes’ fingers jerked loose of his foe’s shirt,
and they hurtled along side by side, leaning in to strike at each
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other. Blood sprayed as the scalped man struck Red Shoes’ upper
arm, and he felt the odd thunk of steel against his bone. Around
them, otherworld lightnings writhed like burning spiderwebs.

Snarling, Red Shoes struck back, and the sharp edge of his weapon
hit the scalped man’s skull, turned in his hand, and scalped him a
second time.

The scalped man drew a pistol, screaming; and screaming as
loudly, Red Shoes drew his.

Twin thunders crashed as one. He knew no more.

Red Shoes awoke to pain, a crackling sound, the smell of burned
flesh; and before he could master himself, he screamed. Or tried to:
a rag had been stuffed in his mouth.

Tug was standing over him, grinning. “That got y’r attention, eh?”

Red Shoes raised his head, looking dizzily at the smoke rising from
a puckered black mark in his shoulder. Beneath it, a blood-soaked
rag bound the ax wound. With his left hand, he removed the rag.

“What did you do, Tug?” he murmured.

“Burned out the wound with powder. It wuz what this Moscovado
fellow said’t‘ do.”

Red Shoes grimaced. European medicine seemed more interested
in continuing to wound a patient than in curing him.

“Now lie still so’s Doct’r Tug can bleed you. I think you’ve got a
fever. We’ll get some o‘ the sick blood outta ye.”

“No,” Red Shoes said with finality. He sat up, his body feeling like a
hollow reed. “What happened?” he asked.

They were on the prairie somewhere, no sign of the camp or
warriors. It was perhaps midday.

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“While you were a playin‘ wi’ that ugly character, we made work of
the other fellahs. Y’r woman here burned more than half with her
krafty gun.”

“We escaped, then?”

“Nah. We’re in a Turkish dungeon. Of course, we escaped, y‘ nitwit.

Y’ think anyone was goin‘’t‘ follow us after they saw you and that
warlock man goin’ at it with all the fires o‘ hell? Not likely. Not right
away, anyway. We’ve got a start on ’em.”

“It won’t last. We need to ride.”

“Well, we agree there.”

“I would like to thank you,” someone said in French. Red Shoes
turned to find the Russian squatting next to him, hand thrust out.

“You saved my life.”

“You were trying to kill yourself.”

“Better than the fate they had in store for me.”

Red Shoes gripped the offered hand.

“My name is Peter Alexeyevich,” the man said, “and I’m in your
debt. You only need ask your reward.”

Red Shoes covered his astonishment. “Once we’re riding,” he said.

“I have many questions to ask you. Especially if you can tell me
more about this Sun Boy and this army.”

“I can tell you about it,” Alexeyevich said.

“Good,” Red Shoes replied. “And may I say I am honored to meet
Your Majesty.”