Empire of Unreason (37 page)

McMinn had artillery, all right. It marched with him. The
taloi
were
the artillery.

“The devil gun,” he bellowed, wheeling his mount. “Fire the
Goddamned devil gun!”

He saw Jones, wide-eyed, swinging the awkward forklike weapon
up, then saw the young face and most of his head vanish as a

kraftpistole
bolt jagged through him. Cursing, he fought his steed
that way, butchering an infantryman to get past him. If he did not
reach the weapon, they were certainly done.

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Unoka was faster. The black man pounced out of his saddle,
clubbing an opponent in the face with the flat of his ax, and in two
quick steps had the device. He spent no time at all figuring at it, but
raised it up and slid the trigger—he must have been watching when
Franklin demonstrated.

The taloi dropped in their tracks, every last one of them.

At that point, the army of the Pretender, which outnumbered them
more than two to one, turned and simply ran.

“Let them go!” James shouted. “Do not—” But here came the
Yamacraw and another bunch of Indians—Kiawahs— from up the
hill, shrieking into the woods in pursuit. For an instant, he almost
charged after them, for the sheer love of carnage. The Indians
fought not from the head but from the heart. Territory, goods, and
national sentiment meant very little to them. Covering themselves
in glory, bringing the scalps of their enemies back to adorn their
villages—that’s what they fought for.

As well try to stop the tide as stop them going after a fleeing enemy.

He sympathized. He also felt the pulse of savagery in his veins.

Unfortunately, he knew something that they didn’t. An army this
well trained would not flee for long. They had surprised McMinn’s
forces with a quick, vicious charge, but in time they would form up
again. However many losses they had taken, they still outnumbered
his own forces considerably. But the Indians weren’t stupid either.

When that happened, they could run as well as anyone, and better
than most.

But he couldn’t risk himself and his horsemen in a foolhardy chase
that might suddenly find them enclosed. He reined his men back
and surveyed the field.

Perhaps fifty of the redcoats lay dead or dying, and a good fifteen of
his own. Plus the taloi, damn their eyeless faces. If it weren’t for
them, the battle would have gone much more his way.

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“Cut those damned things up,” he told Philamon Parmenter, the
captain of his rangers, “in case they take a notion to come back to
life. Salvage any weapon that looks like we might be able to use.

Then fall back to the hill.”

“Are we gonna hold it?” Parmenter wiped blood from his
bulldoglike face with the back of his sleeve.

“No. We’ll pick at ‘em. Teach ’em what Indian fighting is all about.”

“I hope they don’t learn too quick,” the ranger replied.

Oglethorpe nodded, trying to see who he had lost.

Jack, of course, poor lad. By chance he had fallen next to McMinn,
who had been shot through the throat. Oglethorpe rolled the corpse
over with the toe of his black riding boot and saw, with some relief,
that it was not the same man he had fought with in Flanders—he
was far too young for that, scarcely older than Jack. But seeing him
lying there, in his sash with its white rose emblem, he felt a sudden
grief. In his heart, he had always believed the Stuarts were the true
kings of England. It would have taken so little for him to be fighting
with these men, instead of against them. If he had stayed in Europe,
instead of taking a tour of the margravate, if the great comet had
not destroyed London, stranding him here…

No, too many ifs. These people were his enemies, Jacobites or not.

Watching the rangers as they hacked apart the tough stuff of the
automatons, he knew that for a fact. Any friend of the devil was no
friend of his.

He caught Unoka watching him.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

“You a damn crazy fellow,” the African opined. “‘T’e gen’ral go in
back o’ t’e army, not chargin‘ in’t’e cannon!”

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“So I’ve heard,” James replied. “Mr. Unoka, from here on out, I
expect you to obey my orders and have your men obey them, too.

Otherwise, we can bloody well do without you.”

Unoka shrugged. “Ma’be it be so.”

“Not maybe, sir. Next time, you fight as part of this army, or we
part company.” He hesitated. He ought to praise the Maroon for his
own work just now, but that might weaken his admonition. He
turned, saying nothing.

The light pattering of gunfire in the woods suddenly took on a new
character—orderly volleys, many muskets firing in unison.

“That’s it,” Oglethorpe shouted. “Start the retreat.”

“Retreat?” Unoka grunted. “T’ey are on’t‘e rui?”

“Not anymore, they aren’t,” James replied. “Crazy fellow or not, I
say it’s time to go. We won’t win this fight in a day.”

On the way back up the hill, estimating the considerable remains of
the Pretender’s forces, he privately wondered if they could win it at
all. Whatever the case, he much doubted he would catch them
asleep again.

2.

A Question of China

EMPIRE OF UNREASON

“The magic mirror has a Chinese ambassador on it,” Crecy said.

Adrienne put her book down and looked up at the redhead. “They
finally deigned to answer?”

“So it would appear.”

“Good.” She rose and turned toward the door.

“Are you joking?” Crecy asked. “Surely you don’t intend to be seen
like that?”

“Like what?”

“Your hair is a rat’s nest. You’ve had that same gown on for days,
and it has stains on it—here, and here.”

“What matter what I look like? Veronique, I have greater cares
than that.”

“Well, for one thing, you’ve begun to scare the crew, and more
seriously, people are whispering doubts about your sanity. For five
days you’ve left your cabin only to meet with your students, and
then you have a certain feverish air about you that does nothing to
allay fears. Now you finally have a chance to speak with the Chinese

—who I hear are among the most fastidious people in the world—

and you intend to address them so? I will not allow it. Change that
dress and let me do something about your hair. You are thought of
as a sort of queen, Adrienne, and we depend upon that illusion. You
may not let it slip. Besides, if you do not make the ambassador wait
at least half an hour, he will not think you worthy.”

Adrienne resisted an irate riposte. She knew when Crecy was
intractable; and besides, she was right. It seemed nonsense to
worry about her appearance when the apocalypse was gathering,
but that was the way of things, wasn’t it?

“Irena had a lover,” Crecy remarked, as she began combing
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Adrienne’s hair.

“She told me.”

“Did she tell you who it was?”

“She said she had taken several in the past—to get back at Hercule
or to find some solace.”

“No, I mean she had a lover on one of these ships, perhaps this one.

I found a note she was writing to him, hidden in her quarters.”

“You searched her quarters?”

“Someone had to. Everyone seems to think everyone else killed her,
but no one knows. Entirely too many people think one or both of
us

did it, which is no good at all. There is considerable grumbling
about, favoring installing Menshikov as leader of this little outing.

Some of that probably comes from Menshikov himself, through
agents, though I’ve no absolute proof of it. Some of it rises from the
ranks, however. It would be nice if we could find someone to hang
for this murder. You make no move to solve this problem, so
naturally I assume you want me to do it. It’s the sort of thing I do
for you, after all.”

“Do you resent it, Veronique?”

“Resent what?”

“Doing these’things‘?”

“It’s what I’ve always done, since I was a little girl. Spying. Lying.

Killing. I don’t know what else I
would
do.”

“Get married. Have children.”

Crecy’s laugh bubbled in her throat. “Who are we talking about
now, my dear? I no more want those things than you do.”

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“Sometimes I want them.”

“Not often. Not for long. I am not a stranger to you, my friend.”

“I have a son,” Adrienne said softly.

“Yes. But you did not wish for him. I… I know you loved him—love
him. I do, too, for that matter. But it was not something you
planned.”

“Maybe that’s why I loved him so—because he wasn’t planned. Or
because he was the only good thing that came from those terrible
days…”

“You loved him because he was your son. Because he was little
Nico.”

“Yes? Then why did you love him?”

“Because he was your son. Because he was your little Nico.” Crecy
paused—to Adrienne it sounded as if her throat had gone too tight
to speak. “Because—he made us a family, of sorts,” Crecy went on.

“And I’ve never had a family. Without him, we—” Now Crecy did
break off.

“We what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say what you have to say.”

“We grew close, in those days. We were like sisters, at the very
least, and maybe something more. I have never been so close to any
human being as I was to you, Adrienne. Yet when Nico was stolen,
you blamed me—”

“I did not!”

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“You did. Think back. You blamed me, and I think you continue to.”

“Why on earth would you think that?” She looked up at the other
woman, and was amazed to see the glint of tears in Crecy’s eyes.

“Because you said so. Because in the years since then, you have
never said otherwise—and because you
should
blame me. He was in
my charge. I let him go. And after that… you became distant.”

“Crecy, you are my dear friend.”

“Yes, as dear a friend as you have, to be sure. Nevertheless you
drifted away after that. Rather than becoming closer, we drew
further apart; and time has only served to make that…

comfortable, in a way. We are not
better
friends than we were ten
years ago, only more worn and familiar ones. So, too, with Hercule.

You kept that distance—“

“I explained. After losing Nicolas, the thought of being too close
was intolerable.”

“I know, but in my case it is more. You still blame me. You think I
may have
given
him to them.”

“Nonsense.”

“Listen to yourself. Listen how unconvincingly that word is pressed
to service.”

“Hush, Crecy. Just hush. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Besides, how he was lost is no longer important. Reclaiming him is.

And yet the closer we get, the more I fear it. The more I do not want
to find him, in a way.”

“Truly? Why?”

EMPIRE OF UNREASON

“My heart says to find him, always. But my heart has never been my
brightest organ. I dream things—my malakim tell me things about
him. Bad things. What if I have to choose between him and the
world? I have been told to expect such a choice.”

“Told by the malakim? They are liars, of course.”

“I know. And yet—what if it is true?”

“What if it isn’t? Don’t you trust yourself to know, when we get
there?” She tugged on Adrienne’s hair a final time, then patted her
head. “That’s as much of the tangle as I can get out. Hold still just a
few more moments, while I put it up. Perhaps I should use the
Chinese comb, eh?”

“That’s fine,” Adrienne murmured. “Veronique… could you kill
me?”

She could feel her friend freeze behind her.

“What sort of question is that?”

“A practical one. If it became necessary, could you take my life?”

“How could such a thing ever be necessary?”

“The malakim warn that my son may bring the end of the world.

But they also warn that I might do the same thing, or that the two of
us together might.”

“More lies,” Crecy said as she fastened dark clouds of hair with a
lacquered comb. It felt for all the world as if her hands were
trembling.

“Veronique, what do you know? I did not surprise you just now, did
I?”

Crecy stopped again, and this time she came and knelt in front of
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her friend, and took her hand.

“They are
liars,
Adrienne. I do not mean as you are, or as I am.