Newton's Cannon (28 page)

“Fatio?”

“Fatio found his rest about the same time you took ill. I doubt that he will remember much of what he said, though someone might tell him.”

“And why do we sink the carriage?”

“I'll explain in a moment,” Nicolas said. “Crecy, if you don't mind?”

Adrienne watched impatiently as Crecy and Nicolas grunted and shoved the massive carriage toward the edge. It seemed to her that they should not be able to move it, but a moment or two later the carriage tumbled over. The lake kissed it with watery lips and then sucked it down.

“Now, we should be gone,” Crecy recommended. “Adrienne, can you ride?”

Adrienne wondered if she meant at all or at the moment, but she merely nodded, rising unsteadily to her feet. Nicolas held the reins of a golden stallion out to her. It was bridled and saddled, not one of the carriage horses. Two similar mounts awaited Crecy and Nicolas.

“Where did these come from?” Adrienne asked as she put her foot in the stirrup.

“We took them from the men d'Artagnan, here, killed,” Crecy replied, tersely.

Adrienne's jaw dropped, and she swung about to regard Nicolas. “What is happening?” she asked.

“Let's go. I'll tell you as we ride.”

Adrienne mounted. Her horse moved off at a fast walk.

“We shall have to make more speed soon,” Crecy informed her. “You see, Demoiselle, we have something of a trick to accomplish, your guardian and I. We must not only return you to Versailles alive, but we must return you without anyone knowing that you were in Paris. We three rogues—” She gestured at the three of them. “—must vanish as if we have never been.”

“Why?”

“Because, my dear, I fear you will be killed if we do not.”

“By the king?”

“No, the king would be very upset, but he would not kill you. There are those, though,” Crecy said, “who would be perfectly happy if millions of human beings died.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot tell you that yet. But you must tell me, Adrienne. What was it you suddenly understood about Fatio's formula?”

“I don't know if I can trust you,” she finally said after a pause.

“
You
trust
me
?” Crecy said, her voice quite cold. “Do you know what d'Artagnan and I have risked for
you
?”

“I know that you risk yourselves. I don't know why, or that it is for
me.
I don't know you at all, Mademoiselle Crecy, save that in each instance I have been involved with you, I have spent altogether too much time on horseback.”

“What do you mean?” Crecy asked.

“You know very well what I mean, Monsieur Brigand.”

Crecy clicked her tongue and looked up at the sky. “So you guessed
that
?”

“I didn't until yesterday. When you were pretending to be a man, I recognized you.”

“Brilliant, Mademoiselle,” Crecy said.

“That isn't all,” Adrienne continued. “On the horse was not the first time I ever heard your voice. You were also the guard who fished me out of the Grand Canal when the barge was set afire.”

“Now your story becomes more fantastic,” Crecy remarked.

“Nevertheless, I believe that you have masqueraded as a man and become one of the Hundred Swiss—perhaps with some help from my good friend Nicolas here.”

Nicolas opened his mouth to protest, but Adrienne held up her hand. “It was entirely too simple for Crecy to bring you into this mad scheme. You know that since the ‘kidnapping,’ the king has misliked me traveling alone or with a single guard, and yet you allowed it.”

Nicolas colored but held her gaze. “I have done what I thought was best,” he answered stubbornly.

“Oh? And was it best when you allowed me to be kidnapped?”

She had been guessing about that part, but their reactions confirmed it.

“Yes, I see it now,” she continued. “A prearranged kidnapping, one in which no one would be killed. You, Nicolas, only pretended to be hurt while Crecy—and who else was it, Count Toulouse himself?—rode off with me.”

“You omit one important detail,” Crecy riposted. “D'Artagnan here had a musket ball in his shoulder.”

“Did he?”

“Enough, Veronique,” Nicolas replied. “It is no use.”

“No, Nicolas,” Crecy objected, some real heat entering her voice at last. She turned on Adrienne. “He shot himself after we left, to prevent suspicion, to protect
you
.”

Adrienne nearly faltered at that, but she pressed on. “I don't see how I have been
protected
by that,” Adrienne retorted. “But even assuming I have, you understand if I wonder what your motives are.”

“Perhaps we are both deeply smitten by you, Mademoiselle, and have followed you about to keep you from harm. And see how you repay us.” Crecy uttered a pacific little laugh and shook her head.

Adrienne felt her face burn. “Don't ridicule me,” she demanded. “Give me a reason to trust you. Give me
someone
to trust!”

But at that, the two exchanged glances as if trying to communicate by silent parley and decide how to respond. That meant that they were both most likely interpreting someone else's commands.

“I only wanted you to know that I know,” Adrienne explained, “so that you will not both think me an utter fool. And if you are taking me somewhere to sink me like that carriage, you will do so knowing that I was not entirely ignorant of my fate.”

Nicolas turned wide, shocked eyes on her. “Whatever else you believe,” he gasped, “do not think I could do you any
harm
!”

“How touching,” Crecy declared, and then added more soberly, “but of course the same is true of me, my dear.”

And then, suddenly, she drew a pistol. “Nicolas, did you—”

“Yes,” he said grimly, “I hear them, too.” He readied a short carbine musket designed for firing from horseback. A thrill of fear swept through Adrienne—she almost believed they were about to shoot
her
—but now she heard the baying of hounds.

“Who hunts us?” she asked.

“Any number of people,” Nicolas replied. “The secret police came after us last night, but I killed them. I don't know who these are.” He urged his horse over toward her, opened his coat,
and pulled a weapon from a pocket. “Take this,” he said. “Go with Crecy. If you are beset, aim and pull the trigger. Make certain that Crecy is nowhere in front of you.”

The pistol he handed her was huge. It had a normal-seeming flintlock, but the barrel flared to more than an inch in diameter toward the end.

“Where are you going?”

“Hunting.” He dropped his voice. “Adrienne, I am sorry for the lies between us. Sometimes a man has many duties to choose between. Sometimes he does not make the right choices.” He paused, and his eyes hardened. “Crecy is half right,” he whispered harshly, “for I do love you.”

“I don't know what you want,” she moaned, but the sudden concussion of joy and terror shook her to the bone. He had said it, and now she could no longer pretend.

Nicolas had already turned his mount, was already galloping away.

“Come,” Crecy said, riding up alongside. “Come now if you want to survive this.”

“Nicolas …”

“If anyone can live through what he is about to attempt, believe me, it is Nicolas,” Crecy said. “You don't know him like I do. But if he dies, we must make it worth the sacrifice.
Now.
”

Perhaps five minutes later, she heard shots in the distance, little snapping sounds like ice breaking. She gripped the pistol in her hand, trying to recall if she had ever even held one before; she
knew
that she had never fired one.

She wondered where they were. What would she do if both Nicolas and Crecy were killed?

It would be her fault. If not for her drunken babbling, the plan would have been perfect.

“Head down,” Crecy shouted suddenly, and her pistol barked. Something whined by Adrienne's ear, and then she heard a second muffled boom. Ahead, four riders emerged from a blind of trees; one hung almost comically to his horse's mane, his chin and neck scarlet. A second was holstering a smoking
carbine and drawing his sword, and the other two commenced to charge. She had time to absorb that they wore the uniform of the Gray Musketeers as she awkwardly raised her pistol.

To first appearances, the Grecian was a coffeehouse like other coffeehouses—well, like other
respectable
ones.

At first Ben merely stood inside the doorway. The Grecian was crowded, its long tables packed with gentlemen dressed from the height of fashion to near rags. Ben slowly picked through the crowd with an eager gaze, hoping he might recognize some famous philosopher. To his disappointment, though he fancied he saw many faces of great intelligence and wit, none spurred recognition.

How was he to know this Hermes? How was Hermes to know him? He had deliberately omitted any mention of his age in all of his letters, figuring that Sir Isaac would not eagerly greet a young boy. If Hermes had an eye out for him, he was probably not looking for a boy.

He went through the room again, and this time his eye picked out a single table at which only a few people sat, one of whom was a woman—a rare sight in
real
coffeehouses, especially when they were young and pretty.

This woman
was
pretty—and exotic as well. She wore her own hair, which was very black. Her skin was pale, her eyes slanted and almond shaped. Her red lips wore a sort of permanent pout below an upturned nose that might almost be thought of as impish if her demeanor were not so regal. She might have been any age between sixteen and thirty-six. She was speaking, and the others at the table—four men in their twenties—listened, enthralled.

Ben noticed an empty space on a nearby bench. If nothing
else, he decided, he would go and see what this strange, lovely creature was saying.

“Our institute is not so grand,” she said in an accent Ben could not place, “and yet we have made progress in attracting scholars.”

“Yes,” one of the men answered in a French accent, “I'm certain that Herr Leibniz was a great prize. I wonder if he had any luck instituting the social reforms he aspired to?” His sarcasm was evident; his lips seemed frozen in a perpetual smirk. Though Ben had no great love for Leibniz and his philosophies, there was something so self-satisfied about the man's criticism that he bridled a bit.

The woman was affected in the same way. “Sir,” she said, “your contempt of Leibniz's philosophies is well known, but whatever you may think of him, he was a man of science, and his students are not necessarily hampered by his faults. It is true that he took his position in my lord's court in hopes of implementing certain policies. I assure you, Tsar Peter was well aware of that. But I argue that his wish to reform humanity was no stranger than Sir Isaac's latest … obsession.”

“Here, here,” seconded another fellow in a solid British drawl. Unlike the rest, he affected a large wig that seemed to swallow his small, plump face. Ben barely noticed, for he had just understood two things: The woman was Russian, and they spoke of Sir Isaac almost as if they knew him. Could one of these men— or even the woman—be Hermes? He took up a newspaper and tried to appear to scrutinize it, but he found himself glancing up often.

The Smirker favored the Wig with a slightly disdainful glance. “Come now,” he said, rather patronizingly. “Sir Isaac has shown us a world of order, of poetic precision. His method has dissected light and matter and mathematics from Leibniz's mysticism. Do you truly hold that Newton's interest in history and the ancients is on par with Leibniz's absurd notion that we live in the best of all possible worlds?”

The woman frowned. “I believe that you are deliberately misrepresenting the late doctor,” she said, “and just as deliberately you are ignoring the theological arcanery of Sir Isaac's latest efforts.”

“He is old,” the Smirker said, “and his thoughts turn to the religion of his youth. I can forgive him that.”

“Oh, 'tis passing fair
generous
of you to cede him that!” snapped a third man, who sat across the table from the woman. He spoke in a crisp and unmistakable Scottish burr, which perfectly suited his square, studious face and curly brown hair. “ 'Tis more than presumptuous of
any
of you t' guess at what the great man is aboot. He ha' applied mathematical tools to the understandin' o' alchemy, physics, and thaumaturgy. What makes you so
certain
that he will fail t' apply the same methods t'history?”

“Oh, pish, Maclaurin,” the Wig snorted. “You don't really believe that. And this outlandish obsession of his has cost the Royal Society dearly. Parliament and the king want science and weaponry for the war, not chronologies and bizarre arguments about the science of Babylon. That's a large part of what has put us in our present position!”

“Sir Isaac is uncomfortable aboot producin' more devices for killing,” Maclaurin said quietly. “It ha' nothing at all to do wi' his present endeavors.”

“We'll see what use those scruples are against the bloody French,” the Wig retorted, and then, suddenly realizing his blunder, glanced sidewise at the Smirker. “Ah … no offense intended, sir.”

The fourth man—whose back was to Ben, so that he could only make out his blondish mane—held up his hand placatingly. “Let's have none of that between us,” he entreated. “As philosophers, we should be above this nonsense. In any event, let us not forget our good guest from the continent is exiled by the Sun King.”

“Indeed,” the Frenchman agreed. “And you all know that I find England a more enlightened place than the stifling court of Apollo. Still, I
would
remind you that this war cannot be placed entirely at the Sun King's door.”

“I agree with Mr. Stirling. Let's not argue politics,” the woman broke back in.

“Yes,” Maclaurin agreed. “And meantime, has anyone spotted our friend Janus?”

Ben could not help starting at that, and he blushed furiously when he realized that the woman's exotic eyes were narrowing to focus on him.

“Why, yes,” she replied. “I believe I have.”

“Not that
boy
,” the Wig grunted.

A strange kind of calm followed Ben's initial embarrassment. He did not know what to say to them, but nevertheless he stood and approached their table.