A Calculus of Angels (29 page)

“You misunderstand,” the Barbary captain called back. “I may make such offers and demands. You may not.”

Blackbeard nodded, and turned to his master gunner, Josiah Warn.

“Blow them out of the Goddamned water,” he said.

12.

A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

Jealousy and the Moon

Duke Francis Stephen of Lorraine raised his wineglass. “A toast,” he said, beaming. “To Mademoiselle de Mornay de Montchevreuil, our savior and beloved guest.”

Adrienne humbly inclined her head as the duke, Hercule, and Crecy drank the toast.

“I would rather drink to the recovery of Mademoiselle Crecy,” Adrienne said, lifting her glass.

“Hear, hear,” the duke seconded, finishing what remained of his wine. His valet quickly filled his glass again, and he sipped before addressing the company.

“I have been among the men today, and they send their regards. To tell you the truth, I believe that many had begun to fear for the success of our quest, but you have restored their hearts, lady. What man does not take hope when the new Joan of Arc rides with him?”

“Sir!” cried Crecy. “Do not curse my friend so by bringing that name upon her!

I, for one, would prefer not to see her martyred.”

“Of course,” the duke replied, “but Saint Joan was martyred because she was surrounded by fools, and I hope that the present company is not comparable!”

“There are fools in any company,” Crecy remarked.

“I suppose you speak of the chaplain,” Hercule said.

“He did refuse to join us,” Adrienne murmured.

“You must understand that he is not so much a fool as a jealous man. That he, a man of God, is not so favored by God as our dear Adrienne.”

“Jealousy is foolish in and of itself,” Crecy avowed, with perhaps a hint of irony A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

in her voice. “And in this case, leads to foolish comments. He has been heard to swear that our Adrienne is in league with the devil.”

“An unheeded remark,” Francis asserted, “for every man among us knows that were she diabolic, she would not have delivered us from the Russians. No, pay no attention to that one, I beg you. He serves his purpose as confessor to the men, but no one will listen to him in this.”

“I do not take him to heart,” Adrienne added, trickling a little more of the dry wine upon her tongue—watching amusedly as the duke tried to keep his composure, despite the fact that Crecy was stroking his leg with her bare foot.

Privately, she believed that the men in general simply did not care whether she served good or evil, so long as she was on
their
side. When she rode along the train, she caught a distrustful glance now and then—but always it melted into a simulacrum of adulation when it found itself discovered. No, she would not be named a witch until either her powers failed or the company reached a secure place and festered there a while. In peace they would turn on her, not before.

The next round was brandy, not wine, and Adrienne took only a bit, having proven in the past unable to withstand the eifects of strong liquor. Crecy, however, did not hesitate, matching the men glass for glass, until all three were rather unsteady.

After dinner, they left the duke’s tent, Crecy swaying and linking arms with her as the two men smoked what little tobacco remained.

“You are feeling well, Veronique?” Adrienne asked. “Is the brandy well in your belly?”

“Ah, very well, my dear,” she answered, her words scented with apricot. “It is good to be drunk again, to be impaired from choice rather than from wounds.

And how is it with you, 0 Sorceress? I note you drank little.”

“I have a lot to think on tonight.”

“Tha’s Adrienne,” Crecy slurred. “Always much to think about. I wonder—I wonder…”

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“What do you wonder, my dear?”

“I wonder what you think
of me
these days?”

“How do you mean?”

“You used to be so helpless. Such a little girl. You needed Veronique then, to wield her sword, to teach you what a woman can do even without a sword. I wonder if you need Veronique anymore.”

“Of course I still need you. You are my friend.”

“Yes, yes, your friend. Of course I am! And yet, I notice, Adrienne, that you came by less to see me when I could not walk than you might. And that you have seemed less than eager to see me put my sword back on…”

“I only fear for your health, Veronique. What is this? You’ve never spoken like this before.”

“I’ve never—” Crecy suddenly pushed away from her, so violently that it bruised her arm, reminding her how terribly strong the other woman really was. “I’ve never been the
weak
one before,” she snapped.

“Weak? You aren’t weak.”

“No? Who is the stronger now? And you surrounded by all these able men, ready to lay down their lives? What need have you of me?”

Adrienne folded her arms. “I am no longer a helpless child who needs your constant protection. Is that so terrible?”

“Or perhaps we became friends merely because you had no choice, no one else to guard you, and now that that condition is removed you disdain my company.”

“Veronique, when have I ever disdained your company?”

Crecy pulled her arm away. “Now you treat
me
like a child.”

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“Veronique! Stop this. I have given you no cause for this.”

“No? And yet you avoid me, preferring d’Argenson or the duke or even that little tart Nicole. How am I expected to feel?”

“Crecy…”

Crecy’s eyes flashed silver in the moonlight. “You will never understand what I gave up for you, Adrienne. But if you don’t understand, I at least hold you to remembering.”

“Veronique, that is unfair. For more than two years I have been your friend, though you have lied to me time and again. For all that I know, you are lying yet.”

“Yes, for all you know, I am. What does Crecy know of truth? Or of love?”

“Hush, Veronique. You have gone too deep into your cups tonight.”

But the redhead gathered herself and straightened. “Not too much,” she murmured, “not too. I am sorry, Adrienne. Come and walk with me. Tell me of the stars while still they shine.”

Adrienne hesitated. The duke of Lorraine had taken leave back to his tent, and she noticed that Hercule was wandering slowly away.

“You should rest, Veronique. You are in a mood tonight, and I have no patience with it.”

“You must have patience with me,” Crecy whispered. “I am unused to this, Adrienne. I am not used to being the feeble one.”

Adrienne peered into her friend’s slightly stupefied eyes and kissed her lightly.

“You are not feeble Veronique— merely drunk. Now, hush and good night.”

Crecy drew back, her face working through three or four expressions, and then she finally said stiffly, “Good night, in that case.” And then, with a touch of her A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

old sarcasm, “And flights of angels sing thee to thy sleep. For they no longer sing for me.” She winked and leered slightly. “I think I shall see what sort of man this young duke is—or would like to be.”

“Crecy, you warned
me
—”

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Crecy replied, and with that walked toward the duke’s tent carefully, as if on a tightrope. Adrienne watched her go, wondering if she should try to stop her—but how could one stop Crecy, once her mind was set?

Instead, she turned her attention to the stars. The Milky Way was just visible, obscured not by clouds but by the burnished brilliance of the rising moon.

Saturn was an unflickering light halfway up the horizon. She was wondering if she could use the djinni to bring her reports of such heavenly bodies, when a quiet cough interrupted her. She turned to find Hercule d’Argenson.

“Am I intruding, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Not at all. I was admiring the stars, that is all.”

“As they admire you, no doubt.”

She smiled. “You are in a fine humor tonight.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?”

“You do not worry, like the chaplain, that I might be some sort of witch?”

“I know for a fact that you are a witch.” He stepped toward her. “For you have long since bewitched me.”

She closed the yard separating them, feeling suddenly very bold, challenging him with her uptilted chin. “Your talk is very fine, sir,” she said. “Your mouth has a very pleasing way with words. I wonder—can you put those lips to some other use, or are they good only for drenching the ear with honey?”

His eyes widened. “Mademoiselle, I—”

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“No, Monsieur, you cannot address my question with more words. I demand empirical proof or none at all.”

He shut his mouth, then, and reached the back of his knuckles over to touch her cheek. A small, triumphant smile on his face, he gently parted her lips with his finger.

He tasted of brandy and smoke, and the warmth of his mouth was shocking.

She knotted her fingers in his steinkirk and pulled him closer, and he crushed against her, hands stroking goose bumps down her back. He painted breath across her cheek, to the hollow of her neck, buried there and planted fire, so that finally she gasped, the heat dribbling into her belly and along the face of her thighs.

“Your tent,” she said. “It is empty?”

“Save of air, milady.”

“Take me there, then,” she whispered.

“Are you certain?”

“Take me there.”

Amongst his sheets, she nearly laughed, for he was, it seemed, a man with much experience, finesse, and technique— certainly he was more proficient than any lover she had ever had—and yet he had nearly broken his leg trying to undo his breeches. At last she understood Crecy’s joy in lovemaking, in seeing a strong man become endearingly weak. Lying with Louis had been a chore, a repugnant, dirty thing. With Nicolas, it had been a meeting of hearts through the medium of flesh, an act of love. She did not love Hercule, but he gave her something she had never had: simple pleasure, true enjoyment. When they were done, and he fell into languid sleep, she patted his brow, dressed, and went back out to regard the stars, grinning foolishly. She walked in circles around the camp, happy and alone.

In time, she grew tired and made her way back to her own tent, and to her A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

surprise, found Nicolas there, as if awaiting her. “Did you slip from your nurse, Nico?” she asked, stroking his head. He laughed, a funny little laugh, and for a moment she thought he said something—a silvery trickle of nonsense that yet sounded like—
something.
She was just gathering him into her arms when suspicion swept through her like a chill wind. With a little snarl, she opened the eyes of her fingers and swept its gaze through the aether, not knowing for sure what she was searching for. Crecy’s story came back to her, of the childhood voices that raised her up, of the changeling process by which she was formed. Was this happening to Nico? For the love of God, if so, for how long?

But the aether was quiet—as quiet as it could be, filled with its strange choruses and plainsong. Nevertheless, she called one of the djinn to her.

“Mistress?” it hummed.

“Watch him,” she said. “Watch my son, and let no power touch him. Do you understand? Alert me should any sympathy develop between him and any of your kind.”

“Yes, mistress,” the creature intoned.

“Good,” she said. “Good.”

Feeling a bit better, she stroked her son’s head. Children, after all, were strange without the aid of unseen intervention. Nico giggled again at her touch, and then pointed at the moon, now risen higher, and she said. “Yes, my sweet. You have not seen her much,
la lune.”

“Lalooon,” Nico repeated, crooning the vowel.

“Nico!” she said. “You’ve said a word!”

“Laloooon!” he crowed again.

“What a smart boy!” she said. “Your first word!” She felt suddenly very proud, very much in love with this little creature of hers, and she gathered him up, sang him a lullaby about the moon, over and over, until he fell asleep, and then A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

she took him into the tent, crawled into her blankets, and joined him in untroubled slumber.

13.

The Black Tower

Ben tensed at the approaching footsteps, laying his hand on the cold, brass grip of his sword. When he realized what he had done he sighed and withdrew his fingers from the hilt. After all, if it was someone he really needed the sword against, he was done for anyway. In fact, he wished now that he had left the weapon behind. The mere fact that he was armed might scare some would-be attackers, but cannier ones would only take it as a sign that they had best creep up behind him or shoot him from a distance.

He could see the person below him now, a woman as he had hoped, cloaked against the night. He waited a moment longer, trying to perceive whether she was alone, whether she had been followed. After a few moments, with no sign of anyone else, he called softly down.

“Lenka.”

The hood turned up to him and revealed Lenka’s face, as he had seen it last, pale in the moonglow.

“Benjamin?” she hissed.

“Yes. Thank you for coming.”

“I shouldn’t have. If I am ever found out—”

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“You won’t be, I swear. Even if they catch and torture me.” He paused, then slithered forward on the tile roof until his head and shoulders hung above her.

“Did you bring it?”

“Yes. I only pray that ‘tis the right one.”

“Toss it up.”

“You didn’t keep our appointment,” she said.

“I am indeed sorry, lady, but I was indisposed.”

“They say you tried to assassinate the emperor.”

“Oh, indeed,” Ben replied sarcastically. “Wait a moment.”

He swung around on the roof until his legs dangled over and then inched back, teasing gravity before giving himself to it and rushing to the inflexible stone below.

“Such strange rats scurry about these parts of Old Town,” Lenka remarked, as he winced, stood, and brushed at his suit.

“Yes. That’s all I’ve been doing, scurrying.” The crescent moon stood straight above, making shadow of her face, but he thought he saw a puckish smile on it.