A Calculus of Angels (39 page)

As if to emphasize his words, the door’s iron hinges squealed a metallic complaint, and the pounding outside redoubled.

“We have to jump all together,” Ben cautioned.

“Aye, so’s we die simultaneous,” Robert countered.

“If you’ve a better solution, out with it now.”

The three of them stood in the now-open wall of the tower, each holding a corner of the envelope. It was considerably less than half full, shaped like a A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

mushroom well past its prime. The gas in it was not sufficient to lift the envelope itself into the air, much less the three men clutching its corners.

“As long as we keep the mouth open and pointed down, it should fill with air and slow us,” Ben explained.

“The ground will slow us considerably more,” Robert grumbled.

The door whined again, and this time bulged into the room Then the sound stopped.

“Not a good sign,” Frisk said. “They must have something more effective.”

At that moment, a jet of flame licked the door from the mouth of its frame.

Outside, someone shrieked in pain, presumably from the backlash of whatever they had just used.

“Go!” Ben shouted, and jumped.

Frisk was with him, but Robert an instant too slow, so that they swung like a pendulum. Ben suppressed a shriek as there was suddenly only space beneath his feet, and he was sure that the giant bag would simply fold and fall with them. It might have, when it swung back, but the tower wall was there, and instead the three men smacked into it. Robert hit hardest— Frisk and Ben being in some part cushioned by Robert—but that stopped the balloon’s swinging. It yanked fiercely at Ben’s hands as it filled with air. Gritting his teeth, Ben held tight, watching the ground approach with surreal rapidity.

Then they crunched into the underbrush at the tower’s foot, and below that the unyielding earth rammed straight through Ben’s feet into his head, never minding the organs between.

When they untangled themselves from the now-tattered silk, musket balls were whizzing down at them from above, and, ducking their heads, the three men half fell down the slope, accompanied by Robert’s steady, imaginative cursing.

A few moments later, out of line of sight from the tower, they came together for a moment. The Moldau curved below them, placidly unconcerned with the A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

explosions and sheets of flame that illuminated the skies around Prague. Some of the eruptions splattered against the sky like great star-fish, indicating that the shield protecting the city still held; others spewed columns of soot and fire from the earth, proving it had begun to weaken. Across the river, in Old Town, Ben could make out people swarming in the street like ants from a hill, kicked by some titan. Many clustered near the river, which was thickening with boats.

“Are we all living?” Ben asked.

“In pain, but alive. I think my ankle is broken,” Robert complained.

Frisk snorted. “If it were broken, sir, you would not be running so well on it.”

“Perhaps. Men an‘ their ankles are capable of great things in times of emergency.”

“Come on,” Ben said, starting off again.

“Whereto?”

“To where our boat awaits. On Venedig Island.”

“Hell,” Robert muttered, “more swimming.”

A perimeter of nervous soldiers stood guard at the island, but they weren’t firing, merely shooing back terrified swimmers with their smallswords and sabers. As the three crawled from the water, two of the fellows approached, grim faced, though their expressions mellowed when they saw that the three were dressed like gentlemen.

“Your pardon, sirs,” one of them said, “but as we are under attack, we must guard His Majesty’s boats all the more. I understand that you are frightened, but—” He broke off, staring hard at Ben.
“Der Lehrling!”
He exclaimed. “To arms! Murderer!”

Ben had a second to regret how highly visible he had made himself in the last two years. Was there not a single person in Prague who would not immediately recognize him?

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Then Frisk, cold eyed, had drawn his saber, and, with no sound, launched himself at the guard. The fellow’s eyes widened in terror as the heavy blade swept down, and he lifted his own weapon—a narrow little thing, more for show than for anything else. Steel rang, and he stumbled back, but Frisk gave no respite. Robert drew his Spanish rapier and attacked the other guard, just as a third was arriving.

Ben uttered an oath and clumsily pulled out his own smallsword. He had chosen it for its look, not knowing much about swordplay; it had an inventive brass griffin on its pommel that appealed to him. Gripping the hilt uncertainly, he brought it up to guard, as Robert had shown him.

His opponent grinned wickedly—whether from the way he stood, from the look in his eyes, or from the way he held the weapon, Ben had no idea—but suddenly the fellow was there, the sword darting toward Ben. With a strangled cry he beat at the blade, trying to keep it away from him, scuttling backward at the same time. The other, sure of his footwork, advanced.

Ben parried two more strokes, and then suddenly the steel was at his chest, in it, and Ben felt the strangest pain he had ever felt in his life—a numb cold that shot through his entire body at once. Stopped from screaming only by his throat closing in terror, he dropped his sword.

At about the same instant, the flat of Frisk’s blade smashed into the guardsman’s face, crushing his nose. The fellow pitched over backward, sobbing in pain.

In the next instant, Robert was by his side. “Ben? Come on, Ben.”

He wanted to tell them he couldn’t, that he was dying, but he couldn’t get the words out. He could only watch, stunned, as blood welled between the fingers clasped over the wound.

The guards had never drawn their pistols, so Robert and Frisk took them.

Then, bearing Ben up between them, they hurried toward the boathouse, which itself looked like a small castle. It wasn’t defended as one, however. The guardsmen patrolling the island seemed to be all that remained, the rest doubtless gone to their units, since, after all, a more important battle was A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

raging. A single young fellow met them, but he quickly surrendered his weapons, which consisted of musket and a heavy short sword.

“Which one?” Robert wondered. Moored at the king’s quay were mostly pleasure craft: a barge, several small yachts designed to resemble full-size sailing ships, one with a prow shaped as an eagle.

“Any of them,” Frisk said, “and hope that the Muscovites are not guarding the river.”

Robert looked up at the older man. “Why should they care if someone
escapes
the city's’ long as they don’t stay’t‘ defend it?“

“They’ll want to keep the emperor from escape. Hurry, now. We took a short route here; soon floods of nobility will pour down from the castle, to make good
their
flight.”

Ben found his tongue. He could at least save his friends before he died. “That with the sea-horse prow,” he murmured. “That one.”

“Why that one?”

“It’s magical. Like my shoes, if ‘tis finished.”

“Ah. In that case…”

The ship indeed had a sea-horse prow and crenelated gunnels, as if it were a warship. It was, however, only some fifteen feet in length.

“Too big to row,” Frisk objected.

“Steam engine,” Ben muttered. “Robert used to drive a locomotive in London.

You won’t need me. Fare thee well, my friends. Find Newton. Make sure Lenka is well. Tell my father—”

“Will y‘ please shut yer maw?” Robert snapped. “Ya’n’t dyin‘.”

Ben looked down at his shirt and nearly fainted. It was wet and red, as if A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

someone had thrown an entire bucket of paint on it. “I think I am.”

“I’ll tend him,” Frisk said. “I’ve unmoored us. If you know aught about starting the engine, do so quickly.”

“Aye, aye,” Robert said.

Ben, for his part, lay back on the deck. Above, rainbow skies shuddered a final time and then flashed white.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “The end of Prague. Me and Prague together.”

Frisk was fooling with Ben’s shirt, doing something he instinctively knew he didn’t want to watch. “It isn’t the end of Prague,” Frisk said. “The Bohemians have had German rulers, now they will have Russian ones. Prague will remain.

And so will you. Now, take a deep breath.”

Puzzled, Ben did so, as the deck beneath him began to throb with the awakening of steam. Then something hurt very, very much in his chest, and a fist of darkness closed on his brain.

He awoke to the same gentle throbbing and starlight. A thick sickle moon hung in the sky, and for a long moment he couldn’t remember where he was. He lay there, watching mists glide by the moon, trying to recall, straining at the familiar sounds of Robert and Frisk talking quietly. When he moved, and a serpent seemed to bite into his breast, it came to him.

“Robert!” he managed weakly.

“Ah! He comes alive!” Robert said from somewhere. A moment later his face appeared as he crouched beside Ben.

“How are ya, boy?”

“Am I going to die?”

“Am I a priest?” Robert grunted. Then, more gently, he said, “Not at the moment, I’d say, though I’m no surgeon. All looks well. The blade went into A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

muscle and bone, but Frisk thinks it stopped short o‘ lung. An’ it’s on the wrong side f’r the heart. Frisk cauterized it for you with gunpowder.”

“Are we away from Prague?”

“Maybe. One of them air boats is followin‘ us. They can’t catch us. This is a fast boat, Ben, terrific fast.”

“It’s the one I was having made for the emperor.”

“The problem,” Frisk said, “is that we must meander with the river, while the air boat travels in straight lines. They almost caught us twice, while you slept.

If they get far enough ahead, they will land and block our route. Our speed may have confused them, but mark me, if they persist, they will catch us.”

“If they persist,” Robert said. “But why should they?”

“This boat is clearly scientific—not the sort of thing a peasant would have.

They may be convinced that the emperor or someone else important is aboard.”

“Are we sailing upstream or down?”

“Up. Down is in the wrong direction, if we are going to join my army.”

Ben nodded. “Ah. But you also claim that the Russians are bound to catch us, sooner or later.”

“True, if we stay on the river.”

“Where else to go?”

Frisk frowned impatiently. “Even if we stay on water, we shall soon run out.

The headwaters are not far south, and it will become unnavigable even before we reach them.”

“Y‘ have a suggestion,” Robert observed.

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“Yes. Abandon the boat, and then go to join my men.”

“You mean for us’t‘ walk all the way to Vienna?”

“No. I mean my men who are camped near the city—and, as it happens, in the south of it, not far from here.”

“You’ve said nothing about men, Captain Frisk.”

“It didn’t seem the sort of thing to bring up.”

“How is Ben to travel with that wound?” Robert asked.

“I’ve seen men travel with much worse than that.”

“An‘ I’m sure that some of’em died,” Robert retorted.

“No, Robin, I can make it, if one of you gives me a shoulder to lean against. Sir, how shall we find your men?”

Frisk pulled something that resembled a watch from his pocket. “I have an aethercompass,” he said. “It tells me where they are.”

Ben sat up, wincing as he did so. “We have to find Newton. That was part of your mission, wasn’t it, Captain Frisk? To win over Sir Isaac or kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must help me find him.”

A faint, enigmatic smile crossed Frisk’s Teutonic features. “I’ve an idea where he might be headed.”

“Oh? And how might you know that?”

“I made him the same offer as I made you. He never accepted, but if he wants to avoid the Muscovites, he has no other place to go.”

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Ben blinked. “When did you do this?”

“It wasn’t me, exactly, but one of my men, some time ago. I came because there was no response.”

“And you never told us this?”

“It didn’t seem—”

“The sort of thing to bring up. Yes, you say that quite a lot, Captain Frisk. And still you expect us to trust you?”

“I expect you to trust that I’m the only man who can help you right now.”

Ben considered that, remembering Frisk’s secondary task was to kill him.

Could Robert outmatch Frisk? Somehow, Ben didn’t think so. “Let’s find your men, then, while we still can.”

For the most part, they carried him, though Ben tried to keep his feet going.

He groggily reflected that losing blood felt like being drunk. Certainly the fields and farmsteads they passed were blurred images, ghosts of real places to his brain.

At one point, Frisk and Robert bought some mounts from a fat man who spoke loudly in very poor German. For perhaps the third time in his entire life, Ben then found himself on a horse, clutching Robert from behind, wincing becoming a part of his breath.

Despite the pain, on the horse he nodded in and out of sleep, until he was roused by a chorus of cheers. He forced his eyes open and saw some thirty or more men, uniformed much like Frisk, waving their arms and exulting, all clearly excited to see Frisk.

Ben was taken to a surgeon’s tent, where he drank a wine that seeped into his fevered brain and doused it with midnight.

Slowly, what he had taken to be the droning of insects began to become sensible, resolving itself into German. He opened his eyes to cheerful firelight A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

and the smell of mulled wine.

“Must have struck a deal with the sultan. Damn this Turkish treachery.”

“Yes, Majesty,” said a young man with coppery hair. “It is thought you had best seek refuge.”

“Seek refuge? For nine years or more I have had refuge with Turks. I have fought battles for them, lent them the blood and bravery of my men, and now this betrayal? No. We ride for Venice this very night. I will face the cowards before they withdraw, and with God, reverse this situation.”