A Calculus of Angels (48 page)

and he would take it. But for the final decision they waited for the sorcerer Benjamin Franklin. Red Shoes had decided to wait outside.

It was perhaps because he strained so for warning of a sorcerous attack that he did not sense the physical one until the last instant. A cudgel slapped him across the shins, and he collapsed in agony, grasping for his pistol or ax and realizing that he had never retrieved them after the Divan. Fighting the pain, he lashed wildly with his legs and had the satisfaction of striking someone, hearing them gasp. Then three sharp points dug into his flesh at neck, ribs, and kidney.

“Be still,” someone hissed in heavily accented English. “Make no sound or you die.”

His hands were yanked roughly behind his back and bound there, and a blindfold tied over his eyes—though as they rolled him he caught a glimpse of four men in black hats and bizarre masks.

“Avant‘! Prest’!”
a man with a voice like a jay squawked. They hauled him to his feet.

“Walk,” the English speaker said. Red Shoes tried to comply, but found himself mostly dragged along. Not much later, they put him in a boat. He could feel its motion—hesitating between pole strokes, winnowing slightly upon the thin skin of the underworld. In the shadows behind his eyes lurked movement, and he stabbed out with his ghost vision just in time to see it vanish, a figment in the corner of his vision.
Coward!
he shouted in the silent language of shadow.
Coward, come try me!
But no answer came.

Frustrated, he settled into the forest of sound around him: the chattering of a hundred nearby mouths; the plaintive whine of a cat; the cooing of pigeons; harsh grating of metal; and, farther still, the windy strains of a song played on an instrument unknown to him.

Finally, the boat came to a rest.

“Now,” his captor said, “I want you to listen very carefully. I’m going to tie a rope around you, and after that I’ll drop you in the water. Hold your breath, A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

and don’t struggle. If you follow my directions, you will most probably live. If you do not, you will die. Do you understand?”

His mouth went dry as the man’s words sunk in. “I can’t swim,” he said.

“That’s what the rope is for,” the fellow grunted. “Like I said, listen to me or die.”

Red Shoes nodded, stood, and kicked hard at the sound of the voice. His foot grazed someone and he was rewarded, first by the sounds of chuckles, then by a powerful slap across his face. He reeled back—and someone caught him by his shirt—and he realized that light was seeping in through the rags over his eyes. The slap had moved the blindfold just enough for him to see the face of his captor, a darkening, canalside alley, and a hanging yellow sign with the picture of a bee on it. Then rough hands were all over him, and the blindfold tightened painfully.

“You’ve got spirit,” the voice said, disembodied no longer. Red Shoes now had an image of a narrow, tapering face, an aquiline nose, mussed brown hair.

“You could almost be a Venetian. But don’t try that again. Now, take a few deep breaths.”

Red Shoes fought back his panic as they tied a rope beneath his arms.

“Now a
very
deep breath.”

He sucked in air until he could find no more room in his lungs, and they threw him into the water. It was cold, amazingly cold, and terror roared through his body in a wave, an explosion that was almost sensual in its intensity. He tried to summon the detachment that had allowed him to grasp the burning iron; but this was different, a thing he had never even considered inuring himself against. He summoned images of dry earth—of hunting deer in the small, bright prairies of his homeland, of the bald ridge of a hill he knew—but all these came in disjointed flashes, drowned before they could afford him any comfort. His panicked lungs heaved futilely. Then, finally, he caught an image that brought some solace, that calmed him, afforded a measure of dispassion as the rope tugged him through the black water. It was no pastoral scene, no sunlit landscape; it was the face of his captor, the look of surprise as an ax split it in two.

A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

He came up gasping, and someone gripped him below the armpits and hauled him from the water and marched him along. The rotten stink of the canals clung to him, but by the stillness of the air and sandy smell of wet stone, he knew he was in an enclosed space. He counted paces, but there were only fifteen before he was forced roughly to sit. His bonds were cut, but an instant later cold manacles replaced them. His blindfold remained.

Someone said something authoritative to him that he did not understand, and then he heard footsteps recede. He could not decide if there were enough leaving to account for all his captors, but he suspected that at least one had remained as guard. He tested the chains and manacles anyway; they were solid. He might escape them with the aid of a shadowchild, but that would wait until he had thought for a few moments.

Who had kidnapped him, and why? He remembered Riva and his talk of the Masques, the extreme Venetian faction. His captors had been masked—it seemed reasonable to assume that was who they were. But why?

“Wer sind Sie?”
He started at the sound of the woman’s voice. He did not understand her words, though they were clearly a question.

“I don’t understand,” he replied. “Do you speak English?”

“
Nein. Parlez francais
?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied in French. “I speak French.”

“Very little, I. You are captive also?”

“Yes. And you?”

His answer was a rattle of chains.

“Do you know what they want?” he asked.

“No. No. But they make me write letter.”

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“Alerter?”

“Yes—to—friend of mine, Benjamin. You know him?”

“Benjamin Franklin?” he asked. “We just met today.” “That Benjamin, yes. My name is Lenka.”

Ben paced over what seemed to be one of the few solid streets in Venice, thinking furiously. How could one combat ships of the air? They could fly well out of range of the most powerful cannon, wreak havoc by dropping stones, mortar shells, and arcane weaponry. He had pinned his hopes on dissolving the bonds of the malakim and thus depriving the ships of support, but he couldn’t formulate a method for that on his own, not in three days’ time.

So deep in thought was he, that he didn’t notice the street urchin running toward him until the guard Charles had sent with him suddenly interposed himself between Ben and the young fellow. The guard barked something in Italian.

“Per Benjamino,”
the boy said, waving what looked like a letter.
“Benjamino
Franco!”

“What?” Ben grunted. “Let me see that.” He took the sheet, made somewhat grubby by the boy’s dirty fingers.

He broke the seal—nothing more than a spot of wax—and quickly read two short notes. The first was in English.

For the honorable Mr. Franklin.

We have taken into our protection a foreigner in our city, a Mrs. Lenka. She
publishes that you are a dear friend of hers. We will keep her safe for you
until such time as the Moscovados are defeated. Before your reunion, we
would very much like to discuss with you matters Turkish and Venetian.

Humbly yours, The Masques

The second was in German, and bit longer.

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Dear Benjamin,

I am captive of some men who say they will deliver this letter to you. It was
imprudent of me to reveal our acquaintance, and I fear they may have
misunderstood the depth of our friendship.

I never finished the story I was telling you, the one about the man whose
great-grandfather was Johannes Kepler. He believed, you see, that Kepler
had flown to the Moon in his fabled airship, and was determined to do so
himself. He flew off, the court bidding him bon voyage, and his little
daughter, a girl scarcely five, waving her handkerchief, calling out for him to
bring her back a bit of green cheese. He never returned, and the little girl
never saw him again, but she always imagined that he was on the Moon,
there, looking down at her. That is, until one day, she found the airship, high
in a tower, empty, and learned that men who fly too high suffocate from lack
of air. She understood then that the ship must have gone no great distance at
all, had been quietly found, returned to the castle, locked away.

I have finished this story, and I trust it explains many of the inconveniences
you have suffered on account of me. lam sorry for these. Do not let my
present circumstance also be an inconvenience, I beg you. Thank you for
showing me the mountains of the Moon and for the opportunity to sail the
air. Do not worry for me, for I am now content.

Yours very truly, Lenka

Ben carefully folded the note and put it in his pocket, and the last of his doubts dissolved. In his mind’s eye, he saw again the moon he and Lenka had shared, and felt a dark grin creep across his face. He looked toward the north. “I have nothing in particular against you, Tsar Peter,” he said, “but God help you,
now.” And God help the Masques.

Ignoring the puzzled looks of his companions, he continued toward the palace, his stride firm and resolute. “Bring the boy,” he commanded over his shoulder.

“He may know something useful.”

Benjamin Franklin cleared his throat and looked frankly at the council. “I apologize for the delay, gentlemen, and thank you all for waiting. I wanted to A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

consult with Sir Isaac Newton before proposing my countermeasures, which I am confident will prove adequate to end the Muscovite threat.”

“I thought you were certain before,” the now-present Blackbeard grunted, a dark fire burning in his eyes.

“I was,” Ben replied. “But Sir Isaac, after all, is the master and I the apprentice.

”Twas best I first consult.“

“Why isn’t Sir Isaac here?” Cotton Mather asked. “Why can’t he consult with us directly?”

“He is too busy with matters of his own.”

“Preparing his own measures?” Riva asked.

Ben hesitated for an instant, but by the look that flashed across Charles’

otherwise impassive face he knew that for one person, at least, it was an instant too long. “Yes,” he said anyway.

Everyone at the table seemed to relax a degree.

“Now then,” Charles said quietly, “what are your plans?”

“Should I wait for the Indian fellow?”

Thomas Nairne shook his head. “He’s a strange one, given to wander. I will inform him later.”

Ben nodded, wondering how convincing he could make his half-formed ideas sound, but determined that he would, indeed, convince. “This will require much work in a short time,” he said. “But I think Venice is equal to the task.

There are things I must know first, however, of the city’s present defense.”

“That being?” The speaker was Hassim’s father.

For an instant, Ben felt dissected by the man’s gaze, revealed to the Turk as a charlatan. But that had never stopped him before, and it did not now. “Do you A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

have a fervefactum?”

“We have fervefactum,” the Janissary confirmed.

“Of what use will that be?” Charles asked impatiently. “We have two, as a matter of fact, positioned to guard the entrances to the city. They were effective enough when enemies had to approach by sea, but they can scarcely boil a bowl of water if the distance is greater than twenty yards. The tsar need only stay above that range and land his troops in the interior of the city—once he has bombarded away resistance.”

“I know the limitations of the fervefactum, gentlemen,” Ben replied. “We will not be using them in the usual way. Can they be removed from their placement?”

“They are quite massive,” the Janissary chief replied.

“But can they be removed to a ship?” Ben persisted. “To one of the American ships?”

Now everyone in the room looked puzzled.

“Come, gentlemen. The fervefactum is used in siege to boil the blood of those approaching key points in a defense. The effect is most intense—indeed, almost unbelievably intense—near the device.”

“What does that have to do with my ships?” Blackbeard grunted.

Ben smiled. “Drop the device in the sea, and what do you suppose will happen?”

“
Pardieu
,” Bienville muttered.

“An eruption,” Mather breathed. “Steam.”

“Indeed,” Ben replied. “A column of steam that will rise high and continue to rise—a miniature storm, if you will, that can be used to disrupt the movements of the airships and perhaps overturn some. If we carry one suspended on a A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

ship, we can position it to its best advantage.”

“I like this thinking,” Charles murmured.

“It’s nothing,” Blackbeard snarled. “A minor trick. But then my ships are vulnerable to every sort of attack. And what can I do in response? How will my guns reach these flying ships? What will repel the mines they drop upon me?”

Ben rubbed his hands together. “I have answers to all those questions, Captain Teach, gentlemen. The fervefactum is the most minor part of my plan.”

“What other things do you need to know?”

“Venice is famed for her stores of silk, true?”

“Only China has more silk,” Riva said.

Ben’s grin broadened even more. “In that case,” he said, “we shall have a good defense indeed.”

9.

Three Magi

Adrienne first saw Venice as a fey glimmering beneath the roots of black cloud mountains. As they drifted, the numinous range shattered, and the sky opened to receive the faint iodine breath of waters far below. The city was glowworms nested on a sea of ink.

Between her and that suggestion of sea and city, she saw sailing a squadron of A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

what resembled red fireflies marking the rest of the Muscovite fleet, lowering themselves for nocturnal invasion. It was such a wonder, all of it, that Adrienne could scarcely believe it a prelude to violence.