A Calculus of Angels (52 page)

“Waiting. To meet you when
I
wished.”

“What a pity. You seem to have failed.”

“You are welcome to believe so,” Red Shoes said. “Do you have anything to say before I kill you, Long Black Being?”

The spirit giggled, a remarkably childish and entirely chilling sound. “Only that you were warned. Only that you have betrayed us.”

“I never betrayed you. You tried to claim me; I claimed you instead.”

“You were chosen. It was not your place to refuse or twist our intent. You should have listened to the guide we sent you as a child. You should not have provoked
me
into coming. Now we can leave you nothing. We must empty you out and fill you up, that through you we may hunt others of your traitorous kind.”

Red Shoes smiled wanly. “I do not think it will come to that, Long Black Being.

Can you see into the living world, the world above?”

“This is the living world. Yours is naught but clay.”

“Yes, yes. Can you see into my world? No, I think you cannot—or not well, not without human eyes.”

“Make your point.”

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Red Shoes could feel the strength of the thing; it was beyond belief. And he was so weak. If it should strike, catch him with those claws, it would do as it said: wear his skin back to the land of the Choctaw and slay his kin. It would never come to that.

“Kwanakasha,” he said, calling up the diminutive spirit from its prison. “Go kill that thing.”

Kwanakasha seemed to sprout up from the ground between him and the Long Black Being. It still looked like a little man, but its face held both terror and anger. “I cannot kill a great one. You cannot set me upon him.”

“I can and do,” Red Shoes said. “You were the one who summoned him, yes?

Who complained to him of your treatment? Well, I do not think that I will die alone, Kwanakasha. It is always sweeter to die with an enemy.”

“Do not waste my time,” the Long Black Being crooned. “It will only make me angrier.”

“Yes,” Kwanakasha pleaded. “Do not waste his time.”

“I taught you some tricks,” Red Shoes said. “Use them now, and perhaps both of us will live.”

The Kwanakasha seemed to swallow its dismay. It clenched its eyes shut for a moment; and when it opened them, they were flame. It turned to face the monster.

“This is not of my choosing, master,” the dwarf said.

“Then do not do it,” the Long Black Being said.

“He is yet strong. But when you kill me, he will be without strength.”

“Then I shall kill you,” the creature said, whipping outward like a chain made of knives.

Kwanakasha darted forward with the speed of a musket ball. For Red Shoes, A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

the scene became confused, for the appearance his mind made of them was not what they were, and the battle they fought was not of flesh and blood. Like hearing a slightly known language spoken too quickly, he could not sort it all out. They were whirlwinds, sparking wheels, joined and separate, braiding and unbraiding, knotting and, finally, tearing. In the end what he saw was Kwanakasha swallowed, moving down the throat of the Long Black Being like an egg down the length of a snake.

But in the meantime, Red Shoes had a moment to do what he now knew he must. He raised the pistol with both hands and placed the muzzle between his eyes.

“Another,” Crecy said, peering through the spyglass, “the largest I’ve seen.”

Adrienne turned to see what Crecy meant. The fleet proceeded with more caution now, and following her suggestions, used more prosaic means of detection. The biggest surprise that morning had brought had been the ships.

While it was clear that most of the balloon bombs had been deployed from small craft, the real bases of operation were a number of large ships—ships of the line, sloops, caravels. More strange yet, they flew not Venetian or even Turkish standards but British and French ones.

It was one of these ships at which Crecy was now pointing. Straining to peer through the artificial fog, Adrienne saw two balloons of truly immense proportions inflating on the deck. They were attached to something she couldn’t make out.

“What is it?” the tsar pressed.

“Captain, I do not know. Two more large balloons, that much is clear. But what they are attached to—”

“Can you render them quiescent, as you did the rest?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Do so then.” He paused for an instant, his chin pressed hard into one fist.

“Board that one,” he grunted to one of his officers. “Send down the word. I A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

want that ship boarded. I have a feeling…” He seemed vague for a moment, as if listening to distant music, and Adrienne suddenly noticed a malakus, almost imperceptible, drifting—no, rather, merged— with the tsar.

“Charles!” the tsar muttered.

Below, one of the ships dropped lower still. And then, quite suddenly, the balloons and their mysterious cargo vanished.

Charles XII stood fuming at the rail of the
Carolina Prophet
as Ben, Hassim, and Lenka arrived.

“I should kill you,” he shouted down.

“Who will fly the
Madman
if you do that, Captain Frisk?” Ben retorted, catching the lines thrown to him.

“The only reason I don’t shoot you!” Charles hurled back. “Even now, I doubt me that there is time!” He gestured at two of the hulking airships, moving toward them.

“Yes,” Ben said, “but the balloons—” A flight of balloons lifting toward the underbellies of the airships paused just fifty feet from the surface and started to fall again. Men scrambled into the water as the first touched gently down, and then a fountain of flame obliterated the view.

“Sweet Jesus,” he gasped. “They’ve some way of cooling the air!” He was on deck by now. “Your Majesty, is the
Madman
loaded?” He could see the billowing, inflated envelope. So, certainly, could the Muscovites.

“Yes,” Charles said impatiently.

“Then activate the aegis, now, and best tell Captain Teach to set sail!”

“It’s only you we’ve been awaiting.” But he shouted the order over his shoulder.

The ships were close, one high, one very low. Even as Charles spoke, so did the Russian cannon. The water around them was suddenly alive with spray, and A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

the main sheet— halfway up, in preparation for sailing—suddenly burst into flame. A ball of fire appeared fifty feet away almost on the bow, flinging men from it like scraps of meat.

“Jesus,” Ben swore again. “Lenka, with me! Hassim!” He reached down and hugged Lenka beneath her arms, lifting her onto the deck.

“Not on the
Madman”
Charles snapped. “We’ve no room.”

“You’ll make room unless you want to fly it yourself,” Ben returned, leading Lenka across the rocking deck. “The
Prophet
is no safe place!”

Blackbeard met them halfway to the
Madman
.

Charles bowed to the pirate. “I thank you again, sir, for the use of your ship.

You have done us all a great service.”

Charles spoke in German, of course, and so Ben had to quickly translate.

Blackbeard nodded grimly and gestured at the approaching Russian ships, looming lower each moment. “I don’t know this new-fashioned aerial fightin‘, but I’ll be damned if they don’t look as if they want to board us. Get this Swedish king off my ship, Benjamin Franklin. I’ll show these Moscovados the proper way to hell.”

“I don’t doubt you know it, Captain.” Ben grinned.

“I’ll see you there, one day, Franklin, never doubt it. Go, and show them up at their own game.”

Ben nodded, and they jogged onto the afterdeck.

The
Madman
was a strange, hybrid thing: a light wooden frame, roughly the shape of a longboat, but covered in and out with taut, tough canvas. Her sails were two enormous silken envelopes. Whereas the smaller balloons had been inflated mostly by open flame, two scientifical furnaces had been found to give the
Madman
her lift. The furnaces changed the state of air passing through them, though more slowly then Ben would have liked; inflating and keeping the great balloons swollen had turned out to be a chore.

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Of course, he could see none of this, for his command had gone ahead, and the aegis that he had cobbled together was in operation. He only hoped now that whatever science had been used to cool his balloons could not penetrate the unpredictable force, or the last hope of Venice was done.

As the three of them drew within a yard of the ship, the aegis suddenly twinkled out, revealing Robert and eight tough-looking men—four Swedes and four Janissaries. The ship itself, straining at the tethers, suddenly seemed to sag a bit.

“Hurry!” Ben boosted Lenka into the craft, but Hassim hung back. “Come, Hassim. Things will be very hot on the
Revenge
in a moment or two.”

“Yes,” he said. “And Hassim stay here to fight.”

“No. Come on,” he repeated, but when Hassim shook his head, he wasted no more time debating, but just stuck out his hand, gave Hassim’s a brisk shake, and then leapt into the ship.

“About goddamn time,” Robert snapped.

“Had business.” Ben grunted, gesturing at Lenka. “Cut the lines.”

The sun suddenly turned prism. The boat shook gently as the mooring cables were cut, then more fiercely as the Muscovite cannon spoke again. The
Prophet,
her cannon upslung in hastily modified carriages, replied, and the world became smoke.

The
Madman
was not lifting.

“They cooled us, somehow,” groaned Ben.

“Boarders!” Charles shouted tightly. “They’re dropping them down on ropes!”

The distinctive rattle of murder guns cut over Charles’ proclamation, small-bore cannon spitting clouds of molten lead, followed an instant later by clashing of steel. Ben did his best to ignore all that, struggling instead with the A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

small fire-drake mounted near the prow.

“Help me, damn it!” he shouted. Robert was already there, and now one of the Swedes, who was assisting him in wrenching the alchemical weapon from its mount. Shadows wrestled in the corner of his eye, one of which had to be Blackbeard, by the bellowing it produced. They got the drake—a thing like a cannon some two feet long—positioned and aimed straight up the silken canopy.

“It’ll burn it!” Robert snapped.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Ben replied. “But experimentation is the essence of science.” He pulled the trigger, and a jet of blue flame hurled itself up into the envelope. Ben gasped on a mouthful of air so hot it burned his lips and singed his eyelashes. The
Madman
shuddered, her prow lifting and swinging aimlessly. He pulled the trigger again, and at the same instant something struck the
Madman
so hard that she flipped nearly over, a deafening explosion ringing their ears. The fire-drake rocked in his grip and the sulfurous jet ran up against the silk envelope.

“G’d rot it,” Ben cursed, but then caught himself. Though blackened and smoking, the envelope was not aflame. What’s more, with excruciating slowness, the
Madman
finally began to rise.

“Well done,” Charles shouted, barely audible over the roaring of guns.

“Aye, and thank you,” Ben replied. “And now all we have to do is find a wind to blow us to a Muscovite ship, invade her with our complement of eleven, and use her to blow the rest of these out of the sky.”

“No more than that,” Charles replied soberly.

Ben stared at the king, and it occurred to him that Charles of Sweden might be more insane than he was brave.

“Holy God,” Robert breathed, staring down. In rising they had just missed bumping into the descending Muscovite ship, and now it nearly eclipsed the
Revenge.
Even through the rainbow distortion of fhe aegis, they could see A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

soldiers pouring over the rails. Above them and around them, the circle of flying ships closed like a noose around Venice.

Charles stood, despite the swinging of the boat.

“We are invisible to them?” he asked.

“Barely visible, I should say,” Ben replied.

Charles held a ringer in the air, shook his head, and turned instead to watch the smoke below. “They sail against the wind and we with it,” he murmured.

“And so we should meet one of them. A most happy circumstance indeed.

Keep near the harpoons, men.”

Ben settled the drake firmly on the deck and turned to arm himself from the small arsenal on board, wondering what sort of circumstance Charles would not find “happy.” He supposed it would be one with no risk of painful death.

Red Shoes tightened his finger on the trigger at the same moment that Long Black Being flashed toward him, and for one instant feared he would not be quick enough. Perhaps he would not have been, save that something—a sort of silvery needle—appeared, impaling the monster, slowing it fractionally while he squeezed the trigger. The prime hissed in the pan and he understood that he had drawn his last breath. Then something slapped him—hard—the gun exploded, and for an instant he heard music before his head thudded against the wall.

At first, he thought his body was shuddering, the way he had seen a deer shudder when shot, but then he realized that someone was shaking him. His ghost vision faded, and he saw Tug’s ugly face an inch from his own.

Something burned along the side of his head, before the dream drew him back to Nanih Waiyah, to the swamp.

The Long Black Being was gathering itself up to strike, but not at him. Rather, its target was an old man, all in black and white. He stood straight but noticeably shaking, a thin line of blood trickling down his face. He held something bright in his hand, like a star with long rays.

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Cotton Mather. Red Shoes could hear him praying, both with his real ears and with those of his shadow.

“Deceiver!” the reverend shrieked, as the monster laughed at him and attacked; and again the strange turbulence of shadow combat. How had Mather, a white man, learned to do this thing, to impress his substance into the ghost realm? He remembered the preacher’s talk of witches and science, of the “invisible world” and its nature. Had Mather been shown the way here by his God or his Science? Or were they the same, after all? However he had gotten here, two things were clear: He had somehow harmed the Long Black Being—and he was losing the battle.