A Calculus of Angels (41 page)

“All may speak at the Divan,” Riva assured him.

“Red Shoes?” Mather asked.

Red Shoes shook his head. “This time I have no opinion. The situation is too complicated.”

“No,” Blackbeard muttered. “No, your instinct was good in England.”

“Perhaps not so good in convincing you to come here.”

“That remains to be seen, Choctaw. What do you say?”

“It never hurts to hear a talk,” Red Shoes replied.

“Well enough,” said Blackbeard. “A talk we will hear.”

4.

Tsar

A midnight quiet settled on the company, though it was only an hour past noon. But high midnight is the time of dreams, of phantasms. Climbing the last hill, Adrienne and her companions entered that realm.

Besides, what was there to say of a monstrous ship of war—complete with A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

cannon, pennants, and men standing at the rails—hanging so impudently in the air? One could not rant that it was impossible, for there it was.

As they drew nearer, Adrienne understood
how
it was possible: the ship was supported by a number of iridescent globes, eggshells of twisted forces enveloping djinni yolks. She tried to sit straight in her saddle, to show no sign of fear for her men to seize upon and thus kindle their own fears. The green-clad soldiers marching in front, behind, and to their sides were a reminder of what would happen should panic erupt. And so she smiled—that same smile whose constancy Louis XIV had so admired, that her true love Nicolas had so disliked for its falseness—and she rode on until the ship blotted the sun. In its shadow, Vasilisa trotted ahead to meet a group of soldiers, dismounting gracefully near a tall, forward-hunched, fierce-looking man. He asked her a question, presumably in Russian, and a brisk conversation followed as Adrienne veiled her apprehension behind a placid face. The man—dressed in a nondescript military coat with no obvious sign of rank, tricorn tucked under his arm—raked his gaze over them. Adrienne was momentarily taken aback by the animal intensity of his black eyes, the exotic barbarity of his swarthy face, thick lips, ferocious mustache. Shoulders bunched, head lowered, he came forward.

“You would dictate terms to the tsar of Russia?” he asked mildly in comprehensible French.

“Sir—” Hercule began, but the Russian cut him off with a sharp glance and an admonishing finger.

“I spoke to the lady, sir. Milady?”

“In fact, I would,” Adrienne remarked coolly. “Mademoiselle Karevna assured me that I could present my case.”

“And so you shall. So you shall. I am informed that you accept the terms but wish your men to remain armed, as a sort of personal guard.”

“Yes, Monsieur…”

“Captain Alexevitch,” he supplied.

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“Thank you, Captain. Yes, that is my wish.”

He nodded, and his face suddenly twitched spastically, followed by a brief, disconcerting smile. He nodded.

“Very well.” He gestured up at the ship. “Will you come aboard to speak further of this?”

“Will we meet the tsar?” Hercule asked, and then frowned as a little flutter of laughter traveled through the group of soldiers. Vasilisa smiled also.

“I think,” Adrienne said, “that we already have.”

The tall man tilted his head. “At your service,” he remarked. “And, again, if you would be so kind as to join me above, I will consider your request. I love my men, and respect those of similar inclination.”

“Then you will understand if I question the safety of these men in our absence, Your Majesty.”

“I give you my word that they will be safe, Mademoiselle. You may speak to them if you like.”

Experience had taught Adrienne to mistrust the words of kings, but as she had walked them all into the tiger’s lair, the only choice was to speak to the tiger.

“That is very gracious, Your Majesty,” she told him.

“Shipboard,” he said gently, “I prefer ‘captain.” “

“Thank you then, Captain.”

As he turned, she noticed them. They were trying to stay hidden, his entourage of djinni, but they could not hide from her. At least three attended him, one of an unfamiliar sort. Silently, she called out to her own servants and doubled her aethereal guard.

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Once they had completed their vertiginous ascent—drawn up in a large wicker basket—the tsar put on a different demeanor—like a schoolboy showing playmates his new toys, bounding about enthusiastically, explaining this or that. Notwithstanding her concerns, Adrienne found herself quickly infected by his ebullience.

“And what of these?” she asked in the wheelhouse, an airy, pavilionlike structure. Around the chart table were several raised banks of brass dials, labeled in a script that looked a little like Greek.

“Ah,” the tsar exclaimed, another curiously ferocious smile plucking his lips.

“Perhaps you can guess?”

Adrienne examined them again. They seemed divided into discrete groups, each with a clock and three dials of varying calibration. The Russian numerals, at least, were those the rest of the world used.

“The clocks, I presume, are
horologium aetherium,
for determining the longitude.”

“Bravo, Mademoiselle.”

Crecy coughed meaningfully, so that the tsar lifted an eyebrow.

“Mademoiselle?”

“Captain, I fear that I am no scientific,” she explained in her most endearing tones. “I wonder if you could explain further?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the tsar said. It was peculiar, Adrienne thought, that such a large man would fold his shoulders inward, the way he did, as if trying to escape notice, as if some natural reluctance had shaped his very body. Fierce and shy, bold and retiring. A strange man, this king who would rather be called captain.

“For reasons I won’t go into,” the tsar said, “it is impossible to determine longitude without an accurate clock. And no clock, you see, has ever been invented that keeps good time on a ship, because of the constant odd motion.

But here we have a clock whose works are back in my house in Saint A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

Petersburg, you see?”

“Ah! Like an aetherschreiber, but instead of translating writing across the airy spaces, it sends out the proper time.”

“Yes, precisely.”

Adrienne gestured at the indicators. “And the other dials— wind speed and force, perhaps? And barometric pressure?”

“Yes!” the tsar almost shouted. “Yes! At a glance I can know something of the weather in any direction! Mademoiselle, my dear Vasilisa has estimated you well, I think. You do not disappoint. I cannot wait to see your face when we return to Saint Petersburg and I show you the facilities which await you.”

“I look forward to it, Captain, though we first must settle the matter of our men.”

“It is settled,” the tsar replied. “They will swear, each one, loyalty to me as well as to you, and I will want the same promise from you three.” His eyes hardened somewhat “Do not betray me. I do not care for betrayal.”

She glanced at Hercule, who nodded imperceptibly. “This is most generous of you, Captain,” she said. “And I promise you that you will not regret it.”

“And you, sir?” the tsar asked, addressing Hercule. “I hope I have not mistaken the chain of command.”

Hercule grinned a little sheepishly. “I am, I suppose, the captain of the guard.

But Mademoiselle Karevna has given you the right notion: Mademoiselle de Montchevreuil owns their hearts.”

“Does she? What of the duke of Lorraine?”

Hercule shrugged. “I doubt not that the men retain some affection for him—if he still lives—but I believe their devotion to Mademoiselle is greater.”

“I should tell you” that the duke does still live,“ the tsar said. ”The desire of my A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

officers was only to keep him from reinforcing Prague. That point is now moot, though I’m afraid the division which you had the ill fortune to try and march through had not yet been informed of this, for fear of spies learning my plans.“

“What do you mean?” Hercule asked.

“The invasion of Prague began two days ago. Today, the city is ours. There would have been nothing for the duke to reinforce. I regret the loss of life, I truly do.”

“I see.” Hercule said, his face carefully blank. Adrienne was remembering the flame falling from the sky. “And the duke?”

“The duke is a guest on another ship such as this one.”

“Ah. He is well, then, and perhaps near at hand. That presents me with something of a dilemma, Captain.”

“You have sworn loyalty to him, I presume?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“That need not be a dilemma—I shall explain why at dinner. It’s good that your loyalty is not lightly given.”

“No, sir, it is not,” Hercule replied. To Adrienne, he sounded relieved.

“In the meantime,” Adrienne interjected, “I hope you will show us the rest of your fabulous ship.”

“And so I shall.” The tsar grinned.

The food was good, not at all outlandish. The tsar cut his meat with knife and fork, more civilized in that respect than Louis XIV had been.

“What is this wine?” Crecy asked.

“It is rather excellent, is it not?” the tsar replied. “It is my favorite—
Tokaji,
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from a region in Hungary. They make it, they say, from raisins.”

“Very good,” Crecy agreed.

“None has been produced in almost three years. The strange weather has destroyed much, and grape harvests—all harvests—have been poor.

Fortunately,
Tokaji
can keep well for more than a hundred years.”

The tsar’s cabin reinforced the opinion Adrienne was forming of the tsar. It was quite simple, rather Dutch in decoration— the cabin of a captain and not a king. Louis XIV would have had every surface encrusted with gold and ornament, but Louis—for all the immense power he had wielded—had never truly been secure, had always needed to emphasize that he was king. This tsar did not seem to need to underscore his authority. The single extravagance was one she approved of: a glass portal in the floor that allowed one to watch the terrain pass beneath.

Hercule coughed softly. “Would it be rude, Captain, if I were to bring up the matter of the duke again?”

“Not at all. I said we would discuss this matter at dinner, and this is dinner, isn’t it?” He took a long draft of his wine and then settled back, steepling his fingers beneath his rounded chin. “You must understand that I have no desire to make Bohemia a Russian colony. Add her to our empire, yes, as a buffer against the Turk, and perhaps, eventually, to stage the restoration of Vienna to Christendom, but I have no intention of placing a governor there. And yet I do not—cannot—recognize the claim of Karl VI to the so-called Holy Roman Empire. His pretension to the Bohemian throne, in particular, is baseless.

Nevertheless,
someone
must rule Bohemia, preferably someone legitimate and mindful of the greater scheme of things.”

Someone easily controlled,
Adrienne thought. Now, at last, she saw the king in him.

“Francis Stephen?” Hercule asked, in a puzzled tone.

“Not precisely. Karl VI has a daughter whose claim to Bohemia—though of course not the ‘empire’—is secure. She is very young, and I think could benefit A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

from marriage to a more experienced ruler who could act as regent.”

“Ah,” Hercule said, suddenly grinning from ear to ear, as Adrienne remembered that such had been the young duke’s aim all along.

“He seems amenable,” the tsar added. “If all goes well, you may rejoin him if you wish.”

Hercule hesitated. “I will think on it, Captain.”

“Good. I would be pleased, of course, to have you in my service, along with Mademoiselle.” He turned significantly to Adrienne.

She felt a moment of her old fear, the fear of making irrevocable choices, but it quickly passed. She knew her decision; she had made it the instant she saw the airship, or perhaps even earlier, when Karevna mentioned membership in the scientific academy. But there was no reason to appear too eager. “I have never sworn an oath of loyalty to Lorraine, nor do any oaths bind me to any nation, as matters stand. The thought of at last being able to pursue my study of science is most compelling.” She lowered her eyes. “I wonder if I can give you my answer in the morning.”

“I’m afraid not,” the tsar said. “We must cast off very soon—in an hour, in fact.

I can give you until then, and let you alone to talk among yourselves.”

“Though your company is most enjoyable, Captain, that would be a great kindness. Thank you.”

“It is nothing,” the tsar said. “I must attend to the preparations in any event. I will see you in an hour.”

He stood, bowed briefly, and then left the cabin.

“Well?” Hercule said, when he had gone.

“A moment,” Adrienne replied, circumambulating the room with her servants, making certain that no hidden ear—human or djinn—would eavesdrop upon them. “There.”

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“It seems an overgenerous offer,” Crecy noticed.

“Yes, but sincere enough.”

Hercule looked skeptical. “This is the man who went and invaded the Dutch republic on the pretense of helping them rebuild their dikes. Sounding trustworthy is not the same as being so.”

“Did he help the Dutch rebuild?” Adrienne asked.

“So I hear.”

“Well, then, I think we should consider him at least half honest. In any event, what choice have we? Should I refuse his offer, he could easily compel me.

Why not maintain at least the illusion that we freely chose?”

“Illusions are dangerous,” Crecy pointed out.

“Which you should know well,” Adrienne returned. “Listen to me, Hercule; you are the one who said it. Rome has fallen, and now the barbarians struggle over who will be the new Charlemagne. And yet here is a most unusual barbarian, one who seems to care little for the trivialities of the old regimes, recognizes where real power lies, and values science. As you said, we could rise far serving such a one.”

Hercule smiled sardonically. “I am sure that I have said the like. But I am surprised to hear you speak so.”

Adrienne sweetened her smile. “It only shows what a good influence you have been on me, dear Hercule.” She glanced at Crecy. “What do you say?”