A Calculus of Angels (43 page)

“You speak English,” Ben said, stupidly. In close to three years he had heard his mother language only from Robert and Sir Isaac, and it was a shock to hear it on the lips of this foreign man.

“Yes, some. It has been a long time since I use it. Can you eat something?”

“Can I?” His belly felt like a cavern. “Indeed!”

“Good. I return anon.”

He turned and strode down the room, a narrow gallery with high, bright windows. There were a number of other beds, some occupied. He counted five Turks in the chamber—all men—who gazed at him for a moment and then returned to chattering in their own language.

Ben noticed that he was clean, and wondered who had bathed him and why he hadn’t wakened. He also noted that his chest was freshly bandaged, and that the throbbing there seemed considerably tamer. He wondered where Robert, Charles, and the rest were.

A few moments later, the young man returned, carrying a dish of bread, crumbly looking cheese, and small, black, oblong fruits. Ben started into the bread and cheese like a starved animal.

“What are these?” he asked, through a mouthful, gesturing at the fruit.

“Olives. Careful of pits.”

“Olives. Huh.” He knew olives from the Bible, of course, but had never paused to wonder exactly what one might taste like. He tried one tentatively. It wasn’t bad, exactly: a little bitter and quite salty. By the time he finished the last, the taste had begun to grow on him.

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“Thank you,” he told the fellow, and then, sticking out his hand said, “My name is Benjamin Franklin.”

“Hassim,” the boy replied, taking his hand.

“Thank you, Hassim. May I inquire where I am?”

“Yes, of course. You in my father’s house.”

“Your father is one of the men who brought me here—one of the Janissaries?”

“Yes,” Hassim said, proudly. “He is
Corbasi
.”

Charles had used that term, Ben remembered, in speaking to the leader of the Janissaries. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

“It is like—eh—general? Colonel? He commands the
orta. Orta
is like—like regiment.”

Ben nodded. “And you? You are a Janissary, too?”

Hassim cast his face down a bit. “Allah does not will it. Son of Janissary may not be Janissary.”

“Oh.” Ben shifted uncomfortably. The room smelled sweet, as did Hassim.

Like perfume or incense.

“Hassim, where are my friends?”

“King Charles is waiting to meet with the
ochak
—”

“Ochak?”

“Janissary. It means—a place where cooking is done for many. Because we say the Janissaries always eat together, you see? Like family. So they are called
ochak.”

“Like family.” Those diamond-eyed men, like family? He tried to picture them A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

eating, talking, joking together.

“What of my other friend?”

“Another room, sleeping. You want to see him?”

“No—no, wait until he wakes, thank you. I—” He stopped for a moment, wondering whether it was wise to bring the matter up, but then plunged on.

“Have you heard of a man arriving—urn—arriving in a boat flying through the air?”

Hassim’s eyes widened. “You mean
sihirbaz?"

“Sihirbaz?”

“Come flying in boat, four days ago. Small boat.”

“You saw this?”

“Others saw. Think him
sihirbaz
sent by tsar.”

“
Sihirbaz
? What is that?”

“Ah—warlock? One who puts spells.”

“And is he still there? Still at that place?”

“As I hear, yes. Some went to talk to him, but could not.
Sihirbaz
in old fortress there, sealed it up with spells. Janissaries can’t get in.”

“No one has spoken to him?”

“He says he will speak only to Iron Head.”

“Ah. Was there— Do they say there was a woman with him? In the boat?”

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Hassim shrugged. “Do not know of that.”

Ben pursed his lips. No matter how mad he was, Newton wouldn’t have hurt Lenka. Surely not.

Hassim bowed slightly. “I have duties,” he said, sounding apologetic.

Ben fought down an impatient snarl. He wanted to ask more, but honestly couldn’t think of how to pursue the matter. Clearly, it was Charles he needed to speak to.

“Can you tell me where Iron Head is?”

“No,” Hassim finished, and grinned briefly. “He moves much. Always moving.”

With two fingers he pantomimed a man walking, and Ben nodded agreement.

“Where does he sleep?” Ben asked.

“Remains to be seen. Has not slept yet,” Hassim said, and then, nodding politely, went on, “I will ask—about woman, about Swedish king, yes? But now I must go.”

“Thank you,” Ben said, “and tell your father I thank him for his hospitality.”

Hassim grinned and nodded.

If it
is
hospitality,
Ben thought.
If I am not merely a prisoner in a pretty
prison.

Once Hassim was gone, he tried standing, and found that his feet—and to a lesser extent, his legs—were a mass of running sores, blisters that had burst, formed again, burst again. Still, it was not as bad as he had envisioned, and the more general pain in his muscles was fading to almost the pleasant soreness of regeneration. The only wound that still worried him was the sword cut, which pulsed feverishly now and then. Or was that, he wondered, in part perhaps something else, not on his chest but
in
it?

Standing, he could gaze out the windows, at the broad stretch of water he had A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

seen while coming up the canal. He picked through the masts of the ships again until he found the English flag, and sighed in relief, afraid it had been some illusion. In fact, now he could see at least three and maybe a fourth—the sloop, a caravel, and a big frigate obscuring possibly another. He found himself growing excited again. Who were they? Were they from London? Was there, after all, a chance that the city had survived?

But English ships had sailed every sea in the world. There was no reason to become hopeful about the impossible, not when he had so many tasks remaining him. Contacting the English ships was important, and it seemed the easiest of what lay before him—if in fact he had freedom of movement, and if the Muscovite ships did not arrive too quickly.

Reaching Newton and Lenka was another matter. His needle might point to the boat, but even if they were near, how would he find the place, in a city where he spoke none of the languages? What did they speak here, anyway?

Some Italian dialect, he supposed, and Turkish, of course. One of the Turks had spoken German, but he doubted that German— or English—would get him far in the streets of Venice.

Streets? There might not be any streets. He would need a boat, or money to pay a boatman. He had a few Bohemian crowns left, but they might not pass as currency.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where his clothes were, which meant that he didn’t know if he had any money or not—or even his compass needle! He frantically cast about in search of them, heart sinking. To his vast relief he found them in a striped cotton bag laid neatly under his bed. Money and needle were both there.

To that extent, at least, these Turks were honest, not at all what he had expected given the tales he had heard.

Well, then, he knew roughly where Newton—and, he hoped, Lenka—were. If they were still alive.

The thought of Lenka being dead did nothing to improve his spirits. In fact, it made him somewhat sick—and now that he thought upon it, he was much more concerned about finding Lenka than Newton. He supposed that made A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

sense, since he was responsible for whatever mess she was in, whereas Newton could damn well take care of himself. Then, too, was the elementary fact that Lenka was a lovely girl, and so naturally he—

He blinked. When had he begun thinking of Lenka as beautiful? Hadn’t he first thought her rather plain?

He frowned. He did not like this, this thing his mind had done without his permission.

“Well, my young Turk,” a voice called from behind. “Shall we raid the
harim
together?”

He turned, shaking his finger at Robert’s familiar voice. “Best watch your tongue, infidel, around the faithful.” Indeed, he noticed that a few of the men were glaring at both of them. Robert, who wore a sort of dressing gown and looked a good deal cleaner than last Ben had seen him, noticed too.

“Wup,” he said. “Maybe both of us should. Y‘ never know what will set this sort off.”

“Have you just wakened?”

“A few moments ago, but I held off on sleeping longer than you. If they’d desired to drown
me
in the tub, they’d have had something of a fight. You, on th‘ other hand—”

“I slept through bathing?” Ben marveled.

“It did give them all great amusement,” Robert said, “I’ll not hide that from you. But look at us, here, alive, clad in fine robes in some pasha’s palace—”

“We’ve done well enough,” Ben agreed. “Shall we discuss our plans?”

“I think it best we get the lay of the land, first.”

“What do you mean?”

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“I just spoke with one of the Swedes. He said that the king’s discussion w‘ the
bey-yay-what
didn’t go well. Apparently his Swedish majesty burst in on this Turkish potentate, complete with grime and blood and horse sweat.”

“No!”

“Yes! He demanded that the Turkish withdrawal cease, that they stay here and fight the tsar. The bey did refuse, an‘ scurried from the city this morning, as the Janissaries said he would.”

“But the Janissaries are still here.”

“Aye. Waitin‘’t‘ hear what Charles’ll say to ’em.”

“Hassim mentioned something about that. When does he speak, and where?”

“Why, in this very house, come another hour. That’s what I mean by the lay of the land. And there is another thing; there’s been intelligence about the Moscovado ships.”

“That being?”

“It may be that they will reach Venice in three days.”

Ben stared back out at the water. “And then what?” he wondered.

“Well, that depends a great deal on what happens in the next hour, I would say,” Robert replied.

“Have you heard aught of Newton?”

“I’ve heard the tales of the flying ship. The Janissaries have laid siege to some place—on a different island, I think— where he landed, but it seems Sir Isaac brought some sort of aegis with him, an‘ they cannot get through it. I’ve heard no more than that.”

“Nothing of Lenka?”

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“Not a thing.”

“I’ve got to see King Charles.”

“I don’t think that’s awful likely afore the meetin‘,” Robert guessed.

“Then it’s certain,” Ben grunted, “that at the meeting, he will hear me, for we shall be there.”

6.

Geography

Peter stared through the window in the bottom of his cabin, fascinated by the changes in the land. Each moment was a subtle surprise, as this or that feature of the jumble of images below was suddenly understood, as the greater patterns became recognizable. Rivers in particular were enthralling. For every living river, two or three dead ones crowded near, ghosts, abandoned channels that now and then still contained stagnant water in isolated oxbows, but more often had been drained and cultivated. Human settlements and their fields followed rivers, too, strung out along them like another kind of channel, another sort of ghost.

Of course, he knew that rivers changed course now and then, after a large flood, after a dam broke. But to see the whole made him understand that it was not an occasional incident but had happened continually since creation.

He wondered briefly what had become of the towns along those old rivers, those abandoned channels. Had they moved? He squinted, wondering what form evidence of this might take.

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There was a science, here, he thought, an entire new realm of study made possible by his airships. On a pragmatic level, better maps could be made, and better maps meant a better ability to wage war, maintain borders, conclude treaties. But at another level, the level of wonder, it was amazing to think what might be learned. He would, he decided, create a select body of philosophers to study the Earth from the air, and grinned as he pictured the exploratory ship he would build, the places it would sail—to the ends of the Earth, and perhaps beyond. History would remember Tsar Peter not merely as an emperor, but as the father of a new science.

A knock at the door brought him back to the moment.

“Enter,” he called.

The door swung open, and a man of about thirty years stepped in, gray-eyed, his slightly weak jaw partially hidden by perhaps two weeks’ growth of reddish beard.

“Come in, Captain Androkov,” Peter said, quietly.

“Sir.”

Peter settled into his armchair, indicated a similar seat facing him. “Sit, please.”

Captain Androkov complied, his face betraying none of the worry he must be feeling.

“Captain, you have served me and Russia well in the past. I particularly recall your bravery at Pruth.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I gather that you love your country.”

“I hope you do not doubt that, sir.”

Peter felt a surge of anger, and his facial muscles spasmed, which made him A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

only the angrier. How he hated that affliction! As he spoke, he found it impossible to keep his voice entirely steady. “Why, then, Ilya Mikhailovich Androkov, have you chosen to grow a
beard?”

Androkov’s face registered dismay, perhaps at Peter’s question, more likely at his obvious anger.

“Well?” Peter asked, a bit louder.

“Sir, the priests say—”

“Priests? Priests? Who is tsar of all of the Russias, Ilya Mikhailovich?”

“You are, Captain.”

“And to whom do the priests—and the patriarch for that matter—owe their allegiance?”

“To you, Captain.”

“Yes, to
me.
Of course, to
me.”
He slapped his chest for emphasis.

“But, sir—begging your pardon, sir—also to God.”