A Calculus of Angels (44 page)

“God? God? Do you think that God the Almighty cares whether you wear a beard or not? Hmm? Do you? Does that make any sense at all to you, Captain Androkov, that
God
should care if you have a beard?”

The captain squirmed just a bit. “Sir, it is the old way. The priests say we will be lost without our old ways.”

“The patriarch regrets that he is not a tsar, Captain, and the priests that they are not governors; and acting as you have, you have allowed yourself to become a pawn in their game. That was stupid of you. These ‘old ways’—these were the ‘ways’ that kept us in darkness for a thousand years, beggars at the doors of the kingdoms of Europe, even our tsars peasants next to a Dutch merchant of common birth. The priests would see us back to that, I’m sure, for then they had more power and influence.”

A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

His face betrayed him again, and he took a deep breath. “Listen, you fool,” he began again. “You think this is nothing, a simple act of piety. It is not. It makes you my enemy. God does not care whether you wear a beard or not, but I assure you, the tsar of Russia
does.
In my eyes, this is a badge of alliance with the Old Believers and what remains of Strelitzi sympathizers. You remember the Strelitzi, I presume? The royal guard that thought they knew better than their tsar how Russia should be governed? Were you too young to see their heads rolling in the snow?”

Androkov’s nerve finally broke, and he looked down at his feet, unable to meet Peter’s gaze. “I remember, Sire,” he mumbled. “My father took me there, to see.”

“Yes. And so, listen to me, Captain Ilya Mikhailovich, for I have a most important question for you.”

“Captain?”

“It is simply this,” he said, picking up a leather case on the table next to him, opening it to produce the gleaming blade within. “Do you wish to live, and serve me—and thus Russia—or do you wish to join the Strelitzi in hell?”

The captain squared his shoulders and looked at Peter again. “I am not a coward, sir.”

“I did not say that you were, Captain. In fact, I believe I opened our conversation by saying something quite different.

It does not change the question or the consequences of the answer.“

The captain paused, then nodded his head. “I am sorry, sir, to have grown a beard.”

“Hold still, Captain,” Peter said, grimly, unfolding himself from the chair.

Androkov watched him approach, his eyes fastened on the polished, almost liquid metal.

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Peter was not gentle, and before he was done, blood slicked the razor, but when he stood back to admire his handiwork, it was with a certain satisfaction.

Androkov had uttered no sound throughout, which was also pleasing.

“Very good, Captain,” he said, as he wiped the sanguine razor. “If you grow it again—if you let just two days’ growth accumulate—I will see your beard
and
your head struck clean from your shoulders. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go now.”

Androkov rose, his face bleeding profusely from where the keen edge had sliced into flesh. But he had no beard now, and Peter felt better. He watched the door close behind Androkov, then went to a cabinet for a half-empty bottle of brandy. He poured himself a healthy draft and swallowed it, felt its potent warmth fall into the pit of his belly and glow there.

The Old Believers were growing in power again; he could no longer deny it.

For years he had intended to abolish the obsolete position of the patriarch, had been moving to do so when the time of disasters began. Since then, more immediate battles had commanded his attention, but now he saw his mistake.

When his own trusted officers began growing beards, it was time to act.

“I have been at war too long,” he muttered, “too long.”

“You do what you must, Great Tsar,” a voice whispered.

Peter poured more brandy, staring hard at the amber liquid. He rarely saw the ifrit when awake, in daylight, though it spoke to him often enough. He made no effort to look for it now; its appearance made him uncomfortable.

“What I must do,” he said, “is to return to my people.

Whenever I turn my back on them, the Old Believers crawl back out of their holes and breed vipers to strike me.“

“But the winters grow colder, great king. Already the north is almost A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

uninhabitable.”

“We have the new alchemical furnaces my philosophers developed, to warm those in the coldest places. I, myself, shall never abandon Saint Petersburg, and my people will take heart from that. Science will help us survive the winters, science and Russian fortitude, not more war.”

“But they must eat. Frozen earth grows no wheat.”

“I know that,” Peter snapped. “But now we have Poland, Bohemia—even as we speak, we are consolidating France. Those nations may be colder, too, but a good Russian farmer can get a crop from those lands. I will stop for a while.

After Venice, I shall take my airships to France and finish up that business. I have my ports and a fresh alliance with the sultan. Best, I shall finally have the cursed king of Sweden out of my affairs.”

“But the winters shall grow colder, Great Tsar, and colder yet.”

“Have you turned oracle, now?” Peter snapped.

“No, Great Tsar. But my kind knows sciences that yours does not.”

He shook his head. “My people must heal before they fight again. We will rest for a time. I
cannot
keep my back turned forever on the Old Believers. You know much, you people of the aether, but you do not know what it is to be tsar.”

“More than you might suspect. I can help you with the Old Believers.”

“What?” Peter asked, astonished.

“You know how I appear. You have expressed your discomfort.”

“Yes. You look like a saint.” Or rather, the gilded image of a saint, like a living, glowing icon. The ifrit had styled itself an angel when it first came to him, but Peter had never really believed that. Once he had learned their true, scientific nature, he had taken to calling them ifrits. He knew, however, that part of the reason he had done this was to push away that image of the angel, the beatific A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

saint; for his worst, most spidery fear was that the damned Old Believers were right, that everything he had ever done was wrong, a lie.

“Go on,” he muttered.

“When I first came to you, I named myself an angel,” the ifrit said. “I did so not to deceive you, but because it is a word used to describe me in the past.”

“I understand that.”

“The fact that I look like an angel or a saint to you is no coincidence, but not from the cause you fear. It is rather simple, actually. At times in the past, your people saw my kind and mistook us for the saints of your God. We do not look like these ‘icons.' They look like
us.“

“I begin to see,” Peter breathed. He felt something in him relax. Of course the Old Believers, those gullible fools, were not
right.
“And how does this help me?”

“Suppose that the saints were to begin appearing again? Suppose that they perform a miracle or two?”

“I have already heard of such happenings,” Peter said, a bit suspiciously.

Indeed, he had quietly begun an investigation into such occurrences, confident that the “miracles” were the products of scientific devices.

“Those rumors are not of our making,” the ifrit assured him, “but if they were, we could make certain that the saints said the sort of tilings a tsar might
want
said.”

Peter frowned. “It is a good suggestion,” he admitted. “But I mislike using superstition so. It will make my people more gullible, not less.”

“People change very slowly, Great Tsar. If you desire to triumph over the Old Believers, you must beat them at their own game.”

Peter felt his face twitch again, and finally nodded. “Begin discreetly,” he said,

“very discreetly. The Old Believers already suggest that I am attended by A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

demons. If it became known that the ‘saints’ were merely my ’demons’ in disguise—”

“No one who sees a saint will consider that they might have seen a devil,” the ifrit said. “No one wants to believe that they have been fooled. If our own philosophers have learned aught of Man,it is that.”

“It is just as important,” Peter said softly, “to understand what they will do when they realize that they
have
been tricked.”

“Worry not, Great Tsar. We will proceed at the pace you instruct, doing as you instruct. I do not presume to know as much about Man as you.”

Peter sighed, finished his brandy, and stood. He had things to do. “Thank you for your advice, ifrit. As usual, it has merit. I think perhaps you see Man more clearly because you are
not
one.”

“You flatter me, Great Tsar.”

“I think not. Now, if you will excuse me.”

“I will return later, O Tsar.”

But as he left his cabin, Peter suspected—as he had before—that ifrit never really left him, ever. He did not know whether to feel comforted or angry.

“You did not mention that we would be impressed directly into battle,”

Adrienne reproached, eyeing Vasilisa Karevna through the plume of steam rising from her coffee.

“It should not be much of a battle,” Vasilisa replied. “What weapon can reach us?”

“Yes?” Crecy asked, propping her elbows on the small table and resting her chin upon a bridge of interlocked fingers. “Then how will you take the city? I understand that in Prague, land forces marched below you, so that your aerial attack merely softened the city for invasion. The pace we set now, however, makes that impossible—not to mention the fact that the land forces would still A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

have to cross the lagoon to Venice. That suggests to me that you must land some of these craft to disgorge soldiers.”

Karevna smiled wanly. “At Prague, we were unnecessarily cautious. After all, Sir Isaac Newton and his apprentice were there, and might have had unpleasant surprises prepared for us. As it turned out, they did not. But you are very astute, Mademoiselle. Once Venice has surrendered—or been bombarded into submission—then ships will land with troops. This ship, however, will remain at a safe height, I assure you. Prague was well defended and we lost not a single ship. Venice is not defended at all. Does that reassure you both?”

Crecy allowed a thin grin. “I have discovered that the essence of war is the unexpected.”

Karevna laughed. “That is the essence of
life
, Mademoiselle.”

“My child has experienced very little of life,” Adrienne noted sardonically. “I would like him to experience a little more.”

“You think you were safer on the ground, with your ragged little band of soldiers, in unknown territory?”

“No.”

“Good. Then I urge you to stop thinking of our small expedition to Venice as a hazard and treat it as an opportunity.”

“What do you mean?”

“The tsar favors you, Mademoiselle, but the tsar is
most
favorable to actions.

If, in the coming battle, you demonstrate a willingness and ability to aid our cause—”

“I thought we would be out of the action.” Crecy frowned.

“Above it, yes. Safe, most probably. But we will play a role in our own unique way. For my own part, I will direct those malakim I am in communication with A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

to the best effect I can imagine. You…” She paused for an instant, and Adrienne tried to gauge the look that crossed her face. Was it admiration or jealousy? “They still talk,” Karevna continued, “of how you destroyed that first attack on you. Even I have not ascertained exactly what you did. But if you can perform similar feats for us, you will have begun an early ascent in the tsar’s estimation.”

“I see,” Adrienne said carefully, sipping her coffee. It had been a long time, it seemed, since she had tasted coffee. “I thank you for the advice, Mademoiselle Karevna. I will consider it most carefully.”

“I suggest you do. I would be overjoyed to have you by my side when we reach Venice.”

A few hours later, Karevna was gone, and there came a knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” Adrienne called.

“It’s me, Hercule,” came the muffled response.

“Oh!” Adrienne said, chagrined. She hadn’t even wondered where he had been.

“Crecy—”

The redhead nodded. “I’m sure I have some business somewhere, for an hour or two,” she muttered.

“Thank you,” Adrienne said, taking her arm.

Crecy blinked at her, unable to hide a slight bitterness in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed Adrienne on the head. “Of nothing,” she said, voice tight.

She opened the door and went by Hercule without a word.

Hercule watched her pass with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged. He glanced around the cabin. “Your accommodations seem comfortable enough,” he noticed.

“Yes,” Adrienne replied. She walked over to him, very deliberately took his A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

chin in her fingers, and brought her lips up to his. He responded rather ferociously, and for an instant she was taken aback until her own underestimated desire erupted to match his. Not so much a desire for sex as such, but for the comfort of flesh against flesh, the mindlessness of motion.

She was undoing the buttons of his waistcoat when he gently pushed her away.

“What? What’s the matter?” she asked, studying his suddenly serious eyes.

“I’ve volunteered to lead one of the ground assaults.”

“You’ve
what
?”

“I dislike asking this, but I think you should give the men your approval.”

“Why, Hercule? What nonsense is this?”

He sighed heavily and brushed past her to gaze out the small porthole. “I must do something quickly to prove my new commitment to the tsar. Otherwise—”

“Karevna has been talking to you.”

“Adrienne, you have powers I don’t begin to understand, usefulness which is undeniable. I, on the other hand, am a simple soldier, one among many.”

“Your place is secure if mine is,” Adrienne said.

He snorted. “Yes, as your lapdog, the popinjay captain of your guard. My aim is at a higher target, my dear. If I am to seek my fortune with the tsar, I must be bold.”