A Calculus of Angels (40 page)

“But, sir—”

“Lieutenant, over a thousand Swedes await in Venice, and I will not abandon them. You should know that.”

The man grinned, a little ruefully. “Yes, Majesty, we all know that. But we had to try.”

“Majesty?” Ben managed, raising up on one elbow.

“Ah, Mr. Franklin,” Frisk said, nodding.

“One more thing he didn’t believe worth mentioning,” Robert muttered, from behind him. “Let me introduce to you Charles XII, the king of Sweden.”

Ben didn’t have the energy to gape. He just nodded—not because it wasn’t a shock, but because no other action presented itself.

Frisk—or, rather, Charles—grinned slightly. “One day soon, Mr. Franklin, you and I will resume our earlier conversation about the worth of the institution of monarchy, but I’m afraid now that will have to wait.”

“Sir? I mean, Majesty?”

“Sir will do,” Charles said. “We have very pressing business in Venice, all of us.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Send word ahead by the aetherschreibers.

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Have men we trust provide us with fresh mounts.” He motioned toward Ben.

“He cannot ride, so someone will have to carry him. I want to break camp within the hour. In five days I want to be in Venice.”

“Five days?” Robert exploded. “Venice is five hundred miles from here if it’s a league.”

“Well, that’s only a hundred miles a day, isn’t it?” Charles replied.

“Why?” Ben asked. “Why such a hurry?”

Charles leaned forward, his voice low and hard. “Because if we do not hurry, we shall find Tsar Peter there, waiting for us.”

3.

The Sinking City

“The streets
are
water,” Red Shoes noticed, squinting to see into the distance.

“Aye,” Tug agreed, “I tol‘ ja. Han’t it a wonder?”

Red Shoes searched for wonder and found it, but it was the wonder of a rattlesnake, a spider, an eel. Algiers had seemed impossible; Venice was far worse. Staring at it, he recalled his dream conversation with the pale chief of the
oka nahollo
— or whatever the apparition had truly been. He remembered that sunken city of stone and rotten wood, how its citizens made their captives into things human in form but more kin to the crawfish and the leech at heart.

Here was a city of stone and rotting wood that might have been raised from A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

the deeps yesterday: a city where none ought to be, an abomination. With a sinking heart, he remembered also that his foe had suggested a close kinship between himself and the Europeans. Venice, after all, was the first real
nahollo
city he had ever seen—the people of Algiers were darker even than he. But he remembered other tales, now—of the Dutch, for instance, who also lived in cities with streets of water, below the level of the sea. He had met Dutchmen, and they were white indeed, as close to the
oka nahollo
of legend as any people imaginable.

The Choctaw were said to have emerged from that watery world beneath in
chanshpo,
the Beginning Time, to have split out of skins like crawfish to become human beings. But that had happened long ago, and the Choctaw had been ages in the sun. Perhaps the Europeans had emerged more recently, were closer to the underworld. That would explain their love of narrowness, of closed spaces, their mania for covering their skin, their unpredictable ways.

They were creatures caught between, either rising out of the muck or sinking into it.

He stared down at his European clothes, trying to remember how long it was supposed to take the
oka nahollo
to turn a Choctaw into one of them, and repressed a shudder. He liked some of these people, but he did not want to
be
one. He wanted to go home, marry, plant a garden, hunt deer, kill a Chickasaw now and then. He wanted to stay Choctaw.

Everyone else on the ship seemed happy enough though, even people like Fernando who were far from white. They jabbered of the pleasures they would discover, of the qualities of Venetian women. Tug had already promised him another “good time,” but Red Shoes wondered if he could survive another such night, especially in a city where the streets might literally swallow the drunken.

No. If he went into the waters of Venice, the waters of Venice would not go into him. It would be all his unknown enemy needed to destroy him, as he almost had in Algiers. And that enemy was still there: Three times on the voyage to Venice he had caught the gaze of covert eyes upon him, three times his foe had vanished without a trace.

Nairne paced up nervously beside him. “You look worried,” he said.

“Do I have cause to worry?”

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Nairne frowned. “So far, everything has gone as Riva said. No one bothered us on the Roman Sea, and here our welcome was pretty courteous, I have to admit. But did you notice the Turkish ships putting out?”

Red Shoes smiled ruefully. “I still have trouble telling one floating house from another.”

“Well, in the few hours since we arrived, I’ve watched seven Turkish ships leave. And look around you—it seems to me that everyone else is readying to go, as well.”

“You think Venice is in danger?”

“I think something very strange is going on.”

Perhaps the underworld is preparing to swallow Venice once more,
Red Shoes thought,
and take her home.
“What does the Venetian say about it?” “I don’t know, as he went ashore. I hope he returns.”

It was five hours later before Domenico Riva returned, and his face had a rather grim cast to it.

“You said y’d return in an hour,” Blackbeard grumbled dangerously.

Riva shook his head and raised his hands helplessly. “I’m sorry. Things are…

You’d best summon your council.”

Blackbeard turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

“I am reckonin‘,” he said, his words clipped casually, “that you had best tell me what goes on, and you had best do it now. In an hour, our ships’ll be the only ones in this harbor. I want to know what
they
know that I do
not
know.”

“I beg your pardon,” Riva said. “I did not mean to be mysterious. It seems that Venice will soon be invaded.”

“Invaded?”

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“Yes. A Muscovite fleet is on its way even now.”

“What? From where, the Bosporus? The Turk would cut them to pieces.”

“Not so, and for two reasons, Captain.”

“Being?”

“The one, because the tsar and the sultan have concluded a pact. The Turkish ships withdraw, not out of fear, but from arrangement. The second—” He paused, looking distraught.

“Out with it.”

“The second is that, this is no ordinary fleet.”

“What do you mean?”

“An ordinary fleet would need water to sail upon,” Riva said. “The Muscovite armada does not.”

The council, for once, all seemed in agreement.

“There’s nothing in this for us,” Blackbeard said. “It isn’t our fight.”

“Even if it were, what could we do?” Mather wondered.

“We cannot risk our ships,” Bienville added.

“I see your concern,” Riva murmured. “And, truly, I do not know how things will run. It looks bad, but in its own way, this is an opportunity, and I would like a chance to convince you that it is
your
opportunity.”

“How so?” Mather asked.

Riva clasped his hands. “For almost twice ten years the Turk has lorded over us. You see the minarets of their mosques, do you not? If you come into the A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

city, you shall see more. But now—now, at long last—they withdraw.”

“Only so the tsar may move in.”

“Yes, but you see, it is all a ploy. The sultan long ago tired of King Charles of Sweden—perhaps even fears him, as the Janissaries respect him so much.”

“What matter?” Bienville asked. “The Janissaries are merely soldiers, are they not?”

Riva shook his head. “No. The Janissaries are powerful indeed, and willful.

They have removed sultans from the throne. Once, they may have been pliant to the wishes of the Porte, but that was long ago. Especially in the provinces, like Venice, their power is great. The long and short of it is that a command to simply arrest the Swedish king and his men would be ignored, for such has happened in the past. But the sultan, you see, wants peace with Russia, and that peace can never be concluded with Charles still a guest in the Ottoman Empire.”

“Aye.” Blackbeard shrugged. “So the Turks withdraw, with no invitation to Charles to go with them. The Moscovados take the city and Charles in the process.”

“Aye. But then the Russians withdraw again, and the Turk comes back. They stage a sham battle perhaps, so everything looks well, but in the end that is the plan.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with us.”

Riva stared at them intently. “I told you that there were those of us who would shake the Turkish yoke. This is the time. If we could defeat the Muscovite—”

A belly laugh erupted from Blackbeard. “Defeat flying ships?”

Riva blushed, but plunged on. “They expect no resistance.”

Blackbeard laughed some more.

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“Let’s say you do defeat them,” Bienville said. “What prevents the Turk from crushing you next year?”

“Several things,” Riva said. “The first is that the Turk has no flying ships, and Venice has always been a tight oyster to shuck. Our loss to the Turks those years ago was as much luck on their part as design.
Secundo
—if we beat the Muscovites, it will be because the Janissaries have come to our side.”

“Why should they do that?”

“They have lived here for many years. Their children are, for all purposes, Venetian. It would be possible, I think, to establish a council that was both Janissary and Christian—in short, to become a regency instead of a colony. We could claim that we defended the city for the greater glory of the Porte. With the Janissaries on our side, the sultan could hardly disagree.”

“So you would keep the snake in the garden,” Mather muttered. “You would live on with the Mohammedan.”

“We live together as it is. The Porte allows all religions to exist, but Christians have no say. That, at least, would change.” He paused. “There are those of us who think as you, that all of the Mussulmen must be cast out, that Venice must be ruled only by those descended from the old families. They are somewhat fanatical; we call them the Masques.”

“So your junto is split, then,” Blackbeard noted. “I suppose these ‘masks’ care little for the Janissaries.”

Riva shrugged. “They know who has the power. Our plan is not theirs, but they will cooperate until the Muscovite is driven away and the Porte held at a distance.”

“But you are not one of these,” Mather said.

“No. If we alienate the Porte, the Janissaries,
and
their children, how shall we survive? In a sea controlled by the Turk, whom shall we trade with? How will we beat off invasion year after year?”

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“Come to the point,” Bienville said. “What is it you want from us?”

“Only this, for now. A council of the Janissaries is meeting in a few hours. I ask only that you attend. If the Janissaries do not swing to Charles, then all hope is lost, and I happily bid you sail home. But if they do—”

“If they do, you want us to fight,” Blackbeard said grimly. “Fight against magical ships an‘ demons.”

Riva held up his hands. “Please. I ask only that you come and listen, delay sail for another day. The Muscovites will have no reason to pursue you.”

“We’ve only your word for that,” Bienville pointed out.

“True. But what difference will a few hours make?”

“And what will we get out of this?” Blackbeard asked mildly, “besides a missionary glow?”

“A partner in commerce on what I can promise you will be very, very good terms. And a friend should the Turk ever turn his eyes toward America.”

Nairne quirked his lip. “I see. And by attending this meeting, we become a part of your argument, yes?”

“What do you mean?” Riva asked innocently.

“You can parade us as proof that there is trade to be had beyond the Mediterranean—an incentive for the Janissaries to stay here and become merchants.”

“Well—” Riva said, staring down at the boards.

“This is a dangerous game you play,” Nairne went on, wiggling his finger.

“How many factions are attending this council only because they have been promised that some other faction may be there?”

Riva chuckled throatily. “All of them.”

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“So none are firm.”

“Oh, no,” Riva said. “The Masques will fight; there is no doubt of that. They even think they may have obtained some advantage, a scientific one.”

“How so?”

“A few days ago, a man came into the Veneto—in a flying boat—and ensconced himself on one of the near islands. At first we thought it an advance Muscovite, but new rumors have arisen. It is said that it is some mighty wizard, perhaps Sir Isaac Newton himself!”

“Newton?” Mather said, his voice rising.

“Yes. It is well known that Newton has been at the court of the Holy Roman emperor in Prague. Prague has recently been overrun by the tsar. It is said that Charles offered him refuge here.”

“Here is an odd twist,” Mather said. “And these Masques think to gain Newton’s aid?”

“We all do, of course. It is well known that it was only he that enabled Prague to stand as long as it did. At the moment, he staves off all intruders with a magical force. If anyone can help Venice stand alone, it is Newton.”

“And yet,” Nairne said, “you don’t know for certain this man is Newton, nor has he offered his help to anyone.”

Riva shrugged. “The wizards—Newton or not—has been invited to the council.

Perhaps he will come.”

“Well,” Mather said dryly, “if nothing else, this council should prove more than interesting. Besides—if this really is Newton and not some godless warlock, it could be worthwhile for us all.”

Blackbeard smiled his evil smile. “Aye. I would not want to miss this kind of squabble.”

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Bienville, surprisingly, seemed to have lost his reluctance. “I will go, if we are allowed to speak.”