A Calculus of Angels (42 page)

Crecy shrugged. “I care not. Where you go, there go I. Life on the terms promised us is certainly better than brigandry— or nursemaiding a poppet in Prague.”

Hercule nodded at that, too.

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“So are we agreed, then?” Adrienne asked.

“How nice of you to ask,” Hercule replied, a trace of bitterness in his tone.

“Hercule—”

“No, my apologies. Of course, I agree. How can I not, with you quoting my own philosophy to me? But I say we sleep lightly. Our future may not be as rosy as we wish.”

“It was never rosier, though,” Adrienne replied. “Though at times it has been pleasant.” She reached for his hand, and he returned her small squeeze.

“I believe,” Crecy said, “that our ‘captain’ is not a man to do things in half measures, ordinarily. So seeing that he left this bottle of wine only half empty, I propose we save him any possible remorse or embarrassment by making certain that when he returns it is completely so.” She raised the bottle and refilled their glasses. “To the three of us,” she said, “and to our future in Saint Petersburg.”

And they drank.

The tsar returned when he said he would, and they made their agreement. The men from Lorraine boarded—not without trepidation, but comforted by their weapons. Adrienne and Hercule outlined their situation to them, and though it was offered, none returned to the ground.

When all was settled, the ship began to fly, climbing forward and up at the same time. Adrienne held Nico near the rail as the landscape below became plains of lichens and forests of club moss, but he seemed unimpressed.

Hercule was not so phlegmatic. “By God,” he breathed. “Who could have dreamed?”

“It is wonderful, is it not?” the tsar—who had just come up—said. “That is the marvelous thing about this age of wonders, Monsieur. What we dream can be made real.” He leaned over the rail, farther than Adrienne thought wise.

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“I have always loved boats, you see. As a child, I had my own sailboat, but where could I sail it? On the river, on the pond? Yes, but I dreamed that Russia would have saltwater ports, that I would sail the seas. I went to Holland and learned to make ships with my own hands. I helped make this one!” He laughed. “It is ironic, don’t you think, that I fought so hard and so long to secure saltwater ports, and now I have no need ofportsatall!”

“Captain, might I ask where we sail?” Crecy asked. “To Prague, the scene of your victory? To Saint Petersburg?”

“Alas, no,” the tsar replied. “I have a debt to settle in Venice first—it will not take long.”

“Are we going to battle?” Adrienne asked, tightening her grip on Nico a bit.

“Never fear for your son, Mademoiselle,” he assured her. “I do not think it will come to battle, and if it does, it shall not be much of one.”

Adrienne nodded, but she had been made such promises before, and did not find herself particularly reassured. She continued to watch the tiny landscape, wondering now what it would be like to fall from such a height.

5.

Veneto

Ben thought wonder had been bled out of him. His feet oozed like tar in his boots, blood glued his stockings and breeches to the saddle, fever chattered his teeth. Five days and nights on horseback had spread the ache in his chest from head to toe. He felt close to death and did not care.

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And yet when the sea came in sight—a dawn plain of coral, quixotic spires like rosy mists ascending from it—it stunned him how much better it was to live than to die, to see such sights; and he shuddered with what felt like laughter but which his weary eyes mistook for tears.

So rapt was he that it took him long moments to note that they had stopped, not so he could contemplate splendor, but because their way was blocked by what seemed soldiers from his fevers, a company of colorful, whimsical, almost laughable men. Most of them wore floppy red caps embroidered with gold, baggy white shirts, and even baggier pantaloons tucked into yellow boots. They were unmounted. He had seen clowns dressed thus, in the court of Bohemia.

But these were not clowns. There were perhaps fifty of them, with fifty sorts of faces, comprising in complexion a spectrum from pale and freckled through almost black, in form from round to jagged, noses from mountainous to flat.

But in demeanor they were all alike, each visage a grim promise of violence. It was a look he had come to know, and he knew it in this rainbow of men bristling with weapons.

Turks. The ravagers of Vienna, the conquerors of Venice, the implacable enemy of all Christendom. Turks.

He knew he ought to be afraid.

Charles XII, always at the fore, rode yet a few steps farther toward the strange troops. Hand raised, proud and straight in his saddle, only the dark hollows of his eyes hinted at his fatigue.

“Greetings to the
ochak
, and to you,
Corbasi
?

The man who seemed to be the leader of the Turks—an olive-complected fellow with curly hair, a scar below one eye, and four feathers in his cap—bowed.
“Inshallah,
Iron Head,” he replied.

Charles nodded acknowledgment. “How courteous of you to bring your
boluk
to escort me to the city.”

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The Turk bit his lower lip and continued in thickly accented German. “I regret,” he said softly, “that such is not our purpose.”

“No? Then might I ask you, one soldier to another, to briefly address your purpose? My men have ridden hard and long, and some of us are wounded.”

“I have come to warn you, O King. A friendly gesture from men who respect you.”

“I value the respect of the Janissaries, though I am unworthy of it. Speak your warning, my friend.”

“It is just this. The Sublime Porte is withdrawing its protection from the infidel city.”

“So I have heard. But as an infidel, how should this trouble me?”

“Iron Head, you have long been friend to the sultan, the enemy of his enemy, the Russian tsar. He therefore wishes you to understand that, with his protection withdrawn from Venice, he cannot speak for what will happen to you without his sword and shield above you.”

“The sultan sent me this word himself?”

The Turk shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “We in the
ochak
know the sultan’s mind well enough.”

Charles smiled sardonically. “Well enough to give a warning that the sultan might have neglected?”

“As you say,” the Turk responded, his face like stone. “The sultan is very busy.”

Charles nodded knowingly. “I deeply appreciate your words, my friend, but I also have many matters weighing on my heart. Indebted as I am to you for this warning, I fear I cannot heed it. My soldiers are quartered in Venice—”

“At a word from you, Iron Head, they can be escorted safely from there, if haste is made.”

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Charles paused for a bare instant before continuing. “My soldiers are there,”

he repeated, “and I will see them. And I will speak to my brother the beylerbey, a final time.”

A brief look of what might well have been contempt flitted across the Turk’s face. “He leaves by morning.”

“Then it’s fortunate that I arrive now. But more important than the beylerbey, I wish to speak to my brothers the Janissaries. Do you think that possible?”

“In Allah, all things are possible,” the Turk replied. “But you have a full
boluk
before you. We are the eyes and ears of our brothers. What would you say to us?”

“I would say it in the city,” Charles said. “Would you hinder me?”

A long tense silence followed, before finally the Turk shook his head. “We would not hinder you, Iron Head. We will escort you to the city. And we would be honored to have you in our kitchen.”

“The honor is all mine,” Charles replied.

“A city wi‘ streets of water,” Robert murmured, as the procession of Janissary longboats bore them up a broad canal. His gaze moved from side to side, where liquid alleys wound back into the city, crowded with elegant gondolas jostling one another as might pedestrians and sedan chairs in a more mundane city.

“It is a place of wonder,” Ben agreed, “though I could hope for a better smell.”

The scent was that of Roxbury flats on a bad day, a sour, briny odor with a considerable bouquet of sewage added.

“It is a bit on the nois’m side,” Robert allowed.

The seduction of the city had not diminished with contact, though it had lost something of its ethereal quality. Ben mused that it was like seeing a new lover unclothed for the first time. The view from a distance was like the fancy A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

clothes, the paint and powder, hiding imperfections, accentuating assets.

Closer, one saw the pores, the warts, the irregularities. And yet for Ben that had never made a woman less enticing, but rather more so. So too, with Venice, now that he could see the crumbling pilings, the dark forms of rats scampering along narrow ledges, offal and human waste floating by. Venice gained strength over him as she gained reality to his eye.

But in all of this discovery, there was yet discord. To gain the city, they had passed the massive forms of Turkish galleys, ornate and Oriental, their myriad oars awaiting the hands of slaves to row them, swarming with colorful figures preparing to lift the hand of the sultan from the Veneto. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be a cause for celebration, for the Turk had ruled in Venice for near twenty years. But when they were gone, more terrible ships would stoop from the skies. How long did they have?

“Do you know what passed earlier?” Ben asked Robert wearily, trying to raise his hand to wave back at a group of girls leaning from an upper window.

“Something, I think, from speaking with the Swedes. These fellows—” He gestured at the Turks in the other boats. “—are Janissaries.”

“So I gather, though I know not what that may be.”

“Soldiers, but of an especial sort. Many began life as Christians, but were captured by the Turks in childhood, enslaved, and raised to be perfect warriors. They’re called fanatical, without mercy ‘r pity.”

“And yet they seemed well disposed toward King Charles.”

“King Charles has earned their respect, at least as his own men tell it. From what I gather, some think better of him than their own sultan, who is, after all, no warrior. They see a kindred spirit, a fellow madman-soldier. What I think happened back there is that the Janissaries disobeyed their orders.”

“How so?”

“We know that the sultan and the tsar have struck a bargain; the Turks will withdraw from Venice, leaving King Charles without their protection. He will A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

either have to flee back toward Sweden—which is now mostly in Moscovado and Danish hands, and so no haven—or further away yet.”

“But the Muscovites and the Ottomans are enemies.”

“Perhaps both see fit to settle their differences and divide the world between them,” Robert said. “If so, that leaves only the problem of Charles, for the tsar will not conclude peace with him here, and Charles will never stop trying to incite the sultan ‘gainst the tsar. Add to that the Janissaries—the real power and backbone of the empire—are disposed to listen to our friend ’Iron Head.” “

“So Venice is a trap. The Turks withdraw, the Muscovite hosts move in—”

“And the rumor is that once Charles is captured or fled, the tsar withdraws as well.”

“Leaving Venice to whom?”

“The Venetians, perhaps. More likely the Turk will then return. Who knows?”

“Shell games!” Ben muttered. “The shell games of tyrants.”

“Don’t forget our friend Frisk is such a tyrant.”

“But a very unusual one, Robin, one that labors earnest for his respect.”

“Aye, and see where he is. A valiant insect about’t‘ be trod beneath the feet of giants.”

Ben shrugged. “More’s the pity, for despite his deception, I like our King Frisk very much. But you and I cannot be bothered with that, now. It’s for us to find Newton and Lenka.”

“Oh? And how will you find Newton? Assuming Frisk was even correct to say that Newton came here?”

Ben mustered the energy to grin as he pulled something from his pocket; a metal bar, dangling upon a thread. It swung aimlessly for a moment and then A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

pointed with unusual certainty into the deeps of the city. “I know not precisely where Newton may be,” Ben said, “but his boat lies yonder.”

“Near?”

“Watch how the needle moves, as we do. Were he far away, we would not discern any motion.”

Robert nodded, staring at the lines of the buildings against the sky. “It’s a strange course we’ve steered, Benjamin,” he grunted.

“I doubt not ‘twill steer stranger before all is done.”

Robert nodded, turning his head farther, and gasped.

“Holy Jesus! Look there, Ben!”

Ben turned his head, and for a moment did not understand. The canal before them opened into what could only be described as a vast aqueous plaza, bustling with gondolas, small sail craft, barges, longboats. But beyond them—through a gap that led to open sea—lay deep-going ships, at which Robert seemed to be vaguely aiming with his finger. But then Ben saw. Among the Byzantine galleys, brigantines, tartanes, pinks, galliots—amidst a chaos of banners and sail—stood the straight, tall mast of a New York sloop, the same as he had watched coming into Boston harbor a hundred times. At its highest point, proud in the Mediterranean breeze, fluttered the king’s jack.

Tears starting in his eyes, Ben reached over to clasp Robert’s hand for an instant. “I believe,” he said, “that we can add one more thing to be done.”

He awoke in a narrow but comfortable bed, puzzled. The last thing he remembered clearly was watching that improbable king’s jack and the sudden, deep conviction that things would be well.

He rubbed his eyes and looked around, and the hair on his scalp pricked up.

Turks. He was in a room full of Turks, and no European to be seen anywhere.

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“You feel better, English?”

Ben looked up, startled, to find a young man in a striped gown behind him. He looked perhaps eighteen, had large, black eyes in a long, almost feminine face.