A Calculus of Angels (46 page)

Hassim leaned close as the fellow shrieked. “He say that this not about Venice at all, but about King Charles. He say only one at risk here is Charles. Charles want the Janissaries to defy sultan for his own reasons, not for Venice. His fellows chant, ”Back to Sweden, Iron Head.“ ”

The general roar was suddenly supplemented by howls of pain, and Ben suddenly understood what Hassim had meant by kicking. The group that presently had the floor was engaged in a kicking match with the Swedes and presumably pro-Charles Janissaries, viciously stamping at feet and shins. One fellow had fallen, and two men were booting him in the ribs and head.

The speakers ignored all this, as a second Turk leapt up and began shouting as well. “Him say that Charles want us to fight a battle we can’t win, against djinn and peri, against flying ships—all to protect his own pride,” Hassim translated.

“He say, who will pay us for this? The beylerbey and the sultan pay our salaries. Will Charles pay? Will he pay for all we lose if we fight the Russian devils?”

Charles held up his fists, and somehow, as if damped by the sheer force of his will, the pandemonium subsided. Perhaps it was the look of haughty fury on his face, the soldier set of his shoulders. “You weak-kneed women!” he shouted. “Where are the Janissaries that brought down matchless Constantinople, who swam up rivers of their own blood to the walls of Vienna?

Where are you now? Counting your coins for the day of your retirement?

Waiting to watch your grandchildren grow old? But what will you tell those grandchildren, those Venetians, when they ask what happened on that day, on that day when you could have been warriors, but instead you chose to be old women, to let the Russians who murdered you at Pruth walk into your city without the slightest resistance, take your wives and your daughters to lie with them in
your
beds? What will your grandchildren hear of you, you
brave
Janissaries?” In two brief strides he was suddenly in the crowd, aiming a powerful kick at his last opponent. The man yelped and went down, and though his followers surged up to Charles, they did not strike him.

A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

Behind Charles, the Turk took up the oration.

“That my father,” Hassim said proudly. “He say, the sultan tell us to leave our homes. Sultan tell us to leave our children, our wives, our business, our honor.

Sultan should be ashamed, sultan has no honor. Maybe Janissaries no longer have honor either.”

Another man bolted up, pointing out that they would have no businesses if they rebelled against the Porte, no one to trade with. At that point, Riva joined the fray, speaking of Blackbeard and the others, explaining that not only did they have ships to throw into the battle, but that here stood men with whom they could negotiate a fruitful and exclusive trade with the Americas.

It was surreal, the way the shouting match became a mercantile meeting, with terms of trade suddenly added to the hot words about courage and cowardice.

It seemed, for a time, that the discussion of
whether
to fight had been replaced by one of what to do after the battle.

But after perhaps half an hour, the argument suddenly swung sharply back to the central issue.

“We cannot fight them! Where are our sorcerers, to pit against these demons?

What weapon have we that can fight against ships of the air?” someone shouted.

“Go, then,” Charles returned. “Scurry off to your holes! I will fight them alone!

I will defend your city for you, keep safe your children and your women whilst you cower in whatever wilderness the sultan grants you. Go!”

“That is big talk! But explain to us—how will you fight them? How, Swedish King, how?”

That hung pregnant for an instant, and Ben suddenly felt the balance around him. The debate hung in equilibrium between pride and common sense.

Common sense told the Janissaries not to fight. Pride told them they should.

Under normal circumstances, Ben would have advised them to keep council with their sense, but on the other hand, if Charles was forced to flee—or fight desperately and alone—Ben would never see Lenka or Newton’s notebooks A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

again. They had to be convinced to stay and fight, and what’s more, that Newton was the key to winning.

And so, as the din dropped slightly, Ben spoke up, shouting as loudly as he could manage. “I know how to fight them! I know how they may be beaten!”

The translator shouted his words more loudly, and suddenly the hubbub subsided to nearly nothing. All eyes were suddenly on him.

“Who is this boy?” someone shouted.

“He is the apprentice of the great sorcerer of Prague,” Charles shouted. “You ask who will fight the djinni, the sorcerers—he is the one!”

“Show us!” someone yelled. “Show us your wizardry!”

Deliberately, Ben reached beneath his robes. There, dirty, smelling of horse and human sweat, he wore his aegis. He slipped in the key and vanished.

Pandemonium.

After a moment he reappeared.

“A trick!” someone shouted. “What use such tricks?”

“I have many tricks!” Ben shouted. “Many ways to destroy the flying ships! I cannot tell them all here!”

“Now!” Charles shouted. “Now, you see? Now only cowardice can hold you from the glory of battle!”

It suddenly seemed as if everyone in the room went from merely mad to completely rabid. The meeting dissolved into a hundred eddying kicking rights.

A looming presence in the corner of Ben’s eye warned him to turn, and his vision was filled by a nastily grinning Blackbeard. At the same instant, a heavy boot smacked painfully into his shins. His legs buckled in shock, and the pirate kicked him again viciously. Too late, Ben angrily lashed back, but he had hardly recovered from his wound and frantic ride, and his attack was weak.

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The next kick from Teach sent him heavily to the floor, and then fierce blows rained on him from every direction.

Red Shoes was entirely baffled by the Divan. Riva had provided an English translator, but the man had a weak voice and could rarely be heard over the din. And, of course, he was situated nearer Mather than Red Shoes.

He didn’t really care; instead he watched the ebb and flow of the arguments.

The blue-coated man that he’d been told was a king and one of the Turks stood together with Riva; other factions were evident by their spokesmen and by the chants of their constituents. It was unlike the councils he was used to, which were usually a little more deliberate, the participants speaking in order of rank and prestige.

He wondered who was the auburn-haired man Nairne was talking to, and the young
isht ahollo
that Blackbeard kept edging toward, the one who had somehow slipped himself into and out of
hoshonti,
a cloud of concealment such as certain legends spoke of. After that, his attention was riveted, the more so because he could make out no shadowchild nor spirit accompanying the young man, which made him powerful indeed.

What he did not anticipate—nor, apparently, did anyone else—was Blackbeard’s violent attack on the fellow, under cover of the general bedlam of the Divan. Nairne’s friend was the first to react, leaping forward and driving his fist straight to Blackbeard’s chin. He remembered that the use of fists was forbidden in the Divan as he watched Blackbeard stagger back. Nairne seemed to have kept the rule in mind, however, and was warding off blows from the nearby Turks kicking the disappearing man. Red Shoes, still uncertain of the situation, stepped in to help the dazed fellow to his feet.

In the meantime, bellowing, Blackbeard recovered and lurched toward the auburn-haired man, who held his ground before the huge pirate until the last instant, then nimbly danced aside, snapping a vicious kick at the pirate’s shin that sent him tumbling into the crowd. The surrounding Turks, fickle, began kicking Blackbeard as well. Blowing like a whale, Blackbeard thrashed among them, finally coming up with both fists knotted around a Turk’s neck.

That was when the armed men appeared, seemingly from nowhere. With halberds leveled at him from every direction, Blackbeard, growling, released A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

the Turk. Glaring, Teach allowed himself to be led from the room. Riva whispered a few words to their translator, and the rest of them—Nairne, Mather, the sorcerer boy, the fellow who had punched Blackbeard, Bienville, and himself—were ushered through the throng and out of the room. Red Shoes helped Nairne’s friend to support the sorcerer boy, who, though conscious, did not seem able to walk.

As they departed Red Shoes felt something like a knife at his back and jerked his head about, ready to do battle. For a bare instant, he thought he saw wings, scales, glowing eyes— but then there was nothing, just Nairne and Mather and a hundred strange men.

Ben winced at the bright sunshine and pulled a painful breath. Robert supported him on one side, and a man who looked for all the world like an Indian on the other.

“Thanks,” he managed weakly, to both of them.

“I wonder what made Captain Teach treat you so,” said the man in the red coat.

“Blackbeard and I have met before,” Ben explained. “I was hoping he’d not recognize me, Mr…”

“Nairne,” the fellow said. “Thomas Nairne.”

“Nairne?” Ben echoed.

“My uncle,” Robert clarified. “Are you well?”

Ben blinked through his astonishment. “I think so. Sore.”

“Uncle Thomas,” Robert said, “let me discover to you Benjamin Franklin of Boston.”

“Franklin?” Mather said. “Not a relative of Josiah, or the murdered James Franklin?”

“The son of the first and brother of the second.” Ben coughed. “You may not A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

remember me, Reverend Mather, but it pleases me mightily to see you.” He paused trepidatiously, heart near his throat. “Do you know aught of my father?”

“Well enough. Mourning three sons, now. Son, it would please me terribly to hear your story.”

“And well would I love to exchange it for yours,” Ben replied, “which we will do if only Blackbeard doesn’t kill me. Where did they take him, anyhow?”

“For holding,” Hassim supplied. “He attack Janissaries with hands in Divan.

Not a good thing. You can speak for later, if you wish.”

“Frankly,” Mather said, “I would be pleased to be rid of him, but we need him to control his men, I imagine. But more important, I wonder when the Divan will reach a decision?”

“Already decide,” Hassim said. “Janissaries fight.”

Ben grinned in triumph, but Mather’s next words sobered him.

“God help us all,” the reverend said, not a blasphemy, but an earnest prayer.

8.

Stratagems

Two hours later, as he and the others were led to an audience with Charles, Ben still felt light-headed. Not from the pummeling or earlier injuries, but from the revelations that the Americans had provided—most especially their A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

description of what had once been London. He had known, of course, what the comet must have wrought, but to have it described in detail… Even the wonderful news that his parents were alive did not balance that.

But it was settling out, bit by bit, and in his mind a plan was starting to form.

It seemed, altogether, that the colonies— English or French—were safer than Europe, a smaller pond to swim in with fewer sharks and barracudas. A man with his talents might become someone of importance there, and not owe his livelihood and very life to the whims of thin-blooded monarchs.

Charles and the Janissary leaders had installed themselves in the beylerbey’s palace, which before him had belonged to the doge. It was imposing and beautiful, a baroque European lady in Turkish costume. As Ben and the Americans were ushered in, Charles stood up from behind a large table, at which were seated a dozen or so men. Ben recognized a few— Hassim’s father and Riva among them.

“Gentlemen,” Charles called in German. Translators began speaking to the English and Frenchmen. “We have weighty matters to discuss, and battle plans to draw.”

The Frenchman named Bienville cleared his throat. “Your pardon, Majesty, but we have not yet agreed to aid you.”

Charles nodded. “I realize that, Monsieur. But it is true, yes, that should Venice become a sovereign regency, Louisiana would welcome our trade on good terms?”

“Of course. But I, for one, remain unconvinced that you can triumph in this battle. If what we hear is true—”

“It is true, sir, but I assure you, I would not consider fighting unless we had a good chance of victory.”

Bienville laughed. “Your pardon, sir, but such is not your reputation. It is said that you would stand alone against an entire army with naught but a paring knife, were it the only way to confront the tsar.”

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Charles pursed his lips. “Men have been given to exaggerate my deeds,” he said. “But be that as it may, if you would join us for the moment, I would be pleased.”

“I will join you,” Bienville said, “but if I remain unconvinced in two hours, I will raise sail.”

“We need you,” Charles said.

“We know that,” Bienville said. “What you must convince us of is that
we need
you.”

A man across the table rose. “Monsieur de Bienville,” he said,
“peut-etre
quejepeux vous aider, dans cette affaire.”

“
Pardon
?” Bienville replied. “
Quiparle a moi
?”

“My pardon,” Charles interrupted. “Sieur de Bienville, I introduce to you Louis de Rouvroy, the duke of Saint-Simon, governor of Naples and representative of His Majesty, the king of France.”

Bienville blinked, and then a slow smile crept across his face. “France does exist then? And has a monarch?”

“Sir,” Saint-Simon replied, “France is smothered by Muscovite hordes, but the Crown survives. It is imperative that our Italian and American possessions—and our Venetian friends—remain free of Russian rule. Thus my presence here, and my own appeal to you as a Frenchman.”

Bienville bowed. “I know you, sir, and we have even met once, you may remember, at Versailles. I would very much like to hear more of the state of our country.”