A Calculus of Angels (7 page)

“I assure you, sir, that I well know the difference between an accursed being and the powers that serve me.”

“Will you allow me to examine you? To prove this is so? Will you listen to my words about Jesus, and take the first steps toward the covenant of grace?”

Red Shoes grinned. “You may speak as you wish, and I will listen. I promise nothing, however.”

“I cannot allow you to accompany us on this quest if I consider that you might be a warlock. This is to be a Christian undertaking, and it is already compromised by the Popish French, who are closer to the devil in some ways than any heathen. Indeed, it has been shown that Indian sorcerers and French ones conspire against us from the wilderness.”

“I know nothing of that,” Red Shoes said.

“I cannot trust it. Will you accept conversion?”

“I will not, nor will your word keep me from this expedition, I believe.

Governor Bienville or Teach will take me on their ships.”

“I will argue against it.”

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“And you will fail. I do not say this to anger you. I know your concerns, and I would not keep company with someone I thought a witch. Nevertheless, you must.”

Mather simmered over that quietly for a few moments. “I have more influence than you might mink.”

“Do you? Since I have been in Philadelphia these past months, I have heard some talk of you, and of those witches in Massachusetts. Many now believe that you were party to the murder of many innocents.”

Mather hesitated. “Much of that is slander,” he whispered, for the first time seeming unsure of himself. “But it may be true that some died innocent. I was not a judge, and at the time I spoke against much of the evidence presented—most especially the spectral evidence—but in vain. Yet it is clear from all indications that the devil came into Salem. Few doubt that.”

“I think that many doubt it, to be blunt”

“They will not doubt a man of God speaking of a savage.”

“They will doubt you about
this
savage, in
these
times. They fear my people, and they fear our alliance with the French.”

Mather bowed his head down to the table, and began muttering in that way that Red Shoes understood to be praying. He waited quietly, picking at what remained of his food.

Finally Mather looked up, and Red Shoes met his gaze, in the white man’s way.

“Will you at least let me assure myself? Perform the simplest examinations?

Can you read?”

“Yes, some.”

“Will you read the commandments, aloud?”

“Yes.”

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“And the Lord’s Prayer?”

“Yes.”

Mather nodded grimly, somehow triumphantly, and a sudden dart of unease pricked Red Shoes, making him wonder suddenly just how wise he had been.

4.

Peter Frisk

Ben reached for his aegis key, but in the same instant Robert crashed into him, knocking him from his feet. Ben cursed as his elbow crunched against the hard stone, but Robert was a blur of continued motion, the gleam of his rapier arcing up to meet the newcomer who had just emerged from the alley.

“Hold, fellow,” the man shouted. “Mark that my muzzle confronts your pursuers, not you.”

Indeed, the pistol was pointed over Ben and to the right of Robert.

“Draw your swords, both, and we shall deal with these,” he went on.

Robert, always quickest in such situations, had already turned to face their pursuers, albeit with one wary eye on their new comrade. Ben scrambled to his feet, clumsily drawing his own blade, still swearing at Robert’s misguided attempt to protect him. The steel felt ungainly in his hand. Robert had shown him a few passes, but Ben had not managed to work up much enthusiasm for swordplay. No matter; his other hand now clutched the aegis key, poised to activate his magical cloak.

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He waited because the five men following had halted, some twenty paces away, indecisive in the face of the pistol. They were a dour, dark bunch, mostly quite large men. All bore swords, and several seemed to have sidearms, though only one held his drawn: a man with piercing blue eyes, smaller than the others.

“You’ll find no easy prey here, carrion crows,” their seeming ally shouted at the men. Though Ben was still new to the German language, it seemed that the fellow had an odd accent. He wore some sort of military uniform, but not one that Ben could identify as belonging to the empire.

“We’ve no business with you,” the small man yelled back. “Only with these two.”

“Then you have business indeed with me as well,” the man shouted.

Ben straightened. “What call have you to accost us?” he shouted at the five. “I recognize not a man jack among you, and so don’t think I have wronged you. If we have given you offense, then lay it at our feet so we can know what we are charged with. Otherwise be off with you.” He gritted his teeth at the pain in his arm, hoping his sword was held in a way that conveyed at least some competence.

“You mistake us, sir,” the blue-eyed man said, edging a bit closer. “Our intention was never to assault you but to speak with you on a certain matter.”

One of the other men grunted a word in what Ben was now absolutely certain was Russian. The small man snapped back in the same language.

“You know who I am, I gather?” Ben called.

“Indeed, sir. You are Benjamin Franklin, apprentice to Sir Isaac Newton.”

“Then you may know as well that I am under the emperor’s protection.”

“Of course. But as I said, this show of steel and pistol is unwarranted. I only wished to state a proposition.”

“State it, then.”

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“I had hoped for a more—private—venue.”

“I am quite sure you did,” Ben replied. “But if you will not speak, then I cannot help you.”

“I would prefer—”

“Come and see me at the castle,” Ben interrupted. “I extend you an invitation.

At the moment we are in something of a hurry.”

The small man regarded him for a moment, and then bowed. “Very well. I apologize. I saw you in the tavern and thought to take advantage of my good fortune, but I see I have overstepped the bounds of politeness. I will present my offer another time.”

“And I will be happy to hear it, I am certain,” Ben replied.

The man bowed again, and with an air of reluctance, the five turned and went back the way they had come. Ben noted that neither Robert nor their benefactor allowed their weapons to waver until the Muscovites were well out of sight.

“Now, then,” the newcomer said, finally returning his weapon to its proper place at his belt. Robert’s rapier lingered in the air for a second or two longer, and then hissed back into its scabbard.

“I would not believe them, if I were you,” the man advised. “I heard them in the tavern. Their plan was to take you hostage.”

Ben looked the fellow over. He was a year or two one side of forty, with sea-gray eyes peering over a regally arched nose, lips tight with a sort of grim humor. A battered tricorn jutted over a high, balding forehead. He exuded the sort of competence that Robert did, but more so, giving the impression that he could have easily dealt with all five men.

“You’ve done us a damn good turn,” Ben said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Benjamin Franklin, and greatly grateful to you.”

A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

“Yes, so I heard them call you,” the man replied. “My name is Peter Frisk.”

“Pleased to meet you, Peter Frisk,” Ben replied, as they shook hands.

“And me,” Robert added, taking Frisk’s hand next. “And might I suggest that we move along? Rats’ll scurry away, but they always come back f’r the cheese.”

“Indeed,” Frisk replied. “I’d be happy to escort you wherever you might be going.”

“No need fer that,” Robert answered. “We’re just headed back ‘t’ the Charles Bridge.”

“Well, I’ve a mind to see that side of the river myself. Would you allow me to accompany you?”

“Please,” Ben said. “I want to hear more of this kidnapping plot.”

Robert shrugged acceptance, and the three of them began winding their way back toward the river.

“I take it,” Ben said after a moment, “that you speak some Russian?”

“Some,” Frisk said, a tinge of surprise in his voice. “What makes you ask?”

“Those fellows were Moscovados, I think. If you heard them speaking amongst themselves…”

“Ah. I see. Yes, you are quite right. They are Russian—in speech at least.”

“And did you gather why they wished to abduct me?”

“Not really, only that they did intend to do so. They seemed to think you a person of some importance.”

“You don’t know who I am?”

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Frisk smiled. “Take no offense, sir, but no, I do not. I heard them tell that you were the apprentice of some man named Newton—whose name I believe I have heard remarked—but that is my balance of knowledge concerning you. I am recently come, you see, to Prague. I have scarce been here for two days.”

“I understand you never having heard of me,” Ben allowed, “but how odd that the name of Newton is not prominent in your mind.”

“Mr. Franklin, I have been on campaign for so many years I have had little time for news of any sort.”

“With what army?” Robert asked.

“I marched with Charles XII of Sweden in the year seventeen hundred. I have not seen my home or family since that time.”

Robert whistled. “The Muscovy campaign! I should say you
have
been busy for a time. I commend you on your survival.”

“I thought Charles defeated,” Ben remarked.

“We were broken at Pruth, but not destroyed. Charles rests with the Turk, watching for his chance.”

“And you?”

“I have decided that enough of my life has been wasted in a war that will never end, and I have no great love of the Turk. And so I have come here in hopes of earning my way back to Sweden.”

“I fear that you will not find the north as you left it,” Ben replied softly. “You may have been better off with the Turk.”

Frisk shrugged. “I hear the stories. That may or may not be, but I shall find out for myself.”

They had now reached the Moldau and the dark, massy bridge that spanned it.

The castle looked down from their right, banners whipping in the wind.

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Ben smiled at Frisk, trying to hide his suspicion. He had been taken in before, and by fairer spies than Frisk—Vasilisa Karevna, for instance, from whose lips he had first tasted Russian. Who was to say that this Swede had not authored the entire confrontation, to present himself as an ally? Certainly the Muscovites had given up easily enough.

“Well, Mr. Frisk,” Ben said, “again, we are in your debt. If there is some way I can compensate you…”

“I must admit,” Frisk said, “that my decision to aid you was not without some self-interest. As I said, I gathered from your would-be attackers that you were men of no small importance…”

Robert chuckled. “We are not so important as we think we are,” he joked, glancing meaningfully at Ben. Robert didn’t trust the fellow either. Still, if he was honest, they did owe the man a debt. If he wasn’t, it might be better to have him near, where his movements could be watched, rather than plotting unseen in the deeper labyrinth of Prague.

“I meant what I said,” Ben asserted. “If there is anything I can do, publish it to me.”

“Only to mention my name to someone,” Frisk said. “I am looking for employment, for a time. I had the commission of captain in the Swedish army, and I was hoping to find some small position with the emperor’s forces.”

Ben considered the man for a moment. “That is the least I can do,” he said at last. “Where is your lodging?”

Frisk smiled wryly. “In New Town. But I shan’t be there long, as my gold credit is done this afternoon.”

“Very well, Captain Frisk. Meet us across the river here, in the tavern of Saint Thomas this time tomorrow, and I’ll give you what news I can. At the very least I might find lodging for you.”

Frisk stuck out his hand, but at the same instant there came a hollow boom, A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

and the Swede grunted and spun drunkenly. Ben had a brief impression of red

—spattered on the nearby building, a fine spray like powder on his extended coat sleeve.

“Shit!” Robert snarled, and vanished. Frisk crumpled to one knee.

A second explosion followed, and Ben understood at last that the Muscovites had not gone far after all, only just so far as to choose another moment to attack. He fumbled for his aegis key, found it, and vanished as well.

Robert was a faint suggestion of drawn steel, already ghosting toward the enemy. All five men had produced pistols, though two now quickly traded their smoking ones for swords. Angrily, Ben drew out his own smallsword and edged toward the men, wishing he had brought along some more potent weapon.

He at least had the satisfaction of seeing the dumbfounded confusion at his and Robert’s disappearance, and that in turn gave him confidence. Who did these men think they were attacking, anyway?

The nearest man, a monstrously large fellow with dirty blond hair and a face like a pig, trained his pistol on the obscured Robert and fired. An instant later he yelped, clutched at the back of his knee, and collapsed to the pavement.

Taking a deep breath, Ben chose his own target—a second large fellow—and advanced, wondering what it would feel like to pierce flesh. He would do what Robert had done, simply wound the man, he decided. He was not a killer.

As he hesitantly planned his attack, an unseen sledgehammer struck him in the chest, and the air leaked darkness and constellations into his eyes. He sat down hard on the cold stone and heard, distantly, the metallic laughter of his sword bouncing away. Blinking, his vision cleared enough for him to make out the small, blue-eyed man jogging toward him, looking determined, shoving a pistol in his belt with one hand and drawing a broadsword with the other. Ben groped stupidly for his errant blade, which lay perhaps two yards away, but his limbs felt like lead; and with sudden chagrin he realized that the world no longer had a rainbow frame. His aegis was no longer functioning.