The Shadows of God

by J. Gregory Keyes

“He did claim to love things scientific,” Franklin mused. “Maybe there is something to bait the hook with. Maybe. And it may be I have some hope of a defense against the malakim as well, or at least some intelligence about these dark engines of theirs that Euler told us about. And we have Euler himself.”

  “There, see? God may well have provided you what you need.”

  “This from you, who never once has thought God a reasonable fellow? What, has some Quaker girl worked conversion on you?”

  “Hardly. But I figure if God is responsible for all of this, there's no hope for us at all. If he isn't, then he may well be against it, so maybe I ought to curry some favor.”

  “The cautious Robin,” Franklin said.

  “But what hope have you found, specific? You didn't say.”

  “Nor will I just now. An old foe, maybe a friend now.”

  “Hmm. Wasn't it you who said, ‘Beware twice-boiled meat, and an old foe reconciled'?”

  “That was me, wasn't it? It must be sound advice then. Are you ready for dinner?”

  “I could eat a bear.”

  Which was fortunate, as bear was the main course. It was tolerably good, well roasted and exceedingly greasy. Robert was as good as his word, vanishing great hunks of it down his throat. Voltaire, Franklin noticed, was somewhat more cautious.

  Franklin didn't want to look at Sterne, for when he did, he saw the bloody ghost of his brother James Franklin. For more than twelve years he had lived with that last sight of James, his death-dimmed eyes and confused expression lit by his burning print shop. For twelve years, Franklin had thought James’ murderer dead.

  But in Coweta territory, Sterne had claimed the killing as his own. Was it a lie?

  It didn't matter—that he would claim it was enough. That he was a warlock was enough. That he had worked against Franklin was enough. He would pay the toll for his evil words and deeds, and Franklin would see to it.

  So he forced himself into a seeming of good humor and smiled at Sterne, and took comfort that the dinner seemed to disagree entirely with the periwigged fellow. After the first round of toasts to the king, Franklin couldn't help himself. He raised his cup and said, “To good Mr. Sterne, who was so lately my host in the wild—may I have the chance to host you in as good a fashion— or, I hope before God, better!”

  Franklin's friends—the rangers and the Apalachee drank to that with great enthusiasm—the French with some puzzlement. Sterne, of course, did not drink to himself. The smile he managed looked uncomfortable. Franklin took all this as a good sign—a sign that the court had not thrown its weight behind the Englishman.

  The king seemed to have recovered a certain amount of good cheer. In fact, he raised his own cup in toast.

  “To Sir Isaac Newton,” he exclaimed. “He brought us the benefits of a new science to help us through these dark days. And to his greatest apprentice, whom they call the Wizard of America, Benjamin Franklin. I do hope I can convince Mr. Franklin to demonstrate an experiment or two for us.”

  Franklin couldn't have asked for a better opportunity. He began to think Robert might be right about God, after all.

  “I would be most delighted to do so, Your Majesty. Indeed, as you have told me you are a scientific man, I greatly desire that we might collaborate on something. Perhaps we can speak of this later?”

  He guessed nothing he could have said would have had a more profound effect on the king. His eyes positively gleamed. “That sounds most delightful, Mr. Franklin. Most delightful indeed.”

  Sterne couldn't sit still for that, and he didn't. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I must remind you that your cousin James has been kept waiting for too long. You promised an answer when Mr. Franklin arrived; as you see, he is here now. Will you delay longer? Consorting with him in matters scientific can only add to the insult my sovereign already perceives. I—”

  The king slammed his cup onto the table, bringing an end to Sterne's speech and to every other sound at the table.

  “Mr. Sterne, I do not wish to discuss politics while taking my pleasure. It is disgusting—and with ladies present! Mr. Franklin has the good grace and manners to understand that. Your own behavior baffles me. As for my cousin, he was always an overbearing, self-important little shit, and I will hear no more of his indirect pomposity here. If he truly wished to make an impression, he would have come to see me himself, yes?”

  “Sire,” Sterne began again, in a more humble voice, “my sovereign has the pressing matter of the rebellion to occupy him, else he most assuredly would be here.”

  “Of course he would— eating my food and drinking my wine as he and his father did for decades at my uncle's court. Yet when has he invited me to dine at his?”

  “Sire—”

  “Hush, Mr. Sterne. This will be a pleasant evening, even if you must spend it in irons.”

  “Your Majesty would not dare.”

  Another dead silence, and this one stretched long, until the king lifted a single finger. Immediately, from the wings, two guards appeared and grabbed Sterne by the shoulders.

  “See here!” he shouted.

  “Gag him and put him in irons,” the king said, “but leave him at the table. I would not have my cousin say I did not re ceive his envoy as honorably as I could.”

  And it was done.

  “Now, Mr. Franklin. I have often wondered on the nature of colors and what their origins might be. I recall in his Optics, Sir Isaac did some experiments using thin films …”

  And they talked, as they say, of quinces, bears, and cabbages, but not of politics. Franklin found it immensely cheering and stimulating to his conversation to glance— every now and then—at Sterne's flushed face, and wink.

  That night he dreamed of Vasilisa, of their first dinner together, in which she proffered cup after cup of Portuguese wine, and with each sip her face grew more beautiful. He dreamed of her naked limbs, wrapped about him, of her sleeping face the next morning.

  He dreamed of the nightmare sky, after she had kidnapped him, of her grip on his hand as the horizon vomited toward heaven.

  He dreamed of a magnetism that connected them, that had never let him think she was dead. And in his dream, he loved her as only a boy in love for the first time can love, a love as full of fear as of hope, brittle and beautiful as a snowflake— and as impermanent.

  Or was it? he thought, on waking. It was still in him, wasn't it? Not really gone, just buried.

  He lay in the dark and forced thoughts of his wife, Lenka, instead, of how he had felt when he thought she was dying, of the joys he had known in her embrace. Solid joys, dependable ones.

  Of course, Lenka had as much as threatened divorce last time he had seen her …

  This was stupid. He would go back to sleep and wake with no thoughts of women at all. That was the very last thing he needed on his mind right now. Or on any other part of him, for that matter.

  But when he finally did sleep again, it was to dream of bodies in motion, and not those of the celestial sort.

  * * *

  Franklin came out of his restless sleep almost instantly when Robert tapped him. In light of the lanthorn his friend's face looked drawn.

  “What is it?”

  “There's news of Carolina.”

  “How's that?”

  “I don't know. I got word from the Junto fellows here. They want a meeting.”

  Franklin sat up, rubbing grit out of his eyes. “Show me to 'em,” he said.

  Penigault was waiting outside. “It's this way,” he told them.

  Once again, Franklin found himself twisting through the maze of the palace until at last a ladder was climbed, a trapdoor lifted, and they were outside. The air stank of swamp, decay, and salt.

  They followed Penigault out, into the muddy streets of the town, twisting through narrow alleys paved with night soil and offal, until at last they came to the door of a largish house. The fellow rapped thrice, then again, paused, and rapped twice more.

  Bolts slid, locks ti
cked, and someone opened the door a crack and peeked through.

  “Mr. Franklin?”

  “At your service.”

  The door opened fully, and the man stepped back into the lighted room. He wore a plain cotton shirt and knee breeches. He wore no hat or wig, but his dark curly hair was pulled in a queue. A second man stood in the room, his eyes distant, unfocused. He was a little older, with little more than a fringe of iron around his mostly bald head.

  “Sir, I am Antoine Simon le Page Du Pratz, and this is my friend André Penigault, whose son consented to guide you here. We are both much pleased to meet you.”

  “I can speak for myself,” Penigault replied dryly, sticking out his hand. Franklin suddenly understood that he was blind. He clasped the outstretched fingers and gave them a brisk shake. “Good to meet you both. Monsieur Du Pratz, I much enjoyed your volume on the habits of the Natchez Indians. I hope I can expect a longer work from you in the future?”

  Du Pratz smiled. “When our present troubles are resolved, God willing,” he replied.

  “Come, come,” André Penigault muttered. “Enough time for back patting later. We have business now. And speaking of which, Mr. Franklin—no offense intended, of course—but what would you say if I did this?” He put his hand over his heart.

  Franklin smiled. “I should say a few things,” he replied. “I should ask you some questions. For instance, do you sincerely declare that you love mankind in general, of any profession or religion soever?”

  “I do,” Penigault and Du Pratz said in unison.

  “Do you think any person ought to be harmed in his body, name, or goods, for his mere speculative opinions or his external way of worship?”

  “No,” they answered, again together.

  “And do you love truth for truth's sake, and will you endeavor to find and receive it yourself and communicate it to others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine,” Franklin said. “Then I propose we call this meeting of the Junto to order and waive the other standing questions, as I gather you have urgent things to tell me.”

  Penigault nodded, seeming satisfied.

  “Have a seat,” Du Pratz said. “Can I offer you wine?”

  “Something a little more stimulating, perhaps? Tea or coffee?” Franklin suggested.

  “I am supplied with neither, though I can offer you a certain Indian tea which has much the same effect.”

  “Cassina?”

  “Yes.”

  “We drank that often enough in Carolina when trade ran thin. That would be wonderful.”

  “Angelique?” Du Pratz called.

  “Sir.” A young Indian woman entered the room with several cups and a steaming pot. It seemed Du Pratz had anticipated the request.

  A few moments later they all sipped at the strong, black tea. This had a more roasted taste than what Franklin was used to, with a certain burnt bitterness that was unusual but good. He felt its effect almost immediately, jostling the sluggish parts of his brain.

  “First,” Du Pratz said, “I must tell you I received a message by way of aetherschreiber from the Junto.”

  “Sir?”

  He handed over the letter. It was in Thomas Nairne's hand, written in the coded language they had last agreed upon.

  “Have you translated it?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes. It's a general communiqué to all of the Junto officers. Its contents—” He grimaced, then went on. “Oglethorpe's forces were routed. All of the Carolinas have fallen into the Pretender's hands. Nairne still holds Fort Montgomery, but he expects it to fall very soon.”

  The worst thing Franklin could imagine hearing, and there it was. He put his head down in his hands.

  “So quickly,” he murmured into his palms. A great hole had opened in the world, and he and all he loved had fallen into it. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he remembered the soldiers at Fort Moore, cheering for him, all confident that a few weeks of Indian fighting and the magic of their wizard Franklin would save them and make the world as it had been. How many of them now lay dead, crippled, prisoners without arms and legs, cursing him now?

  Good God, what had become of Lenka? He'd left her with Nairne. She would try to fight, knowing her.

  “How bad. How bad was it?”

  “Of Oglethorpe and his part of the Continental Army, we know nothing. Nairne thinks him dead. Governor Nairne plans a sally from Fort Montgomery and a march through Apalachee land to here, and he expresses the hope—”

  “That I have done my job and brought the French to our side,” Franklin finished grimly. “Does King Philippe know of this? Anything of it?”

  “I do not think so, no.”

  “About that,” Robert said. “How is it you receive messages when neither the Coweta nor the king have received any in months?”

  Du Pratz raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say about the Coweta. But Nairne expresses the worry that many of his aetherschreiber messages are not being received, and perhaps even intercepted. Oddly enough, this latest one ends in mid-stride, so to speak. Add to that the fact that the king is often … protected … from such things by one of his ministers. We are not certain which one, though we have a good idea.”

  “A traitor?”

  “A plotter for the throne, more likely. Several of the officers and noblemen here believe they could govern more efficiently than His Majesty.”

  “I'm sure. And just to keep things up front,” Franklin said, “could you tell me where you stand? Are you backing someone other than the king?”

  André Penigault coughed roughly. “Don't think we haven't considered it—rule by Junto even, though we don't have anyone highly placed enough to do the job. D'Artaguiette would probably do a better job than the king—he was here when Bienville was our governor, and commanded this city when it was still named Mobile. But no, at least as it stands we support Philippe.”

  “Is this d'Artaguiette the chief plotter for the throne?”

  “Chief? He's the most likely to succeed at it, if that's what you mean. The others are all posturing fools, and I doubt they could snatch the king's messages from under his nose. D'Artaguiette could.”

  “Then he might well know that what's left of our army is marching here, even if the king does not. How will he use that?”

  “We think he has made overtures to Sterne; and after last night, my guess is that Sterne will solicit him more carefully. The king, after all, seems to be leaning your way. So d'Artaguiette will use that to bargain with Sterne. If Sterne backs his move against the king with enough force, we may see trouble.”

  “Damn.” Franklin sighed. “Can't anything in this diplomat business go easy?”

  “How many troops remain?” That was Robert, ever practical.

  “They don't say,” Du Pratz told him. “I think they fear even the coded messages might find interception here.”

  “And that's well thought, too.” Franklin gulped down the rest of his cassina and waited for the girl to refill his cup. “May I use your aetherschreiber?”

  “It is at your command, sir,” Du Pratz assured him.

  “I must contact Governor Nairne and Oglethorpe, if I can.”

  “Then what?” Robert asked.

  “Then do what we can here. Monsieur Du Pratz, what if d'Artaguiette attempts a coup? What then?”

  “The Junto has some resources, but we are mostly outnumbered. Your men added may be enough—provided they don't start at the top, with regicide. All we can do is keep our eyes and ears open.”

  “No,” Franklin said. “We can't wait for anything, watchful or sleeping. We have to act.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “No.” He was having trouble breathing. “You got the memoir on the submersible ships?”

  “Yes. No sign of them in our harbors, though I expect if the eastern coasts are now secure—”

  Franklin saw it. “Yes, damn it. They'll send them south around Florida. That's probably why Nairne doesn't say he will try to hold Apal
achee—they have no sea fortress. How long will it take them to get here, I wonder?”

  “What was your plan, before all of this?”

  “To take my time, play on the king's love of science as I did at the banquet. But I have undermined that already, haven't I? I surely convinced Sterne that he cannot deal with the king. He will move in other ways. With our luck, the coup is already over, the king dead in his bed.”

  “Don't be so excitable,” André Penigault said gruffly.

  “Didn't we say we have some sense of what's going on? No such a thing happened tonight.”

  “Well,” Franklin said. “Something will happen tomorrow night.”

  “Is that a prophecy?”

  “No. A promise.”

  “Ah. Then you do have a plan.”

  Franklin uttered a noise enough like a laugh to sound painful. “No. But I will. It may be no better than my last three ill-conceived designs, but I will not sit on my hands.”

  “Bravo,” Robert said. To Franklin's surprise, he did not sound altogether sarcastic.

  Her third day in bed, the angel Uriel came to Adrienne.

  “I thought you were dead,” she said.

  The seraph folded and unfolded its six wings, the eyes that covered them winking slowly. “Almost, I was. The battle does not go well. The Sun Boy is strong. I have hidden myself again, slipped their notice, but I fear the next time I meet our foes will be my last. The great ones are all in motion now, and the time is approaching.”

  “The time for what? What are they planning?”

  Uriel was silent for a time. “You've seen the dark engines. They are ready now, and with them they will kill your race.”

  “There is more to this. Why should your kind wage civil war over our fate? There is something else, something some of you fear and some of you desire.”

  “God's wrath. God's forgiveness.”

  “You lie. What are they doing with my son?”

  “I've told you what I know. Like you, he has the power to bridge our worlds, to connect spirit and matter. Through him, the great ones of my kind can put their hands into the world.”

  “As they could at creation, before God changed the world.” The seraph hesitated.