A second blood flower budded on the Apalachee, this one on his chest.
“Yield, sir,” Sterne said.
“Never,” Don Pedro replied.
“A moment!” Robert called. “Let me examine his wounds.”
“Do that,” Sterne said. “Perhaps as second, you will show the wisdom he lacks.”
Don Pedro came over obediently. He was breathing hard.
“Do not call off the duel,” he warned.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” Robert replied. “But you have to get inside that point, or he will most certainly nick you to death.”
“He is fast. I can feel the strength of the devil in him when our blades cross.”
“Please, Don Pedro—”
“Please, Mr. Franklin. Have a little faith in God. He will grant me the victory.”
He went back and squared off with Sterne again. He went as soon as the signal was given, beating at a blade that wasn't there but was whisking around his. Then the Apalachee did an astonishing thing; he got his blade back around in a huge circle, catching Sterne's blade in time to keep it from penetrating but not in time to keep it from ripping an ugly scratch up his belly. Ignoring that, he ducked and thrust. His blade went a half inch into Sterne's belly, who cried out softly and staggered back.
Don Pedro stepped back, too. “Let me know when you are ready to resume,” he said.
Sterne looked angrily down at the stain growing on his shirt, waved off the protestations of his second, and came on.
This time Sterne was the attacker, beating the blade, thrusting, trying to force the don to give ground. The Apalachee would not retreat, however, working in a circle instead, always after Sterne's exposed flank. He touched the Englishman again, in the arm, but this time the duel didn't even pause. The two men, tiring, crashed together, blades blurring.
Finally they fell back from each other, each bleeding from several new wounds. Both were panting like racehorses after a long stretch, but Don Pedro's legs were visibly quivering.
“I'm going to kill you, sir,” Don Pedro said. “For my God, my country, my honor—I am going to kill you.”
“The hell with you,” Sterne replied, and came on.
But in the next moment he was forced to retreat, as Don Pedro replied with hard, strong blows, and the earlier finesse which had allowed Sterne to deal with that seemed to have left him. He moved back, sidling away from the Apalachee's clockwise motion.
“It isn't happening,” Franklin muttered. “Euler was wrong or lied. It isn't—”
At that moment, Den Pedro lunged—a mistake. Sterne parried the weapon and drove his own point through the Apalachee above his left hip. The blade went through and came out the other side. Sterne, overextended, stumbled, so that the two men were face-to-face.
Don Pedro whooped, his free hand darting out and knotting in Sterne's shirt.
“Now,” he said, “as I told you, you will die.”
Sterne's eyes went wide as he tried to withdraw his blade, but it was stuck in the other man.
And then it did happen. In the air, just above Sterne's head, a cloud formed with a red eye of fire in the center. It swept forward and engulfed Don Pedro, who gasped and fell back, releasing Sterne but taking the weapon with him.
He wasn't the only one to gasp. Shrieks went up all around the court.
So did weapons.
“Call it off, Mr. Sterne,” Franklin shouted. “Call it off, or we shall see how well your pet demon serves you when you are well-Swissed with bullets.”
Sterne's eyes flashed red. For an instant he looked as if he were ready to fight everyone in the room, even bare-handed, but then his shoulders slumped. The malakus thinned and vanished.
“That was very clever, Mr. Franklin. Again. I suppose I ought to be wise to little tricks like that by now. It doesn't matter. All of you, listen to me. You cannot stand against my masters. You will join them or they will kill you. It is extremely simple. I tried to treat with you like gentlemen, but that is useless, I see. Very well—if you will act like dogs, you will die like dogs.” He turned to the king. “Your Majesty—I wish to depart and return to my sovereign. I think he has your answer.”
“Indeed he does,” Philippe snapped, “but he shall not have it from you or from your men.”
“Sire, may I remind you that my status as an ambassador—”
“Entitles you to nothing, in my eyes. You are a warlock, sir, and will be treated as such. Your men will be treated as the servants of a warlock. I advise you to lay down your weapons.”
Sterne stood, fuming, for a tense moment, then smiled. “I have no weapon to lay down,” he said, pointing to Don Pedro. The Apalachee's eyes had gone glassy, but he was still breathing. “Don Pedro may keep the blade, with my compliments.” He turned to his men. “The rest of you disarm. If ever anything gave our king reason to burn this pitiful hovel to the ground, it is this breech of diplomatic relations.”
“I suspect,” Philippe said, “that he never needed an excuse, but I am happy to provide him with one. We fled France to escape the Russians and their demons. We will flee no more. France will flee no more. Here we stand.”
A profound silence followed his pronouncement, and in it d'Artaguiette stood, bowed to the king, and placed his hand on his breast. “Before God,” he said, “I confess. I collaborated with this … creature. Many of you know it. More do not. I plotted against my king and in so doing disgraced my office and station. Your Majesty, I offer you my sword as well. Take it if you will, and mete out the punishment I deserve. But I swear to you, before God, that I am with you now, heart and soul. I will go in the vanguard against our enemies, and I will not flinch. I urge all my countrymen to do the same.”
Philippe's mouth hung open for an instant. “You, d'Arta-guiette? You worked against me?”
“I did, Sire.”
“You thought me inadequate to my throne, or were you merely ambitious?”
“Both, Sire.”
“And you have changed your heart? What if you should change it again?”
“I cannot prove I will not—but I can swear I will not.”
Philippe scowled and waved a dismissive hand. “Keep your sword, d'Artaguiette. We have few enough men with military experience as it is. And it is time—no, well past time—that we raised an army. It is time we demonstrated, again, why the French once ruled the world.”
“France!” A hoarse voice shouted. It was André Penigault, at the very back of the room, one fist held high.
“France! The king!” he repeated.
And in the next eye blink, every foppish nobleman in the place suddenly became—something else. They no longer looked ridiculous in their garish, overwrought clothing. They pounded the tables. They raised their voices, so that the roar of “France! The king!” might well have been heard a thousand miles away.
A few hours later, the king called Franklin into a private audience in his bedchamber. Franklin found him in military uniform, looking down the length of his sword.
“Mr. Franklin.”
“Your Majesty.”
“I do not doubt in the least that you were behind all of that,” Philippe said. “The duel was contrived to force Sterne to reveal his nature?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Don Pedro —he will live?”
“It seems so. He is of tough stock.”
“Good. Now, d'Artaguiette has just made a fuller confession to me. He tells me that troops from Carolina and the margravate of Azilia are coming here, and that they sued by aetherschreiber for our protection. Did you know of this?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“I suspected as much. It does not please me that you kept it from me. In fact, the devious way you have worked here does not please me at all. But your results—your results are to my liking. I will give your troops protection, but as ambassador you must make me certain promises—in writing. As you now see, even the remnants of your own army are likely to outnumber my own forces. I need your promise
that they will not now, or ever, abuse their stay in my kingdom. We will feed you and house you—and you know, I think, what that costs us—and we will fight with you. But our territories are our territories, and you English may not claim them. I need an agreement on that.”
“Have it written, and I shall sign it,” Franklin replied. “For the moment, I give you my hand and my word.”
“For the moment, that will do. Meantime, you made me some other promises—make good on them. If we must fight, I want every advantage you can invent. You must hold nothing back from me for fear of future wars between our two peoples. You say we are all in this as one—act as you speak. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely. I meant every word I said, Majesty. This will be our last stand; I do believe it. If we fail here, nothing remains.”
“Will we fail?” For a moment he was that earlier king, a bit of resignation in each syllable.
Franklin looked him squarely in the eye. “No, Sire. We will not fail.”
That hung there for a moment, but then the king seemed to take it. “Good. Now, for the moment, just one thing. We have news that the Choctaw and their allies are fighting someone in the West, near the great river. Do you know anything of this?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Can you contrive some method of discovering? Can we use Sterne's flying machine?”
“We can indeed, Sire, with a few modifications. But I think there is someone I can ask about this now, if you give me your leave.”
* * *
After a bit of searching, he found Vasilisa in one of the moldering gardens, laughing gaily with one of Don Pedro's men—a young, pale fellow with a goatee. Franklin gave him barely a glance and a nod before addressing Vasilisa. “My lady,” Franklin said, “a word with you?”
“The lady, sir, is with me,” the young man said, puffing out his chest and placing his hand on the hilt of his smallsword. His voice was hoarse, his accent very thick.
“I do not want the lady, but only a word or two with her.”
“It's fine, Roberto,” she said, squeezing his arm. “I shall find you later. Mr. Franklin and I are old friends, and we do have things to say to each other.”
Roberto looked unhappy and uncertain, but he kissed her hand, favored Franklin with an almost imperceptible bow, and left.
“Very, very clever, Benjamin,” she said softly, once they were alone. “This evening was well handled. Within a few days you have this whole court in the palm of your hand.”
“Vasilisa, you can outflatter a dedication and lie like ten epitaphs. Spare me, please.”
“You're angry.”
“Who are the Indians fighting in the West?”
“Other Indians?”
“Vasilisa—” He stepped forward and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “You said you came here quite a different way than James. That would be from the west, yes, across the Pacific by airship? Did you come alone?”
“Ben …” She reached up and took his chin in her fingers. “Have a care, Ben. Women break. You were never rough like this before—it's one thing I loved about you.”
“Answer my question.”
“First, you answer me. Did you read the notes I gave you? About the engines?”
He gave an exasperated sigh and released her. “Yes.”
“And do you believe in them?”
“Yes.”
“You think a countermeasure is possible?”
“Of course. Now, for the last time, who are the Indians fighting in the West? I warn you, I shall know in a few days anyway, for I am outfitting Sterne's flying machine for reconnaissance.”
“You cannot trust his machine. It is malakim engined.”
“I can fix that.”
She stepped closer again. “Ben, believe me, I have no idea whom the Indians might be fighting. I came here alone, in a flying craft.”
“This is the truth?”
“It is the truth. And now, Ben—” She stepped close again, to the point of their touching, to where he could feel her heart beating through her dress, and feel that she wore no corset. “Will you help me?”
“With the countermeasures? Of course.”
“No. Not with that.”
Her arms crept up to his shoulders, then twined around his neck, and her face drew near his.
She was going to kiss him. She was, and he was going to let her.
And then, quite as suddenly, he realized that he was not going to kiss her. He pushed her back.
“Vasilisa, I don't think—”
A steel blade suddenly appeared over his shoulder, its tip against Vasilisa's throat.
“Drop that. Do it now, or I will kill you, by God I will.”
It was a voice he knew—knew very well indeed.
“Lenka?”
“Hush, idiot husband. Don't move.”
Vasilisa's face worked through a quick range of expres sions that started with fury and ended in resignation. Some thing clattered on the stone behind him.
“Now, move out from between us.”
Franklin did so, turning so he could finally see.
What he saw was Roberto, the Apalachee, holding his smallsword up to Vasilisa's throat.
“Lenka?” he repeated.
“Yes, dear husband. I wonder if I shouldn't have let her kill you.”
That was when he noticed the wicked steel pin on the ground where he had been standing.
In the inky depths of Altamaha Sound, a white lotus bloomed. In the instant before understanding, Oglethorpe admired its expanding beauty and the pearlescent green fringe around it.
Then the deck slapped him into the ceiling, and argent sparks flashed behind his eyes. The world briefly forgot gravity, and the quaking hull of Azilia's Hammer filled with shrieks.
“What in God's name?” Oglethorpe shouted, his voice distant and thin even in his own ears. “Did we strike a mine?”
“Nay, General,” MacKay grunted. “Y’ saw it. It were twenty yards off the port bow.” MacKay craned his head up fearfully.
“So they're dropping ‘em?”
“I'd reckon, sir.”
“Be damned. It's night above, and muddy thick down here besides. How do they know we're here?”
“God only knows, sir.”
“Well, we can't sit still waiting for morning anymore, that much is sure.”
“Shall we come to surface, then?”
“Right under the guns of Fort Marlborough? No, I don't think so.”
“But, sir, we can't navigate where we can't see. We'll run aground, or worse.”
“They see us. There must be a way.”
The ship shuddered again from an explosion a little more distant than the last.
“I think those be warnings, General. I think they know where we are exact.”
Oglethorpe chopped his chin in agreement. “Very well. They have some alchemical means of locating us and, further, of knowing we are not friend. But how? Can we confound it?”
Parmenter coughed. “What of the aether compasses of Franklin? They point the way to all sorts of things.”
“True enough. They point at what they're tuned to. Sailing ships keep touch with one another that way. But that must mean that somewhere on the ship the matched needle is hidden.”
“Aye. But where?”
“Fetch that Russian pilot. Quickly.” Oglethorpe looked up to the watchtower. “Captain Parmenter, can you make anything out?”
“Aye, sir. Above us, three ships with lanthorns blazing. They want us to know they're there.”
“They want their ship back, I reckon.” He fingered his chin. “Should we release our charges, try to blast them from the water?”
“Beg pardon, Margrave, but I think that wouldn't be wise,” Parmenter said. “None of ‘em are straight overhead, and they may have countermeasures we know nothing of. But they will surely finish us off if we prove dangerous.”
“What if we surface, then, and take our chances fighting from the deck?�
� But he shook his head. “No. Even I don't like those odds.”
Tomochichi, who had slipped in from the next compartment as they were speaking, cleared his throat. “The devil gun. Could you not use it to make them sink, as we did those boats upriver?”
“No,” Oglethorpe said. “Fired here, it would only set loose our own captive demon. Then we must all swim for it.”
“I know,” the old chief said. “But if someone took the gun and swam up, it could be done.”
“We can't open the hatch,” Oglethorpe explained. “Water would rush in.”
“Not the water underneath. We hold it at bay.”
“He's right, sir,” Parmenter said, some excitement in his voice. “Remember? The water will not force through the lower hatch, not as long as the upper is sealed. Someone can swim out from there.”
“Very good,” Oglethorpe said. “Mr. Parmenter, you're elected.”
“Sorry, General. I—I can't swim.”
“I'll do it,” Tomochichi said.
Oglethorpe frowned, remembering the Indian's fear of underwater spirits. “No. I know you don't like this below-the-water business.”
“What else can I do here?” Tomochichi asked. “Shoot my musket? No. Raise my war club? No. My younger brothers are already covered in glory. I will do this. This is mine.”
Oglethorpe hesitated only for an eye blink. “Very well, Chief, it's yours.” He clasped the old man's arms. “Good fortune.”
“If my allotted days are broken, it is so. No man can escape his fate. But I will end our enemies.”
A chill stalked down Oglethorpe's back. He hated it when the Indians started talking like that.
“Go with God, Chief.” Oglethorpe turned to Parmenter. “Put the knife to the Russian pilot. No, bring him here so I may do it myself. I will know how his countrymen see us.” He turned back to Tomochichi, who was doffing his matchcoat, revealing the dark wings tattooed on his chest and torso. For a dizzying instant, the old Indian seemed not human at all but instead some Oriental combination of man and bird of prey.
The Shadows of God Page 16
