“Your new enemies don’t make mistakes.”
“But I don’t have any new enemies!” I glanced about. “Do I?”
“I’m afraid my enemies are now yours, because of your fame and expertise. You are an electrician, are you not? An investigator of the past? A protégé of the great Franklin?”
“More of an assistant, at best.” It was beginning to occur to me that while boasting of my exploits might win me alliance with fine ladies, it also seemed to draw the attention of the worst kind of men. Someday I’m going to be more careful. “I’m a wastrel, actually. Hardly worth caring about.”
“Gage, I’m on a quest, and there’s only one man in the world with the curious combination of talents I need to help me succeed. That man is you, and everything you’ve said tonight only confirms it. No, don’t protest! Has not Bonaparte himself put his trust in you? Destiny is at work. What I am after is important, not only to Norway but to your own young nation. You are a patriot, sir, are you not?”
“Well, I like to think so. God rest George Washington. Not that I ever met the man.”
He leaned close, his whisper masked by the noise of the milling, inebriated crowd. “What if I were to tell you that Columbus was not the first to reach your shores?”
“The Indians were there, I suppose…”
“My own ancestors reached North America centuries before those Italian and Spanish interlopers, Ethan Gage. Norse voyagers were the real discoverers of your continent.”
“Really? But if they did, they didn’t stick, did they? It doesn’t count.”
“It does!” he roared, and people looked at us. He dragged me back even farther, to the shadow under an oak, and seized my shoulders in the dark underneath. “The Norse came, and drew a map, and left behind an artifact so powerful, so earthshaking, that whoever finds it will control the future! I’m talking about the fate of your own United States, Ethan Gage!”
I was suspicious. “What do you care about the United States?”
“Because the rightful return of this artifact to my own nation will be a rallying point for its independence at the same time it saves your own from foreign domination. We have a chance to change world history!”
Well, I’d heard this kind of talk before, and what did I have to show for it? I’d run around Egypt and Jerusalem on the hinge of history and ended up bruised, singed, and heartbroken. “I’m not much for affecting history, I’m afraid. It’s hard, dirty work, quite tiring, with very little recompense, I’ve found.”
“And we’ll discover something worth more than an emperor’s crown.” He looked at me with the crafty expertise of a mule salesman.
That stopped me, shameless mercenary that I am. “Worth more? As in money?”
“You’re a gambler, Ethan Gage. Wouldn’t you like to be rich?”
This Bloodhammer, who had the gleam of a Pizarro eyeing a roomful of Inca gold, was suddenly more interesting. I coughed to clear my throat. “My primary interest is the advancement of knowledge. I am a man of science, after all. Yet if there is reward to be had, I’m not opposed to compensation. As my mentor Franklin said, “Rather go to bed without dinner than to rise in debt.”
“You didn’t have dinner?”
“I’m chronically in debt. Just what is this treasure, Magnus?”
“I can only confide in a place less public than this.” He surveyed the assembly, now drifting back inside and preparing to go home, the way Bonaparte took in a battlefield. “Soon they will scatter, and we will be at risk again from the foul brigands who accosted you. Our first challenge is to make it out of Mortefontaine alive.”
WHEN YOU’RE WATCHFUL, EVERY STRANGER SEEMS TO BE watching. What had seemed an hour before to be an assembly of friends now looked ominous and menacing. With so many soldiers about, my assailants could most easily have infiltrated by being invited guests—but if so, which ones were they? I hadn’t gotten a proper view in the dark. Gaiety still reigned, inebriation was almost universal, laughter and wit were loud, and the only person who looked out of place was the one proposing to be my companion, Magnus Bloodhammer. Wouldn’t Danes be blond? I looked at every light-haired male with suspicion, but none even noticed my scrutiny.
Perhaps they were lurking by the gate. My hired coach wouldn’t be hard to spot and follow, once I climbed in, and in the dark forest between the château and Paris I’d be easy prey. I could ask Bonaparte for escort, but then I’d have to explain about Magnus, treasure, and his married sister. Better to steal off discreetly. I was considering how when a small hand pulled my arm.
“Come,” Pauline whispered. “There’s time for another round in a boudoir upstairs!”
By Cupid’s arrow, the randy girl didn’t discourage easily, did she? I’m dragged off, half-cooked, have to boat myself back to the party with my hair on fire, and she behaves like all we’ve had is a lover’s recess. I couldn’t imagine what a full night with the minx would be like. Actually, I could imagine, and it was intimidating.
“I’m afraid I have to leave.” Then inspiration struck. “Say, could I share your carriage? I’m trying to avoid those men who interrupted us.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Such delightful temptation! But if you were seen by my brother or his officers, word could get back to my husband.” She cast her eyes down, as if demure. “I do have my reputation.”
Indeed she did. “I could disguise myself as a footman. Do you have one my size I could trade clothes with? It would be a great favor to have him draw those rascals off. He could have my coat as payment.”
Now she looked impish. “And how might you repay me, monsieur?”
I bowed. “By discussing the customs of a Cairo harem I once visited.” No need to tell her it had been more discouraging than a cold tub in an unheated woodshed.
“I do adore geography.”
“There are all kinds of places we could explore,” I encouraged. “Say, I have a friend…”
“Monsieur!” Her eyes widened. “Ménage à trois?”
“Who would be happy to ride outside beside the coachman.”
I swear, the girl looked disappointed that there would be no three-some. But I didn’t have time to gauge her full reaction, instead quickly ushering her through the crowd so she could send a message to the stables where the servants loitered. Two of her men were to trade places with Magnus and me. While the lads were fetched, I retrieved my rifle and tomahawk to secrete in her coach. Then I sought out Jean-Etienne Despeaux, the organizer of the festivities, and asked if there were any leftover fireworks from the display.
“You didn’t get a close enough look on that island, Monsieur Gage?” he asked with raised brows.
“It was such a powerful experience I’d like to do some experimentation. Might electricity be harnessed to augment such a magnificent spectacle?”
“Do you ever rest, American?”
“It’s surprising how difficult that is to do.”
He did have some pyrotechnics remaining—it hadn’t been clear just how much of the arsenal would fit in the middle of the pond—and I carefully packed as many explosives as I could in a small trunk liberated from the château. I sprinkled loose powder on top and fastened a spare rifle flint on the lid against the lock so that when the box opened, there would be a spark. Then I made something of a show of carrying it through the dispersing crowd, looking secretive and important, and lashing it to the back of the carriage I’d ridden to reach Mortefontaine. Once this pantomime was acted out, I disappeared to change clothes with Pauline’s servants, inspecting the laundry of the lower class for fleas.
“You can keep my coat as payment for this favor,” I told a strapping lad.
“And you mine, conjurer,” he said cheerfully. “And now I get to play the Yankee, with sprawling stride, loose elbows, and gaping curiosity.” He pretended to imitate me in an annoying manner as he marched out in the dark to my carriage, cloak and hat masking his features. I daresay my posture and walk is more elegant than that.
A
t the same time Magnus and I made our way to Pauline’s coach where it waited in line. He had a leather cylinder strapped on his back like a quiver, but I took it to be a case for his promised map. He’d also bundled an old cape and slouch hat under one arm. He went to climb inside but I blocked him. “Up on top, Bloodhammer, where the servants ride. Unless you’d rather hang off the back.”
“Your disguise is no different than mine, Gage,” he hissed. “Why do you get to be inside and I have to be outside?”
“Because I’m the servant with the service our hostess requires.”
“Are you mad? Hasn’t she caused you trouble enough?”
“Actually, no. We didn’t sample the vintage as much as I’d hoped.”
He was frustrated, but much more arguing and we’d draw attention to ourselves. “Caution, American,” he muttered. “We’re not out of danger yet.”
“Which is precisely why you need to climb to the top of our conveyance. Keep a lookout, will you?”
Pauline departed the château and minced quickly across the gravel, her woolen cloak flaring behind as she held its throat shut against her flimsy gown. I sunk low in the coach as she boarded. “To Paris!” she ordered, rapping the ceiling, and we moved out with a jerk and smart pace, on a journey that wouldn’t be completed until well after the sun rose. My own carriage had already departed, and I hoped that the Danes, if that’s what they were, had taken the bait and followed it and its tempting trunk.
I figured they’d howl when they realized I’d switched places with a footman, but do the servant no harm. In frustration they’d have a look at my things. And then…
“You’ve had quite the brilliant evening, Monsieur Gage,” Pauline murmured once I risked sitting higher.
“More dramatic than I intended.”
“Who were those horrid men in the cellar? I should have my brother arrest them and shoot them for their rude timing. I was not really finished, you know.”
“I’m not sure of their identity. Maybe they were jealous of your beauty.”
She sniffed. “I shouldn’t blame them. I’m sitting for portraits.”
“You must favor me with one.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you can’t afford it, but it’s sweet of you to ask. And so bravely escaped! Did you thrash the rascals?”
“They ran.”
She looked up at the brocaded ceiling. “Is your friend along, as you asked?”
“He’s playing watchman next to the coachman at this very moment.”
“How gallant. Then you and I can continue our discussions of antiquity.” She hoisted a bottle. “I liberated this from Joseph when I fled his cellar.”
“You have foresight as well as beauty.”
“It’s a long way to Paris. Is that where we’re going?”
“Actually, Madame, it would suit my purposes better to set course for Le Havre.” I’d been thinking ahead. While I hated to leave the comforts of Paris, it would be the first place any enemies would look for me. How long before Leclerc learned I was dallying with his wife? “I have pressing business in America.”
“Then we must make the most of your time here.” She rapped the coach roof again. “Henri! The coast road!”
“Yes, madame.”
She turned back to me. “We’ll take you to a public coach, but only when we are far enough away from Mortefontaine that you’re safe. Meanwhile, I have glasses in the compartment there. Let us toast.”
“To survival?”
“Monsieur Gage, I always survive. To reunion!”
As we clinked glasses I heard the echo of an explosion through the estate’s forests and looked out the window. There was a glow, two rockets arcing through the air. My assailants apparently had followed my carriage. And ransacked my things.
I sat back inside. “Brigands.”
She shook her head. “My brother will put an end to them, I assure you.”
“I think I already have.”
“Ethan!” Bloodhammer called from above. “Did you see that? What the devil?”
“A parting for our friends, Magnus. Do stay alert!”
“I’m cold up here!”
“Pity!”
Pauline opened her cloak and I snuggled inside, sharing its volume.
“We must get you out of those dreadful clothes, Monsieur Gage. A man of your fame and station should not be mistaken for a commoner.”
“And I could warm my lady more efficiently without the encumbrance of that flimsy gown,” I suggested. “There’s a science to combustion.”
“I love science as much as geography.” She pulled up her gown to show the delightful thatch between her thighs, nicely trimmed to a Cupid’s heart.
And somewhere we took the fork to Le Havre, though I swear I didn’t hear anyone remark on it, given all the moaning.
Chapter 9
A NORTH ATLANTIC CROSSING IN AUTUMN IS LIKE A LONG-WINDED opera without a private box seat or a female companion to cuddle. You can endure it, but it’s tedious, cramped, and noisy, and there isn’t enough to do. I was sick the first three days, and then merely damp, cold, and bored the ten awful weeks it took us to beat into a succession of gales before making New York. Green water polished the decks, the planking writhed and groaned, and leaks sustained a tributary on the torture rack called my berth. When I popped my head topside one morning and saw the mast tops obscured by snow flurries, ice on the ratlines, I was so desperate for distraction that I volunteered to help the cook pick mold off the last of the vegetables.
“Took a look at the sea, did you, Monsieur Gage?”
“Yes. It looks exactly as it looked yesterday.”
“Oui. This is why I am content to stay by my brick oven.”
Bloodhammer was in his element, circuiting the deck with his beard flapping like a sail and the gleam of a Viking berserker ready to stave in a few civilized heads. His slouch hat was pulled down against the weather and his cloak wrapped him like an Indian blanket. He was as impatient to get to America as I was, but he saw beauty in the great mountainous swells I never quite shared, though there were some days—sunlight glowing through their crests like emerald fire, great arcing rainbows on the black horizon—when I admitted the ocean had an odd charm, like the desert. Great sea-birds sometimes hung over us without moving a wing, riding the wind, and once a seaman cried out and we saw the great gray back of some leviathan slide by our hull, its misty exhalation smelling of fish and the deep.
“My ancestors believed the world was encircled by endless ocean, and in that sea lives a serpent so great that it encircled all, its head reaching to its tail,” Magnus said. “When it constricted, it could cause the sea to rise in a deluge.”
“If the ocean was endless, how could it be encircled?” I’m becoming something of an amateur theologian, given all the gods and goddesses trampling through my life, and I take amusement in picking at the logical inconsistencies.
“The world was made from the bones and teeth of a frost giant, and the lakes by his blood.”
So it went. In the long dark hours we were confined below, Magnus talked, and with talk so strange I felt I’d slipped the moorings of our modern century. He crammed the hours with names like Thor, Asgard, Loki, Boverk, Jarl, Sneg, Feima, and Snor. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of much of it, but I’ve a weakness for stories of the fabled past and he told them well, with a bass rumble and saga rhythm that seemed to match the pitch and yaw of the ship. The past always seems simpler than the complicated present, and Magnus was one of those dreamy men half-stranded there, a troll with the heart of a boy. His cyclopean blue eye would catch fire, he’d lean forward with urgency, and his hands would dance like swords.
Our captain had taken to calling our big shipmate Odin, and when I finally asked him why, the officer looked at me in surprise.
“From his guise, of course. Surely you recognize the king of the gods.”
“King of the gods?”
“Odin the one-eyed, the Norse equivalent of Zeus, wandere
d the world disguised by his broad hat and flapping cape to add to his knowledge, the one thing he had an unquenchable thirst for. You were not aware of the resemblance?”
“I just thought he had no taste for smart clothing.”
“Your friend is very odd, monsieur. But odd in a significant way.”
So I listened to my replica of Odin tell his myths. The forest people of the north had feisty and lusty gods, it seems, carousing with dead heroes in a great hall called Valhalla when they weren’t making mischief for mortals below. Each day the Vikings would spend a jolly good time hacking each other to pieces, and then come dinnertime they’d all be resurrected for another drunken feast. Magnus summoned a time of sky gods and rainbow bridges, and the great Norse tree Yggdrasil, which held the nine worlds, an eagle at its top and the dragon Nidhogg gnawing below. It reminded me of the serpent Apophis in Egyptian legend. One of this tree’s roots was moored near a place called Hel, ruled over by a ghastly goddess of the same name who’d been banished there by Odin. Her hall of the dead, beyond the sheer rock Drop to Destruction, was named Eljudnir, and she lorded over corpses who hadn’t become battlefield heroes with a plate called Hunger and a knife called Famine.
Halfway up Yggdrasil’s trunk was Midgard, our human world, to which the gods sometimes descend and leave mischief and artifacts. Up near the top there was Asgard, a kind of Norse heaven.
“Hel?” I asked. “You mean like the Christian hell? The Vikings believed in the Bible?”
“No, it is the Christians who believe in the old myths. The new faith borrows many ideas from the old. Did you know that one-eyed Odin, who gave half his sight to drink from the well of wisdom, had himself hung from Yggdrasil like Christ on the cross, to learn still more? He called out in agony and took a spear thrust in the side.”
“Half his sight? You mean he wore an eye patch like you?”
“Or just a hideous empty socket.” He flicked his patch so I could glimpse his own ghastly scar, and then grinned. It was a crater I could stick my thumb into.
“And what happened to your eye?”
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