Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “Is Mademoiselle hurt? Does she need a doctor?” someone asked.

  “Mademoiselle is fine.” Adrienne sighed.

  Suddenly the crowd on the edges of the canal shouted, “Le Roi vive!” “The king is alive!” Some sounded jubilant, but Adrienne heard disappointment also.

  “Holy Jesus!” Geoffrey Random blurted. He shut his eyes against the glare. When he opened them once more he looked at the musket he held with new admiration.

  “Come along, Brown Bess,” he muttered to it, looking around once more to make certain no one had witnessed him firing. But what he had been promised was quite true; he was alone in the gallery, and a look outside told him that the sound of his shot had drawn no attention from anyone.

  His employer was as good as his word, at least so far. He, Geoff Random, had just killed a king—two kings, for that matter. That would please a whole hell of a lot of people, not the least the duke of Marlborough. But without rather specialized help from within Versailles itself no English assassin could have succeeded.

  Marlborough could recognize talent, whether it was in a foot soldier or an officer. And, once again, Geoffrey Random had given the duke reason to think well of him.

  Hell, he had stopped an entire war! Not bad for a Northumbrian lad.

  He shouldered the rifle and gave his uniform the once-over. From now until he was safely out of France, he was an Irish dragoon in French service, with the forged papers to prove it. He descended a stair and crossed several halls, hoping he wasn't lost.

  Pandemonium had claimed Versailles. Servants and courtiers were pressed against the windows, pointing and staring at the scene he had created on the canal. Some shrieked, some wept, others … He passed two tables of men and women playing cards who seemed to be betting their next hands against the king's survival.

  It almost made Geoffrey sad that the war would end with Louis' death. It would have been far better for the world if all of these useless fops were pounded into paste by the magic cannons and good old mortar fire. Versailles—for all of its beauty— made him feel dirty.

  But he felt cleaner once outside Versailles, and he reached the stables unhindered.

  “What is it? What has happened?” the master of the stables shouted as he approached.

  “The king!” Geoffrey shot back, reluctant to say much for fear of revealing his accent. “I must ride.”

  “Of course. I will fetch your mount.”

  “Don't bother. I'll get her myself,” Geoffrey said, striding back into the darkened stables.

  He found Thames by her whicker. “Come along, old girl,” he soothed. “We've got a long ride ahead.”

  That was when he heard the sound of a pistol cock.

  “Sir, I advise you to turn slowly,” a voice told him. Geoffrey hesitated. His hand was only inches from his own sidearm, and his sword was closer. But he obeyed the command.

  When he saw who had the weapon trained on him, he blinked. “Oh, it's you,” he said. He could not remember the fellow's name, but he knew they had the same secret employer, despite the fact that the man wore the uniform of the king's own household guard. Geoff grinned at him. “I got him, didn't I?”

  But the guard shook his head; the bore of his Austrian pistol did not waver in the least. “No,” he said, softly. “I fear that the king survived.”

  “How could that be? The entire barge went up in flames.”

  “I don't know; but with the king alive the investigation will be prosecuted much more thoroughly than if he had died.”

  Geoffrey saw where this was going, but he smiled anyway. “Well, I shall soon be very far from here. Carry my regrets back to our mutual acquaintance. Ah, look, more guards …”

  The pistol wavered slightly as the fellow glanced over his shoulder, and Geoffrey drew his sidearm and stepped to his right at the same moment. The guard recovered quickly, firing before Geoffrey even had his weapon up. He flinched as splinters sprayed him from a post half a foot away as he brought his own pistol up more carefully.

  His French-made weapon roared. The guardsman grunted and pitched back. Geoffrey grinned savagely. Try to cross him, would they?

  In another instant he had mounted and was thundering out of the stables into the broad plaza outside.

  A guard in blue, scarlet, and silver stood perhaps ten yards away, a pair of pistols aimed steadily at Geoffrey. He cursed, wishing now he had taken a moment to reload one of his own weapons; an empty pistol and an empty musket did him no good at all.

  “Dismount, sir,” the young guard called, a determined glint in his eye.

  “And what if I do not?”

  “Then I shall shoot your horse.”

  “You needn't shoot either of us. I have silver enough to pay for my passage.”

  “I assume, sir, that you have killed Remy, who was one of my order. I cannot fail to avenge him.”

  Geoffrey considered that. “You have a sword at your waist,” he said. “Are you schooled in its use?”

  “That is why I wish for you to dismount, sir.”

  “Really?” Geoffrey felt a delighted hope. Could the guard be that stupid? He slid down from the saddle, drew his smallsword, and made a few passes with it.

  Keeping one pistol out, the guard uncocked the other and returned it to his belt.

  “Step away from your horse,” he commanded.

  Geoffrey did so. The guard was a bit taller than he, but he looked young. Geoffrey saluted him.

  “It is really unfair,” Geoffrey told him. “I did honorably by our … acquaintance … and now you repay me thus.”

  “You tried to kill our king!” the young man said, carefully holstering his second pistol.

  “Then lead me before a court. I shall go quietly.”

  “You killed a member of the Hundred Swiss. You must pay for that, too, sir.”

  “How noble.” Geoffrey sneered. “What you really mean is that you don't wish for me to testify as to who gave me this uniform, forged my papers.” And suddenly he was defending himself. He scarcely saw his opponent's colichemarde, so fast was it drawn. Geoff managed to get his blade up in time to meet it, and his footwork came without thought as he retreated from the furious attack. But then, he caught the rhythm of the advance and gave it back, making it work to his advantage. He pretended to be lulled, matching each advance with retreat, each retreat with advance, until they were as regular as a minuet. When the guard made his move, he would find that Geoffrey Random was no fool.

  Geoffrey stamped forward, blade here and there. He let the Swiss watch the blade and not the footwork.

  Then, predictably, the guard made his mistake, pretending to retreat but then suddenly hurling himself forward in a skip-and-lunge. The feinted retreat was well done, but not well enough, and Geoffrey was ready for the attack, turning the blade away easily and then kicking viciously at the extended and deeply flexed knee of his foe.

  Which somehow was not there anymore. Something very cold touched him just under his sternum. He stared down in amazement at the colichemarde buried in his solar plexus. He dropped his blade.

  “How… how did you do that?” he asked the young man. But Geoffrey never got his answer, for in the next moment darkness rushed up, and he fell.

  Louis XIV remembered the dauphin laughing, his face cherubic in the glow of the flameless lamp above them. He remembered a brighter light, then quickly, darkness. Louis had the distinct impression of a cloak being thrown about him, of it drawing tight against a world gone mad. How much time had elapsed since then he did not know.

  He did know where he was. He was in his own room in Versailles. He could even hear the familiar motions of his valet.

  Was this morning? Had he merely dreamed?

  “Bontemps,” he muttered, “is that you, Bontemps?”

  “Yes, Sire,” the man answered from quite near.

  “Draw up the shades or light a lamp, then,” he said, trying not to sound irritated.

  “Sire…” Bontemps began. He paused, the
n continued, “Sire, the room is well lit.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Your doctors say that your eyesight is impaired, Sire,” the valet answered, his voice somewhat strained.

  “Gone? Entirely gone?”

  “That they do not know, my lord. It remains in God's hands.”

  “Am I dying, Bontemps?” He had never said these words; before, he had known he was dying. There had never been any question, until the Persian elixir had trickled bitterly down his throat. Today, he felt fine—he simply could not see. He tried once again to open his eyes, but he understood now that they must already be open.

  “Other than your eyesight, Majesty, the doctors assure me that you are in perfect health,” Bontemps said.

  “Well, send them back in. I want to speak with them.”

  “I am sorry, Sire,” Bontemps said, his voice quavering in a peculiar manner. “They have done what they can, and I have sent them away.”

  “Away? Why?”

  “Because, Sire, I am your foremost valet. I am the head of your secret police and the person to whom your safety is most dearly trusted. And I know of no man whom I may trust at this moment other than myself. Sire, I did not know what better to do.”

  “What are you talking about, Bontemps?”

  “The attempt on your life, Sire. Someone has tried to kill you.”

  “To kill me? How?”

  The voice sighed again. “I was hoping you might know, Sire. All any of us know is that the pyramid upon which you stood suddenly burst into flame.”

  “The pyramid,” Louis repeated, a sudden well opening in his chest, a sudden plummeting of his heart. “Bontemps, what has become of the dauphin? Is he likewise blinded?”

  The pause was a long one this time.

  “He … the dauphin is with God, Sire.”

  Louis drew a deep breath. “Leave me, Louis-Alexandre,” he said at last. “Send the police and the Hundred Swiss about—”

  “I have done that, Sire, and I have sent to Paris for your musketeers.”

  “Then leave me. Go outside until I call for you.” He said this quietly, but with all of his authority. There was a moment's silence, and then footsteps retreating.

  He fumbled his way out of bed; he meant to pray. But when he had managed to kneel and clutch his hands beneath his chin, he groaned, discovering there, on his knees, that even when eyes were broken, tears could still flow.

  “Oh, my lady, your back!” Charlotte exclaimed. Adrienne lay facedown on her bed; the girls had just stripped the beautiful dress from her, and Helen began to rub the burn with butter—or ointment. Adrienne winced.

  “There are blisters?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, lady,” Helen answered.

  “What could have happened?” Charlotte went on, her high voice tinged with panic. “I hear the dauphin is dead.”

  “Someone tried to murder the king,” Helen explained. “They failed, but the dauphin was killed.”

  “Were you hurt, milady? Other than your back?”

  Adrienne pulled herself up sluggishly. It seemed as if she were made of lead. She forced herself to inventory her body. She could not see her back, but she seemed intact. She felt her head carefully, but could find no bruises or lumps. Her throat felt harsh, perhaps from the smoke. “No,” she said. “Do not call a doctor on my account.”

  “I am not certain that I could, to tell you the truth, Mademoiselle.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Adrienne asked.

  “Only that there are two of the Hundred Swiss at your door. We are none of us allowed to go in or out of this room.”

  “What?”

  “They search for the murderer,” Helen explained.

  “Oh. Oh!” She glanced about and quickly spotted the dress on the floor, where the girls had dropped it. As her eyes lit upon it, Charlotte started guiltily.

  “I am sorry, lady,” she said. “I was so worried about you that I forgot …” she started toward the dress.

  Adrienne clenched her fists in the sheets, wondering what to do. If she told Charlotte to leave it be, it would naturally arouse suspicion. Already, Helen favored her with a puzzled look. So she said nothing as Charlotte lifted the dress and the note from the duchess of Orléans fell wetly to the floor. All three women stared at it.

  “Helen,” Adrienne said tiredly, “could you get that for me?”

  “Of course, milady.” Helen walked over and picked up the damp, folded paper. Adrienne caught in Helen's eyes, then, a flicker of suspicion, and knew she must take a chance.

  “Please read it to me, would you, Helen?” she asked.

  “I am sorry, Mademoiselle,” the girl said. “I have not learned to read.”

  “Oh,” Adrienne responded. “In that case, my dear, just hand it to me.”

  Helen did so, curtseying. “Is it from a man?” she whispered, looking back to see that Charlotte was out of earshot.

  “It might be,” Adrienne said mysteriously, and took it from Helen's long fingers. “And now, I believe, I should like some rest,” she said.

  Helen nodded. “I will be in the next room,” she said, indicating the parlor, “should you have need of me.”

  Adrienne nodded. When the girl was gone, she unfolded the note.

  Had she not been so numb, she might have felt real panic. The unknown and the unexpected had too often been her guests today. A dull, creeping chill was the only sign that Adrienne's world had been upended. She blinked slowly, wondering how best to dispose of the note. She continued to stare at it, at the small drawing of an owl that was its only contents: the owl, sign of Athena, of the Korai.

  She suddenly understood Versailles the way the king explained it—as a vast clockwork mechanism whose gears moved irrevocably, indifferent to human wishes. From every side, a different gear now turned to crush her, and she saw no way out of the machine—no way whatsoever.

  10.

  The Hellfire Club

  The door to the print shop burst open with such force that splinters from it struck Ben ten paces away. He yelped and staggered away as a black cloud flowed through the door. He lost his voice entirely as its pulsing heart of flame entered, floating some seven feet off the ground. Beneath the flame strode Trevor Bracewell, a nasty smile on his face.

  “I told you, Ben,” he said. “I did warn you, didn't I?” He raised a hand that seemed grotesquely misshapen until Ben realized it held a pistol made of a metal so black it appeared to be a rift in the air. Still smiling, he pointed it at Ben's heart.

  Ben awoke clutching at his chest; beneath his clawing hand his heart beat unnaturally.

  “Oh, God,” he gasped, sitting up. “God!”

  He stumbled down the stairs, away from the darkness of his room. In the print shop, he unshuttered the lantern and let the buttery light envelop him, hoping it would drive the nightmare back into the cobwebs of his brain.

  Unfortunately, it refused to go. It had been a dream unlike any other dream; other dreams were confused, and though they might frighten or excite, it was rarely clear upon waking why they should do so. This dream had been knife-keen, paintingbright. It left no doubts, was confused in nothing. Had John's dream been like this? It had sounded so; more fantastical, perhaps, but not less real.

  He moved to the tables, searching frantically for something to do. There stood the aetherschreiber, but he felt a sudden horror at the very thought of touching it. He wondered if that horror had been laid upon him in the dream—another spell, an other thing he was forbidden.

  What if it was? He would deal with that in time.

  Tiptoeing back up to his room, he took from the book where he had left it the latest letter from “Silence Dogood.” Returning downstairs, he began setting it into type. Now and then he glanced apprehensively at the door, fearing it would burst inward.

  Had he dreamt of Bracewell because he and John had spoken of him the day before? But not a day had passed when he hadn't thought of Bracewell and his strange cloud.
It couldn't have been triggered by anything scientific—he had not even used the aetherschreiber that day, much less experimented with any novel devices.

  Had Bracewell somehow known that they'd spoken of him and sent the dream to him? The thought sickened him. That thing had come into his head once; could it do so at will? By God, was it always with him? Could Bracewell kill him in a dream, or only threaten him? Ben fumbled another word into place, placed spacing blanks between. He realized that he had already concluded what John had; that his nightmare was of unnatural origin.

  But why now, when it had been so long since he had seen Bracewell? And how could this damned witch know that he had modified the aetherschreiber?

  Witch. He flinched at the word, but it seemed somehow more appropriate for Bracewell than scientific philosopher. Aetherschreibers, lanterns—even such terrible weapons of war as the French fervefactum—all were things of the daylight, the explicable. Bracewell's sorcery was of night, terror; it was illogical, inexplicable.

  How could he fight it?

  The best answer, he knew, was not to fight it at all. He should flee Boston, perhaps even flee the Americas. He closed his eyes, thinking furiously. He could borrow the sailboat again—Mr. Dare had said he might use it whenever he wished. He could make for New York, and from there book passage to England, find Sir Isaac Newton or some other powerful British philosopher, ask him to help. Of course, he had no money, but he could earn passage on a ship by working, as one of his brothers had. It was done every day …

  The front door creaked open suddenly, and Ben's heart climbed mouthward. He could only stare in horror as the portal swung wider.

  But it was James, not some necromantic cloud, who stood framed against the gently illumined street.

  “Ben?” James asked, his tone puzzled. “What's wrong, boy?” He chuckled. “By your expression, I would say you were up to no good and I caught you at it. But here you are setting type, and I told you that you might go to bed early.”

  Ben heard his voice rise unsteadily as he answered. “I couldn't … couldn't sleep,” he said.