The Shadows of God

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “If you want.”

  “I don't. I'd rather have you awake, to answer a few questions. Exactly what were you after by kidnapping me— again?”

  “To work on the countermeasure. But not here. Somewhere safe.”

  “Why don't you think New Paris is safe?”

  She smiled faintly. “Because several thousand men and several tens of airships are on their way here, along with the dark engines themselves. I doubt very much that we can devise our countermeasure before they arrive. I also doubted that I could persuade you, though you must admit I did try.”

  “To my eye you were doing a fine job,” Lenka said. “You were a fool to use your pin so early. Another moment would have persuaded him.”

  “Lenka, that isn't true,” Franklin said.

  “How would you know, Benjamin? Women always bring every bit of the fool in you to the surface, like sap rising in a tree.”

  “If you don't mind my opinion,” Vasilisa said, “he was not foolish at all when he chose you.”

  “No, but he's damn foolish in how he treats me,” Lenka snapped.

  “Lenka, how did you ever persuade Don Pedro to let you travel as one of his men?”

  “I told him that it was either that or I would follow on my own. Don Pedro is too gallant to allow something like that— besides which he has that Indian respect for women, something you might learn.”

  “And Voltaire knew about this, I suppose. All of you conspired against me?”

  “Benjamin Franklin, you will not remonstrate with me— not after I find you in the arms of another woman and still bother to save your life.” Her face was bright red beneath the mustache and beard.

  “Lenka—”

  “Hush,” she snapped. “I don't see why I bothered.”

  With that she stalked off. Franklin rose to follow her but then saw Vasilisa rising to make her escape. He dithered for an instant. “Wait, Vasilisa. Stop there.”

  “Will you have me arrested, Benjamin?”

  “Arrested? I ought to kill you.”

  “But you won't.”

  “No. How did you plan to escape with me?”

  “I have an airship.”

  “A winged one or the other sort?”

  “Winged. I no longer trust ships that rely entirely on malakim. They are … unreliable. Have me arrested, Benjamin, and I will be no help to you. We can still escape. Take your little firebrand, there, if you wish, but if you want to truly win this battle, we must leave.”

  Franklin stared at her for a long moment. “I won't, not after all I've done to bring this alliance together. I won't, and you aren't going either. We will work out our countermeasures here, or we will die. Both of us. All of us. Do you understand?”

  “This is foolish. Even if the countermeasures work, there is still an army that dwarfs any you might raise.”

  “Tell me where your airship is.”

  “I don't think I will.”

  “Then I will have you arrested, and you can be sitting in a cell when the barbarians reach the gates. Or you can be free, helping me do the best I can. Your choice, milady.”

  Vasilisa studied him for a moment more, then shrugged her shoulders. “As you wish. My life is borrowed as it is, I suppose. Perhaps it's time to give it back.” She raised her chin. “However, when the army does reach this place, do remember I tried, won't you? I don't want your last thoughts of me to be uncharitable.”

  “Good. Let's go find some of my rangers to watch you, shall we? I have other things to do right now.”

  He handed Vasilisa over to McPherson with some stern cautions, then went in search of Lenka. He bumped into Voltaire in the hallway.

  “You, damn you!” Franklin snapped. “I ought to straighten my fist in your face.”

  “Will you give me a cause, first?”

  “You didn't tell me about Lenka.”

  “Ah. But surely you understand she made me take an oath—and that I never break an oath to a lady.”

  “How could you have— Good God, she was there when the Coweta were trying to makes riddles of us! How could you have let her ride into such danger?”

  “Benjamin, Fort Moore fell and lost half of its troop complement, as did Fort Montgomery. Where do you suppose she would have been safe?”

  Franklin had no answer to that, but he tried furiously to find one. Voltaire didn't give him much time, though. “Was it really her safety that was uppermost in your mind, Ben? You talked little enough about her on the journey. Maybe a few years of marriage have begun to feel constraining? Maybe you half hoped you might have some rendezvous with a comely Indian lass or a Frenchwoman? Be honest.”

  Ben's jaw dropped. “By God, Voltaire. You don't have designs on my wife, do you?”

  “Someone ought to. You don't seem to have any. And she's a most remarkable woman.” He cocked his head. “Caught you doing something foolish with Vasilisa, didn't she?”

  “None of your damn business. What did the two of you do on the ride? Now that I think of it, you had a way of disappearing at night.”

  “Talked. About you, mostly, you great idiot. She tried to paint you in a good light, but the truth is, I wonder how she puts up with you. And I'll tell you this—you don't deserve her. Maybe she won't put up with you much longer.”

  “And then she'll be yours, I suppose?”

  “A man could do worse. But no, Benjamin, I have more honor than that. And if you wish to question the status of my honor, we shall provide more entertainment like tonight's for the court, you and me.”

  Franklin was about to reply when someone coughed behind them. He spun angrily to see who was eavesdropping.

  It was McPherson. “What do you want?” Franklin snapped. “Were you in on this, too?”

  McPherson's eyes tightened. “I dunno what th’ hell y'r rattlin’ about, but keep it off me,” he said. “A visitor has just arrived I thought you might want to see, is all. The king wants you t'see ‘im, too.”

  “Nairne? Oglethorpe?”

  “The tsar of Muscovy.”

  “Mr. McPherson, I'll own I was rude to you just now. I apologize. But if I can't get a straight answer from you—” McPherson suddenly grinned. “The tsar of Muscovy,” he repeated, then left, laughing softly.

  The tsar was a tall man who seemed uncomfortable with the fact; his shoulders hunched enough to take off several inches. He wore a torn and faded green coat of European cut but a shirt, leggings, and shoes of Indian design. His ragged beard and hair were dark, shot liberally with gray; his eyes black and fierce; his face overlaid by an anger that seemed habitual.

  He paced like a bear in a cage. That made a certain amount of sense—he was in a cage, along with two other men. It was one of these who captured most of Franklin's attention.

  “Tug?”

  The big man looked up and squinted.

  “Mr. Franklin?”

  “Tug, what's going on here?”

  “Damn if I know. We ride up to the town an’ they throw us in jail right away.”

  “No, I mean—” He looked over at d'Artaguiette, who stood by, watching the exchange.

  “This man is a friend of mine. I can vouch for him. Would you let him out?”

  “He broke the nose of a musketeer, Monsieur.”

  “Naturally. They arrested him, yes?” He stepped closer and whispered to the minister.

  “He is who he says he is—the other? The tsar of Muscovy?”

  D'Artaguiette nodded almost imperceptibly. “The tsar once visited the French court, where he met my lord when he was still the duke of Orléans. He is unmistakable, even with the beard.”

  “Then you should let me talk to Tug, alone.”

  “And the Indian?”

  Franklin looked again. It wasn't Red Shoes. “I don't know him. Just Tug, for the moment.”

  The tsar was staring at them. His face twitched like a madman's.

  “Very well,” d'Artaguiette replied. “So long as I can be present.”

  “I would no
t have it otherwise.”

  “An incredible story,” d'Artaguiette remarked about two hours later.

  Tug nodded, his eyes red from the amount of brandy he had consumed. “I should o’ stuck t’ the sea. Damn Red Shoes, anyway.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” Franklin asked.

  Tug hesitated. “He talked once er twice about them spirits he deals with. Said if he got in a fight with one, it might eat ‘im up from inside if it won. I figure that's what happened.” To Franklin's surprise, a small tear appeared in the tough sailor's eye. “He was a damn good fellah, Red Shoes. No man ever had a better friend, for all he was an In'yun. But that fellah I saw in Flint Shouting's village—he weren't Red Shoes. He were somethin’ else, an’ somethin’ awful.” He looked down at his feet. “I broke my promise,” he murmured.

  “What promise?”

  “Promised ‘im I'd kill ‘im if he came to this. But I was afraid, an’ he seemed to think it important that we bring this tsar fellah here.”

  “And the tsar? You think he's square?”

  Tug nodded. “Yes. He reminds me o’ Blackbeard—a little mean-crazy, if you know what I'm sayin'. But he did his part and listened to us when we knew better'n him.”

  “What does he want?”

  Tug grunted. “Revenge. He keeps talkin’ about all the heads he wants to see rollin'.”

  “You trust him, Tug?”

  The big man swallowed another huge gulp of brandy. “I don't trust nobody anymore. I never did trust kings. But this man hain't playactin', if that's what you mean. Old Tug's not too smart, but he's smart enough to know that kings don't go wandering through the deserts and gettin’ shot at by their own men just for the sake of intriguing.”

  “I agree. My question is when exactly—I mean, do you think he set out with this army and was then betrayed, or do you believe his story that he knew nothing about it?”

  Tug fiddled with his cup. “Don't know,” he said. “But his ship was way out ahead of the army. They sent a fast party to find him and bring him back. That army moves slow.”

  “Where do you reckon it to be now?”

  “A week or two behind us, dependin’ how hard a time they had crossin’ the river. They have them airships, but way too many to load everybody up on.”

  “We've heard someone is fighting them.”

  “I don't know anythin’ about that. If they are, I pity ‘em.”

  “Thanks, Tug.” Franklin looked over at d'Artaguiette, who seemed to have followed most of the exchange. “Does he have to go back to his cell?”

  “Not if you give me your word he'll be watched.”

  “You have it.”

  “You oughter let Flint Shouting go, too. He's a good sort. Got us through alive, got us here, even after Red Shoes killed all his people.”

  “Give me a little longer to think about that,” d'Artaguiette replied. He nodded at Tug. “The boy outside will find you quarters near Mr. Franklin and some new clothes.”

  “Thanks.”

  They watched a servant lead the big man off.

  “What do you think?” d'Artaguiette asked.

  “I think the tsar would make a good partner, if this story is true. He would know a lot about this army, and how we might stop it.”

  “We could get that by torture.”

  “Maybe. But—”

  “The problem, you see, is that the Russians are the ones who took our homeland. Whether or not Tsar Peter is responsible for our current troubles, he was certainly responsible for that. The sentiment is to execute him.”

  “Execute a king? Wouldn't that set a bad example?”

  “Have a care, Mr. Franklin. Remember where you are.”

  “My apologies.”

  “Another thing. You had the Russian woman detained. Putting aside the fact that you have no authority to do that without my lord's say-so, I am suspicious because this happened so near the time her tsar arrives. Can you enlighten me in this matter?”

  Franklin looked the minister in the eye. “I was going to come to you—there hasn't been time. Madam Karevna is an old acquaintance of mine. She attempted to drug and abduct me. That this happened as the tsar was being arrested might be a coincidence, or it might be that she got wind of his capture and decided to act before he said something to ruin her welcome here. She claimed to be his envoy, yes?”

  “She did.”

  “Have you asked him about her?”

  “We have not. But we have taken her from your custody and placed her in ours. More comfortable quarters than the tsar has, of course, but we wish to question them separately, to see how well their stories agree.”

  “Good idea.”

  The minister smiled indulgently. “Thank you. I do have some small experience in these matters.”

  Franklin hesitated for an instant. “It would not be wise to treat her too roughly. We need her cooperation. She knows the secrets of many of the Russian weapons, the countermeasures that might defeat them.”

  D'Artaguiette shrugged. “Very well. Though I have no great hope of any victory. Nor, I think, do you.”

  “Then why did you make that fine speech?”

  “Because I meant it. I thought in allying with the English Pretender I would save these pitiful remains of France. You showed me that I was wrong, for which I am indebted to you. Nothing can save us. But my king, at last, is moved to do something. If one must die—and we all must, yes?—then it should be done grandly, in good style. And so I will pretend, with you, that we might survive to see another year.”

  Franklin smiled. “You misread me. I do speak with confidence I do not have, but I have no wish to die grandly. I'm simpler than that. I want to die in bed, when I am very old. Comfortably. I do think we can win this fight, d'Artaguiette.” And for the first time, he realized that it was true. He did believe it.

  D'Artaguiette shrugged again. “Good for you,” he replied.

  “Will the king speak to the tsar?”

  “He will. Would you care to be present?”

  “Very much. Would you mind a bit of advice?”

  “No.”

  “Clean him up first. Let him shave and bathe.”

  D'Artaguiette looked surprised. “My impression of you is that you have little regard for the niceties of royal prerogative.”

  “Your impression is correct. But treat him well, and, if you want him as an ally, you will have made a good start. And if you do not, his head will come off the easier without that beard.”

  D'Artaguiette actually chuckled. “A good thought. You have read Machiavelli, I wonder?”

  “I haven't. I try to rely on good sense rather than dead men. After all, they are dead, which shows they were perhaps not so bright after all.”

  The tsar looked no less fierce shaved, cleaned, and dressed up. He should have looked silly in his too-short knee breeches—no clothing at court was available for someone of his stature. But somehow he didn't.

  He gripped a cup of brandy in one hand and brought it to his lips often.

  “Majesty,” Franklin said, bowing to Philippe, who occupied an armchair—the only furniture in the small, dark salon. D'Artaguiette and four musketeers—and now Franklin— completed the party.

  “Mr. Benjamin Franklin,” d'Artaguiette announced.

  The tsar swayed toward Franklin, his eyes narrowing.

  “So, you are Mr. Franklin.” His French had a thick sound to it. He stuck out his hand.

  “I am.” Remembering Venice, Franklin felt a sudden, unexpected loathing. He ignored the hand.

  The tsar was faster than he looked. The back of his fist snapped Franklin's head and sent him reeling against the wall. He tasted blood, and one of his teeth felt loose.

  Franklin bounced back to his feet and launched himself at the tsar, both fists swinging. He landed a solid punch on the monarch's jaw before the musketeers grabbed him from behind and yanked his arms painfully into the small of his back.

  For an instant, he thought the Russia
n would strike him again, while the soldiers held him helpless. The tsar raised his hand as if to do so —then carried it up to his jaw, rubbing it ruefully.

  “Let him go,” the tsar said. “Let him go.”

  The musketeers didn't comply until Philippe repeated the order.

  The tsar retrieved his cup, which he had dropped during his fit of rage. A Negro servant entered the room and filled it with brandy. He drank it down and held the cup out to be filled again. He kept his eyes fixed on Franklin the whole while.

  “Mr. Franklin,” he rumbled, “I am very tired. I have ridden for many, many miles. More, I think, than you. I have been betrayed, held captive, tortured, shot at, beset by demons. I have lost my wife and my country. I offered you my hand— you, who caused me defeat at Venice. Yes, of course, I know it was you. I did have spies of some worth, once upon a time.” He stuck his hand back out. “I offer it again. Will you take it?”

  Franklin hesitated, then clasped the tsar's palm.

  “I say this once,” the tsar told them, “once only. This war is not my doing.”

  “So we are given to understand,” Philippe said from his armchair, “but this is not your first war.”

  “When I am returned to my rightful throne, France is yours again, every inch of it. So I swear.”

  “There are other reparations.”

  “I will make them, inasmuch as I can—if my own country is not ruined by this idiotic affair.”

  The French king nodded thoughtfully. “We shall see. Given our current situation, however, I could say that your throne might as well be on the Moon, and any recompense that might come from that throne about as useful. What can you do for us now?”

  “I can offer you what I know about the weapons and size of the army. I can offer my expertise as a general, which has been tested on more than one occasion.”

  “To be frank, I will not trust you to command men.”

  “I did not expect you to. Give me a gun and a sword, then, and put me on a horse. I will kill a few of them for you, at least.”

  “Kill your own countrymen?”

  The tsar's smile was bloodless. “Men who turn on their king have no country but treachery—something you ought to appreciate.”

  Philippe's eyes shifted briefly to d'Artaguiette. “Some treachery is pardonable. Will any of this army follow you if they see you are alive?”