Wandering into a room, he saw his mistake, for amongst the cobwebs and tendrils dangling from the roof, dozens of metallic orbs spun lazily, suspended in air. In the center was one that radiated a dim light—that one was the sun, of course. He named the rest beneath his breath: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars—all the planets there, and amongst them, like airborne marbles, the moons and comets.
No antediluvian ruin, this. This was the orrery room at Crane Court in London, where he had become a Newtonian, where once this model of the solar system had been a tool for refining natural law. He gazed about with mingled horror and sadness.
Perhaps in response to that thought, something in the depths of the building stirred and scratched, something whispered his name, and he recalled that more than architecture had died at Crane Court.
He fled outside, recognizing other ruins—the coffeehouse where he had met his first lover, the Tower of London, the dome of Saint Paul’s. The Grecian Coffeehouse, where he had met Vasilisa, Maclaurin, Heath, Voltaire.
So it was a dream, for it was impossible that any stone of these buildings remained standing. But the terror was no less real, and he ran, beating at branches that grabbed him like bony fingers, murmuring indictments, as if every tree in this endless wood were one person whose death was his responsibility.
He ran, and he was running from Bracewell, he was running from the comet, every flight in his life twisted together, every cowardly motion he had ever made confounded. The faster he ran the denser the trees became.
At last another familiar house appeared, windows bright and inviting. It was his brother’s shop, back in Boston. He had run at last back whence he came. His fear gripped him like gravity.
Gritting his teeth, he worked the latch of the door.
There was James, grinning crookedly at him, the rusty stain still on his shirt. James, his brother, dead, beckoning him in.
Of course it was a dream.
“I never meant for it to happen, James,” he whispered, sure he was meant to say something. “I never knew he would kill you.” But ghosts knew, knew intentions didn’t matter so much as results. James’ eyes mocked him, and through his brother’s features, Ben suddenly saw their father, as in an imperfect looking glass. He shrank back even before James licked his cracked lips and began to speak.
“Among the many reigning Vices of the Town which may at any Time come under my Consideration and Reprehension, there is none which I am more inclin’d to expose than that of Pride.” James spoke the words glacially, sightless eyes fixed on Ben. His voice was familiar but strange—lacking breadth and character, human quality. And his words struck a sickening discord in Ben. They were familiar, too.
“It is acknowledg’d,” James continued, “to be a Vice the most hateful to God and Man. Even those who nourish it in themselves, hate to see it in others.”
James, please, Ben tried to say, but his tongue clove to the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. James spoke Ben’s own words—from one of the letters Ben had written as “Silence Dogood” for The New England Courant, James’ paper.
His brother blinked angrily and stood, finger stabbing outward like a pastor’s admonishing the congregation, voice rising. “The proud man aspires after Nothing less than an unlimited Superiority over his Fellow-Creatures. He has made himself a King in Soliloquy; fancies himself conquering the World; and the Inhabitants thereof consulting on proper Methods to acknowledge his Merit!”
His mocking tone boiled into fury, and Ben stood paralyzed as his brother suddenly lunged forward and slapped him, backhand, on the temple. He staggered against the wall, gagging as the sudden stench of rotting flesh filled his lungs. James stared at him, unchanged, save that the light had gone from his eyes, and with it all anger and passion. Slowly, his brother turned, went back to the press, and began to work. Ben stood there, shivering, for a time, and then he left, weeping dream tears.
Outside, it was now brighter. The trees had opened a space, so that it was as if he stood in a wide amphitheater, the night sky at last naked for him to behold.
The heavens were bright, but not from moon or star. Instead was a brilliance, the apparent size of a fist, smudging a streak of ash all across the sky.
* * *
Shivering, he awoke to terrible cold and a jabbing in his ribs.
“Waken, sweetheart,” someone roughly cajoled.
Ben squinted his eyes open. He lay on cold stone. Robert towered over him, face pale in the light of a small lanthorn, hard toe of his shoe nudging again into Ben’s ribs.
“What in God’s name do you want, Robin?” Ben snapped.
“Now there’s ’n ungrateful man,” Robert observed. “We save him from icy death an’ he only complains.”
“What?” Ben sat up, rubbing his eyes. Where was he?
It came back to him when he made out the gleam of brass and the chill, fuzzy blobs of stars above.
“Oh.” He grunted. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“What is this place?” a third voice asked. Ben glanced over to where Peter Frisk curiously examined a telescope.
“Good morning, Captain Frisk,” Ben managed, stretching his cold-cramped muscles. “This is the astronomical observatory of the Mathematical Tower.”
“I thought I’d begin here before starting with the boudoirs of the young ladies in Kleinseit,” Robert explained. “An’ a good thing. A girl might’ve kept you warm enough to live until found, unlike that thing.” He gestured at the telescope.
“Aye, and likely you would’ve become too distracted to carry on searching.” He rattled his head a bit. “I couldn’t have been asleep more than a few minutes,” he continued. “And I would’ve wakened in a few more.”
Robert shrugged. “As y’ wish. So the air is thin enough t’ see through this night?”
“No. Damned and thrice damned, no.” He flung an angry gaze at the stars. Which one was Prague’s doom?
“Y’r agitatin’ y’rself, Ben,” Robert observed.
Ben rubbed his arms. “I’m not just up here from idle curiosity, Robin,” he muttered. “ ’Tis happening again.”
Robert’s eyes widened, and his face went sober. “No.”
“Yes. The prisoner said so.”
“But how?”
Ben snorted. “That’s easily done. Stirling and Vasilisa survived. Probably the Frenchmen, too, whoever they were. Fools.”
“I don’t suppose you two would enlighten me as to what you are talking about?” Frisk put in.
“No offense, Mr. Frisk, but what brings you up here with Robert?”
“Oh. Well—”
“The emperor,” Robert interrupted, “decided that you needed another protector, and was well impressed with Captain Frisk.”
Ben eyed him, noting his bandaged shoulder. Of course he was grateful to Frisk, but didn’t the emperor have any damn sense at all? Despite having helped them against the Muscovites, Frisk might easily be a spy. He knew that there were few guards or soldiers to spare, but this stretched the boundaries of wit.
Or maybe one of the “old men” had done this to him, hoping that Frisk was a murderer of some sort.
“Well, Captain Frisk, it appears that your desire for employ has been fulfilled. What of your injury?”
“It was only a cut upon the flesh, no bones shattered, thanks be to God. And I am quite happy to be your guardian, sir.”
“I hope you shall remain happy when I delay explaining to you what Robert and I spoke of, for it will take some time to present to you.” He glanced around conspicuously. “Aside from that, doors and walls are fool’s paper.”
For an instant, Ben thought he saw a blaze of sheer indignation on the Swede’s features, but Frisk only nodded and said, “I am at your service, not you at mine.”
“Have you told Sir Isaac?” Robert asked.
“No. No, I came right up here …” He closed his eyes, seeing again the apparitions of his dream. “I had to do something, you see? Talking’s no good.” He si
ghed. “But no luck. This is a simple optical telescope. What I have need of is an affinascope, like the one we had at Crane Court.”
“Build one.”
“I don’t know how, and Sir Isaac left the plans in London. I’ve begged him for the secret, but he won’t be bothered with it. It isn’t what interests him now.”
“But sure, wi’ this new information—”
“Yes, well, we can hope, but he that lives on hope dies fasting. I will talk to him when he wakes, of course. How far the sunrise?”
“An hour. But Newton has already risen. He sent us out to find you.”
“Oh. For what purpose?”
“He wants you to fetch something for him,” Robert answered, handing him a scrap of paper.
“What’s this?”
“The description of the thing, I suppose. He gave me the address.”
“Wonderful.” Ben hesitated. “What humor was he in?”
“What do you expect? He thinks you out carousing.”
Ben nodded. “And damned if I shouldn’t have been. I did no good here.”
The ghost of James had hit the mark dead center. He was all about his pride and vanity. The truth was, Prague was better off without his supposed help.
“Let us get this thing,” he grunted, “after which I’ll buy you both a breakfast pint. Where gang we to, Robin?”
“Judenstadt.”
“ ’s’z it,” Robert said.
It was just a house, neither particularly large or small. Ben paused, realizing that he did not yet know exactly what it was he was after. He dug in his pocket and uncrumpled the note Robert had given him.
The Sepher Ha-Razim it said. A book of cabalistic formulae. Below, scribbled in an untidy hand, was the name of the same book in Hebrew characters.
Ben rolled his eyes. Another one of those books. Prague was one vast storehouse of occult books—he spent half his time lugging tomes from one part of town to another. Early on, most of these had been histories and chronologies of ancient kingdoms, but in the past several months, Newton had shifted his interest to cabalistic texts—most especially the rambling, obtuse Zohar. In consequence, Ben was having to learn Hebrew, though his lack of enthusiasm made progress slow.
Stepping up to the door, he rapped smartly on it.
Minutes passed. He knocked again. He was just coming to the unpleasant conclusion that the tenant was either not home or soundly asleep—something Newton would not be pleased at all to hear—when the door squeaked ajar.
Methuselah himself peered out at them. His eyes were almost buried in crinkled hollows, below which sharp cheekbones threatened to cut through the translucent parchment of skin stretched over them. A beard clung like some albino, alpine moss to the fissures of his lower face, depending stringily to his little round belly Wispy hair protruded likewise from beneath a small black cap, and a blue vein stood out like a ridge on his forehead. Ben was unable to tell if the man’s frown was one of puzzlement or irritation—or if in fact it was a frown at all, and not the natural creases of his face.
“It is early,” said Methuselah, his voice quavering. “I was finishing my prayers.”
“I beg your pardon, mister—” Ben stopped, realizing that he did not know the fellow’s name. Hiding his embarrassment, he started again. “My name is Benjamin Franklin, a pupil of Sir Isaac Newton’s. My master sent me—”
“I know who you are.”
Ben stopped in surprise. “My master sent word ahead?”
“No. There are tales of you, Herr Zauberlehrling. You are the boy who wears the Garment of Adam.”
Ben blinked. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
Methuselah sighed heavily. “What have you come for?”
Ben brightened. “Then you have had word.”
The beard wagged back and forth. “No again. Young Christian boys do not venture into Judenstadt to pester old men unless they have been sent for something.”
“I see. Well, it is here …” He handed the paper to the old man, but the fellow made no move to take it.
“I haven’t my glasses on. Read it to me.”
“Um—The Sepher Ha-Razim. A book.”
Methuselah regarded him for a long moment, an enigmatic little smile on his face. The speechless gaze stretched so long that Ben wondered if he was going to answer. Uncomfortable with the silence, he asked, “I am embarrassed to say that I don’t know whom I am addressing, sir.”
“I never for an instant thought you did,” the man replied. “I am Rabbi Isaac ben Yeshua.” He pursed his lips. “I have no manners. Come in.”
“Now, sir, about the book.”
“Indeed. I have such a book, young sir, but I wonder what your master Newton would want with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I have read his work—or some of it, you see. I am an alchemist of sorts myself. This book is a silly thing, doubtless of no use to him.”
Ben shrugged. “I have long since ceased trying to guess what will interest my master. But I know that he has great regard and respect for the work of the Jewish sages. He believes that knowledge was most perfect among the ancient prophets.”
The rabbi looked a bit surprised. “This is so?”
“I assure you.”
Rabbi ben Yeshua nodded thoughtfully. “I still wonder if it would be wise for him to have this book. It is not a book for just anyone, I fear, but only for those who have long meditated upon the Talmud and perhaps the Zohar.”
“I know him to have read both of those.”
“I did not say read,” the rabbi emphasized. “I said meditate.”
Ben sighed. “Sir, had I my way, I would take your opinion. However, my master wants the book.”
“He may go wanting. I am not certain I can easily lay hands upon it.”
“Sir, I plead with you to discover it. My master’s request carries the weight of the emperor.”
“Request. I see. Request.” He frowned at the floor and then shrugged. “Very well. Wait for me here.”
He was gone a long while, which gave Ben ample time to congratulate himself on his acumen.
After a few more moments still, he began to worry—perhaps the rabbi had slipped out by some secret way—but then the old man returned, grunting with the weight of a massive tome beneath one arm. He handed it over to Ben only reluctantly.
“That is the book, yes?” Rabbi ben Yeshua asked.
Ben turned to the title page. It was, of course, in Hebrew. There on the far right was the first letter, samekh, which was like “s,” and that next one was pe, and then resh. No vowels, of course, but the word was probably Sepher. He could look at the paper again, but if he did that—or spent any longer trying to puzzle it from memory—he would only be admitting his ignorance to the old man.
No point in seeming ignorant. Ben smiled, passing the cumbersome volume to Robert, and held out his hand to the rabbi. “I thank you, sir, and my master thanks you.”
“You will return it?”
“Of course, sir.” He turned to go, and then turned back curiously. “What did you mean, that I had been seen in the ‘Garment of Adam’?”
The rabbi lifted a bony finger. “When Adam was cast out from the garden, God gave him special garments that rendered him invisible and untouchable.”
“Oh. You mean the aegis.”
“Call it what you will. It is a stolen thing, not meant for you.”
“Stolen? I made it with my own hands.”
“You made it with knowledge, and knowledge can most assuredly be stolen.” His gaze seemed to rest on the book in Robert’s arms as he said this.
“Surely knowledge is meant to be discovered,” Ben countered. “Surely God is pleased that we come to understand his world, the better to appreciate it.”
The rabbi grinned. “Do you know who last mishandled the Garment of Adam?”
“No, sir.”
“From Adam they passed through the generations, finally coming to Nimrod. Nimrod used the
garment to make himself worshipped as a god, to raise up a tower against heaven. He was punished for it. Good day.”
* * *
“A nice bite y’ gave ’im,” Robert commented, as they settled down at a table in the Three Little Bears.
Ben thumped the book. “Whatever else Sir Isaac may say of me, he shall never say I failed in an errand.”
“It is a mystical book?” Frisk asked curiously.
“I suppose. I don’t know what Sepher Ha-Razim means exactly. Sepher means ‘book,’ I think.” He opened the volume and flipped through it, hoping to find an illustration or two to give him some clue to the tome’s nature. He saw a number of what seemed to be lists and possibly incantations, but no illustrations.
“Your pardon, Herr Franklin—”
“Please,” Ben said, “I own no title, nor desire one. It’s just plain ‘Ben.’ ”
“Ben here has a theory that the age of kings and lords is nearly over,” Robert explained.
Frisk’s eyes widened. “And how is that? If people are not to be governed by their kings, then by whom?”
“Why, by themselves, I should say.”
“You think that common folk are suited to govern themselves? I’m a soldier, and I say a soldier is worthless without a general.”
“A good example. How many of these court popinjays do you think knows as much of war as you?”
“Prince Eugène is a great soldier.”
“Name another.”
“Well, you have the advantage of me, Mr. Franklin. I am not yet well acquainted with this court.”
“Yes but—” Ben sighed. “There were able men in the days of the Bible, you agree? And yet you don’t find them going by ‘the right honorable Moses, esquire, marquis of the desert,’ do you? Or ‘Adam, the duke of Eden.’ They just went by name, for their deeds were their fame. If men were titled only by their merit, Prince Eugène would still be a great man. It’s not his sort I begrudge, but those human slugs who have no talent or use, yet I must bow to them.”
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