“Crecy, you warned me—”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Crecy replied, and with that walked toward the duke’s tent carefully, as if on a tightrope. Adrienne watched her go, wondering if she should try to stop her—but how could one stop Crecy, once her mind was set?
Instead, she turned her attention to the stars. The Milky Way was just visible, obscured not by clouds but by the burnished brilliance of the rising moon. Saturn was an unflickering light halfway up the horizon. She was wondering if she could use the djinni to bring her reports of such heavenly bodies, when a quiet cough interrupted her. She turned to find Hercule d’Argenson.
“Am I intruding, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Not at all. I was admiring the stars, that is all.”
“As they admire you, no doubt.”
She smiled. “You are in a fine humor tonight.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?”
“You do not worry, like the chaplain, that I might be some sort of witch?”
“I know for a fact that you are a witch.” He stepped toward her. “For you have long since bewitched me.”
She closed the yard separating them, feeling suddenly very bold, challenging him with her uptilted chin. “Your talk is very fine, sir,” she said. “Your mouth has a very pleasing way with words. I wonder—can you put those lips to some other use, or are they good only for drenching the ear with honey?”
His eyes widened. “Mademoiselle, I—”
“No, Monsieur, you cannot address my question with more words. I demand empirical proof or none at all.”
He shut his mouth, then, and reached the back of his knuckles over to touch her cheek. A small, triumphant smile on his face, he gently parted her lips with his finger.
He tasted of brandy and smoke, and the warmth of his mouth was shocking. She knotted her fingers in his steinkirk and pulled him closer, and he crushed against her, hands stroking goose bumps down her back. He painted breath across her cheek, to the hollow of her neck, buried there and planted fire, so that finally she gasped, the heat dribbling into her belly and along the face of her thighs.
“Your tent” she said. “It is empty?”
“Save of air, milady.”
“Take me there, then,” she whispered.
“Are you certain?”
“Take me there.”
Amongst his sheets, she nearly laughed, for he was, it seemed, a man with much experience, finesse, and technique—certainly he was more proficient than any lover she had ever had—and yet he had nearly broken his leg trying to undo his breeches. At last she understood Crecy’s joy in lovemaking, in seeing a strong man become endearingly weak. Lying with Louis had been a chore, a repugnant, dirty thing. With Nicolas, it had been a meeting of hearts through the medium of flesh, an act of love. She did not love Hercule, but he gave her something she had never had: simple pleasure, true enjoyment. When they were done, and he fell into languid sleep, she patted his brow, dressed, and went back out to regard the stars, grinning foolishly. She walked in circles around the camp, happy and alone.
In time, she grew tired and made her way back to her own tent, and to her surprise, found Nicolas there, as if awaiting her. “Did you slip from your nurse, Nico?” she asked, stroking his head. He laughed, a funny little laugh, and for a moment she thought he said something—a silvery trickle of nonsense that yet sounded like—something. She was just gathering him into her arms when suspicion swept through her like a chill wind. With a little snarl, she opened the eyes of her fingers and swept its gaze through the aether, not knowing for sure what she was searching for. Crecy’s story came back to her, of the childhood voices that raised her up, of the changeling process by which she was formed. Was this happening to Nico? For the love of God, if so, for how long?
But the aether was quiet—as quiet as it could be, filled with its strange choruses and plainsong. Nevertheless, she called one of the djinn to her.
“Mistress?” it hummed.
“Watch him,” she said. “Watch my son, and let no power touch him. Do you understand? Alert me should any sympathy develop between him and any of your kind.”
“Yes, mistress,” the creature intoned.
“Good,” she said. “Good.”
Feeling a bit better, she stroked her son’s head. Children, after all, were strange without the aid of unseen intervention. Nico giggled again at her touch, and then pointed at the moon, now risen higher, and she said. “Yes, my sweet. You have not seen her much, la lune.”
“Lalooon,” Nico repeated, crooning the vowel.
“Nico!” she said. “You’ve said a word!”
“Laloooon!” he crowed again.
“What a smart boy!” she said. “Your first word!” She felt suddenly very proud, very much in love with this little creature of hers, and she gathered him up, sang him a lullaby about the moon, over and over, until he fell asleep, and then she took him into the tent, crawled into her blankets, and joined him in untroubled slumber.
13.
The Black Tower
Ben tensed at the approaching footsteps, laying his hand on the cold, brass grip of his sword. When he realized what he had done he sighed and withdrew his fingers from the hilt. After all, if it was someone he really needed the sword against, he was done for anyway. In fact, he wished now that he had left the weapon behind. The mere fact that he was armed might scare some would-be attackers, but cannier ones would only take it as a sign that they had best creep up behind him or shoot him from a distance.
He could see the person below him now, a woman as he had hoped, cloaked against the night. He waited a moment longer, trying to perceive whether she was alone, whether she had been followed. After a few moments, with no sign of anyone else, he called softly down.
“Lenka.”
The hood turned up to him and revealed Lenka’s face, as he had seen it last, pale in the moonglow.
“Benjamin?” she hissed.
“Yes. Thank you for coming.”
“I shouldn’t have. If I am ever found out—”
“You won’t be, I swear. Even if they catch and torture me.” He paused, then slithered forward on the tile roof until his head and shoulders hung above her. “Did you bring it?”
“Yes. I only pray that ’tis the right one.”
“Toss it up.”
“You didn’t keep our appointment,” she said.
“I am indeed sorry, lady, but I was indisposed.”
“They say you tried to assassinate the emperor.”
“Oh, indeed,” Ben replied sarcastically. “Wait a moment.”
He swung around on the roof until his legs dangled over and then inched back, teasing gravity before giving himself to it and rushing to the inflexible stone below.
“Such strange rats scurry about these parts of Old Town,” Lenka remarked, as he winced, stood, and brushed at his suit.
“Yes. That’s all I’ve been doing, scurrying.” The crescent moon stood straight above, making shadow of her face, but he thought he saw a puckish smile on it. “Do you believe them?”
She shrugged. “No, but neither do I care. Are you hurt?”
“Not as I’ve noticed. I was lucky.” He looked slowly around once more, as much to avoid her gaze as to search for possible threats, and added, “I’ve heard others were not so lucky.”
She nodded and spoke more seriously. “Anna, near Newton’s rooms, and Mila, near the Black Tower.”
Ben started. “The Black Tower? Not the Mathematical?”
“You know what it is, don’t you? The thing.”
“I tried to tell you the other night,” Ben replied, “but you were too stubborn. And I warned the others.”
“I know. Anna—she was angry. She and Stefan were sometimes lovers. She thought to see it and—well, I know not what, and neither did she, and so now she is dead.”
“Oh. But Mila—”
“Does not even work in the palace but elsewhere within the castle walls. She w
as passing the Black Tower. Were we in danger the other night?”
Ben had been only half listening. “Us? No. The book was in his rooms, then, and in any event we were in the wrong tower, it seems. The Black Tower, eh? Not the Mathematical?”
“Book?”
“Yes. There is a book, written in Hebrew. This thing that kills is searching for the book. Lenka, I must get into the tower, which means I must get into Sir Isaac’s rooms and borrow his key. You are certain that he is not in them?”
“He dines with the emperor tonight.”
“Good. I’ll put a stop to these killings, if all goes well. But if I don’t, if something happens to me—Lenka, I want you to leave the castle. Leave Prague.”
She snorted. “Such an easy thing to say, so impossible to do. I’ve no horse nor carriage nor money, and as a woman I’ll not be able to get those things save perhaps at the cost of my back—and still I’ll be hung if they catch me. Better that you just don’t get caught.”
“I’ll do my best, believe me. Here, let me see that.” He took the bundle she carried and unfolded it, and to his relief saw that it was his aegis. “Now if only it works,” he remarked, shucking off the cloak the rabbi had given him.
“Always getting undressed around me. You’d think you would learn a lesson.”
“Not me. I’m too scientific to learn anything practical.” He pulled his arms through the tight sleeves.
“Now, watch closely,” he whispered and slipped the key into his pocket.
Her gasp told him that if worked, as did the sudden variegated tint he could see out of the corners of his eyes. Satisfied, he removed the key.
“I’d heard about that,” she said, “but seeing it is another thing. I guessed that’s what I was bringing you.”
“And, again, I much thank you for it. I’m afraid I’ve no way to repay you at the moment.”
“Repay me by not getting me hanged,” she said. “And now what do you intend to do?”
“I intend to watch you walk safely away from here.”
“And then?” she pursued.
“And then I shall march through the front gate.”
“I could see—something—even while you were invisible.”
“At night, on higher calibration, there will be little to see. Besides, the guards are lax.”
Her head wagged from side to side. “Not now, they aren’t. Here is what I suggest; you follow me back to the castle, and there I will make some sort of distraction for the guards.”
Ben shook his head. “That’s too dangerous for you.”
“What is more dangerous is that you will be caught, and despite what you think, when tortured, you will tell all.”
Ben remembered Prince Eugène’s remarks about the Russian prisoner and torture, and reluctantly nodded.
“Besides,” she said, flashing a nervous smile, “there is still our bargain. I will accompany you into Sir Isaac’s secret laboratory.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes. It was our bargain.”
“Things are very different now.”
“Not so different,” she replied sweetly. “It is still I who have the key.”
He considered that and sighed. “How will you distract them?” he asked.
“Clever,” he whispered to the prismatic blur that was Lenka, as they left the guards at the front gate behind them. “Is it safe for me to weaken the aegis?”
“Yes. There is no one in the second courtyard.”
His vision cleared enough for him to see that Lenka wore a triumphant smile.
“Clever, you say? I would rather avow that men are such buffoons that the simplest artifice works on them.”
“Most men don’t expect a glimpse of thigh from a woman strolling up to the castle,” Ben replied. Lenka had torn her skirts and feigned distress, claiming that some boys had set upon her and then let her go when she’d screamed. Though unable to see well enough to read the expressions of the guards, Ben had heard clearly enough in their voices that—despite their expressions of concern—they had been more grateful that the “boys” had made off with a fair section of Lenka’s skirts than that she was otherwise unscathed. Indeed with the aegis turned down, he found himself distracted by the bit of stocking and bare skin flashing beneath the borrowed cloak.
“It also diverted them from asking what business I had outside the castle this time of night. It seems that all men do not share your ill opinion of my appearance.”
“Pfah. As you said, men are imbeciles. Show them a little flesh, and all their standards drop.”
“I see. Well, thank you for making that clear, Mr. Franklin. I and my key shall now take our leave of you, and a good night to you, sir.”
“What did I say?” Ben asked. “You must have misunderstood me. I meant to say that even the smallest glimpse of Venus robs men of their wits.”
“That sounds more convincing,” Lenka decided. “Now, quiet. Some people ahead.”
Robbed of banter, Lenka’s nervousness became a little more apparent—as did his own—but the courtiers making their way through the yard did not even notice Lenka, much less himself. He reflected that servants had scant need of an aegis to be invisible.
Save to other servants, such as the guards, he reminded himself, for as they approached those flanking the entrance to the palace, they greeted her—though they did not challenge. Doubtless straining for a glimpse of thigh, they too saw him not at all.
In the hall, Ben never let his gaze rest, sweeping here and there, searching for the smallest sign of the Golem, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the wavering of the air near Newton’s door was gone as well. More evidence that the book had been removed, likely to the Black Tower, along with everything else.
No one was near when Lenka opened the door and they both stepped through.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Ben detached the aegis key and strode hurriedly across the anteroom to the study.
“You know where he keeps it?” Lenka asked.
“Of course. It’s been a long while that I’ve had my eye on this.” He found the little wooden coffer and flipped back the lid, and there it lay, a Pythagorean key, a sliver of metal-bound crystal.
“There, now.” He sighed. He turned to Lenka and bowed. “Excellently done, and my highest regards. And now, see if you can find the book, a slim little thing, just so in size.” He showed her with his hands.
A thorough search of the study turned up no sign of The Sepher, which did not surprise Ben in the least. Nor did he find any notebooks; all, it seemed, had been removed.
“Well.” He sighed. “Again, thank you. I’m now off to the Black Tower.”
“As am I,” Lenka informed him.
“No. Your shapely leg will not get us past the tower guard.”
“There is no guard at the Black Tower,” she replied smartly.
“No, but there will be guards about—at the Lobkovic Palace, for instance, which if I remember correctly is just next to the tower. Besides, now you have no key to hold ransom.”
“Doesn’t Sir Isaac have such a garment as yours?”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “A jade after my own heart,” he muttered. “But remember that you asked me to keep you from the hangman’s noose. Letting you walk into the tower with me might do harm to that cause.”
Her lips tightened a bit. “I want to go with you. There is something in the tower that I wish to see as well.”
“We haven’t time to argue about this,” Ben hissed.
“Good. Then stop arguing.”
“Rot you, Lenka …”
She started suddenly across the room, headed for Newton’s wardrobe. “Never mind. I’ll find it myself.”
Ben threw up his hands. “Cease,” he grunted. “I’ll show you.”
And a quarter of an hour later they opened their second lock, this one on the heavy iron portal of the Black Tower.
The Black Tower was smaller, tighter, and altogether more square than the Mathematical To
wer, where Newton’s primary laboratory was. What did he work with here, that he should want to keep it separate from the rest, and secret from Ben?
A strong sense of déjà vu gripped Ben as he stepped through the doorway. Almost, he could have been in London, more than two years ago, entering Sir Isaac’s study. Three heavy tables were every inch covered with philosophic equipment, notebooks, powders, colored liquids, and tools. In the center of the chamber mounted a pyramidal platform, like the one in London—as before, crowned with a scintillating sphere. Now he regarded all with more learned eyes, however, and knew the reddish luminescence within the globe for what it was—a captive malakus.
But as he moved amongst the tables, he saw that Sir Isaac had not merely re-created his old haunt; there were new things here. The dissected bodies of animals, ambient in glass jars of yellowish liquor. Human parts—arms, legs, a head—treated in the same manner, muscle laid open to the bone. Near each of these receptacles were sketches of the offended flesh, diagrammed in Newton’s cryptic hand. Only vaguely did he notice that Lenka, seemingly unawed by it all, had found a crammed bookshelf and was pushing her way through the books.
He knew he should hurry, but like a boy in an old tale stumbling upon the ogre’s treasure, he was transfixed. Where to begin?
Along with the dissections and their drawings were strange models: armatures of steel, articulated like bones, muscled with some azure claylike substance, tough and springy to the touch. Some aped the limbs of the once-living specimens, but others bore more resemblance to the legs of insects. In one place sat an aetherschreiber, but without the customary clockwork to drive the arm, having instead more of the bluish integument.
Most strange of all was the corpus.
Not a corpse—for it was neither a human being nor anything that had ever lived—but a corpus, a body. Like the smaller devices on the tables, this thing was made of steel, brass, and the muscle-mimicking substance. Its head was a heavy glass globe, more or less featureless save for a faint spectral sheen. Hesitantly, he tapped it, and was rewarded with what seemed to be a sluggish fluid motion inside, and the imprint of his finger left behind on the sphere as silvery stain, fading slowly.
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