That hung pregnant for an instant, and Ben suddenly felt the balance around him. The debate hung in equilibrium between pride and common sense. Common sense told the Janissaries not to fight. Pride told them they should. Under normal circumstances, Ben would have advised them to keep council with their sense, but on the other hand, if Charles was forced to flee—or fight desperately and alone—Ben would never see Lenka or Newton’s notebooks again. They had to be convinced to stay and fight, and what’s more, that Newton was the key to winning.
And so, as the din dropped slightly, Ben spoke up, shouting as loudly as he could manage. “I know how to fight them! I know how they may be beaten!” The translator shouted his words more loudly, and suddenly the hubbub subsided to nearly nothing. All eyes were suddenly on him.
“Who is this boy?” someone shouted.
“He is the apprentice of the great sorcerer of Prague,” Charles shouted. “You ask who will fight the djinni, the sorcerers—he is the one!”
“Show us!” someone yelled. “Show us your wizardry!”
Deliberately, Ben reached beneath his robes. There, dirty, smelling of horse and human sweat, he wore his aegis. He slipped in the key and vanished.
Pandemonium.
After a moment he reappeared.
“A trick!” someone shouted. “What use such tricks?”
“I have many tricks!” Ben shouted. “Many ways to destroy the flying ships! I cannot tell them all here!”
“Now!” Charles shouted. “Now, you see? Now only cowardice can hold you from the glory of battle!”
It suddenly seemed as if everyone in the room went from merely mad to completely rabid. The meeting dissolved into a hundred eddying kicking fights.
A looming presence in the corner of Ben’s eye warned him to turn, and his vision was filled by a nastily grinning Blackbeard. At the same instant, a heavy boot smacked painfully into his shins. His legs buckled in shock, and the pirate kicked him again viciously. Too late, Ben angrily lashed back, but he had hardly recovered from his wound and frantic ride, and his attack was weak. The next kick from Teach sent him heavily to the floor, and then fierce blows rained on him from every direction.
Red Shoes was entirely baffled by the Divan. Riva had provided an English translator, but the man had a weak voice and could rarely be heard over the din. And, of course, he was situated nearer Mather than Red Shoes.
He didn’t really care; instead he watched the ebb and flow of the arguments. The blue-coated man that he’d been told was a king and one of the Turks stood together with Riva; other factions were evident by their spokesmen and by the chants of their constituents. It was unlike the councils he was used to, which were usually a little more deliberate, the participants speaking in order of rank and prestige.
He wondered who was the auburn-haired man Nairne was talking to, and the young isht ahollo that Blackbeard kept edging toward, the one who had somehow slipped himself into and out of hoshonti, a cloud of concealment such as certain legends spoke of. After that, his attention was riveted, the more so because he could make out no shadowchild nor spirit accompanying the young man, which made him powerful indeed.
What he did not anticipate—nor, apparently, did anyone else—was Blackbeard’s violent attack on the fellow, under cover of the general bedlam of the Divan. Nairne’s friend was the first to react, leaping forward and driving his fist straight to Blackbeard’s chin. He remembered that the use of fists was forbidden in the Divan as he watched Blackbeard stagger back. Nairne seemed to have kept the rule in mind, however, and was warding off blows from the nearby Turks kicking the disappearing man. Red Shoes, still uncertain of the situation, stepped in to help the dazed fellow to his feet.
In the meantime, bellowing, Blackbeard recovered and lurched toward the auburn-haired man, who held his ground before the huge pirate until the last instant, then nimbly danced aside, snapping a vicious kick at the pirate’s shin that sent him tumbling into the crowd. The surrounding Turks, fickle, began kicking Blackbeard as well. Blowing like a whale, Blackbeard thrashed among them, finally coming up with both fists knotted around a Turk’s neck.
That was when the armed men appeared, seemingly from nowhere. With halberds leveled at him from every direction, Blackbeard, growling, released the Turk. Glaring, Teach allowed himself to be led from the room. Riva whispered a few words to their translator, and the rest of them—Nairne, Mather, the sorcerer boy, the fellow who had punched Blackbeard, Bienville, and himself—were ushered through the throng and out of the room. Red Shoes helped Nairne’s friend to support the sorcerer boy, who, though conscious, did not seem able to walk.
As they departed Red Shoes felt something like a knife at his back and jerked his head about, ready to do battle. For a bare instant, he thought he saw wings, scales, glowing eyes—but then there was nothing, just Nairne and Mather and a hundred strange men.
Ben winced at the bright sunshine and pulled a painful breath. Robert supported him on one side, and a man who looked for all the world like an Indian on the other.
“Thanks,” he managed weakly, to both of them.
“I wonder what made Captain Teach treat you so,” said the man in the red coat.
“Blackbeard and I have met before,” Ben explained. “I was hoping he’d not recognize me, Mr.…”
“Nairne,” the fellow said. “Thomas Nairne.”
“Nairne?” Ben echoed.
“My uncle,” Robert clarified. “Are you well?”
Ben blinked through his astonishment. “I think so. Sore.”
“Uncle Thomas,” Robert said, “let me discover to you Benjamin Franklin of Boston.”
“Franklin?” Mather said. “Not a relative of Josiah, or the murdered James Franklin?”
“The son of the first and brother of the second.” Ben coughed. “You may not remember me, Reverend Mather, but it pleases me mightily to see you.” He paused trepidatiously, heart near his throat. “Do you know aught of my father?”
“Well enough. Mourning three sons, now. Son, it would please me terribly to hear your story.”
“And well would I love to exchange it for yours,” Ben replied, “which we will do if only Blackbeard doesn’t kill me. Where did they take him, anyhow?”
“For holding,” Hassim supplied. “He attack Janissaries with hands in Divan. Not a good thing. You can speak for later, if you wish.”
“Frankly,” Mather said, “I would be pleased to be rid of him, but we need him to control his men, I imagine. But more important, I wonder when the Divan will reach a decision?”
“Already decide,” Hassim said. “Janissaries fight.”
Ben grinned in triumph, but Mather’s next words sobered him.
“God help us all,” the reverend said, not a blasphemy, but an earnest prayer.
8.
Stratagems
Two hours later, as he and the others were led to an audience with Charles, Ben still felt light-headed. Not from the pummeling or earlier injuries, but from the revelations that the Americans had provided—most especially their description of what had once been London. He had known, of course, what the comet must have wrought, but to have it described in detail.… Even the wonderful news that his parents were alive did not balance that.
But it was settling out, bit by bit, and in his mind a plan was starting to form. It seemed, altogether, that the colonies—English or French—were safer than Europe, a smaller pond to swim in with fewer sharks and barracudas. A man with his talents might become someone of importance there, and not owe his livelihood and very life to the whims of thin-blooded monarchs.
Charles and the Janissary leaders had installed themselves in the beylerbey’s palace, which before him had belonged to the doge. It was imposing and beautiful, a baroque European lady in Turkish costume. As Ben and the Americans were ushered in, Charles stood up from behind a large table, at which were seated a dozen or so men. Ben recognized a few—Hassim’s father and Riva among them.
“Gentlemen,
” Charles called in German. Translators began speaking to the English and Frenchmen. “We have weighty matters to discuss, and battle plans to draw.”
The Frenchman named Bienville cleared his throat. “Your pardon, Majesty, but we have not yet agreed to aid you.”
Charles nodded. “I realize that, Monsieur. But it is true, yes, that should Venice become a sovereign regency, Louisiana would welcome our trade on good terms?”
“Of course. But. I, for one, remain unconvinced that you can triumph in this battle. If what we hear is true—”
“It is true, sir, but I assure you, I would not consider fighting unless we had a good chance of victory.”
Bienville laughed. “Your pardon, sir, but such is not your reputation. It is said that you would stand alone against an entire army with naught but a paring knife, were it the only way to confront the tsar.”
Charles pursed his lips. “Men have been given to exaggerate my deeds,” he said. “But be that as it may, if you would join us for the moment, I would be pleased.”
“I will join you,” Bienville said, “but if I remain unconvinced in two hours, I will raise sail.”
“We need you,” Charles said.
“We know that,” Bienville said. “What you must convince us of is that we need you.”
A man across the table rose. “Monsieur de Bienville,” he said, “peut-être que je peux vous aider, dans cette affaire.”
“Pardon?” Bienville replied. “Qui parle à moi?”
“My pardon,” Charles interrupted. “Sieur de Bienville, I introduce to you Louis de Rouvroy, the duke of Saint-Simon, governor of Naples and representative of His Majesty, the king of France.”
Bienville blinked, and then a slow smile crept across his face. “France does exist then? And has a monarch?”
“Sir,” Saint-Simon replied, “France is smothered by Muscovite hordes, but the Crown survives. It is imperative that our Italian and American possessions—and our Venetian friends—remain free of Russian rule. Thus my presence here, and my own appeal to you as a Frenchman.”
Bienville bowed. “I know you, sir, and we have even met once, you may remember, at Versailles. I would very much like to hear more of the state of our country.”
“And so you shall, Monsieur, and it will make your blood boil, I assure you.”
Charles smiled broadly, clearly pleased by Bienville’s reaction. “Captain Teach shall join us in a moment,” he said. “In the meantime—”
“Sir?” Ben interjected impatiently. “Your Majesty, may I have a brief word with you in private?”
“Of course,” Charles replied, frowning. “Pardon us, gentlemen.” He rose and guided Ben into an antechamber.
“I have you to thank for the decision,” Charles told him. “You swung opinion our way.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, ’twas my intention.”
“But now you must explain in detail,” Charles went on. “The leaders of the factions are all met. We convinced them with shouting; now we must convince them with more reasonable words. Especially, we must keep your friends in the ships here, for we will have need of them.” He frowned slightly. “You do know how to defeat these flying ships?”
“Of course I do,” Ben lied. “But I will see Newton before I publish it to you.”
Charles’ eyes grew colder. “What?” he said slowly.
“Majesty, I believe I was clear.”
“Are you blackmailing me? We must speak to these men now, explain your magical solution now. You can go see Newton immediately after.”
Ben pursed his lips and decided to modify himself a bit. “Sir, I must needs obtain something from Newton to be convincing. Feed them dinner, give them wine. Persuade them in other ways, and I will return as quickly as possible.”
“Mr. Franklin, do not try me.”
“Do not try me, Your Majesty. I am willing to help you, as you helped me in Prague. But you must let me go about it my own way.”
Charles’ frown deepened, and then he nodded. He beckoned one of his men over. “Lieutenant, take this fellow to the madman on the island. Bring him back in an hour. If he will not come, bind and gag him and return him here. Do not let him stray from your sight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles turned away from Ben. “Go,” he said.
* * *
Ben spent the gondola ride knotting and unknotting his fingers, acutely aware of time slipping away, of the depth and possible repercussions of his lie. He knew of no certain way to defeat the Muscovite airships. Oh, he had an inkling, but it all depended upon Sir Isaac.
The men on the island looked suspiciously at him when he came ashore, but Hassim—sent along as a translator—reassured them some, and the note hastily scrawled by Hassim’s father even more so.
The sun was half past meridian, the harbor gold-flecked lapis, antique, Egyptian. The building—a church? a castle?—wavering witchlight. Newton had brought one of the large aegises with him, perhaps built into the very boat.
“Where has he been heard?” he asked one of the men, through Hassim. The fifteen or so Janissaries regarded the ensorcelled structure balefully, and one of them pointed.
Alone, Ben strode to that point, and when he felt the slick-cool surface of the aegis, stopped. “Sir Isaac!” he bellowed, and then again, “Sir Isaac!”
A long pause followed, and then, thinly, “Benjamin?”
“Yes! Let me in. I have to talk with you.”
Another considerable pause. “Is King Charles with you?”
“No, sir. He has pressing business, and you are angering him with your demands. Sir, if you would live, I suggest you speak to me. There is no other chance!” Try as he might, he could not keep the desperation from his voice.
“Move to your right fifteen paces.” The reply floated down. “I will unbar the door and unhook the aegis for a few seconds. Only you may enter. Do you understand?”
“Aye!”
Teeth grinding, he did as directed. After perhaps ten minutes he heard a bolt slide, and an instant later a weather-pitted stone wall appeared. He quickly opened the heavy wooden door and stepped in, and was staring at a distorted image of his own face, framed by a sphere of sea and sky. He cried out softly as he understood he was facing the automaton that he had seen, dormant, in the Black Tower.
No longer dormant, it reached for him, and he threw himself violently aside, feeling just slightly foolish when it continued past him, and closed and barred the door.
Silently, it turned, crossed a dusty floor of red marble, and began to ascend a stair of verdigris stone. Ben followed the thing up, fascinated despite himself at the way its artificial muscles flexed and bunched.
Newton looked worse than Ben had ever seen him. His stained waistcoat was open, the shirt beneath a dirty ivory rag. His hair hung in greasy strands about his face, and his eyes stood like carbuncles in black abscesses. That febrile regard darted to Benjamin, lit on him for an instant, and then flitted randomly about the room.
“I’m glad to see that you survived and escaped the fall of Prague,” Newton muttered, his voice somehow uncertain.
“Are you? Well, no thanks to you, you will admit.”
Newton shrugged. “I did what I thought was best. Who is more valuable to the world, you or me?”
“Oh, that’s a pretty robe to put on coward’s ways,” Ben returned, surprised at how calm he felt. “But to the devil with you, sir, in any case. I came for Lenka.”
“Lenka?” Newton asked.
Ben gasped in abrupt horror. “God! She was in the hidden place in the boat!” He had a sudden image of her, locked there for six days with no food or water, Newton oblivious to her pounding and cries.
“Oh!” Newton said. “The girl. Really, Benjamin, I think it was rather extreme of you to pack one of your little bunters for the journey—”
“God rot you!” Ben snapped. “She was no doxy, you stupid old man. Is that all you see when you look at a woman—any woman? A whore? No, don’t a
nswer me. I don’t even care. Just tell me where she is.”
Newton’s eyes suddenly snapped into focus, as if seeing Ben for the first time. “Benjamin,” he said, “I am really most remorseful about abandoning you. I regretted it instantly, I assure you. I just—” He faltered, and Ben gathered that Newton was weeping. “I’ve never learned, you see. People are so difficult. Much more difficult than calculus and optics. Much more.”
Ben paused, feeling his throat catch, and for an instant he was three years younger, on that terrible and wonderful day when Newton had asked him to be his apprentice. “Sir, I—” No. He could not let himself be distracted. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. She was here, then she wasn’t.”
“What?”
“She was here, ranting, annoying me. I told her to go and find King Charles. I suppose she went to do that. I haven’t seen her in several days.”
“You—” He broke off, thinking furiously, trying to ignore that Newton now had his face down in his hands.
Hassim had said that no one had seen Lenka. What had happened to her? Had she been snatched up by the Turk for some harim? Had she drowned, trying to swim to Venice?
“Lenka!” he cried, running around the room, searching for other doors. He descended the stairs, shouting her name, spinning dust into clouds, sending rats chittering into darker corners until his body—still much the worse for wear—began to fail. Panting, leaning against a smooth, cool wall, he slid down to the floor.
She was alive, he was certain of it. She was alive, in Venice or—He squeezed his eyes shut. Not on the beylerbey’s ship, already a day gone! Would she have been taken slave so quickly? Was there a trial or something, before a free woman was made slave?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about Turks.
He did know that he would find her, somehow. This was his fault. This was his fault, and he—
Nothing. He nothing. He would find her because she deserved to be found.
And then he saw, with a blinding clarity, what that actually meant. It meant staying in Venice or sailing to Constantinople or wherever the bey’s ship had gone. He had to admit that he might need more than three days for that.
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