Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  A sharp rapping sounded at the door. She would have to answer it and likely miss a part of what was being written. She had just changed the paper, so she had no excuse not to answer the door. Once the formula was off the desk, however, and replaced by a blank sheet, Fatio would snatch it up so that he and Gustavus could ponder it, and she would not get a chance to see it again.

  She opened the door to a young page boy. He bowed to her.

  “Pardon me,” he said, “but do I have the honor of addressing Mademoiselle de Montchevreuil?”

  Adrienne was astonished, for callers here were almost always for Fatio, occasionally for Gustavus—never for her. Then she suddenly remembered the king's invitation. “Indeed, you do.”

  “In that case, I have the honor of escorting you to the king's carriage. He requests your presence at Versailles this evening.”

  “This evening? But … the king's entertainment is tomorrow.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the page replied. “I have been told to wait until you have finished your immediate business.”

  “I—” She turned helplessly to see if Fatio and Gustavus had followed this exchange and found them both staring at her.

  “Of course you must go,” Fatio said softly.

  Adrienne turned back to the page. “I must finish something first—a matter of a few moments. Would you please wait?”

  Adrienne returned to the aetherschreiber, wound it again, and nervously waited for the message to finish.

  * * *

  As Adrienne approached the carriage, she realized that it was occupied already—the man inside of it was, in fact, stepping out. She recognized him as he swept off his tricorn hat and bowed low to her.

  “Demoiselle de Montchevreuil,” he said, “how wonderful to see you.”

  “And I am delighted to see you, Monsieur Minister,” she replied, though she was in fact quite intimidated by Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the marquis of Torcy and the king's minister of foreign affairs. Torcy was in his midfifties, but he carried his years well. The solid bones of his nearly square face refused to let his flesh droop, and his carriage was that of a young musketeer. Only his eyes and the corners of his mouth showed his true age and the weight of his responsibilities. Like so many at court, the marquis had a charming exterior, but his smile hid dragon's teeth and his dark eyes the fatal glance of the gorgon.

  At the moment, however, he was charming, kissing her hand and making certain that she was comfortably seated in the carriage before sitting next to her.

  “It happened that I was in Paris when the king sent his carriage for you,” Torcy explained, “and I begged for the pleasure of accompanying you to Versailles.”

  Adrienne looked down, wondering how Maintenon would have replied to that. “You are too kind,” she finally settled upon—perhaps the most conventional response possible.

  Outside, the dark and dreary streets of Paris passed, though they traveled in the pool of light cast by the sorcerous lantern that adorned the coach. She could make out faces, stroked briefly golden, watching them pass, and see the expressions of the Parisians as they recognized the king's coach. Some—the hungriest and meanest of them— scowled openly, though most expressed more controlled disapproval or, occasionally, awe. The general sentiment of Paris toward the king was one of brooding tolerance. After all, Louis almost refused to admit that the great city existed. But their ire sprang from the effects of decades of war. Even the splendor of the new era of science could not eclipse suffering and hunger. She understood that; though her family was counted among the nobility, they were also destitute, and as a child she had missed more than one meal. It had been Madame de Maintenon and the king who had saved her when they had accepted her family's petition to admit her to Saint Cyr at the age of seven. Saint Cyr only received girls whose families were both noble and impoverished.

  Most Parisians were impoverished, but few had noble blood. This gave them very little hope of ever gaining anything. To Adrienne this seemed dangerous. The king was wrong to ignore Paris, for in Paris he might see France; in Versailles he would only see himself.

  “How does Mademoiselle find the Academy of Sciences?” Torcy asked.

  “I am most content there,” she replied. “Everyone is kind to me, and my work is interesting. And, I must admit, I have enough leisure to devote to my own interests.”

  “And what might those be, my dear?” Torcy asked with a flicker of a smile. His eyes seemed almost on the verge of closing, as if her answer could hold no interest for him.

  “Music, predominantly,” she answered, “and also writing. I hope to compose a history of the academy someday.”

  “How very interesting,” Torcy exclaimed. “And how laudable. You are aware, then, that it was my uncle who was instrumental in founding the academy?”

  “But of course,” Adrienne said. “How could one not know that?”

  “You are too kind.” He turned to look at her. “You know,” he said, his tone still more than amiable, “that when the academy was founded, twelve women were nominated as members?”

  Of course I do, she thought bitterly, but what she replied was, “No? Really?” She hoped she sounded convincingly surprised.

  The marquis smiled. “Those were different times,” he murmured. “Yet my uncle had a very high opinion of women: He believed that they were capable of scientific scholarship. Of course, none of them had their nominations confirmed, and none have been nominated since. But, as I said, those were different times.”

  “They must have been,” Adrienne agreed, flashing her own bright smile. “But I wonder if women are truly suited to such endeavors. It does not seem complementary to our natures.”

  “Oh, but there are many who would disagree with you, my dear. In fact, I have always wondered why you chose to find a position in the king's library, when you might have taken the veil at Saint Cyr. Or rather, I wonder how it came to be that you were placed there.”

  A little chill stroked her heart. Did Torcy know about her and the others?

  Beneath the wheels of the carriage, stone pavement had given way to dirt, and the stench of the city was being replaced by the scents of the countryside. “I don't know, Monsieur,” she replied. “I had expressed my interest to Madame the queen before she passed on.”

  “Yes, which I can hardly believe she approved of. Madame Maintenon had as little use for science as for vice.”

  “But I explained to Madame that my interests were not in science,” Adrienne told him.

  “Yes, and I am sure that she believed you, just as I do,” he replied ironically. “What you must understand, Mademoiselle, is that I do not care what your interests are, so long as they do not endanger the king.”

  Adrienne frowned, amazement at Torcy's implication transforming into anger. “Sir,” she said steadily, “I am quite certain that I do not know what you are insinuating.”

  Torcy nodded, all traces of joviality swept from his face. “Very well. Let me be candid,” he said. “I remember you. You were an excellent secretary to Madame. You are intelligent, and you know how to hide things. But when the king takes an interest in someone, I take an interest in that person. And when I took an interest in you, do you know what I found?”

  Adrienne could only stare at him, smiling to hide her panic.

  “I found that you had been given your position by the duke of Orléans.”

  “What?” Adrienne managed in stunned disbelief, for that was not at all what she had thought he would say.

  “Yes, it is true. Do you understand the implications of this?”

  “Monsieur, I …”

  “Come, come. You were Madame's secretary for an entire year. You cannot be that ignorant of the intrigues of the court, even if you are innocent of its vices.”

  Adrienne struggled for some response. The duke of Orléans? If Torcy were fencing with her, now would come the kill. She heard herself answer, almost as a stranger talking. “I understand something of them. I know that the duke of Orléans is a pos
sible heir to the throne.”

  “He might be regent, if the king were to die now, but the little dauphin, the king's great-grandson, would be king. And after that would come King Philip of Spain—also a legitimate descendant of the king. In fact, the royal will even places the duke of Maine—His Majesty's bastard by Madame Montespan— ahead of Orléans.”

  “If Orléans is not a plotter for the throne,” Adrienne managed, “why then are you so concerned that he might have done me some favor?”

  “I never said the good duke was not plotting to take the throne,” Torcy said. “The dauphin is only ten years old. And if France should ever conclude a peace with her enemies, they will never allow Philip to sit both thrones. And if the king were dead, his will would be set aside by Parliament. They would never allow a bastard to rule in the place of Orléans, who is a legitimate prince. So you see, the duke could be king—if the appropriate accidents were to occur.”

  “What are you saying?” Adrienne asked. “Are you saying that Orléans is planning to kill the king and the dauphin?”

  Torcy now revealed one of his true smiles, a hard, cold thing totally unlike the amiable façade he had presented earlier. Adrienne found that she liked this one better; it was real.

  “I would never say that, Mademoiselle. Nevertheless, the duke is the son of the king's late brother, and I need not tell you of the strife that existed between them. Worse yet, he is the son of that German woman, the Princess Palatine.”

  “I know that there was never any love lost between the princess and my late mistress,” Adrienne said. “But what has all of this to do with me?”

  Torcy examined her squarely. “I do not know,” he replied. “But if you know, you had best tell me now. Do not let me discover through spies that you are dissembling.”

  Adrienne returned his gaze frankly, though her lips trembled. “Before God, I do not know, sir,” she said, “though when you find out I would be very pleased if you told me.”

  Torcy gazed out the window. After a moment of silence, he let down the glass and called for the driver to shutter the lanterns. An instant later, the coach was plunged into complete darkness. Adrienne felt the hackles on her neck rise and a sudden terror of what the marquis might do gripped her. And yet, after a few moments, as nothing happened, the darkness became less black as the natural light of the stars and half moon dusted the landscape argent. In the pearly glow, Torcy's face was as that of a marble statue. “I wonder sometimes,” he said, so softly that she almost did not hear, “if these new lights we have created do not blind us to what is real.”

  Adrienne remained silent, and after a moment, Torcy chuckled.

  “I will take you at your word, Mademoiselle, but I encourage you to keep your eyes and ears open. Do not doubt that some game is being played in which you are a piece. Whether you are a queen or a pawn I do not know, but either may check a king— and I will deal with either in the same way.”

  “I understand,” Adrienne replied. “I have no desire to be a queen and no small disdain for pawns.”

  6.

  The Sorcerer on the Common

  As abruptly as he had begun, the man stopped running. He stood, holding Ben's arm, staring without apparent passion down at him as he struggled.

  “Let go of me, damn you!” Ben managed to gasp. “What do you want? What have I done?” He choked down another scream, overcome by terror. The man dropped him, and Ben fell sprawling facedown on the damp, cold grass. He lay, eyes clenched, waiting for the blow, the knife—whatever was coming.

  “Sit up,” Bracewell said quietly. Shaking, Ben pushed up with his palms, keeping his eyes on the ground.

  “Look at me.”

  Ben reluctantly turned his gaze upward.

  “Now, Benjamin, I want you to listen to me,” the man said, squatting down on his haunches so that their eyes were more or less level. He reached over and mussed Ben's hair. “Listen and remember. What you did the other day, with your machine— you are not to do that again, is that clear?”

  “Ga-w-what?” Ben gagged.

  Trevor Bracewell leaned closer. “Or anything of the kind. Do you understand? Leave things be, Benjamin.”

  “I don't understand.” Ben tried to sound defiant but failed. “God curse you, I don't understand.”

  Behind Bracewell, Ben saw something rise. It looked like the fog but thicker, darker, a sheet of smoke with a dull ember of flame glowing inside, resembling nothing so much as an eye.

  “Yes, yes,” Bracewell snapped irritably. Ben understood that his attacker was no longer talking to him. Then, the apparition vanished. But in that fleeting instant, Ben felt something thrust into him where his dreams lurked. It was a whole vision, fully formed, an answer to a question.

  “What was that?” Bracewell snapped, now speaking to Ben. “What did you just see?”

  “What?” Ben gaped.

  Bracewell took a deep breath, and then with an apparent effort, he smiled again. “It doesn't matter, does it?” he said, his voice calm once more. “It doesn't matter what they let slip because you've understood me, haven't you? You will build no more devices, experiment no more. Be a printer, Benjamin Franklin. Keep your mind here, on the things of this world, and you will live a long and healthy life.”

  With that, the man who called himself Trevor Bracewell stood and, without a single backward glance, strode off into the lifting fog.

  Back in Boston, the town clock struck the first chime of six. Before the last had sounded, Ben was already back on Common Street, running faster than he ever had. Halfway home he stopped, his belly heaving to expel a breakfast he had never eaten.

  Four hours later, Ben's fingers still trembled as he set type. He kept feeling that grip on his arm, kept hearing the words.

  Leave things be, Benjamin, leave them be.

  What could that possibly mean? What would Trevor Bracewell do to him if he didn't ‘leave things be’?

  Bracewell had lied. He had to be a magus, despite his claim to the contrary. Was that what this was about, some wizardly competition? Was Boston only large enough, in Bracewell's view, to support one magus—himself? Ben knew that alchemists, adepts, and magi did dispute with one another. Sir Isaac Newton had his share of opponents and had waged public war on some of them— notably Gottfried von Leibniz, who claimed to have invented calculus before Newton. But these had been battles fought with words, not with fists and promises of murder. What could have driven Bracewell to threaten a fourteen-year-old boy? In this age of miracles, what could so frighten or anger a man about a machine that merely created ice and steam?

  That gave Ben pause. Perhaps the man was not a philosopher or a sorcerer; perhaps he was one of the old-style Puritans. Perhaps the man was a witch hunter.

  Perhaps he was the devil himself. Whoever Trevor Bracewell was, he was a bully, and Ben had too much experience with bullies to remain long daunted by them. James had hurt him far more than any stranger. No, it wasn't Trevor Bracewell that kept his fingers shaking or sickened him to the point of nausea.

  What did that was the knowledge that he now knew how to fix the aetherschreiber. He was not at all certain what he had seen on the Common, but in the instant in which that single eye had touched him, he had asked himself, What do I really want? And the answer had not been, “to live,” “to escape,” or any other such sensible thought. No, it had been, to fix the aetherschreiber. And then he had felt an intense involuntary response— followed by equally intense self-anger—and he had known how to do it. It was as if a million pieces of something had joined together in his head.

  The door banged open, and Ben jumped, upsetting the entire line of type he was working on. James was stalking toward him, fury only barely banked behind his eyes. In his hand he carried a newspaper, which he threw toward Ben.

  “Look at that!” he snarled.

  Ben picked up the paper dumbly. The London Mercury, it read, and the date was April 7, 1720.

  “Yesterday,” Ben said. “We set this yesterday.
But this isn't the font we set it in.”

  “Yes, and what do you suppose that means?” James asked.

  “It means— Oh, no, not already.”

  James nodded grimly. “Yes, already. Someone must have gotten wind of our plan.”

  Yes, Ben thought, anyone and everyone at the Green Dragon, I should think. All the printers that Ben knew had mentioned it to him. “Did ours sell?”

  James nodded. “Ours was on the street an hour or so before theirs, though I had to pay the Lawson boy to run it.”

  “You told me to work on the aetherschreiber,” Ben began defensively.

  “Yes, I know that,” James snapped. “I'm not laying blame on you. The blame goes to me for allowing you to convince me of this mad scheme.” He threw himself heavily into a chair. “Fine,” he said, finally. “So what do we have? Have you written any ballads, as we discussed?”

  Ben nodded reluctantly. “I wrote one called the ‘Siege of Calais.’ It's about Marlborough.” He hesitated. “It isn't very good.”

  “Is it as good as your poem about Blackbeard?”

  “Probably.”

  “We print it tomorrow, then. What of the aetherschreiber? Can you change it so that we can receive more sorts of news?”

  Ben stared at James, and for an instant he felt a sort of panic.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am certain that I can.”

  “Hah!” James said. “Then I was right.”

  “Yes,” Ben acknowledged. “But I need something from you.”

  “What is that?” James asked, a bit suspiciously.

  “Money,” Ben told him. “I need money to pay a glassblower.”

  James pursed his lips angrily. “I've already wagered a lot of money on you, Ben. How much do you need?”

  “I don't know. If you give me your leave to go now, I shall find out. If the glassblower works quickly, I can have your news—something—by tonight.”