Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “Please, Monsieur, one more moment of your time.”

  Torcy sighed tiredly. “Yes?”

  “The king has moved the academy here, to Versailles, I hear?”

  “True, and I approve,” Torcy replied. “This puts the scientifics more closely under my scrutiny.”

  “I wish to return to my appointment working for Monsieur de Duillier.”

  “Impossible, at the moment,” Torcy said.

  “I am told that the king is most anxious about this particular research,” Adrienne persisted. “I wish to do my part.”

  Torcy glared at her. “If you had any idea what you were asking—”

  “You suspect one of the philosophers,” Adrienne interrupted.

  Torcy's mouth hung open for an instant. “What makes you say that?” he demanded, his voice curiously strained.

  “First, you clearly suspect the duke and duchess of Orléans, the only members of the court with any real knowledge of science. Second, anyone with more brains than a jackass—you will excuse me, Monsieur—could see how this murder was committed.”

  Torcy's face was a rigid mask, and then, suddenly, he laughed.

  “What an astonishing young woman,” he remarked, smiling. “My general opinion of astonishing young women is that they should be kept in convents or chains. But tell me, my dear, how was the dauphin killed?”

  “This is only guesswork, though I know how to confirm what I guess.”

  “Go on.”

  “May I please send away Helen and Charlotte? And may the door be closed?”

  Torcy did not hesitate; he waved impatiently for the two girls to go.

  “Well?” he said, when the door was closed.

  “It was the flameless lantern,” she explained, “the one above the king's throne.”

  Torcy made no remark. She lowered her eyes and plunged ahead. “The lantern works by alchemical reaction; the surface of the orb loosens the affinity in the air that keeps lux and gas bound together.”

  “Go on.”

  “Air is composed of three atoms of gas in ferment with a single atom of lux and two of phlegm. The lamp liberates the lux atom, so that the remaining compound is an inert gas, harmless. But if you were to liberate a lux atom bound to one of gas, the result would be a discharge of lightning. If you liberated lux bound to two atoms of gas, or even, I think, with phlegm in the right arrangement—then, Monsieur, you produce flame.”

  Torcy narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me that the flameless lamp was somehow altered so as to set the air itself on fire?”

  “Exactly,” Adrienne acknowledged.

  Torcy turned his back on her. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back and paced over to the window.

  “Swear to me,” he said, without turning, “swear by God and by the soul of your father that you know nothing of this matter save what you have guessed.”

  “I swear by God and I swear by the soul of my father that what you say is true.”

  Torcy turned as abruptly as a snake striking and crossed to her in five strides. His eyes burned into hers from two inches away; his breath was hot. “Swear it again.”

  “Why?” Adrienne asked, her voice as strong and steady as she could make it. “You do not believe me.”

  “No,” he said. “No, but I am about to place my trust in you, and I want to know that if you lie, you will be damned for that as well as for your other crimes.”

  “Very well,” Adrienne answered. It was hard to hold his basilisk gaze, but she managed it. “I swear by God and my father that I had no part in the murder of the dauphin and the blinding of the king.”

  Torcy held her gaze as if he had impaled her through the eyes with daggers and now twisted them to see what would ooze from her head. But after a moment, he nodded sharply.

  “I accept your oath. I will arrange for you to continue your work with Monsieur de Duillier. But I want something more from you.” He paused and stepped back. “I want you to discover who did this. Discover it and tell me.”

  Adrienne's mouth felt like paper. She simply nodded.

  “Mademoiselle, if your explanation is correct—that the air itself was ignited—then how could the king have been spared?”

  Adrienne tried to swallow, then licked her lips. “He should not have been spared,” she admitted. “I cannot explain it.”

  Torcy nodded sardonically, and without looking back again, swept wide the door and strode out, shutting it firmly behind him.

  Adrienne watched the closed door for a moment, and thought of the note with its scrawled owl.

  After years of silence, the Korai had spoken to her. The duchess of Orléans was one of the Korai. Which meant, in its own twisted way, that she had just lied to Torcy.

  Even as a girl she had been aware that her knowledge would one day exact a price.

  She gritted her teeth, remembering what Torcy had said about being a queen or a pawn, and she silently resolved that if they insisted on drawing her into this game, she would not be a pawn.

  12.

  Painful Gardens

  “Must he stand over us?” Fatio complained, indicating the guard who watched Adrienne from the doorway.

  “I believe he must,” Adrienne replied. “He has been assigned to me by the king himself, I am told.”

  “Well, if that is the case,” Fatio muttered, clearly unconsoled.

  “I would not worry that he understands any part of what we do well enough to spy upon it,” Gustavus said, his voice as musical as his eyes were cold.

  “Report it to whom?” Fatio asked. “If he works for the king—”

  “My guard is not deaf, you know,” Adrienne put in a bit sharply. It seemed rude to discuss the young man as if he were not there.

  Fatio's eyes widened, but then he nodded and shrugged. “Just so,” he said. “And in any event, Gustavus and I have much work to do today, for all the good that it may do us.”

  Adrienne reassured Fatio. “If you think of defeat, you will draw it upon you. Think instead of victory.”

  Fatio favored her with a wan smile. Gustavus shot her an irritated one. Both men then turned back toward their workbenches. Adrienne yearned to follow them, to peer at the formulae they so puzzled over, but if ever there was a time to reveal her inclinations for the mathematical, this was not it. Enough attention had been drawn to her already, more than enough. A month before she had been a mouse nosing about in the royal library. Now kings, ministers, and duchesses all vied to see who could more quickly ruin her life—all since she had begun aiding Fatio.

  She strode back to the aetherschreibers, sighing, then sorted through queries she was to send out. One machine clicked, buzzed, and wrote even as she did so.

  She had to learn what Fatio and Gustavus were working on. The king might desire her physically, and Torcy might be interested in her because the king was, as he said. But it was significant that all of Torcy's questions had centered on her position at the academy and the connection between that and the duke and duchess of Orléans. Of course, if the duchess was one of the Korai, then it was the Korai who had arranged for her to work at the academy. But why?

  Adrienne's throat felt as if a noose were already being drawn around it. There was vital information she did not possess, and perhaps the most important was the nature of Fatio's work. It must be important; it interested the king, Torcy, the duchess …

  She reached over to change the sheet in the working schreiber. It must be a weapon, she thought. The calculus she had seen suggested a cannon, but she was confident that it was not. And yet what it actually might be eluded her.

  Fatio and Gustavus were deep in discussion; they had not noticed the incoming correspondence. Adrienne surreptitiously read the page.

  The communication was from M. Two, but it was not in a handwriting she recognized. A new secretary then, she thought, until she read the first line. She read on through the absurd letter, frowning. Who was playing a joke on her—or rather, on Fatio? M. Two had never evinced even t
he faintest signs of humor before. An aetherschreiber that could communicate with unlinked devices?

  A faint scratching at the door interrupted her. Adrienne shuffled the new letter into the sheaf of papers she was to send. She did not glance back to see whom the guard was admitting, but when Fatio greeted the newcomer, the blood rushed from Adrienne's face.

  “My good duke!” Fatio exclaimed. “Gustavus von Trecht, let me introduce you to the duke of Orléans. To what do we owe this undeserved honor, sir?” Fatio inquired.

  Adrienne slipped a paper into the machine and began writing, trying with all her will to be unnoticeable, a mere secretary.

  “I am here to serve you, sir,” the duke replied. “I have merely come to ask if there is anything the academy can do to make this transition to your new quarters easier.”

  “Oh, that is very kind …” Fatio began.

  Gustavus coughed politely. “The observatory.”

  “The observatory!” Fatio exclaimed. “Quite right! I had nearly forgotten. Gustavus and I will need the observatory soon.”

  “Will you?” the duke asked, in a tone which arrested Adrienne. He doesn't know what they are doing either, she realized. He's trying to find out.

  “Unfortunately,” the duke went on, “the observatory cannot be moved here, as I am sure you are aware. I could arrange for you to have the use of a reflecting telescope. I can have one brought here by carriage.”

  “Oh,” Fatio said, “why, yes, I think that would do.”

  “Anything else, my good sirs?”

  “I don't think so— Oh, my pardon, Duke, I have failed to introduce my other associate. Please let me present Mademoiselle to you.”

  Adrienne closed her eyes, praying silently for strength. Then, draping a polite smile on her lips, she turned to meet the duke.

  He was a man of middle height, stout, mild-eyed. To her surprise, he looked at her seemingly without interest, but bowed perfunctorily. “Most pleased to see you again, Mademoiselle de Montchevreuil,” said the duke.

  “Oh, you know Mademoiselle,” Fatio said, slightly chagrined.

  “We met several years ago,” the duke replied, “but more immediately we were both unfortunate enough to be on hand at the great tragedy of two days past.”

  “Such a terrible thing,” Fatio said.

  “My wife, the duchess, inquires after you,” the duke told her.

  “Please tell her that I am well,” Adrienne assured him. “And may I inquire after her?”

  “Like myself, she was somewhat singed,” the duke answered. “You seem to have escaped harm.”

  “My back was burned,” Adrienne admitted, “though not badly. This dress pains me, I fear.”

  “Then for heaven's sake, my dear young lady,” Orléans replied, “dress in something more comfortable—a manteau, perhaps.”

  “I fear manteaux are not acceptable garb at court.”

  The duke nodded. “This is true, but the king has other things to concern himself with now. I doubt very much that he will notice how you are dressed.”

  Fatio gasped, and Adrienne froze her expression, wondering if the duke had intended that cruelly indifferent reference to the king's blindness or if it was a horrid misstatement.

  “In any event,” the duke of Orléans said, bowing once more, “I leave you all to your work. I am greatly interested in all matters scientific, and I would love to discuss what you do here at length someday. I am a dabbler in experiments myself, you know.”

  “Everyone in the academy is aware of Monsieur's scientific inclinations,” Gustavus said unexpectedly. “We are all much gratified to have such august and informed interest taken in our work.”

  The duke smiled and nodded. “Mademoiselle, gentlemen.”

  As he left, Adrienne dropped a low curtsey, and the two men bowed.

  “I suppose he shall be king, soon,” Gustavus remarked softly.

  “Please, Gustavus, do not speak such things. I am quite certain the king will recover his wits presently.”

  Wits? Adrienne thought, shooting a glance at the young guard. To her complete surprise, he nodded sadly.

  Returning to the aetherschreibers, she finished the letter and then another. Though her chest was still tight with worry, it appeared the duke had not come to further implicate her in some plot. The guard, who would surely report all he saw and heard to Torcy—or perhaps Bontemps—could confirm that there had been no secret exchange between them.

  She sent two more letters, then reached the strange message from M. Two she had hidden—and nearly forgotten. She stared at it, more perplexed than ever, and then, with sudden resolve, moved to the second schreiber.

  We shall see, she thought, if this is a joke, Monsieur Janus. Janus, the two-faced god of doorways and beginnings.

  Adrienne took up the stylus and wrote—as usual, in English.

  My Dear Janus,

  We are of two faces concerning your offer. One face fears being spied upon, but the other smiles at the possibility of an end to our perplexity. If this is, indeed, the opening of a door, then I can assure you that your thoughts will receive all of the attention and recognition they merit.

  Humbly yours,

  Minerva

  There. If the author of the letter was a joker, he would understand that his joke was accepted for what it was. If it was something other, she would know soon enough.

  She rose early the next day, something nagging at the edges of her sleeping mind, something that shouted to be made sense of but refused to resolve into coherent thought. She did have one relief; the girls had managed to obtain her old gown, the modest, dark manteau in the style of Saint Cyr.

  She found the guardsman snoring outside her door. An unwilling smile flitted across her face, as she briefly considered trying to steal off without him. Instead she squatted down and poked him in the forehead with her finger.

  “Awake, Monsieur,” she told him.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed. Then he stopped, flushing scarlet. “Beg pardon, milady,” he finished sheepishly.

  “I am going for a walk,” she announced.

  He struggled to his feet and adjusted his twisted baldric. “I am already with you.”

  “I've never understood these gardens,” the guardsman admitted. The marble eyes of several Nereids watched them pass a fountain and continue toward the Grand Canal.

  “What is there to understand?”

  “They are unpleasant. I always thought that gardens should be pleasant.”

  Adrienne could not hide a broad smile. “Whatever gave you that idea, sir?”

  The fellow shrugged. “I grew up in Béarn. There are many vineyards there. We were poor, but my mother always kept a garden.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “My mother's gardens, the vineyards—I always found them pleasant. I always assumed that if my mother's garden was nice, a king's garden would be paradise.”

  Adrienne nodded. “They are nice from the window or from the hill near the orangery, are they not?”

  “They are grand,” he admitted. “But here, among them, they are torturous.”

  “I agree with you,” Adrienne replied. Then, changing the subject, she said, “You say you are from Béarn.”

  “All of the Hundred Swiss are not Swiss,” he said. “Even one of our lieutenants is French. My father was a member of the Hundred, and his father was a musketeer in the days of Louis XIII when they were the favored household guard. My family has a long history of such service to the kings of France.”

  Adrienne nodded. “As does mine. What is your family?”

  “D'Artagnan,” he replied.

  She hesitated and then glanced at him. “I am of Montchevreuil.”

  “I know,” he said shyly. “My father knew your uncle well. He spoke very highly of him.”

  “How ironic. Your father and my uncle, both staunch defenders of the king—friends even—and now you are my guardian.”

  His face reddened again. “Please, milady,” he sa
id, “you mustn't suspect that I believe you need watching.”

  “No, of course not,” she said, a little more angrily than she had intended. “Who could possibly think that?”

  They plodded on for another thirty yards, Adrienne struggling to maintain her anger. She finally gave up. “How long ago did you come to Versailles? May I call you by your Christian name?”

  “It is Nicolas, milady.”

  “Good. You must call me Adrienne. And how long ago did you come to Versailles, Nicolas?”

  “It's been almost three years I've been one of the Hundred Swiss,” he said, a trace of pride in his tone.

  “Three years. That's a long time, still not to understand the gardens.”

  They continued on, the silence growing awkward again, Adrienne trying to think of some polite topic to continue the conversation upon, but to her surprise, Nicolas preempted her. “If you agree that the gardens are not comfortable to walk in,” he asked, “why are you walking in them?”

  “Because,” Adrienne answered, “they are between me and my destination.”

  “That being …”

  “The barge. I want to have a look at it. I heard that most of it had been salvaged.”

  “I'm sorry, milady, but the barge was burned yestereve,” Nicolas told her.

  “Why was it burned? How could it have been burned without being carefully examined for evidence?”

  “I believe that it was examined, milady Adrienne. And the king himself ordered it burned.”

  How can Torcy expect me to find evidence that has been burned? she thought angrily.

  But Torcy, of course, was not the king.

  “Well, Nicolas, it appears we have subjected ourselves to these unpleasant gardens for no good reason, and so I beg your pardon.

  “It's nearly time for me to be in the laboratory anyway,” she observed.

  Nicolas nodded, then said, “I must admit that I find these gardens less unpleasant than I once did.”

  “Why is that?”Adrienne asked.

  He was silent for a moment, and then unexpectedly laughed. “That was an attempt to be charming and complimentary, Mademoiselle. It is not something at which I excel.”