Newton's Cannon (13 page)

“Yes!”

“About which I know nearly nothing,” Ben remarked.

“Well, with the cannon, a very specific resonance is set up between the cannonball and the target. When the ball is fired, its trajectory bends toward that target.”

“A cannonball that chases you,” Ben said.

Collins nodded enthusiastically. “But the cannon are mostly used to reduce walls from a great distance. Spies and engineers are sent to find the quarry from which the stones for the wall were cut. The alchemists then use a sample stone to create a mock affinity in their munitions. They fire these cannon from a great distance. They can rain tons of iron onto a fortress from incredibly far away with remarkable accuracy.”

“I see. And this formula is for a similar operation?”

“Yes,” John said. “But while they have the equation that describes the ferment of one of the bodies, they do not have that of the other.”

“As if they had not found the quarry from which the stone came.”

“Well, that's the odd thing,” John said. “They seem to have that. What they seem to lack is the ferment of the cannonball.”

“Really?” Ben scrunched his face in concentration, trying to puzzle at what that could mean.

“Realize, of course, that this is
not
the formula for a cannon. I only continued to speak as if it were for purposes of analogy. This seeks to alter the trajectory of one object by an increased and specific affinity with another. And the second object is moving, as well.”

“A cannonball built to seek another cannonball in flight.”

“Exactly. What I have seen of the motions involved is hellishly complicated—and I understand only the broadest strokes— but yes, a formula to bring two cannonballs together in flight would resemble this. But they cannot calculate the affinitive properties of one of the cannonballs.”

For a moment the world seemed to spin around Ben, as if he were the boom caught in a sudden whirlwind. Beyond the river, sunlight winked from something bright in Boston.

“In your opinion,” he asked, “are these great men at work on this formula? Important philosophers?”

“The mathematics are an order higher than anything I've ever read about,” John said. “Much of this is far ahead of anything yet published. There are also hints that the Crown is financing the work.” He grinned. “Perhaps Newton himself is involved; all of the letters are unsigned or signed only with initials. Why do you ask?”

“You remember that paper I said we should write?”

“If you mean the one about your ‘Franklined’ aetherschreiber, yes. I've already worked out the formula. I'm not certain that it's right, but a more experienced mathematician could tell what I'm trying to express.”

“Well, John, here is our opportunity,” Ben said. “We should send it to these mathematicians.”

“Why? To what purpose?”

“Because,” Ben replied, “we have the answer to their problem.”

John stared hard at him for a moment, and then blew a long, low whistle as he understood. He turned to regard Boston. It lay bunched behind the beacon and the Trimontaine—a scattering of child's blocks, a few steeples, a single windmill.

“It looks small from here,” John remarked.

Ben leaned on the rudder; the resistance of the water felt good, but the boat obeying his command felt better. He simply nodded, his mind already racing ahead, away, overseas.

Adrienne lay among the damned, her ears stuffed with their wretched shrieks, her nostrils and lungs choking upon more hideous scents than sulfur or brimstone. A man fell against her, arms writhing, his periwig a mass of flame, his eyes sightless. Adrienne was aware of the searing heat along her own back, and she rolled and rolled again, in case it should be on fire. It was not, or at least she decided not. Gasping, she struggled to her feet, and as she did, smoke reached sharp black claws into her lungs. Her vision blurred, then cleared as the barge rocked beneath her shoes.

She did seem to be viewing a painting of hell, a miniature set before her. Centered in the frame, a pyramid blazed. At its base blackened bodies lay heaped like logs, some still burning. Farther from the pyramid, courtiers dressed in soot capered in a strange dance to music that only the devil might find soothing. Adrienne felt faintly surprised to see the duchess of Orléans, who was struggling to her feet, headdress smoking and gown disheveled but otherwise intact. A man near her was not so lucky; he clutched at a face as red as boiled lobster and rocked on his knees like a penitent.

“The king!” the duchess of Orléans shrieked, waving her hands at the flaming pyramid. “The king! Father!”

Of course, the king
, Adrienne thought, and took a step toward the flames. Suddenly, the painting seemed to change. It was no longer the Inferno, but mighty Sodom, its towers consumed by the wrath of God. Her last thought as her legs refused to support her was that she had become a pillar of salt.
Stupid
, she thought.
I should not have looked.

* * *

The next thing she knew was the total shock of cold, and then water in her mouth, stinging her nose. She tried to scream and swallowed a draught of the foul liquid. Arms like bands of steel were wrapped about her waist. She could hear harsh breathing in her ear.

I must not fight
, she thought, as panic began to overcome her shock.
I must not struggle or I shall drown us both.
Even though she thought that, the next time her head dipped beneath the water, she began to kick, to lash back with her elbows.

“Stop it,” a voice suddenly said in her ear. “Please.”

A husky voice, soft and sincere. He was swimming on his back now, holding her above and somewhat to the side of him, his knees and thighs working behind her own. Her back still burned.

With an awful effort, she let her body go limp. The man swam more strongly now, more confidently, and she felt safer. She blinked water from her eyes and saw gray sky; the rim of her vision was the horizon until she strained to look back the way they had come.

The barge was aflame; the two miniature ships nearby had pulled alongside, and Adrienne could make out small figures being hauled from the water. Dully, she understood that the king and the dauphin would not be among them. They had been at the apex of the pyramid, the very seat of the conflagration. Louis XIV and Louis XV were dead.

What had happened?

Below her, the man's legs continued pushing at the water, and she realized, with that odd and pointless clarity that comes with shock, that this was the closest any man had ever held her— save perhaps her father or grandfather, many years ago.

The rhythm of her rescuer's stroke suddenly changed, and then he shifted her, sweeping her up under his arm. She was suddenly almost cheek to cheek with this man whose face she hadn't seen. Nor did she now, save for the briefest glimpse of profile as he turned toward his other hand, grasping at the rim of the canal. At the edge, five pairs of hands reached down, and suddenly several more bodies splashed into the water. She felt
herself lifted up and laid gently on the stones. She caught a glimpse of her rescuer—she thought it was he—supported by several of their benefactors, and then, in a crush of bodies, he was gone.

“Is Mademoiselle hurt? Does she need a doctor?” someone asked.

“Mademoiselle is fine.” Adrienne sighed.

Suddenly the crowd on the edges of the canal shouted,
“Le Roi vive!”
“The king is alive!” Some sounded jubilant, but Adrienne heard disappointment also.

“Holy Jesus!” Geoffrey Random blurted. He shut his eyes against the glare. When he opened them once more he looked at the musket he held with new admiration.

“Come along, Brown Bess,” he muttered to it, looking around once more to make certain no one had witnessed him firing. But what he had been promised was quite true; he was alone in the gallery, and a look outside told him that the sound of his shot had drawn no attention from anyone.

His employer was as good as his word, at least so far. He, Geoff Random, had just killed a king—
two
kings, for that matter. That would please a whole hell of a lot of people, not the least the duke of Marlborough. But without rather specialized help from within Versailles itself no English assassin could have succeeded.

Marlborough could recognize talent, whether it was in a foot soldier or an officer. And, once again, Geoffrey Random had given the duke reason to think well of him.

Hell, he had stopped an entire war! Not bad for a Northumbrian lad.

He shouldered the rifle and gave his uniform the once-over. From now until he was safely out of France, he was an Irish dragoon in French service, with the forged papers to prove it. He descended a stair and crossed several halls, hoping he wasn't lost.

Pandemonium had claimed Versailles. Servants and courtiers were pressed against the windows, pointing and staring at the scene he had created on the canal. Some shrieked, some wept, others … He passed two tables of men and women playing
cards who seemed to be betting their next hands against the king's survival.

It almost made Geoffrey sad that the war would end with Louis' death. It would have been far better for the world if all of these useless fops were pounded into paste by the magic cannons and good old mortar fire. Versailles—for all of its beauty— made him feel dirty.

But he felt cleaner once outside Versailles, and he reached the stables unhindered.

“What is it? What has happened?” the master of the stables shouted as he approached.

“The king!” Geoffrey shot back, reluctant to say much for fear of revealing his accent. “I must ride.”

“Of course. I will fetch your mount.”

“Don't bother. I'll get her myself,” Geoffrey said, striding back into the darkened stables.

He found Thames by her whicker. “Come along, old girl,” he soothed. “We've got a long ride ahead.”

That was when he heard the sound of a pistol cock.

“Sir, I advise you to turn slowly,” a voice told him. Geoffrey hesitated. His hand was only inches from his own sidearm, and his sword was closer. But he obeyed the command.

When he saw who had the weapon trained on him, he blinked. “Oh, it's you,” he said. He could not remember the fellow's name, but he knew they had the same secret employer, despite the fact that the man wore the uniform of the king's own household guard. Geoff grinned at him. “I got him, didn't I?”

But the guard shook his head; the bore of his Austrian pistol did not waver in the least. “No,” he said, softly. “I fear that the king survived.”

“How could that be? The entire barge went up in flames.”

“I don't know; but with the king alive the investigation will be prosecuted much more thoroughly than if he had died.”

Geoffrey saw where this was going, but he smiled anyway. “Well, I shall soon be very far from here. Carry my regrets back to our mutual acquaintance. Ah, look, more guards …”

The pistol wavered slightly as the fellow glanced over his shoulder, and Geoffrey drew his sidearm and stepped to his
right at the same moment. The guard recovered quickly, firing before Geoffrey even had his weapon up. He flinched as splinters sprayed him from a post half a foot away as he brought his own pistol up more carefully.

His French-made weapon roared. The guardsman grunted and pitched back. Geoffrey grinned savagely. Try to cross him, would they?

In another instant he had mounted and was thundering out of the stables into the broad plaza outside.

A guard in blue, scarlet, and silver stood perhaps ten yards away, a pair of pistols aimed steadily at Geoffrey. He cursed, wishing now he had taken a moment to reload one of his own weapons; an empty pistol and an empty musket did him no good at all.

“Dismount, sir,” the young guard called, a determined glint in his eye.

“And what if I do not?”

“Then I shall shoot your horse.”

“You needn't shoot either of us. I have silver enough to pay for my passage.”

“I assume, sir, that you have killed Remy, who was one of my order. I cannot fail to avenge him.”

Geoffrey considered that. “You have a sword at your waist,” he said. “Are you schooled in its use?”

“That is why I wish for you to dismount, sir.”

“Really?” Geoffrey felt a delighted hope. Could the guard be that stupid? He slid down from the saddle, drew his smallsword, and made a few passes with it.

Keeping one pistol out, the guard uncocked the other and returned it to his belt.

“Step away from your horse,” he commanded.

Geoffrey did so. The guard was a bit taller than he, but he looked young. Geoffrey saluted him.

“It is really unfair,” Geoffrey told him. “I did honorably by our … acquaintance … and now you repay me thus.”

“You tried to kill our king!” the young man said, carefully holstering his second pistol.

“Then lead me before a court. I shall go quietly.”

“You killed a member of the Hundred Swiss. You must pay for that, too, sir.”

“How noble.” Geoffrey sneered. “What you really mean is that you don't wish for me to testify as to who gave me this uniform, forged my papers.” And suddenly he was defending himself. He scarcely saw his opponent's colichemarde, so fast was it drawn. Geoff managed to get his blade up in time to meet it, and his footwork came without thought as he retreated from the furious attack. But then, he caught the rhythm of the advance and gave it back, making it work to his advantage. He pretended to be lulled, matching each advance with retreat, each retreat with advance, until they were as regular as a minuet. When the guard made his move, he would find that Geoffrey Random was no fool.

Geoffrey stamped forward, blade here and there. He let the Swiss watch the blade and not the footwork.

Then, predictably, the guard made his mistake, pretending to retreat but then suddenly hurling himself forward in a skip-and-lunge. The feinted retreat was well done, but not well enough, and Geoffrey was ready for the attack, turning the blade away easily and then kicking viciously at the extended and deeply flexed knee of his foe.

Which somehow was not there anymore. Something very cold touched him just under his sternum. He stared down in amazement at the colichemarde buried in his solar plexus. He dropped his blade.