Newton's Cannon (29 page)

His voice felt remarkably firm when he said, “I am Janus.” He stuck out his hand toward Maclaurin, the nearest.

“G'drot me,” the Wig swore. “We've been convened by a
boy
. How do you like that?”

“Are you
really
?” the Smirker asked.
He
merely seemed amused.

“Which one of you gentlemen—or lady—is Hermes?” Ben asked. His hand remained out.

The Wig snapped, “Come, my friends, this is absurd.”

Ben dropped his hand and stood bolt upright, throwing his shoulders back. “Gentlemen and lady, I urge you to hear me out. If you dismiss me on account of my age without at least listening to me, you will show yourselves not simply neglectful, but—you will pardon me—stupid.”

The Frenchman's eyebrows sprang up like surprised frogs. The others simply stared.

Maclaurin broke the silence and reached out his hand. Ben shook it. “How old are y', lad?” he asked.

“Fourteen, sir,” Ben replied.

“Tell me, Giles,” Maclaurin said, without shifting his thoughtful regard from Ben's face. “Do y' know how old I was when I wrote my thesis at Edinburgh?”

The Wig—whose name was apparently “Giles”—rapped the table impatiently. “What has
that
to do with anything?”

“I was fifteen,” Maclaurin replied.

“Yes,” drawled the Smirker, eyes merry, “and I was but twelve when the great Ninon de Lenclos wrote a provision for me in her will—solely on account of my poetry. Some of us bloom at an early age, Mr. Heath.”

The Wig sent the Frenchman a vitriolic glance, but said nothing.

“Have a seat, my boy,” Maclaurin said. “We ha' things to discuss.”

A boy in an apron brought more coffee while the group digested Ben's presence silently. Then to his vast surprise, the woman reached over and patted his hand. His skin seemed to tingle where she touched it.

Maclaurin—who despite initial appearances seemed to be presiding over the group—cleared his throat. “Well, shall we continue t' call you Janus? Janus, let me introduce you to the members of our little club—at least those as are present. The lady is Vasilisa Karevna, an envoy from the court of Tsar Peter of Russia.

“Our French companion is François Arouet,” Maclaurin went on, indicating the Smirker.

The Frenchman frowned, though his eyes counterfeited his anger. “As you prefer ‘Janus’—a nom de plume—I prefer ‘Voltaire.’”

“Sir,” Ben said, bowing.

“Our doubtful companion is Giles Heath.”

Heath glared at Ben's outstretched hand, and then touched it, briefly and laconically, a frustrating parody of a handshake.

“James Stirling.” The fourth man—the one whose back had been to him before—nodded at Ben when introduced. He had spindly brows that seemed forever arched in surprise, a crooked nose that must have once been broken, and green eyes.

“I myself am Colin Maclaurin,” the Scotsman finished.

“I am pleased to meet you all,” Ben said gravely.

“Likewise,” Maclaurin replied. “Now, suppose y' explain to us why y' indicated nothing of your age when you wrote to Sir Isaac.”

“I didn't think he would see me,” Ben answered. “And I believe that it is very
important
that he see me.”

“This may be as close as y' get,” Maclaurin cautioned, “so speak well.”

“My name is Benjamin Franklin,” Ben said. “I was born and
raised in Boston, Massachusetts. I came to England to see Sir Isaac Newton because I think I have done a very bad thing and because someone is trying to kill me. What else would you care to know?” He stopped. He could tell from the way they stared at him that he had at least succeeded in capturing their attention.

Maclaurin blinked, and Voltaire breathed a little chuckle.

“Suppose y' start at the beginning,” Maclaurin said. “I've seen your formula—if it
is
yours—and it contains a spore of brilliance. Certain that it is a new thing, wi' many uses. Wi'out that, we would never have seen you at all. So start you at the beginning, and tell us everything important.”

They were all waiting now. Even Heath seemed willing to be convinced. The presence of “Voltaire” worried him—he might be a spy—but he had already proclaimed his separation from France, and the others seemed to trust him. It was time to drop his mask completely. He could not barter with Maclaurin and his friends; not yet, at any rate.

“It began,” he said quietly, “when I was ten years old …”

“That is
something
of a story. You really met this Blackbeard? I should like to hear more,” Voltaire exclaimed after Ben was finished. “By God, if you are not telling the truth, you are pursuing the wrong calling, my friend. You should become a writer!”

“François,”
Maclaurin said, a bit impatiently.

“And you have these notes—the communiqués that you now believe to be French?”

“No. I had to leave them in Boston. But I can remember the gist of them.”

“And your only proof that this was part of some French plot was the use of the popish calendar?”

“Someone tried to kill him,” Vasilisa reminded them. “Just as—”

“Hush ye, Vasilisa,” Maclaurin thundered. The Russian narrowed her eyes angrily, but she closed her mouth.

“Colin, there's no need to snap at Vasilisa. It's not as if it is a
secret
,” Heath remonstrated.

“Just … let's do one thing at a time,” Maclaurin said, clearly near the end of his patience. “The question is, How the hell did
they find you in America? How did they know where you were?”

“I was just thinking,” Vasilisa murmured, “that if a new affinity can be established, as Benjamin did with his aetherschreiber, then surely an aethercompass could point out its physical direction.”

“Oh, aye, but still, t' turn a crude direction into a
street
address …” Maclaurin scratched his chin.

“I've never heard of an aethercompass,” Ben admitted, “but Bracewell already had his eye on me and John well before I made the tunable schreiber. If Bracewell had something to do with this ‘F,’ or Minerva, or whomever, then they could have contacted
him
through a different schreiber. He might keep one where he stays. Then he might have just added things up.”

“This is a
fairy
story,” Heath exploded. “I don't know what he's after, but there's none of this he couldn't have heard eavesdropping at the right window—or hell, he may have sat next to us in here an 'undred times before today.”

“There is the equation,” Maclaurin reminded him. “Mr. Frank-lin's explanation of its origins seems likely enough. We can build a device such as he describes and prove that part of his story.”

“Well, to be accurate,” Stirling added, in his soft voice, “that would prove only that Mr. Franklin had seen such a device. Whom do we know in Boston who could confirm some of these other assertions?”

“I ha' a friend there,” Maclaurin answered. “For the moment, young Franklin, I see no reason not t' take you at your word. If the rest are willing, I'd like to bring you to our laboratories tomorrow and begin work reconstructing the particulars of the formula. It is probably nothing—this fear you have of a French weapon—but we shall see.”

“The academy? Will I meet Sir Isaac?”

A general murmur ran around the table.

“Tha” tis entirely possible and entirely
impossible
to predict,” Maclaurin replied. “Y' see, when we wrote that note to you we told you something of a lie.”

“A lie?”

Maclaurin nodded. “Sir Isaac di'na tell us to contact you. In fact, he never read your letters.”

“None of us has spoken to him in better than a month,” Heath put in. “He has locked himself in his house and will speak to no one.”

“Why?”

Heath shrugged. “Who the hell can tell, with Newton? But there are reasons enough.”

“What do you mean?”

They all looked at him for a moment, and then Maclaurin sighed heavily. “Technically speaking, only Mr. Heath and myself are Newton's students, and I ha' been so for only a year. Vasilisa here has met him once, but the academy voted to take her as a guest. Voltaire—”

“I am a sort of hanger-on,” Voltaire confided.

“And Mr. Stirling is more a student of Edmund Halley, the royal astronomer, than he is of Sir Isaac.”

“I see,” Ben said. He recalled that Maclaurin had spoken of their “club,” and it suddenly occurred to him that such young people were unlikely to be part of Newton's inner circle—or even particularly important in the Royal Society.

“No, I doubt that y' do,” Maclaurin replied, his voice grave and sinking low. “One year ago the Royal Society boasted fiftyseven members. Today—with the possible exception of Sir Isaac—those of us at this table and two friends who couldn't be here today are all that remain. The seven of us
are
the Royal Society.”

Adrienne pulled the trigger. The weapon shrieked and jerked like a living thing, tearing from her fingers. At the same moment, her horse stumbled. Two of their attackers, along with their horses, were thrashing on the ground, smoking. The nearby trees were smoking as well, their leaves stripped as if by a flaming sirocco. Her horse dropped like a stringless puppet, and she hurled forward over its neck.

Tasting blood in her mouth, she shook her head to clear it as another pistol shot echoed off through the surrounding hills. Painfully, she drew her legs up beneath her, hoping nothing was broken, remaining in a crouch.

Her horse lay a few feet away, one side of its head stripped down to charred and pitted bone. One eye remained, staring dully at her.

I did that
, she thought. What kind of weapon had Nicolas given her? Not a
kraftpistole
—at least not the standard sort.

Now she heard steel ringing and rose up slowly.

Only one of the musketeers remained, but he was beating his sword against Crecy's. Adrienne cast wildly about, searching for some weapon, some way of helping her. Then she realized it was not Crecy fighting for her life: It was the musketeer.

Both used nearly identical straight-bladed broadswords, the sort soldiers used. Adrienne had tried to lift one once and found it a challenge. In Crecy's hands it whipped about like a wand. Both fists clenched on the weapon, Crecy hammered thunderstrokes upon her opponent, cut and cut and cut. The musketeer fell back before her, eyes wide with terror and disbelief. He was
bleeding already from two wounds, one on the cheek, another on his thigh.

Crecy was playing with him, a weird little smile on her face, her eyes distant. As Adrienne watched, the redhead batted the man's weapon aside again and sliced him on the shoulder. He stumbled back, and this time she waited for him to recover.

The musketeer was not a young man—he was perhaps thirtyfive. He gritted a painful smile and threw down his sword.

“You've entertained yourself enough with me,” he snarled. “God have mercy on my soul, for I will not fight another moment against a witch like you.”

“As you will,” Crecy said, and plunged her weapon into his heart. The musketeer flinched at the last moment and cried out. His body jerked at the blade in it, as if his chest might spit it back out. His arms flapped, and then he died.

“Are you wounded?” Crecy asked Adrienne, wiping her blade on the dead man's cloak.

“No.”

Crecy surveyed the scene, clucking when her gaze fell on Adrienne's horse. “Should have warned you about that, I suppose,” she commented dryly.

“You killed him,” Adrienne said, still not believing what she had just seen.

“Did I?” Crecy murmured. “Come here for a moment, Mademoiselle.” She took Adrienne's arm; her fingers bit like five blunt teeth. When Adrienne understood where she was being led she tried to struggle, but Crecy had no mercy.

“Who killed
them
?” she demanded.

Actually, one of the men was not dead; he was feebly beating one hand against the ground, breath rasping in short gasps.

“Well?” Crecy snapped.

“I did,” Adrienne answered faintly. The scent of charred flesh was strong, and she remembered the heaps of dead on the barge.

“You did,” Crecy affirmed. She reached down and cupped Adrienne's face in both palms. “Hold this tight in your heart, Adrienne. They would have killed
you
. That was their inten
tion. Instead you killed them—you. Not some army, not some executioner, not some bodyguard.”

Adrienne watched the man's feeble movements. “Can we help him?”

“Yes. Do you want to watch?”

“I can't.”

“Turn around then.” Crecy leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, then turned her gently away from the dying man. An instant later, the labored breathing ceased.

“Now come on. We still have several miles to go.”

Adrienne proved incapable of managing either of the spirited mounts that survived the fight and so again clung to Crecy on a galloping horse. This time, however, she did not resist holding tightly; she
needed
the feel of a human body against her own.

She wished Crecy were Nicolas. Crecy's body was lean and hard, much as she had imagined Nicolas' might be. Holding Crecy now felt like salvation, like hope, though she knew she should be frightened of the woman and her strange powers. She felt Crecy's heartbeat, and she felt
life
there.

Nevertheless, she would rather it was Nicolas, his life, his heart. His last words to her thudded in her pulse and hissed in with each breath. She had never loved before. She could not, could not love Nicolas. Not now. It made no
sense
.

“How did you do that, Crecy?” she called through the wind, hoping in conversation to escape the thoughts and images rattling around in the coffin of her skull.

“Do what?” Crecy asked.

“Best a musketeer at swordplay.”

“It is something I have learned, that is all.”

“But how? Where? And your strength—”

“It is more than natural, yes,” Crecy replied, half turning. “Does this surprise you?” She laughed, deep in her throat. “Men are always surprised, too, when I turn my edge on them.”

“But how came you—”

“I have always possessed it, always nurtured it. It is another of my gifts.”