Newton's Cannon (40 page)

“The man sounds as if he was nothing but a swindler, a charlatan, a kidnapper. And yet he brought the elixir of life.”

“Have some imagination, Adrienne. If he could steal a duchess, he could steal an elixir from some great Egyptian magus, could he not?”

“I suppose.”

Crecy shrugged. “Perhaps the elixir
itself
was fraudulent. Perhaps the king recovered on his own.”

“No, the elixir was real,” Adrienne answered. “Some of the philosophers tried it on someone else before they tried it on the king.”

“Naturally. It might have been poison.”

“Yes. They gave it to a young man who was dying of consumption. It saved him.”

“I see.” Crecy's eyes narrowed a bit.

“Not only that, but as it turned out, it conferred other lasting benefits. When he was kicked by a horse onto a sharp stake, it impaled him, but he did not die.”

“This is more fascinating than my story. Go on.”

“This young man was of mean birth. The physicians gave it out that he had died, and they took him to the laboratories of the Academy of Sciences. There they tried to kill him in every way imaginable. Though many of their methods reduced him to a wretched state, he never died.”

“What became of him?”

“I suppose he is there yet. He went mad, and the physicians lost interest in him.”

“How do you know this?” Crecy asked, wide-eyed.

Adrienne lifted the notebook from her skirt and handed it across the table.

“Torcy gave me this,” she said.

“What is it?”

“The notes of one of the physicians I just spoke of, and of an alchemist who worked with him. Notes of their experimentation upon ‘Martin.’ ”

“Why in the name of God did Torcy give you that?”

“Because I am to kill the king for him,” Adrienne said simply. “No, do not act surprised, Crecy, please.”

“I won't. I wasn't sure he had yet approached you.”

“So Torcy told the truth. It
was
the Korai who engineered the attack upon the barge.”

“It was. I was there to see to it that you survived, Adrienne.”

“And to cause the explosion.”

“That, too. You amaze me.”

“Why? Because I can see what even a child can see?”

Crecy shook her head. “No. Everyone else believed that it was the Englishman and his magic musket. Even the Englishman believed it.”

“Yes, until Nicolas killed him.”

Crecy actually gasped and touched her hand to her breast. “Incredible,” she murmured.

“Ridiculous. That was the easiest part. Once I suspected that the Englishman was a ruse, I asked discreet questions of the stablemaster. Torcy had told me that the murderer was killed by a guard of the Hundred Swiss: Nicolas knew where the Englishman would go because he was part of the plot. Admit it.”

“I am sworn not to speak of that, and yet the theory seems quite logical.”

“I am sure it does. How long has Nicolas been one of the Korai?”

“He is not one of us. Only a woman can be one of us. But his mother …”

“No, don't tell me. Castries?”

“Yes. He is a bastard; she went to Florence to have him. Few know. His father, d'Artagnan, raised him.”

“Well, then, I wonder if his mother knows he is also a spy for Torcy?”

Crecy frowned and was silent for a moment, and then she said, “He is, isn't he? But I didn't see it either. I doubt that Castries knows.”

“Never fear,” Adrienne remarked, “I shall ask him.”

* * *

Nicolas made no attempt to deny the accusation. Instead, he bowed his head, removed his hat, and lowered himself onto the bench. A faint wind lisped through the high leaves of the trees, but here, among their straight boles, it was still.

“You must understand,” he said very quietly, “that I did what I had to do.”

Adrienne, standing, crossed her arms across her breast and stared at him, silently daring him to raise his gaze to meet hers. “And how is that, Nicolas? How is it that what you ‘had to do’ was betray me? You say that you love me.”

He looked up at the ancient red marble of the pavilion, the grape vines crawling from the forest to swallow it, the tiny chapel nearby.

“Believe me or not,” he said. “But I brought you here to tell you. If you had not confronted me—”

“I am certain you speak the truth,” she retorted. “For I am infallible regarding you, am I not? You have played me like a harp, Nicolas. You have plucked my strings, and I have sung your tune. But I—” Her breath caught. This wasn't going as she wished.

At last, his dark eyes focused on her, wells of remorse, and she faltered. “I meant to tell you,” he repeated. “I had to report to Torcy. If I had not, someone else would have, and then he would no longer trust me. And he must trust me when I betray him. Adrienne, look to your heart. You know I love you.”

“My heart? My heart is an imbecile. There is nothing trustworthy about my heart. And what do you mean, betray Torcy? What—” Hot tears streamed down her face, but her voice stayed steady.

“Come here,” he said almost harshly, his long frame unfolding. In four steps he had reached her, taken her arm in a grip almost too tight. She jerked violently, but his grasp remained secure.

“Come,” he said more softly and tugged her toward the little chapel.

“I found this place long ago,” he told her. “I think it must have been here even before Louis XIII built the first Versailles. No one else comes here.”

They now stood just within the dimness of the building. Nicolas withdrew a small, glowing stone from his pocket, and the single room grew visible.

Inside was a small, austere altar and crucifix. In the right-hand corner there was a pile of blankets, leather packs, a musket.

“Nicolas? What is this?”

“We are leaving Versailles,” he said, “today. Now. I have the things there that we need—forged documents, supplies, everything.”

“Why?”

“Torcy knows you will fail to kill the king,” Nicolas hissed. “He hopes your attempt will drive him mad or some such. Torcy is desperate, Adrienne, and he does not care what becomes of you. I do.”

“How long have you planned this?”

“Since first I met you, I think,” he replied. “I hope that in time you will understand. I hope you will forgive me.”

She took his head in both hands and kissed him, burying her lips against his. He was a furnace, a portal to flame and alchemical mystery, to immolation. She sought more and more, until in the end they slipped together onto the chapel floor, bodies gripping tighter than hands enfisted until they reached the physical limits of human embrace, went a pace farther, and finally collapsed back into space and time, exhausted.

Lying there, counting his ribs, she laughed and kissed him with lips still salty from tears.

“What?” he panted.

She gestured at the crucifix. “I suppose now that I am damned beyond redemption,” she said. “But I love you, Nicolas d'Artagnan.”

“Then you will go with me?”

“No,” she said. “No, but afterward …”

He reached his hand up to her lips, and she kissed the tips of his fingers. “There will be no afterward,” he said. “Not if you try to kill the king. You will not survive, Adrienne.”

“Yes, I will, Nicolas, and then we shall away together. Not before.”

“Adrienne—”

“Shhh. You asked me to forgive you. So I shall, my sweet, but you must abide my wishes. For a change, we must do as I say.” She hesitated. “It tempts me, Nicolas, but I must do this.”

His tender gaze turned somewhat stony, but at last he nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Now—” She gently disentangled from his embrace and stood naked in the dark chapel, feeling instantly shy. Ruefully she picked through her clothes. “It was here somewhere,” she said. “Ah!” She brought forth a folded note. “Take this to Torcy and tell him I need this made.”

Nicolas sat up, leaned back on his elbows, and after a moment surrendered a little half-smile. “Give me a kiss first, and I will consider it.”

She did, and thus another half hour passed before they emerged from the chapel, Adrienne inspecting her clothing for damage. Most of it was unseen, and Adrienne thought how pleased Crecy would be at the state of her stockings.

Ben pounded on the door, his fist driven by a rising sense of desperation. “Robin!” he shouted. “Please, open up!”

Something rattled beyond the portal; someone cursed. Finally came the scratch of the bolt drawing, and the door opened a crack.

“Damn,” Robert muttered from within. “I was wonderin' when you'd be back.” Even through the narrow gap, Ben caught the faint juniper stench of gin. “What th'hell do y' want?”

“It's important, Robin. Let me in, please.”

Robert grunted and pushed the door open, stumbled back into the apartment. “Lost my job,” he explained. “Not that I expect you t' care. What did y' come back for, t' press the debt I owe you?”

“You don't owe me any debts, Robin. It's I who owe you.”

“That's a fine thing to
say
,” Robert grumbled. “But y' must want something. You didn't come back here out of friendship.”

“I
did
.”

“Hum. So will y' visit Boston next, an' y'r friends there?”

Ben felt he could hardly breathe. “Look, Robin, I can't explain it,” he gasped, not sure what he was saying. “I seem to have a knack of putting people out of my mind. When I think about it, it grieves me, but not so much as I
do
anything about it. I don't know why I'm that way.”

Robert arched an eyebrow and then traced the sign of the cross. “Well, my son,” he muttered sarcastically, “now that I've heard your confession—”

“Dammit, Rob, I've come back to save your life!” Ben shouted.
“Dammit, dammit …” His pulse was rushing in his ears. He seemed to be outside himself, watching some sort of poorly written comedy. As his knees buckled and he sank to the floor, he thought what a pity it was that theatrics were so often substituted for wit.

He came to with Robert flicking beer into his face. “No water,” the older man said gruffly. It seemed like an apology. “I shouldn't have given you such a hard time for doin' what I myself have done a thousand times. Hell, Ben, you don't know how often I thought about taking your money and just leavin' you.” He grinned toothily. “I s'pose it's like with a woman. No matter how often y' think a' leavin'
them
, when you find
they've
gone and left
you
, it grieves you. Now. Suppose you trace back a few steps and tell me what got you so upset.”

Ben still felt faint. His skin had a sort of papery feel, and his mouth was dry. “Give me a cup of that beer,” he gasped.

It was small beer, weak and cidery, but it wet his tongue and lips and made him feel a bit better.

“This will sound mad, Robin, but you have to believe what I say.”

“Go on.”

“In less than a week, London's going to be annihilated, and I'm to blame.”

Robert blinked, but otherwise his expression didn't change. “Go on,” he said.

“I know it sounds mad,” Ben repeated, and told him the story. In his mind, it had acquired a sort of
crystalline
structure, all of the elements coming together at once—not unlike how he had seen the way to tune an aetherschreiber. His correspondence with the unknown philosophers; their calculations of trajectories and their search for a way of altering those trajectories. Then Newton's cryptic model, and finally, all at once, the two mysteries meeting.

“I gave them the key,” he finished. “I made it possible.”

Robert pushed his fingers through his copper-tinged hair and sighed. “You want me to believe that the French king has summoned down a comet from the heavens t' smite London? Jesus
and Mary! This thing you're after telling me …” He waved his hands despairingly.

“I know. But it's true.”

“Why tell me? Tell your fine scientific friends! Tell the king!”

“I'm telling you because I want you to leave London and save your life.”

“That's it?”

“No. I also needed to tell someone I trust. In case something happens to me.”

“
Now
what are y' going on about? No more of your mysterious talk, Benjamin Franklin. Everything plain!”

“I don't know. Just a feeling. All the way back in Boston, Bracewell
knew
. He
knew
that I had gained some information about this plot. I don't know how—maybe some way of tracing the aetheric path back to my schreiber—”

“I thought he threatened y' before y' made the schreiber.”

“That was on general principles. But after I wrote to the French philosophers, all hell broke loose. Don't you see? He's connected to all of this. Now Maclaurin and Vasilisa—all of us—we all know about the comet. And they must
know
we know.”

“Because you think there's an Englishman informing.”

“Yes.”

“Aye. Because the transactions were in English and Latin. So even if the magi behind all of this are French—”

“They certainly had help from here. They would have had to, to aim the comet so precisely. Robin, they had to tune the comet to harmonize with London.”

“What about this other society, the Philosophical Society? Might they be the villains?”

“Maybe. But I think I know who the traitor is, Robert.”

Ben finished the mug of beer in one long draught and set the cup down. “I think it's Sir Isaac himself.”

“Sir Isaac?” Robert turned incredulous eyes upon Ben.

“Hear me out.”

“I'm listening.”

“One. Sir Isaac has ample reason to be angry at the Crown—”

“This isn't the Crown, Ben. 'Tis the city of London and a million souls!”

“Two,” Ben continued stubbornly, “he could be deranged. All of his disciples think he is and have therefore either quit the Royal Society—which I remind you has been dissolved—or have stuck with him from loyalty. I have met him, and he hardly impressed me as sane.”

“Three?”

“Three, he made the model—”

“Which goes against your case. Why would he arrange all this and then warn his disciples?”

“You just said it, Robert. He's warning the only people he still cares about.”

“And the only people who could cast some counterspell.”