The Venusian Gambit (16 page)

Cagliostro motioned toward the side of his chair, where Weatherby’s sword was now leaning, well within the old puffer’s reach. Given his surprising dexterity within the library, Philip was quite willing to believe Cagliostro might make good use of the blade, even if such a supposition was generous. The blade, he knew, was treated in such a way as to cut through iron with ease, and was made by his mother’s hand.

“So,” Berthollet interrupted, “you will now tell us of your activities here. Or shall I be forced to use the serum upon you? I cannot say how long the side effects will last, or how debilitating they might be.”

Philip was about to answer, but Elizabeth spoke first. “We have given you little reason to do anything to us, and we shan’t confirm, one way or another, our identities to those who keep us captive illegally. We may be in your power, sir, and we cannot stop you from committing cowardly acts such as these. But we shall not be compliant, I assure you!”

Berthollet was about to speak when the door behind Philip opened. By the time he turned around, the two
Corps Éternel
guards had fallen lifelessly to the ground, and a black-cloaked figure stood in the doorway, pistol drawn and pointed at the French alchemists.

“I really can’t add much more to what the girl said,” the cloaked man stated. “Stand down,
messieurs
.”

Philip knew that voice, and a quick glance at Elizabeth confirmed it. “What took you so long, dear Uncle?” he said.

The man reached up to pull his hood back. “I had no idea you were in such a predicament, Philip,” Andrew Finch said. “I dare say your stepfather and mother will want a word with you on it.”

Before they could proceed further, both Cagliostro and Berthollet produced pistols—from where, only the Lord Himself could say—and were pointing them at Finch and Elizabeth. “So good to see you again, Andrew. I had hoped I might shoot you one day,” Berthollet said, and then fired at Finch from no more than fifteen feet away.

Philip shouted in anguished surprise, vaulting over the back of the sofa toward Finch. Yet the man he considered an uncle remained standing tall, with his weapon outstretched—this time at Cagliostro. “Do you wish to try me as well, Count Cagliostro?” Finch said. “I doubt you’ll have better luck.”

Cagliostro looked stricken, and slowly lowered his weapon. “Oh, you sad fool, what have you done?” he quietly asked Finch.

Finch, however, paid him no heed, focused as he was on Berthollet. “Why are you in Oxford,
monsieur
? Surely, your master Napoleon has plundered enough knowledge from the Continent to fuel your work, has he not?”

Berthollet slowly put down the pistol. His eyes were wide, and his hand trembled slightly. “Dr. Finch, it is clear now you have the upper hand, but I promise you, just as your young friends here bravely stood up to your questions, you will find Count Cagliostro and myself to be just as unhelpful to you.”

Philip regarded Cagliostro and Berthollet closely. Their demeanors had changed quite abruptly, though he knew not why; there were many alchemical workings that might stop or minimize the impact of a pistol shot. What had they seen? Philip was about to ask when the trampling of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside the room, and movement could be seen outside the windows as well.

The pistol shot. Of course the French would come running.

“We need to go, Uncle,” Philip said. “Now.”

Finch turned to Elizabeth, who nodded in agreement, then darted forward to recover her father’s sword from Cagliostro’s side. “Damn. All right then,” Finch said, then turned to Berthollet. “You’re fortunate I’ve still the vestiges of a gentleman in my character,
monsieur
, or you’d be dead. Another time, then.”

With that, Finch grabbed the hands of Philip and Elizabeth, placing them atop his left. In his right, he crushed some sort of clay figure and spoke rapid words in the Enochian tongue.

Then the world went black again, and an intense wave of dizziness assaulted Philip’s senses. He tried to open his eyes, but could only see shades of blackness whirling about him, as though he were in motion against an unknowable abyss.

A moment later, he could feel his feet upon the ground again, though he did not quite remember them leaving the ground in the first place. He opened his eyes…and stared, uncomprehending, at a well-lit, ancient castle off in the distance.

Elizabeth recognized it first. “Dear God, Uncle. Is that Edinburgh Castle?”

Finch smiled, though it was forced through great fatigue. It seemed the working had taken its toll on Finch, leaving him pale and sweating. “It is, my dear Elizabeth. And there your parents await you both.”

Elizabeth smiled at this, but a moment later, seemed quite dismayed as something occurred to her. “Uncle! We must go back to Oxford!”

Finch looked over at the young woman with concern and frustration. “Why the hell would we do that?” he panted.

“Philip’s message papers! They are in his room, are they not, Philip? Surely the French will search, and discover their secrets! We cannot let such a means of communication be discovered!”

Philip agreed, but Finch merely smiled again through gritted teeth as he straightened up and tried to shake off whatever malady his working wrought. “Give this old puffer a little credit, will you not? I stopped by Philip’s room first. When I saw the remnants of your invisibility working, I figured you had gone forth to determine what Berthollet was doing. I tried to find the message papers, but was unable to do so. They were hidden in your room, yes?”

“Yes, in a hidden compartment in my desk drawer,” Philip said. “Surely they will tear the room apart. They might well be found.”

“Don’t worry, Philip,” Finch said. “Since I could not find the message papers in a timely manner, I set fire to everything in your room. It’ll be fine.”

Elizabeth smiled, though Philip was taken aback. “There were some personal effects there I had hoped to keep, Uncle.”

Having finally caught his breath, Finch began walking unevenly toward Edinburgh. “It’s war, Philip. These things happen.”

Unimpressed, Philip followed Finch and Elizabeth into the town, which was quite dark given the hour. Nonetheless, they were allowed through the gate and escorted to the Royal Palace itself, whereupon they were taken in, given refreshment and assigned simple but comfortable rooms.

But sleep was difficult to come by, for there were questions swimming through the young alchemist’s head. And not all of them were about the French and their researches.

Thus it was that the valet entered Philip’s room in the morning to find him awake, staring out the window into the castle’s courtyard. The worthy brought tea and bread, as well as a fresh suit of clothes as befitting a Count—self-titled or otherwise. Philip had sometimes thought it ludicrous to have inherited a title that was adopted by his father on a whim and not, in fact, granted by any outside authority. But there were times when being a Count was a worthwhile thing, especially if it meant getting his first cup of real tea in many long months.

Once he had eaten, attended to his morning toilet and changed into his new clothes, Philip allowed his valet to escort him down toward the Great Hall. No doubt he would be called upon to give his testimony as to the French and their activities.

But first, of course, there was a reunion.

Elizabeth had found their parents first, just outside the Hall, and Lord Weatherby looked most satisfied at seeing his daughter again. Indeed, it seemed an errant tear had somehow escaped the Admiral’s weather eye as he alternated between gently scolding his daughter for the risks she had undertaken, and holding her stiflingly close.

Anne rushed to greet Philip upon spotting him, giving him a ferocious hug of surprising strength. He then submitted to an embarrassingly thorough examination, both physical and otherwise, as his mother looked him over head to toe and quizzed him as to his health, eating habits, alcohol intake and his most recent workings. Only when she was satisfied did she then hug him once more, and allow Lord Weatherby to approach.

“I might thank you for keeping my daughter safe, Philip, but from what I’m told, it seems the reverse was the case at times,” Weatherby said with a slight grin.

“We took turns until Uncle Andrew finally arrived,” Philip said, taking Weatherby’s offered hand. “It’s good to see you again, my Lord.”

Weatherby waved his hand. “For the millionth time, there’s no need for formality, Philip. Now, speaking of your dear ‘uncle,’ where did that scoundrel fly to now?”

“And more importantly,
how
does he fly?” Anne said pointedly. “I want to know exactly how he managed to get from Edinburgh to Oxford and back within a single night, because I had not thought such a thing possible.”

Weatherby looked at his wife in confusion. “Surely, it is but a variant of the Great Work recently discovered, is it not? He is a fine alchemist, Anne. How else might it be done?”

Anne merely scowled and, for a moment, the matronly side of her character showed through her still-youthful face. “I should wish to find out just that, Tom. Because there are but a handful of alchemists approaching his level of skill, and being one of them, I am surprised to be at a loss.”

At this timely juncture, Finch joined their party from a side room, and Weatherby noted once more that his pallor had not improved, though his mood had.

“What are we talking about?” Finch said, eschewing formality as usual.

Anne gave him a concerned, cross look. “Your workings, in point of fact. I should like to learn more of this method you used in traveling to Oxford and back within but a single evening.”

Finch easily detected the hint of challenge and worry in her voice. “I assure you, my dearest lady, that I shall be publishing forthwith, and would be happy to discuss with you at any time,” he said, attempting to be serious and mostly succeeding.

Before they could speak further, the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and Weatherby’s family was announced and allowed to proceed for their audience with the Prince Regent, who was present along with Castlereagh and, to Weatherby’s surprise, Vellusk once more.

“I had not thought to see you here, Representative Vellusk,” Weatherby said once the formalities were done.

Before the Xan could reply, Prince George spoke up. “We are finalizing the details of our alliance, Lord Weatherby, which I believe will allow us to drive the French from our green England once and for all. But, the worthy Representative found himself curious as to your son and daughter’s experiences in Oxford, so I allowed him to stay.”

Weatherby smiled slightly at this; George needed Vellusk far more than Vellusk needed George—or England, for that matter. Thankfully, Vellusk was a diplomat, both by nature and vocation, and simply took the prince’s words for the bombast they were. “We have been concerned about the French and their activities since the crisis on Xanath’s rings, as you know, Lord Weatherby,” Vellusk sang. “The Emerald Tablet was destroyed, and
The Book of the Dead
missing. So we are naturally curious to find both Berthollet and Cagliostro together, and working on behalf of France.”

Weatherby turned to Philip. “My Lord Count St. Germain, and my daughter, the Lady Weatherby—would you be so kind as to give a report on your experiences? It seems they are of great interest to many people upon many worlds.”

And so Philip did, with frequent elucidation and interjection from Elizabeth. Of course, their findings could only be summarized to a certain point. The French had an interest in Venus, where they already had both army and naval forces, and that interest likely had to do with some “vault,” which seemed to be a building or artifact of, or at least cared for by, the Venusians—the Va’hak’ri tribe, in particular.

Upon hearing the full tale, Representative Vellusk sat stoically, but the rippling of his body under his robes indicated a degree of intensity about him—if not outright distress. “I had wondered if this was something the French might attempt,” he sang finally, with notes of worry and an undertone of malice.

“Attempt what?” the Prince Regent demanded. “Do you know what this vault is about?”

Vellusk nodded, his hooded cloak bobbing. “It is a repository of the history of the Venusian people, drawn from their very memories. If a Venusian witnessed something, and was able to return to the vault prior to death, that creature’s memories would be preserved for all time. And through their primitive ritual practices, the Venusians would be able to tap into those memories, and learn much about the past. It is, really, how their primitive version of alchemy has lasted to this day—and likely the reason their growth has stagnated, as such a system does not allow for a great deal of innovation.”

They all thought on this for several moments, until Weatherby finally spoke. “I believe this is something I saw, long ago on Venus, after Count Cagliostro’s attack on the Va’hak’ri. Finch was there as well. It was as though they drew the memories out of the dying and dead.”

Anne nodded. “The Venusians would often take their sick to places such as this vault when I was unable to treat them, back when the late Count and I took up residence on Venus and we served as physicians. Now, if the French were able to find this vault and access the memories therein, they may find something useful within them.”

“Yes, they’re focusing on Venus,” Finch said quietly, looking inwardly for a moment before turning to the group again. “We’re forgetting something. Cagliostro was there.”

Weatherby shrugged. “And? He had interactions with the Va’hak’ri back in ’79. He did quite a lot of research on Venus. Surely he’s still useful in that regard, even stripped of his alchemical power.”

But Finch shook his head. “No, there’s more to it. Venus has been surveyed by our own Royal Society several times, and the French colonies there have many experts. Cagliostro, meanwhile, was tied up with the ‘affair of the necklace,’ then imprisoned in the Vatican, and likely just released by Berthollet not long ago. His information is surely out of date.”

“So what then?” said George, crossing his arms and growing impatient.