The Venusian Gambit (2 page)

“It is well that you have figured this out, for you know full well there is nothing to be done about it,” Althotas hissed. “These souls will travel from life to life, down through the centuries, until such time as you are forgotten, and the spirit of my people will rise again in new form.”

“No,” the voice sang with notes of sadness, tempered with an undercurrent of steel. “We have harvested these souls. We have tracked them down and captured them, bringing them back to our Pool of Souls, so that they may learn peace amongst others of our kind.”

Althotas hung his head, but smiled inwardly. The ritual was massive—more massive than they had suspected. It would be impossible for them to capture every soul. There would be enough for them to one day rally, when the time was right.

“You have the blood of the lizard and ape people upon your hands, then, along with your own kind,” Althotas said. “So much for your peace.”

“Peace is larger than any one life, Althotas,” the voice said, tiredly.

“So is vengeance.”

“Vengeance is not our way,” the voice replied. “The lives taken to free the souls trapped in other forms was a mercy. We will hide these cursed objects you used for your working, so that they may not be used again. The apes and lizards will not be polluted with your ways. They shall grow independently, and we have agreed to remove ourselves from them as well.

“And for your crimes,” the voice continued, sounding notes of triumph and determination, “
you
will be removed from all of us.”

Althotas smiled once more. “Then kill me and be done with it. I tire of your vapid songs.”

The boxes at the Martian’s feet began to hum, and lights began to glow upon them.

“You will not be slain.”

It took several moments for these song-words to sink into Althotas’ mind. “So how, then, do you propose to ‘remove me,’ Xan?” he spat. “You know that I will struggle to escape from any prison you place upon me. Or I shall simply take my own life to be rid of you.”

“You will do neither. We have created a special prison to remove you not from society, or from the sight of other creatures, but from this very dimension.”

As the hum increased in pitch and intensity, Althotas noticed a spot of darkness starting to form before him. It seemed as there was a rip in the very air of the chamber itself, a swirling eddy in reality itself that sucked all light and life from around itself. As it grew, the warlord thought he saw the blackness move within the fissure. In that moment, with all his occult and alchemical knowledge, Althotas came to a conclusion that shook him to his core—he would be removed from reality itself, and placed in a prison where no light, no sound, no sense of
being
would be permitted. It would be no less than his own personal hell. Althotas could sense the very fabric of reality fraying as the blackness grew. “You have no idea the powers you tamper with!” Althotas shouted. “Complete your working, you cowards, and be damned for it! You fools would tear apart your world to be rid of me, so do it! You are like children with fire, and you will burn for it someday. Know that you should have simply spilled my blood and be done with it, for so long as I live, in whatever place you send me—
I will find a way out.
”

The boxes began to glow with a bright, white light and the rift before Althotas grew wider…blacker…as if it were about to swallow everything and extinguish all joy and happiness from the universe.

But Althotas had not known joy or happiness for many years.

With a scream, he leapt into the rift.

And the universe shuddered.

June 20, 1803

“Stop tugging at it, Tom, or I swear I shall hang you by it!”

Sir Thomas Weatherby, Knight of the Bath, former captain of HMS
Fortitude
and newly promoted Rear Admiral of the Blue in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, clenched his fists at his side while his longtime friend, Dr. Andrew Finch, adjusted his cravat. There was, in Weatherby’s opinion, nothing more useless than a cravat, and should he rise to such a rank in the service where he might effectively do so, he planned to order them out of existence.

Yet even Finch’s clumsy efforts at sartorial improvement were not enough to dent Weatherby’s overall excellent mood. “Have you seen her yet today?” Weatherby asked.

Finch smiled, finally giving up on Weatherby’s cravat for the moment. “She looks quite lovely, as you very well know,” he replied quietly. “One does not become a legendary alchemist without using a bit of working on one’s appearance, you know.”

“She does not need it,” Weatherby said. “She never has.”

“Well, you could use a bit, old man,” Finch said. “I keep offering, as I know she has, but you refuse it.”

Weatherby smiled back at this old jibe. He knew of the gray in his brown hair, the lines upon his face drawn by wind and weather, Sun-motes and Void-storm. The scar upon his face more than two decades old, and other, fresher, nicks and cuts. Yet his eyes shone clear, as sharp as the day he became a midshipman, and he remained strong and healthy by whatever grace he had earned in the service of His Majesty’s Navy.

Of course, he wouldn’t be surprised if his love had been slipping some alchemical concoctions in his tea to keep him hale. But not his looks.

“She has never offered, Doctor. Perhaps she enjoys my countenance perfectly well as it is. Besides,” he added, casting a weather eye upon his old friend, “you’re looking a bit haggard yourself. Your researches of late are all too consuming. It took my very wedding to pry you from your labs!” And indeed, Finch looked altogether wan and pale, though still strong and quick of step. His sandy blond hair was receding and graying as well, and there had been ever-present circles under his eyes of late.

Finch favored his old friend with a wink. “I dare say your wedding, old man, is perhaps the finest miracle anyone might have wrought, so of course I had to see it. And it’s about bloody time.”

A few steps away, Brownlow North, Bishop of Winchester, cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I do believe we are ready, Sir Thomas. Shall we?”

Weatherby grinned, shot a look at Finch, and exhaled. “Most certainly, my Lord Bishop. Thank you.”

The bishop nodded toward the back of Portsmouth’s Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury. And the dowager Countess St. Germain began her walk, smiling radiantly.

Finch’s indiscreet comments to whether the former Anne Baker used alchemical means to provide her with the bloom of youth, as many women with means had begun to do as alchemy became more prevalent, may certainly have been true. Yet Weatherby did not care one way or the other, for he knew he would always see her through the eyes of a nervous 18-year-old second lieutenant who had fallen hard for the brilliant, determined young woman with a knack for alchemy.

“You know, Tom,” Finch whispered, “first love rarely gets a second chance. Do try not to foul it up.”

Weatherby turned quickly toward his friend, only to see the impish smile he’d come to know well over the years, and the sparkle in his eye despite his wan countenance. “I think I can manage, Finch. I’ll simply avoid repeating your mistakes in affairs of the heart.”

Lady Anne reached the altar in quick time despite the peach-colored dress that seemed to envelop her. She was flanked by her son, Philip the Count St. Germain, and Weatherby’s daughter Elizabeth. Both Weatherby and Anne had married after they drifted apart, and they were both widowed. Second chances indeed.

Weatherby took a moment to marvel at both children, now all but grown. Philip had recently been accepted to read alchemy at Trinity College, Oxford, while the young Elizabeth hoped to follow in a few short years, as her intensive readings and studies of the Xan and Venus had already impressed some of the foremost academics of the day. Even for a bookish girl like Elizabeth, reading at Oxford would’ve been impossible but a few short years ago. But when your future stepmother was one of the foremost alchemists in the Known Worlds—and a woman possessing of a formidable personality besides—doors could open. If there was a way for Elizabeth to study at a university such as Oxford, Weatherby had no doubt that his soon-to-be wife would find it.

Then Weatherby’s gaze fell back upon Anne, and all other thoughts were lost. Amazing how she could still do that to him.

Weatherby took Anne’s hand and kissed it, receiving a brilliant smile in return. Her blonde hair shimmered in the morning light streaming through the church’s windows, accented by the sparkling motes she had created and placed into her tresses that morning. She looked utterly ethereal.

Another cough from Bishop North brought their attention to the matter at hand. “Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned…”

Weatherby let the good bishop speak on, not heeding the words, instead holding the hands of the woman he loved for so long. Finch was quite right; there were rarely second chances at first love. To think that she had harbored such feelings for him as well was a revelation. Had the circumstances been different upon their second meeting, Weatherby would’ve married her sooner.

As it was, four years seemed appropriate, given the nature of their reunion, which involved the need to hunt down and kill her then-husband, the Count St. Germain, who’d been trying to unleash a new alien hell upon the Known Worlds. Even in the most thorough works of etiquette, such circumstances were wholly unheard of.

“Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

The following silence drew Weatherby and Anne away from each other, turning and smiling toward the small congregation invited to this most intimate affair. A handful of senior officers and their wives, notable alchemists, some of London’s more scandalously intelligent women—it was an eclectic mix of sailors and society, academics and rebels. And they were friends, most importantly. Even Sir James Morrow, well and truly retired for the first time in his life, came down from Cambridgeshire for the festivities.

Suddenly, from outside the church doors, they heard a faint scream.

Weatherby looked to Anne, who looked back at him with equal measures of bewilderment, annoyance and amusement. Surely it was a bit early in the day for revelries, but Portsmouth was indeed a major port for the Royal Navy, and revelries for men long at sea knew no clocks.

It was upon the second scream, and the third, that the murmuring of the crowd began.

At this juncture, the doors at the rear of the church burst open, and a young man wearing the uniform of a midshipman ran through, racing up the aisle to the gasps of all in attendance.

Weatherby’s first thought was the sword at his side. Shedding blood in a church was bad form, of course, but one does what one must.

“Admiral!” the boy panted. “Urgent message from the Admiralty, sir! Portsmouth is under attack! You must…” The boy slowed to a walk, his face turning the color of beets, as realization of the ceremony he’d burst into dawned upon him.

“Under attack?” Weatherby asked, motioning the young midshipman forward so that he might deliver the message upon the paper clutched in his hand. “Surely not! Would not our pickets have detected an incoming fleet early on?”

The boy once again found his feet and ran up to the admiral, surrendering his papers. Weatherby snatched it up and began scanning it quickly. He quickly ran pale. “Under the channel…dear God.”

He looked up at the crowd assembled for what was to be a joyous day. “I am afraid it is true. Portsmouth is currently under attack by a French invasion. Please take your carriages and flee immediately. Head north, either for Oxford or Bristol. Midshipman, escort these people to their carriages and horses, if you please, and get them on their way with all due haste.”

The boy ran back down the aisle, but the crowd simply gaped at Weatherby, stunned and uncomprehending.

“Damn you all, go!” Weatherby roared. “The French are upon our very shores!”

Weatherby’s outburst brought the crowd to its feet and immediately they made for the doors in a perfect rush and panic. Elizabeth and Philip stood close by their parents, unsure as to what else they might do, while Finch stood resolutely by Weatherby’s side.

And Sir James Morrow remained as well, third bench upon the right side, his weathered hands pulling him upright. “I suggest you get on with it, Tom,” he said gently. “We haven’t much time.”

Weatherby shook his head sadly before turning back to the bishop with eyes wide and visage most grim. “My Lord Bishop, we will have to delay our ceremony under the circumstances.”

The clergyman, a wiry and spry man in his early sixties, was understandably taken aback. “Excuse me, my Lord Admiral?” And when Weatherby looked upon Anne, her face bore great surprise—and restrained fury.

Weatherby squeezed Anne’s hand. “I am afraid, my love, we must away before it is too late.”

To Weatherby’s very great surprise, Anne pulled him back as he made to leave. “I have waited far too long for this, and will not wait a moment longer. My Lord Bishop, how quickly can you marry us?”

Bishop North was, by this point, completely at a loss. “I suppose but a minute or two, my lord.”

“Very well,” Weatherby said. “Pronounce it quickly, then! Finch, keep watch.”

The good bishop began quickly flipping through his prayer book, reciting the words necessary to join the couple before him in matrimony, even as the tumult outside began to increase. Finch stood in the rear of the church, his head poked through the door, joined by a half dozen officers, armed with naught but swords, who had stayed to protect the couple during the now abbreviated ceremony.

“Do you, Thomas, take this woman, Anne, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have…” The bishop trailed off as Weatherby arched an eyebrow. “Do you, sir?” the bishop stammered.