Empire of Unreason (10 page)

“Oh, I shan’t insult you by claiming ‘twas an accident,” Sterne replied. “I requested this seat.”

“Well, I’m mighty pleased to meet you, Mr. Sterne. I’m afraid that—like almost everyone here—I’m a bit stupefied by events. It isn’t every day that a long-lost monarch returns to us.”

“A happy day, I hope.”

“Well, sir, I find that happiness is not so much the product of rare occurrences as it is of many small and everyday things.” He raised his glass. “To the small things,” he said.

Sterne raise his own cup, “The small things,” he repeated, a little dubiously.

“And, of course, to the king,” Franklin added.

“The king!” Sterne said, more enthusiastically.

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“And so, Mr. Sterne, what interest do you have in philosophy?”

“I would much like to discuss particulars of philosophy with you, Mr. Franklin, though perhaps not at the moment, for fear of boring such beautiful ladies.”

He gestured with his glass toward Lenka and the other women within earshot.

“However, I will tell you that my chief interest at the moment is not so much in philosophy as in philosophers. I am, you see, charged by His Majesty with creating a department of philosophy for his court. With the ultimate aim, I might add, of establishing a scientific academy.”

“I see,” Franklin replied, weighing that.

“I can think of no better man to head such a department than you,” Sterne went on. “It would be an immense favor to me—and to His Majesty, I assure you—if you would consider the position. I promise you, there will be an adequate pension involved.”

Franklin sipped a bit of his wine, a tart vintage, perhaps Portuguese.

The third service seemed to have begun—scalloped veal, roast hen and rabbit, two sorts of salad. Just the sight of them made Franklin a bit sick.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that the colonies are my home, Mr. Sterne, and I do not wish to go abroad. But it is a flattering offer.”

“But, Mr. Franklin—surely you are aware that His Majesty wishes to make his court here, in Charles Town.”

It seemed to Franklin that the entire world dislocated somewhat. “I see,” he managed.

“And so there would be no need for any immigration.”

Franklin took a bigger sip of the wine. “It is a most tempting offer,” he replied,

“one which I would much like to discuss the particulars of—but perhaps not at the moment, at this table, for fear, as you say, of boring the ladies.”

Sterne smiled and raised his glass. “Touche, Mr. Franklin. But I will hold you EMPIRE OF UNREASON

to that discussion.”

Franklin nodded and glanced back up the table to where James sat.
So you
will move England entire,
he thought dryly.

Already agitated, he then saw something that sent a midwinter chill right to his bone. Beyond Sterne stood the king, and speaking to him was a tall, dapper man in a dark suit, the black ringlets of his periwig falling to his shoulders. He was laughing at some joke of the king’s, and for an instant Franklin thought he saw the man’s eyes flash red, and the air thicken and coil at his back. Slowly, Franklin reached into his pocket, grasping for the cool, flat round of his malakim compass. He glanced down at it as he might a watch.

The needle pointed dead straight at the man.

“I make it only five o’clock,” Sterne said, apparently noticing his motions. “Is that a late hour in the colonies?”

“Passing so,” Franklin murmured.

He should never have put off questioning his captive. It might be a late hour for the colonies indeed.

8.

Taxonomy

The air in the Royal Botanical garden was humid and hot, gravid with the perfume of the orchids and acrid scent of decaying soil, tanged with exotic hints of India, Tahiti, mysterious Africa, and Madagascar.

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Adrienne hardly noticed it. Determined to go on as if nothing was amiss, she walked through the gardens with her students, as she had planned. Her only visible concession to the danger she suspected were two of her Lorraine guards, but unseen forces followed her in a swarm. To the outward seeming, then, she preserved her air of nonchalance, of business as usual. Within—she remembered her son, Nico. As an infant clinging to her chest in war-torn France, as toddler with the army of Lorraine—as a strange image in Far Eastern raiment. As an absence, a cavity in her heart.

She tried to distract herself by observing her students, to be amused by their innocent enthusiasm and occasional knowing glances at one another.

“What fascinating plants, these orchids,” one of them said, a blondish young man named Carl von Linne.

“When I was a student at Saint Cyr,” Adrienne remarked, stroking her finger across the purple inner lip of a particularly outlandish blossom, “we were not allowed to see even drawings of orchids. They were said to incite lascivious passions.”

“I—I didn’t—” Carl floundered, his light Swedish complexion suddenly very pink. “I don’t understand,” he finished, somewhat unconvincingly. From the corner of her eye, Adrienne could see that her other pupil—a young Frenchwoman named Gabrielle Emilie Le Tonnelier de Breteuil—was likewise blushing.

“Mademoiselle Breteuil, is Monsieur Linne’s fascination contagious?”

Breteuil was quick to compose herself. She fixed astonishing, sea-green eyes upon Adrienne. “I am fascinated, as he is, by their subtle variation. I am intrigued that God, not content to make one sort of orchid, made so many.”

“Yes,” Linne said, after clearing his throat. “That is my interest in these plants, Mademoiselle.”

“Then you would be just as fascinated by, say, the varieties of moss?”

“Of course. In fact, I—Emi—I mean Mademoiselle Breteuil and I—wished to EMPIRE OF UNREASON

speak to you on that subject.”

“Do go on.”

Linne smiled nervously. He was not bad looking, but neither was he handsome; not too tall, a little shy, slightly pudgy but with a kind, rather seal-like face. “It occurs to me that it might be useful to put the kinds and varieties of plants—and other living things—upon a systematic and scientific basis.”

“Why?”

“Why—to see how God has organized his living things. It is the nature of science, is it not?”

She sighed. “It is. But how is it that you come to
me
with this? My interest in the botanical is limited to the aesthetic.”

“Yes, we know,” Breteuil chimed in. “But—”

“And—as I recall, Mademoiselle—your interest in plants is rather recent. I have always thought you more inclined to mathematics and pneumatology,”

Adrienne interrupted.

“Yes, my lady. But in this instance, Monsieur Linne and I have joined our interests.”

“I suspected as much,” Adrienne said a little dryly, and had the pleasure of seeing them blush again. “I will be fascinated to hear how.”

“Plants can be classified by their characteristics,” Linne interjected. “Grouped by certain likenesses and distinguished by differences. I believe that this is how our Creator made living things—an orchid is a kind of plant,
apalma
Christi
a kind of orchid, and so on. And if He made plants in such a way, then surely animals, too. And if animals…” he trailed off, a little uncertainly.

“We believe,” Breteuil finished for him, “that such a system could comprehend the malakim as well.”

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Adrienne stopped and looked at the two as if they stood in the light of an entirely new sun. She tended to think of them as very young—they were both twenty-five—but she was only six years their senior. Linne had come to the academy from the university at Uppsala, Breteuil as a penniless refugee from France, under the care of the mathematician Mauper-tuis. Both were, in her estimation, brilliant but naive. She tended to underestimate them.

“That’s good,” she said. “I once contemplated such an endeavor—for the malakim, not plants—but never quite got around to it. But let me ask you this, Mademoiselle. As Monsieur Linne has suggested, plants might be categorized by their morphology. But the malakim, with few exceptions, are invisible to our eyes. What features would you classify them by?”

Breteuil smiled. She was not a beautiful girl, exactly—she was big boned but not fat, and tall and almost masculine. But her smile and bright eyes went far to correct any deficits of figure, as Linne had apparently decided. Or perhaps he was that rarest breed of man—attracted to intellect more than flesh.

“I would classify them by mathematical characteristics, my lady.”

“Very good. Well, then, you have my permission to proceed.”

“We will certainly need your help, my lady. No one knows more about the malakim than you.”

Adrienne acknowledged that with a reluctant nod, and continued her walk, trying to enjoy the garden. She normally did; the world around her languished beneath ice and snow, but here, in this garden heated by scientific arts, lived things from the farthest reaches of the world. Today, she could only wonder which corner of an all-too-large world held her son. And why—very much,
why.

And who. Who would she make
pay
for this?

She shook her head. Had someone asked her a question? Handsome in his blue uniform, one of her Lorraine guards, looking a bit bored, ambled ahead.

Behind her, her two pupils chattered excitedly, discussing their plans.

A small cough from behind drew her attention. Elizavet was following them.

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“Pardon, Mademoiselle, but I was of the impression that I had a tutorial today.”

Adrienne motioned to Linne and Breteuil. “I will rejoin you shortly,” she said.

Taking the tsarevna by the arm, she guided her through a stand of date palms to a more private area.

“Elizavet, you should have stayed at my house. I will teach you there tonight.”

Elizavet lifted her chin. “I was frightened last night, as you know. But today I remember who I am. I am the daughter of Tsar Peter, and I will not cower.”

“Like your father, you sometimes have more pride than sense,” Adrienne replied. “Better that you do not remind them that you exist. I cannot protect you, if you do not stay near me.”

Seeing that Elizavet still looked determined, she sighed. “Very well. We will go have your lesson, but then you must return to my house.”

Adrienne rubbed her eyes, trying to keep her attention focused on the book before her. The notes of a certain Millescu—a Russian ambassador to the Chinese court of more than half a century ago—were by turns fascinating, irritating, and boring. She was in one of the boring spots, now, but she hesitated to skip over any of it, when anywhere she might find some clue that would lead her to her son. The most interesting thing to her seemed to be a strange—bizarre, even—policy of the Chinese court. In the last century, Cossack settlers in disputed areas of Siberia had been captured, taken to the capital of Peking, and detained there indefinitely. The strange thing was with what silken cords these no-doubt rough Cossacks had been bound. The Chinese emperor had given them their own quarter in the city and provided them with homes, positions, and two wives apiece. He had allowed them an Orthodox chapel and even encouraged them to send to Russia for priests. In time, the ban on their travel was lifted. They were free to return to Russia, but few did, for what seemed obvious reasons. Might her son be in some similar straits? Kidnapped, adopted as Chinese, given a place of honor? She knew that slaves of the Turks often rose to become lords of the sultan’s inner palace, but she was quite sure that her son was not with the Turks. Since he had been lost during the tsar’s ill-fated invasion of Venice, that was naturally her first EMPIRE OF UNREASON

thought; and for many years she had focused her attention there.

Before she had given up, that is. And she
had
given up, hadn’t she, when the grief and frustration became unbearable?

She pushed the guilty thought away. What hope had she had before? She had done what she could.

Anyway, neither was her son a Cossack, who had wandered into Chinese territory. How would such a distant and alien empire even know her son existed, much less desire to kidnap him? She had tried twice that morning to contact the Chinese court by means of magic mirror, and received no answer—whether because the device no longer had a mate in China or because her query was being ignored, she could not know.

But, she reminded herself, it was in truth the
malfaiteurs
—not the Chinese or any other foreigners—who had taken her son; and even she could not guess their motives. But if he was alive—as she now had reason to think he was—then he must be in some human nation, for the realm of the malakim was of aether and vortice, not a place where a boy could live.

If she only knew why they had taken him…

She shook her head to clear it. Distracted again, she had passed over an entire page without understanding any of it. Angry at herself, she turned back to begin again.

At that moment, there came a knock at the door, and she was almost grateful for it.

“Let them in, Anna,” she called to her little servant girl, turning to see who it was, hoping it was some of her students. Around them, she almost felt young again.

It was a young man, one she did not know.

“Pardon me, Your Highness—” he began.

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She chuckled and held up her hand to stop him. “Please,” she said, “I am no highness. How can I help you?”

He blushed a little and nodded. “My name is Mikhail Lomonosov,” he explained.

“Oh, yes. I’ve a note concerning you. I’m to tutor you in calculus—beginning tomorrow, is that right?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle. Except that I’ve just been informed that that tutorial has been canceled. I thought to ask why.”

Adrienne stared at him for a moment. “I have not canceled our tutorial, Monsieur Lomonosov. There must be some mistake.”

Lomonosov withdrew a small note from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It says that instead I am to be tutored by Professor Swedenborg in angelic numerology.”

Adrienne stared at the sheet for a few moments, then trying to contain herself, looked back up at the concerned young man. “Monsieur Lomonosov, I expect you to report to me, here, tomorrow, for your tutorial. I will clear up this matter.”