Newton's Cannon (35 page)

Now what should he do? She was still asleep. He was surprised that he felt so good. He was theoretically acquainted with hangovers from observing first James and later Robert.

It was difficult to draw his eyes away from Vasilisa, who was naked and mostly uncovered. Last night it had been dark, but today his
eyes
could appreciate her lithe limbs, her pale skin. He frowned and looked more closely. She had scars, too, on her back and arms and legs. He wondered how she had gotten them.

Already his heart was beginning to ache. Why had she made
love to him? Because she had been drunk, and he had been there. But
not
because she was in love with a fourteen-year-old boy.

Unfortunately, he was totally, completely in love with Vasilisa Karevna.

It got worse as the day went along. He managed to rise without disturbing her, dressed, and went for a morning walk. He feared being alone with her, feared what she would say. Or would she say
anything
? She might pretend it had never happened. He couldn't decide if that would be best or worst.

When he got back a few hours later, Maclaurin and Heath were already there, but Vasilisa—both to his sorrow and relief— was not.

“There y'are, Ben,” the Scot said. “How would y'like to take notes at a meetin'?”

“Sir?”

“Dr. Edmund Halley is in the meetin' room. We were aboot to speak to him on Sir Isaac's behalf. I canna find Vasilisa anywhere, and James is late.”

“Halley?”

“Yes, yes, but you mustn't gape,” Heath hissed. “And don't forget, he is the
enemy
now.”

“That is such an unfortunate thing to say,” a rich baritone voice complained from behind them. Heath—who rarely was flustered by anything—suddenly turned red. Ben turned to see a man of perhaps sixty, broad-faced, determined about the eyes.

“Dr. Halley,” he said, “I'm sorry, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, sir,” Halley replied. “And I consider it a terrible shame. It may be that the Crown and Sir Isaac have a quarrel of sorts, but I have been his truest friend since before you were
born
, young man. I
financed
his first
Principia
.”

“Dr. Halley,” Maclaurin conciliated, “please know that all of us have nothing but the greatest respect for you. I urge you to have a seat while we prepare some coffee.”

“What, so I can be further slandered behind my back?”

“I only meant,” Heath went on evenly, “that you are a competing philosophical society.”

“Philosophers should not compete,” Halley replied. “They
should work together. They should pool their knowledge into oceans rather than divide it into rivulets. I have invited you all to join the London Philosophical Society; that invitation is still open.”

“And appreciatin' it we are,” Maclaurin answered. “But until Sir Isaac—”

Halley placed his hand on Maclaurin's shoulder in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. “Sir Isaac has had
episodes
like this before,” Halley said, “but this one has been longer and more painful than most. It torments me to speak of it, but his correspondence with me has been quite … irrational. He has walked out onto a narrow limb, my worthy colleagues, and as his friends we should coax him off it.”

“I don' pretend to know what Sir Isaac requires,” Maclaurin stiffly replied. “If you would, please?” He gestured toward the meeting room.

Halley puffed out a breath, and it seemed some of his pomposity stole out with it. “No, my friends, I wish I had time for your company. I do miss it—especially my wayward student James. I had hoped to see him, at least. No, I am here in my official capacity as the royal astronomer.”

Neither Maclaurin nor Heath responded, and after an instant Halley coughed. “You understand,” he explained hesitantly, “this request does not have its origin with me.”

Heath continued glaring, and even Maclaurin's mouth was tight. Once more, Halley sighed and went on. “I thought you deserved to hear directly from me: I must formally request the transfer of the orrery to the new observatory at the palace.”

“Genies, fey, familiar spirits? Why do you tell me such fairy tales?” Adrienne snapped in annoyance.

“Oh, indeed? Is the Holy Bible a fairy tale, with its cherubim and seraphim? Did the great philosophers of antiquity tell fairy tales when they spoke of gods and elementals?”

“Very well, then, Crecy, what do you know of these sup posed creatures besides hearsay?”

“I have seen them, as you have. I have conversed with them.”

“
Conversed
with them? How did you speak to them?”

“Through my visions,” Crecy replied, “and in dreams. And over the aetherschreiber.”

“The aetherschreiber?”

“Yes.”

Adrienne closed her eyes. “I'm too tired to think about this.”

“You saw one, Adrienne. What did you think it was?”

Adrienne sighed. “Exactly what you say. My grandfather used to tell me stories of such creatures. But as a philosopher—”

“I am not a philosopher,” Crecy said, “but I thought a philoso-pher's vocation is to explain all phenomena, rather than selecting only those most amenable to scientific explanation.”

“I am a mathematician, mostly,” Adrienne said. “I have no starting place for an equation to account for a
succube
or
feu follets
.”

“Well, then,” Crecy said, “you shall be a pioneer.”

“I do not
wish
—” She stopped, clenched her teeth, and began again. “What
are
they?”

“They are creatures, like you and me.”

“What I saw was
not
like you and me.”

“Not in form. Not inside, either. I only mean that they have thought, will, and desire.”

“And what do they desire?”

“Like us, they desire many things.”

Adrienne closed her eyes. “In this matter of the king, the comet, Fatio,
you
,
me
—” She ceased when she realized she was shouting and then more quietly finished. “What do they want with us?”

Crecy smiled thinly. “I cannot say for certain, but they mean us no good, I think.”

Adrienne nodded, studying Crecy's face. “The instant I begin to trust you, you prove yourself untrustworthy, Veronique. You are not telling me all you know.”

“I am telling you all I can, for the moment.”

She began removing her petticoats. “As you say, then. I'm going to sleep. There is no telling when the king will make some demand of me.”

“Sleep well,” Crecy said, “and dream of Nicolas rather than genies. Sleep in peace.”

She felt suddenly shy. “I will try,” she said.

But as Adrienne closed her eyes, she saw a comet, a million corpses, and a floating red eye.

“If it pleases Your Majesty,” Fatio de Duillier said, nervously fingering the long lacy cuff of one sleeve, “we have brought you a present.”

Louis smiled thinly as he shrugged off his gold damask dressing gown, which Bontemps took before presenting him with waistcoat, coat, and breeches.

“Yes, those will do,” he told his valet. To Fatio he said, “A present is all very well, but I called you here to discuss another matter.”

“Sire,” Fatio replied, faintly.

“Who is this with you?”

“May I present to Your Majesty Gustavus von Trecht of Livonia.”

“Ah, your assistant. But of course I have heard of you. Be assured that a measure of the delight I feel for the success of your
project is reserved for you.” It had taken Louis a moment to understand what was so odd about von Trecht, but now he had it. When he met someone new, his magical sight had a tendency to render them vaguely. Occasionally they would resemble someone from his youth, especially if their voice or accent had a familiar ring. But this Livonian had neither a face he recognized nor one without character; it was rendered in detail, from his bloodless smile to the small scar on his right cheek. Curious.

Now von Trecht bowed.

Louis cleared his throat and went on. “However, I'm afraid that you also share, by that same association, my ire. Word has come to me, Monsieur de Duillier, of your disgraceful behavior at the Palais Royal, and most especially of your ill-considered rantings.”

Fatio drooped like a plucked morning glory. “Your pardon, Majesty,” he moaned. “I allowed myself to be ill-advised.”

“As I understand it, you allowed yourself to become drunk, after which you engaged with transvestites and began to blabber about the coming destruction of London!” Louis had purposefully allowed his voice to rise.

“I have no defense, Your Majesty.”

“And where were you during this, Monsieur?” he demanded of von Trecht.

“If it pleases Your Majesty, I was in my quarters, reading.”

“Sire, he was in no way responsible for my—”

“Monsieur, I will ask your opinion when I require it,” Louis told him. “Now. You both have been assigned guards, of course, and my police are always watchful of danger to you. But from now until the time that London lies in ruins, neither of you will leave Versailles. And if, Monsieur de Duillier, your drunken rantings have informed the English of our plans, and if they rally their magus, Newton, to cast a counterspell so London
never
lies in ruins, then you shall never leave Versailles.”

“I assure Your Majesty that I let nothing slip of importance.”

“The spies to whom you let it slip were obviously of a contrary opinion,” Louis replied sourly.

“Spies?”

“Your transvestite friends. My police and musketeers tried to restrain them and were slain most foully. We have not apprehended them. My valet—” He nodded toward the impassive Bontemps. “—and my foreign minister, Torcy, both agree with me that this sort of desperation might indicate that they did
indeed
believe that they obtained worthwhile intelligence.”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” von Trecht said, “if I were a spy and found out, I would flee to keep my neck from the rope, whether I had intelligence or not. And I understand that one of these transvestites was also somewhat drunk. Such is hardly the behavior of a professional spy.”

“What, then, do
you
suggest, sir?”

“I have not been at court long, Sire, and my knowledge of it is limited. But many courtiers seem—if I may be so bold— rather childish. Perhaps this was some prank gone awry.”

“Pranks do not often end in murder, but your point is taken,” Louis replied, unconvinced. He agreed with von Trecht's thinking on one important point: These spies were most likely French.

“Permit me to observe,” ventured de Duillier, “that no matter how indiscreet I may have been, even if I went to Sir Isaac or King George today and laid the whole plan before them there is still naught that they could do.”

“Why? It is a full twenty days until this fabulous stone from heaven falls upon London. Why could the British magi not unspell your spell?”

“The stone, my lord, is already falling, traveling much faster than any bullet or cannonball. And our stone continues to gather speed. No force on heaven or earth can deflect it far enough to save London.”

“
You
deflected it, with
your
spell. Why can't the English do the same?”

“They haven't time. We aimed our cannon, so to speak, months ago, when it could be aimed. The stone was moving a great deal more slowly then. My spell made it sociable to London. Even if this sociability were negated—and honestly, Sire, neither I nor my colleagues overseas have any idea how that could be done—the relentless mechanics of gravity would continue our
work. Even if the stone could be slowed or deflected, it would only miss London by leagues—not enough distance to make any difference.”

“What do you mean? You've said nothing of missing. How can a miss of leagues be of no importance?”

“Sire, this weapon will cause a great deal of destruction. It will level not only what it strikes but anything for—oh, six or seven leagues.”

“What of our allies in Scotland? James?”

“Like us, I believe he will see a very spectacular sight, but will experience no ill effects.”

“You are quite certain?”

“Gustavus, here, has worked out the parameters of destruction. Though I have not yet looked over his work, I am entirely confident of his figures.”

“Very well. Write all of this up for Bontemps and Torcy. We shall want to make certain that anyone valuable to us is outside the range of this weapon of yours. How far do you think will be safe?”

“Gustavus?” Fatio asked.

“Ten leagues should suffice,” von Trecht replied. “Though fifteen might be safer.”

“I thought one might be closer,” Louis said. “What will we see from here?”

“Sire, that is what our present to you concerns.”

“What is that?”

“It is a mirror Monsieur von Trecht invented. Quite ingenious, I should say myself.” As he spoke, he worked the cloth off of the large rectangle the two had brought with them. It
was
a sort of mirror. Louis smiled. Though he looked every morning, it still delighted him to see his new, almost black mustache, the dapper figure he cut in his gold and sapphire flowered coat and waistcoat with its scarlet trim, his handsome face beneath flowing dark curls.

“I have arranged a demonstration, Sire,” von Trecht said.

The mirror seemed to shiver, and then it became like an open window. Louis fancied he felt a breeze blowing from the blue sky pictured there.

That sky was challenged by the silhouette of a city, proud spires thrusting up, the arch of some titanic dome rearing …

“London,” he breathed. “That is London! You have built me a spyglass just like my nurse used to tell me of so long ago.” In the foreground of the picture, a row of trees bent in the wind, leaves fluttering like butterflies. It was unbelievable. “Show me something else.”

“Unlike the mirrors in the stories you speak of, this one can look at only one place—where its mate rests. It is much like an aetherschreiber in that particular.”

“Does that mean that someone there can see me?”

“Yes, Sire. But you would see them standing there peering at you, and you could cover the glass if you wished. That is nothing to worry about. The other mirror is in the keeping of one of our Jacobite confederates, hidden so it looks out the window of an uninhabited tower. Only by flying could anyone reach it to look through. When our friend leaves London for his own safety, he will leave the mirror there, so that you can perceive firsthand what occurs.” Fatio cleared his throat and then continued, “I only wish that the picture were clearer.”