The Shadows of God (14 page)

This was stupid. He would go back to sleep and wake with no thoughts of women at all. That was the very last thing he needed on his mind right now. Or on any other part of him, for that matter.

But when he finally did sleep again, it was to dream of bodies in motion, and not those of the celestial sort.

Franklin came out of his restless sleep almost instantly when Robert tapped him. In light of the lanthorn his friend’s face looked drawn.

“What is it?”

“There’s news of Carolina.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. I got word from the Junto fellows here. They want a meeting.”

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Franklin sat up, rubbing grit out of his eyes. “Show me to ”em,“ he lid.

Penigault was waiting outside. “It’s this way,” he told them.

Once again, Franklin found himself twisting through the maze of the palace until at last a ladder was climbed, a trapdoor lifted, and they were outside. The air stank of swamp, decay, and salt.

They followed Penigault out, into the muddy streets of the town, twisting through narrow alleys paved with night soil and offal, until at last they came to the door of a largish house. The fellow rapped thrice, then again, paused, and rapped twice more.

Bolts slid, locks ticked, and someone opened the door a crack and peeked through.

“Mr. Franklin?”

“At your service.”

The door opened fully, and the man stepped back into the lighted room. He wore a plain cotton shirt and knee breeches. He wore no hat or wig, but his dark curly hair was pulled in a queue. A second man stood in the room, his eyes distant, unfocused. He was a little older, with little more than a fringe of iron around his mostly bald head.

“Sir, I am Antoine Simon le Page Du Pratz, and this is my friend Andre Penigault, whose son consented to guide you here. We are both much pleased to meet you.”

“I can speak for myself,” Penigault replied dryly, sticking out his hand.

Franklin suddenly understood that he was blind. He clasped the outstretched fingers and gave them a brisk shake. “Good to meet you both. Monsieur Du Pratz, I much enjoyed your volume on the habits of the Natchez Indians. I hope I can expect a longer work from you in the future?”

Du Pratz smiled. “When our present troubles are resolved, God willing,” he THE SHADOWS OF GOD

replied.

“Come, come,” Andre Penigault muttered. “Enough time for back patting later.

We have business now. And speaking of which, Mr. Franklin —no offense intended, of course—but what would you say if I did this?” He put his hand over his heart.

Franklin smiled. “I should say a few things,” he replied. “I should ask you some questions. For instance, do you sincerely declare that you love mankind in general, of any profession or religion soever?”

“I do,” Penigault and Du Pratz said in unison.

“Do you think any person ought to be harmed in his body, name, or goods, for his mere speculative opinions or his external way of worship?”

“No,” they answered, again together.

“And do you love truth for truth’s sake, and will you endeavor to find and receive it yourself and communicate it to others?” Yes.

“Fine,” Franklin said. “Then I propose we call this meeting of the Junto to order and waive the other standing questions, as I gather you have urgent things to tell me.”

Penigault nodded, seeming satisfied.

“Have a seat,” Du Pratz said. “Can I offer you wine?”

“Something a little more stimulating, perhaps? Tea or coffee?” Franklin suggested.

“I am supplied with neither, though I can offer you a certain Indian tea which has much the same effect.”

“Cassina?” Yes.

“We drank that often enough in Carolina when trade ran thin. That would be THE SHADOWS OF GOD

wonderful.”

“Angelique?” Du Pratz called.

“Sir.” A young Indian woman entered the room with several cups and a steaming pot. It seemed Du Pratz had anticipated the request.

A few moments later they all sipped at the strong, black tea. This had a more roasted taste than what Franklin was used to, with a certain burnt bitterness that was unusual but good. He felt its effect almost immediately, jostling the sluggish parts of his brain.

“First,” Du Pratz said, “I must tell you I received a message by way of aetherschreiber from the Junto.”

“Sir?”

He handed over the letter. It was in Thomas Nairne’s hand, written in the coded language they had last agreed upon.

“Have you translated it?” Franklin asked.

“Yes. It’s a general communique to all of the Junto officers. Its contents—” He grimaced, then went on. “Oglethorpe’s forces were routed. All of the Carolinas have fallen into the Pretender’s hands. Nairne still holds Fort Montgomery, but he expects it to fall very soon.”

The worst thing Franklin could imagine hearing, and there it was. He put his head down in his hands.

“So quickly,” he murmured into his palms. A great hole had opened in the world, and he and all he loved had fallen into it. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he remembered the soldiers at Fort Moore, cheering for him, all confident that a few weeks of Indian fighting and the magic of their wizard Franklin would save them and make the world as it had been. How many of them now lay dead, crippled, prisoners without arms and legs, cursing him now?

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Good God, what had become of Lenka? He’d left her with Nairne. She would try to fight, knowing her.

“How bad. How bad was it?”

“Of Oglethorpe and his part of the Continental Army, we know nothing. Nairne thinks him dead. Governor Nairne plans a sally from Fort Montgomery and a march through Apalachee land to here, and he expresses the hope — ”

“That I have done my job and brought the French to our side,” Franklin finished grimly. “Does King Philippe know of this? Anything of it?”

“I do not think so, no.”

“About that,” Robert said. “How is it you receive messages when neither the Coweta nor the king have received any in months?”

Du Pratz raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say about the Coweta. But Nairne expresses the worry that many of his aetherschreiber messages are not being received, and perhaps even intercepted. Oddly enough, this latest one ends in mid-stride, so to speak. Add to that the fact that the king is often… protected…

from such things by one of his ministers. We are not certain which one, though we have a good idea.”

“A traitor?”

“A plotter for the throne, more likely. Several of the officers and noblemen here believe they could govern more efficiently than His Majesty.”

“I’m sure. And just to keep things up front,” Franklin said, “could you tell me where you stand? Are you backing someone other than the king?”

Andre Penigault coughed roughly. “Don’t think we haven’t considered it—rule by Junto even, though we don’t have anyone highly placed enough to do the job. D’Artaguiette would probably do a better job than the king—he was here when Bienville was our governor, and commanded this city when it was still named Mobile. But no, at least as it stands we support Philippe.”

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“Is this d’Artaguiette the chief plotter for the throne?”

“Chief? He’s the most likely to succeed at it, if that’s what you mean. The others are all posturing fools, and I doubt they could snatch the king’s messages from under his nose. D’Artaguiette could.”

“Then he might well know that what’s left of our army is marching here, even if the king does not. How will he use that?”

“We think he has made overtures to Sterne; and after last night, my guess is that Sterne will solicit him more carefully. The king, after all, seems to be leaning your way. So d’Artaguiette will use that to bargain with Sterne. If Sterne backs his move against the king with enough force, we may see trouble.”

“Damn.” Franklin sighed. “Can’t anything in this diplomat business go easy?”

“How many troops remain?” That was Robert, ever practical.

“They don’t say,” Du Pratz told him. “I think they fear even the coded messages might find interception here.”

“And that’s well thought, too.” Franklin gulped down the rest of his cassina and waited for the girl to refill his cup. “May I use your aetherschreiber?”

“It is at your command, sir,” Du Pratz assured him.

“I must contact Governor Nairne and Oglethorpe, if I can.”

“Then what?” Robert asked.

“Then do what we can here. Monsieur Du Pratz, what if d’Artaguiette attempts a coup? What then?”

“The Junto has some resources, but we are mostly outnumbered. Your men added may be enough—provided they don’t start at the top, with regicide. All we can do is keep our eyes and ears open.”

“No,” Franklin said. “We can’t wait for anything, watchful or sleeping. We have THE SHADOWS OF GOD

to act.”

“You have a plan?”

“No.” He was having trouble breathing. “You got the memoir on the submersible ships?”

“Yes. No sign of them in our harbors, though I expect if the eastern coasts are now secure — ”

Franklin saw it. “Yes, damn it. They’ll send them south around Florida. That’s probably why Nairne doesn’t say he will try to hold Apalachee —they have no sea fortress. How long will it take them to get here, I wonder?”

“What was your plan, before all of this?”

“To take my time, play on the king’s love of science as I did at the banquet. But I have undermined that already, haven’t I? I surely convinced Sterne that he cannot deal with the king. He will move in other ways. With our luck, the coup is already over, the king dead in his bed.”

“Don’t be so excitable,” Andre Penigault said gruffly. “Didn’t we say we have
some
sense of what’s going on? No such a thing happened tonight.”

“Well,” Franklin said. “Something will happen tomorrow night.”

“Is that a prophecy?”

“No. A promise.”

“Ah. Then you
do
have a plan.”

Franklin uttered a noise enough like a laugh to sound painful. “No. But I will.

It may be no better than my last three ill-conceived designs, but I will not sit on my hands.”

“Bravo,” Robert said. To Franklin’s surprise, he did not sound altogether sarcastic.

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10.

Hercule

Her third day in bed, the angel Uriel came to Adrienne.

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

The seraph folded and unfolded its six wings, the eyes that covered them winking slowly. “Almost, I was. The battle does not go well. The Sun Boy is strong. I have hidden myself again, slipped their notice, but I fear the next time I meet our foes will be my last. The great ones are all in motion now, and the time is approaching.”

“The time for what? What are they planning?”

Uriel was silent for a time. “You’ve seen the dark engines. They are ready now, and with them they will kill your race.”

“There is more to this. Why should your kind wage civil war over our fate?

There is something else, something some of you fear and some of you desire.”

“God’s wrath. God’s forgiveness.”

“You lie. What are they doing with my son?”

“I’ve told you what I know. Like you, he has the power to bridge our worlds, to connect spirit and matter. Through him, the great ones of my kind can put their hands into the world.”

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“As they could at creation, before God changed the world.”

The seraph hesitated.

“Come. You told me yourself that to make the world God had to withdraw from it. He created your kind to work where he could not, and you rebelled. But the universe is made of natural law, and even from outside it God was able to change that law, wasn’t he? Just a little, just enough to rob you of your communication with matter. You, but not
us.”

“That is essentially true but unimportant,” Uriel replied. “What is important right now is that we stop your son from unleashing the engines again.”

“Is it? I wonder.”

“You’ve been hurt,” Uriel said.

“Why, yes. You aren’t the only one who has been in danger. Uriel, why didn’t you tell me that all of you are only descended from two archangels?”

Another hesitation. “Does that matter?”

“It might. You cripple me when you do not tell me everything.”

“I don’t have time to tell you everything. I tell you the things I think you most need to know.”

“And withhold those you most fear my knowing. Yes, I understand.”

“That is well.”

“Have you anything more to tell me? Anything about my son?”

“No.”

“Then leave me.”

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Uriel vanished, at least from her sight.

Crecy entered about an hour later.

“Good. Help me up, Veronique. I need to walk.”

“You are not fit for that yet.”

“My wound is healing quickly.”

“That is true,” Crecy admitted. “You heal almost as quickly as I once did.”

“Is that an accusation?”

“An observation.”

“I have had help,” Adrienne replied.

Crecy nodded and didn’t press any further.

“Now come, I need to find Hercule.”

“I will bring him here.”

“No, you won’t. He’s avoided me since the attack. Since Irena’s death, really—”

“Not so. He comes when you sleep, when he is certain you will not awake. If you feign sleep — ”

“Enough. Let us find him. You lend me your shoulder.” Crecy sighed and offered her arm.

Far from tiring her, the act of walking seemed to give Adrienne strength. The terrain below was still mostly open plains, but here and there, along rivers especially, trees huddled together as if for comfort against the vast space.

“There he is,” Crecy said.

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“Stop,” Adrienne whispered. “Wait.”

Hercule had a boy on his shoulders, a lad of about five, a little Hercule. The two of them were chasing a girl, younger—three? All were laughing.

“Come here, little girl, or we’ll eat you up!” the boy shouted. “I am the giant with two heads, sent by Koshchey the Deathless to capture you!”

The girl squealed as Hercule’s arms closed about her. “Save me!” she cried.