A Calculus of Angels Read online




  More praise for J. Gregory Keyes

  and A Calculus of Angels

  “A new myth-maker, a new star of the fantasy genre, has arrived. Like Ursula K. Le Guin in the ’60s, John Varley in the ’70s, and Orson Scott Card in the ’80s, author J. Gregory Keyes may well be the leading fantasy writer of the 1990s.”

  —BookPage

  “Keyes creates a very believable mixture of history, fantasy, and plausibly imagined historical characters.… It’s a satisfying sequel that nevertheless leaves the reader impatient for the next book.”

  —Amazon.com

  And acclaim for Newton’s Cannon

  “Newton’s Cannon features the classic elements of science fiction: high-tech gadgetry, world-threatening superpower conflict, a quest to save the world, and a teen hero who’s smarter than most of the adults. The historical setting gives this book something extra.”

  —USA Today

  “Keyes’s elegant alternate-history fantasy begins a series entitled The Age of Unreason that, on the evidence of this beginning, promises to follow honorably in the footsteps of Card’s Alvin Maker saga … Keyes knows his history, knows his science, and knows how to tell a story.”

  —Booklist

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1999 by J. Gregory Keyes

  Excerpt from The Age of Unreason © 2000 by J. Gregory Keyes

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/delrey/

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-30776

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55493-2

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  EVENING WOLVES 1. Der Lehrling

  2. Brigands

  3. Winter Talk

  4. Peter Frisk

  5. London

  6. The Duke of Lorraine

  7. At Court

  8. Shadowchild

  PART TWO

  SECRET KNOTS 1. Comet

  2. The Monochord

  3. Thief

  4. Crecy’s Story

  5. The Mathematical Tower

  6. Deep

  7. Wine, a Cup, and Two Drops of Wax

  8. A Hunting

  9. Crucible

  10. Golem

  11. Two Storms

  12. Jealousy and the Moon

  13. The Black Tower

  14. Algiers

  15. Saint

  16. Matter and Soul

  17. An Archduchess, a Sorcerer, and a Rain of Fire

  PART THREE

  THE DARK AER 1. Vasilisa

  2. Charles

  3. The Sinking City

  4. Tsar

  5. Veneto

  6. Geography

  7. The Divan

  8. Stratagems

  9. Three Magi

  10. Canals

  11. The Long Black Being

  12. The Tears of God

  13. A Bundle of Arrows

  Epilogue: Nicolas

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  Prologue

  Confession

  Peter flinched at the single drop of blood that spattered onto his coat. Even thirty feet away, one ran that risk when the knout was being used. In experienced hands, the brutal short whip could cut to the bone and raise a fountain of blood; and the man wielding this knout was a master. Peter watched impassively as the last of the strokes fell. The victim was long past screaming. Instead he croaked pitifully, face more confused than anguished, as if his mind refused to accept what had been done to his body.

  Peter approached the tortured man, who was suspended, arms tied behind his back. His weight had dislocated them, so that now he looked almost comical, as if his head had been put on reversed. Peter wondered if they had gone too far—if Alexis would even be capable of speech—but finally, breath rasping, the prisoner looked up. He was weeping, tears turning sanguine where they crossed the lips he had bitten through.

  “I am sorry, my Emperor.” He groaned.

  Peter’s throat tightened. It was only with difficulty that he said, “I have heard you wished me dead.”

  Alexis convulsed, his face contorting almost beyond recognition, as if it, too, had been beaten. “I am a wretch,” he sobbed, “and now I will die. I hope I will. I have wronged you, and do not deserve to live.”

  “You mean you do not have the strength to live, Alexis,” Peter softly replied.

  The prisoner coughed in what might have been a parody of laughter. “All men are not like you,” he managed. “If you are the measure of strength, what other man is strong?”

  Peter trembled slightly. If you only knew, he thought. He again cleared his throat.

  “It grieves me it has come to this, Alexis. It is my own failure, I know.”

  “What you asked was impossible,” Alexis spat. Peter suddenly, almost gladly, understood that Alexis was angry, angry enough to overcome his shame and agony. “It—was—impossible.” The words were measured out, to ensure they were understood. To be certain that Peter comprehended that one thing, if nothing else, knew he was the cause, the murderer.

  “You have never understood,” Peter responded. “Every day I work—every single day—to make Russia what it can be, what it should be. Every day! Each time I relax, each instant I relax, to sleep, to sail, to read a book—something goes wrong. This senator becomes a grafter, that boyar raises the Strelitzi against me. I have marched with my armies. I have with my own two hands built many of the ships that guard our shores and carry our goods abroad. The very shoes I wear on my feet I earned working as an iron founder! That is what it takes to rule Russia, to bring her into a new age, to make her strong enough to survive in this new world. Not your muttering superstitions and backward-looking ways. When I came to power we were barbarians, lost in the old ways, a joke throughout the world. Now look at us! It will not all be lost when I die. No matter what, Russia will not tread backward!”

  Alexis was silent for a time. “I know,” he said at last. “But you must understand, I think you wrong. You strangle the old church, cut us off from the religion of our fathers. You consort with demons—”

  “They are not demons,” Peter said, feeling his own temper rise. “They are things of science. You would have us go back to the old ways? Would you have us give back our ice-free ports? Would you have us sit in Moscow, as the winters grow longer and colder, until the glaciers grind over our country? Would you give us back to the darkness from which we came, and worse?”

  Alexis raised bruised eyes, already the dark hollows of a skull. “Yes. If it means we perish as Christians and not worshippers of things like that.” He spat blood in the direction of the ifrit that floated behind Peter. Peter barely glanced at it. It was always there, his guardian, more faithful than any man, a whirling nimbus around a single, burning eye.

  “It is a thing of science,” Peter repeated. “My philosophers discovered it.”

  “They summoned it from hell.”

  Peter bit back a retort, took a few breaths to calm himself. His face had begun to twitch, and he did not wish to bring on a seizure. “So you are unrepentant?”

  “I suppose that I am, knowing I am to die.”

  “You need not die.”

  “I want to.
There is nothing for me. You have taken everything, even my Afrosinia.…”

  “Your little Finnish wench betrayed you, Alexis. She told all and perhaps even invented some things to save her own pitiful neck.”

  Alexis bowed his head, so that his hair hung to cover his face. “Tell me she will live, even if it is a lie,” he whispered.

  “She will live,” Peter said, and turned to leave. But found that he could not, yet.

  “They were using you, you know,” he told Alexis, “the old boyars, the Church. Using you to strike at me.”

  Alexis looked up again. “I’m sorry only that I wished your death,” he said. “I was afraid when I wished that. I have always been afraid, most especially of you and what you wanted. I could never have been enough for you, Father. I could never have been you—and that is what you need, not an heir. But I am not afraid anymore. God will take me in soon, and so I ask you to forgive me, and I will forgive you, and perhaps we shall meet again—” He choked off into a new bout of tears, and Peter’s own eyes grew moist.

  “I forgive you, Alexis, my son. I’m sorry I failed you.”

  And then he turned and walked away, unable to bear any more, his ifrit following like a faithful dog. He went back to his palace in Saint Petersburg and sat staring at the order for his son’s execution, pen gripped in a trembling hand. He sat for many hours, and he still had not signed it when they came to tell him that Alexis had died.

  He went to his balcony and looked out across his sea at the ships coming into his port, and he wept.

  1722

  The Council Meeting

  “Halt there ’n’ bide, stranger,” a hoarse voice shouted over the groan of the wind and hiss of sleet. Red Shoes squinted toward the light and made out four figures, obscured by night and frozen rain, silhouetted before the dim lanthorn. At least two were armed with muskets, so he stopped as commanded, knowing they could see him far better than he them. He hoped that they would quickly get to whatever business they had with him, for the wet cold had long since worked its way into his bones, and his feet were as numb as stones. The city lights were visible ahead, where warmth and food awaited for the first time in many days.

  “State your business,” the same voice demanded. A tingle of alarm crept up his spine as he made out a faint creak and click—the hammer being drawn back on a flintlock.

  Red Shoes cleared his throat. “I have come for the council meeting,” he said.

  “Council meeting? You mean the town council?”

  “The council meeting,” Red Shoes repeated.

  “God, John,” another voice sputtered. “ ’s an Ind’yun.”

  “Hold still,” the first voice—John’s—snarled. “I can see that. Are you armed, fellow?”

  “Yes.” He did not elaborate. The musket slung on his back was easy enough to see, but there was no reason to tell these men that he had no powder or shot. His pistol was hidden beneath his calf-length coat, every brass button of which was fastened against the murderous cold. His war ax was there, too, equally inaccessible. He had not expected to have to fight his way into Philadelphia.

  “John, you know there’s more out there,” a third man said. “If there’s one, there’s more. And that’s a French coat he’s wearing. Damn you, I didn’t bargain for this.”

  “You a Delaware? Mohawk?” John demanded. “Are you alone?”

  Red Shoes could tell that they were craning their necks, looking for his imaginary red army. He had heard rumors that the unseasonable cold had provoked warfare between some of the northern tribes and white towns like Philadelphia—but surely no one would mistake him for a Six Nations man or a Delaware. He was Choctaw, and looked Choctaw.

  “I’m alone,” Red Shoes assured them. “I have a paper.”

  “A paper?”

  “An invitation. To the council meeting.”

  “The council meeting,” John repeated again.

  Something was wrong here, something more than their worry about Indian attack. These men did not know what he was talking about, though if they were Philadelphia warriors, they certainly should. The trip had been long and hard, but not so hard that he had lost track of the days. The meeting was tonight, and he would not be the only one attending from outside the town. Gate guards should know that.

  But of course the lanthorn behind them might not mark the gate as he’d originally thought. Stupid of him.

  “Let me see your paper,” John crisply ordered.

  Red Shoes reached into the deerskin haversack slung at his waist, but even as he did so, the shadow named John suddenly lunged toward him.

  His only option was to fall. His muscles were too fatigued and numb to react any other way. He twisted to catch himself, and struck his elbow against the ground as his right hand fumbled into his coat, knowing he could never withdraw his pistol in time. He did the only thing that remained: With his out-blown breath, he released the shadowchild from its prison in his lungs. In less than an eye flicker it leapt to protect him, shrieking its displeasure as the descending sword cut into it, and then it was gone, a dying ghost bound for the Nightland. And so it felt as if a club struck him rather than a sharp-edged blade, slamming his face into the flinty earth rather than decapitating him. What was worse—far worse—was the pain of losing his shadowchild.

  As he lifted his head to gaze at his death, thunder boomed, and the world lit in a yellow flash. As through a curtain of diamonds he saw John, mouth wide, a gaunt man in a black coat and tricorn, sword in hand. The three men behind him showed only eyes and mouths like round dark holes before the night closed again. Another explosion, another flash of light, and John was on his knees, while a second man twirled, and then it was black again, with a groaning louder than the wind.

  The shock in his arm had quickened to pain, as if his bones were aflame. Grimly he flopped across the cold ground, still fumbling for his gun.

  “Aye, flee, you fools,” a voice shouted from behind him, a cannon of a voice firing words like red-hot iron.

  Red Shoes assumed that his remaining attackers had fled. He would have, if he could.

  Footsteps crunched toward him as at last he managed to free the pistol from its place in his inner pocket. A boot settled on the center of his back and pressed down.

  “Hold on there,” the new arrival said. “Let’s not get off to a wrong start. I’ve just saved your life and expect a bit of gratitude. Now get up slowly, or I’ll be forced to open y’like I did those two.”

  Red Shoes let the pistol slide back into its place and painfully pushed himself to his feet. Not only did the man have the advantage of him, but as his ears adjusted after the gunfire, he realized that the newcomer was not alone. This was confirmed an instant later as a warm yellow light was born nearby, expanding to envelop him. This came from a small lanthorn borne by a boy of perhaps sixteen years, perhaps younger. The light bearer hardly held his attention, however, for as Red Shoes stood he found himself face to chest with the wearer of the boot.

  He was huge, a bear, clad in a dark red coat faced blue, a black waistcoat, and a tricorn trimmed in silver. His face was mostly beard that was twisted into many braids bound with black ribbons.

  “I’ll be damned,” the bear said. “You are an Indian. What tribe do you belong with?”

  “Choctaw,” Red Shoes answered distractedly. He was busy counting the other men in the party—ten, including the whiskered giant.

  “Choctaw? Son, but you are far and far from home.”

  “Yes. Thank you for helping me.” He noticed that John had stopped moving and a second man lay equally still. Of the other two there was no trace.

  “Would have had to shoot ’em anyway, I imagine. Common highway thieves. Might have let them have you, though, save I heard you say something about the meeting. You goin’?”

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  The man seemed to grimace, but it might have been a smile. “How old are you, boy? How many summers have you seen?”

  “This is my eighte
enth.”

  The man laughed harshly. “Doesn’t much seem like summer, does it? A hell of an August, wouldn’t you say?”

  Red Shoes didn’t see any point in agreeing. The world had turned upside down, and weather made no more sense than anything else. Besides, he still wondered what the man wanted. He might end up dead yet in this strange country so far from everything familiar. He hoped not; it would be stupid to have made it this far only to die at the very doorway of his destination.

  When he didn’t answer, the man chuckled again and shook his head. “Indians,” he grunted. “Well, come on, boy. You best travel the rest of the way with us. We’re going the same place anyway, me and you.”

  “You’re going to the council meeting, too?”

  “Yes, of course. Why else be out in this?” He waved at the surrounding night. “On account of my reputation, I thought it best not to bring my ships up in their harbor. But let me introduce myself. The name is Edward Teach.” “Teach,” Red Shoes repeated. “The king of Charles Town.” “Oh, then you’ve heard of me? All away and over in Choctaw country?” Red Shoes nodded. “We’ve heard of you.”

  The streets of Philadelphia were empty, but Red Shoes’ eyes longingly turned to the warm yellow gaze of the windows surrounding him. He had meant to inquire his way to the town house where the meeting was to be, but Teach seemed to know where he was going, and Red Shoes followed silently.

  Philadelphia was like the other three white towns he had been in: Biloxi, New Paris, and Charles Town. Like them, it was square. The buildings were square, the windows were square, the streets were square. It appeared to be a sort of obsession with white people, this squareness. It seemed to Red Shoes that it was almost a ritual, might even be the thing—or one of the things—that they derived their vast power from. In particular, there seemed to be some link between this squareness and the magic called science, but just when he thought he understood what it was, it eluded him.

  Maybe here in Philadelphia he would come to understand.