Table Of ContentABBYY PClDicFk hTerrae tno sbfouyrmer2.0 ABBYY PClDicFk hTerrae tno sbfouyrmer2.0
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A CALCULUS
OF ANGELS
Book Two of
The Age of Unreason
J. Gregory Keyes
A Del Rey® Book
THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP (cid:127) NEW YORK
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it
may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author
nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by J. Gregory Reyes
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
ISBN 0-345-40608-7
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Trade Paperback Edition: April 1999 First Mass Market Edition: March 2000
For my grandparents, Earl and Helen Ridout
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: Confession
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Part One
EVENING WOLVES
1. DerLehrling
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
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8. Stratagems
9. Three Magi
10. Canals
11. The Long Black Being
12. The Tears of God
13. A Bundle of Arrows
Epilogue: Nicolas
Acknowledgments
By necessity, these acknowledgments are cumulative— everyone I noted in Newton’s
Cannon deserves another mention here. In the interest of saving space, I’m limiting this
list to those I didn’t mention last time.
My thanks to:
Terese Nielsen for great paintings, Jie Yang for the production work on the cover, and
Jaana Mattson for the maps.
Robert Stauffer and Allison Lindon for proofreading, Erin Bekowies and Becker Strout for
cold reading.
Jennifer Lattanzio and Adrian Wood for their work on Newton’s Cannon. Shelly Shapiro—
who should have been mentioned long before now—Christopher Schluep, Ann Hoang, and
Tim Kochuba.
Eleanor Lang, for keeping me safe on the road.
William Ridout—my uncle—for his expert knowledge on the crafting, use, and history of
black powder weapons. And for sneaking me black powder now and then when I was a
kid…
The instructors and fencers at Salle Auriol Seattle, and especially my foil coach, Charles
Sheffer. Thanks also to Marshall Hibnes and Allen Evans for their comments and opinions
on eighteenth-century fencing, my cadre mates Bobby Cortez, Mel Gregory, Adam Herbst,
and Zabette Macomber—and of course to our Maitre d’Arms, Leon Auriol.
The supportive enthusiastic members of Flanders Fantastic, and especially Didier Rypens.
Helen Stack, for her very interesting and informative comments about her ancestor
Charles Portales and his good friend, Fatio de Duillier…
Don McQuinn, Dave Gross, Ben Diebold, and Gavin Grow for general moral support. Add
to them the whole Keyes clan, and especially Nell K. Wright and Mary K. Skelton.
Prologue
Confession
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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
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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,
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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 V 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.”
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“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 nicker 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.
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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 eighteenth.”
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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.
He blinked—had he been asleep on his feet? They were mounting the steps of a large
building. Teach’s fist made explosions on the heavy wooden door.
The portal swung open, and heat flooded out like a summer wind, so delicious to his
exposed skin that he nearly moaned in ecstasy. Privation strengthened one, to a certain
point—but beyond that, it only weakened you. He was very weak right now, and pleasure
was far more unnerving than pain.
He entered with Teach and his party, and terrible silence came in with them.
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“Merciful God,” someone muttered. “It’s Blackbeard.”
A number of men sitting at a large table came slowly to their feet. To Red Shoes, they were
diverse only in the way they dressed. Three were clad in austere black with only a bit of
white lace at their throats to brighten them. Others wore brighter clothing—notably the
four red-coated soldiers who cast dithering glances at muskets leaning against the wall.
Five more at the table were arrayed quite splendidly, at least by European standards,
complete with the strange mounds of false hair that so many of them affected. It was one
of these— a corpulent fellow with ruddy cheeks—who stabbed a finger toward Teach.
“What gall you manifest by presenting yourself in this place, pirate. I will have your head
posted in the harbor.”
Teach grinned broadly and placed his hands on his hips. “That is no fashion in which to
address a fellow governor, Mister Felton,” he proclaimed, his voice booming in the hall.
The other man—Governor Felton, Red Shoes presumed— reddened further. “You are
beyond all insolence, Edward Teach. Do you think there is one man in this room—or alive
on the face of this Earth—who believes that because you have moved your campaign of
terror from the high seas to the statehouse of Carolina you have any legal status except
that of a loathsome and hunted criminal? Do not mock us. If you have come here with
sword and pistol to bend us to your will, then have done with it or stand to do your worst.
If not, get thee hence. This council is of the gravest possible nature and touches upon the
fate of us all. We cannot countenance theatrics.”
“Then perhaps you should cease performing them,” Teach grunted. Red Shoes thought he
detected a hint of strain in the pirate’s voice, as if the effort to remain amiable were
paining his throat. “Who have you invited to this council? The other governors, I see, every
man jack of them as helpless as a kitten. Can they provide you with what you need? You
know that they cannot. I see a small coven of ministers—the good Cotton Mather, I
presume, and his progeny? But I am sure that they have brayed—ah, pardon, me—prayed
long and loud for what I have come to give you. Now, I admit that the Crown has not yet
given me a paper allowing that I govern my colony—”
“Never shall it!” sputtered the scarlet-faced Felton.
Teach paused. When he spoke again his voice carried a palpable danger. “That may be, and
when any of you gentlemen
think to deprive me of what I have won and the order I have brought from chaos in the
South, then I welcome your efforts. But until such time as His Majesty across the ocean
sees fit to back the paper currency of your opinions with a more solid standard, I will keep
my place and claim my due. Is there any of you who has ought than bones in his head and
understands I have come to do you a favor?“
“And what might that favor be?” The dark-clad man Teach had addressed as “Cotton
Mather” asked quietly. His pendulous face and bulging eyes should have made him seem
