Greg Keyes - Age of Unreason 2 - A Calculus of Angels

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

A CALCULUS

OF ANGELS

Book Two of

The Age of Unreason

J. Gregory Keyes

A Del Rey® Book

THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP • 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

Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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

Part One

EVENING WOLVES

1. DerLehrling

2. Brigands

3. Winter Talk

4. Peter Frisk

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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

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…

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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

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.

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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!”

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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.

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

“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 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

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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.

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A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

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.

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

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Greg Keyes - Age of Unreason 2 - A Calculus of Angels

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