Empire of Unreason

Prologue

His body closed like a fist, each muscle trying to tear free of bone. He snarled through his teeth, watched the angel with slitted eyes.

You can still change your mind, the angel said reasonably, and obey me. It raised its feathery wings. Its face, as always, was a mask of light.

Peter tasted blood in his mouth, but he managed to get the words out as he wanted, clear and measured. I am Peter Alexeyevich! I am the tsar of Russia. You cannot command me.

I am an angel of God.

You are not. You are a betrayer and a liar.

"I saved your life. I saved your empire. I helped you control your Old Believers. You were happy to tell them I was an angel."

Peter scooted against the cabin wall and dug his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. His face, which often slipped his control, spasmed terribly. What do you want? he demanded. What do you devils really want?

Only the one thing I asked. Have I ever asked for anything else? Any reward for my services?

"It isn’t one thing. It’s everything. I know you now."

I doubt that. But, very well, if you insist on dying.

Peter pulled something from his pocket—a small cube with a circular depression in the top. It was humming, a single clear note.

The angel paused. What is that?

Something a friend gave me. A wise friend, as it turns out. He placed a sphere the size of a musket ball in the depression, and a shriek cut through the fabric of the universe. Peter felt it in his bones. The angel felt it, too, and dripped fire into Peter’s veins, even as a wind came that tore it apart, each feather dissolving into a line of smoke.

The death of the angel did not stop the pain. A wave of agony crested over Peter’s head and dragged him under; and suddenly he had no weight at all, as if he were falling from a height with no end.

Red Shoes jerked awake to find himself already on his feet. He swayed there for a moment, trying to remember where he was, but the otherworld sight was still wrapped around him, making the trees, the earth he stood on, the stars themselves too strange to recognize.

He found his pipe and a pinch of Ancient Tobacco and lit it from an ember that had strayed from the remains of the fire. The warm, musky smoke strengthened the breath in him and curled from his nose. Gradually the world came clear.

He was Red Shoes, war prophet and miracle maker of the Choctaw people, and he stood on an earthen mound in the Natchez country, near the Great Water Road. The mound’s top was as broad as a village, and around it lay swamp, the underworld kissing the earth from beneath.

A soft cough came behind him, and he turned to regard Skin Eater.

Skin Eater was a Natchez man, a descendant of the Sun, his dark skin mottled with even darker tattoos, blurred by the eighty winters of his life.

I felt it, Skin Eater murmured. Do you know what it was?

No, Red Shoes admitted. Something important, something strong. My shadowchildren died bringing it to me.

From the West.

Yes. Since the strange news from the West began, I have sent my children out to watch. Now they have seen something.

West is a big place, Skin Eater observed.

"I know. But my shadowchildren tell me no more than that. If only I knew where in the West …" Red Shoes trailed off, thinking.

Skin Eater reflected for a moment as he lit his own pipe. You are more powerful than ever I was, he said, perhaps the strongest there has ever been. But your people are younger than mine—there are things the Natchez remember that the Choctaw do not.

I acknowledge that, great-uncle. It was a title of respect, only. He was not related to the old man.

Skin Eater swept his arms around. This place is an image of the world—do you see? The deeps of the beginning times below and around us, the earth raised up with a face for each direction. The flat top here is the whole surface of the middle world. Like those paintings on paper the French use.

You mean a map? But maps have things marked on them. Rivers, mountains, towns—

But if a town should move, will it move on a French map? Not unless they draw another map, yes? Here, however, you have only to know how to look. Here, the world can always be seen true.

Red Shoes frowned slightly as the implications of the old man’s words sunk in. He took another puff of his pipe, and began chanting, walking in widening circles upon the top of the mound, giving smoke to the directions. His feet sank back into the world of spirit, of dream.

As he walked, the appearance of the mound changed. Below his feet, plains, mountains, and forests appeared and vanished, as if, indeed, he walked on an enormous and incredibly detailed map. Excited now, he strode west, looking for what he had seen. He crossed the Great Water Road, which the English called Mississippi. He towered above thinning trees, and then there were no trees at all, only grass. There, at last, he found an obscure place he could not see, a patch of nothing on the image of the world. This was the thing, the place where his shadowchildren had heard the scream, felt the strange power.

He made his way back, memorizing the directions as he went. The Natchez country was easy to find again, for it was in the middle of the mound; and for a moment he was dizzied, standing at the center of the center of the center. Then he shook himself alive again.

Did you find it? Skin Eater asked.

What ’r’ y’ two talking about when a man is trying t’ sleep? A voice grumbled from nearby. Red Shoes turned to regard a big, broad-faced, knob-nosed Englishman, sitting up in his blankets.

Good morning, Tug, Red Shoes said.

Mornin’? The Englishman glared around at the darkness. "Mornin’ has sunlight, damn y’r In’yun soul. He looked around again, this time more worriedly. What’s got y’hup? Ghosts and ghoulies?"

Something like that. How set were you on seeing New Paris?

W’t y’ mean? Han’t we goin’ to New Pa-ree?

Not anymore. I have to go someplace else.

Oh, well, old Tug han’t particular. Long’s there’s women an’ rum.

Well, Red Shoes began slowly, now there is the problem.…

Part One

MAGNETISMS

For it’s well known that bodies act one upon another by the attractions of gravity, magnetism, and electricity; and these instances shew the tenor and course of Nature, and make it not improbable but that there may be more attractive forces than these.

—Sir Isaac Newton,

Optics 1717

Wherever law ends, tryanny begins …

—John Locke,

Second Treatise of Government 1689

1.

A Matter of Gravity

Benjamin Franklin felt awfully pleased with himself as he rose from the polished oak table to face his audience. The meeting room in the upper story of the Egyptian Coffeehouse was suffused with milky sunlight that poured through high, wide windows, blending with arabesques of pipe smoke and ephemeral vapors from a dozen bowls of coffee. He felt as if he were addressing a Dutch painting—one he himself had commissioned.

He paused at a small bench, and made as if to pluck at the cloth that covered the squarish object that lay upon it; but instead, repressing a devilish grin, he turned toward the assembly and cleared his throat. Coffee bowls clinked and settled as ten men and two women regarded him expectantly. He summoned up his best orator’s voice.

The opening questions of the Junto having been asked and answered, I now propose a modest demonstration. But first a query, my ladies and my gentlemen—and my otherwise—what is the most pressing problem of our day?

Get on with it, Mr. Franklin! Shandy Tupman piped, in his reedy voice, shaking his fist in mock threat. Han’t no schoolroom, this!

Franklin arched his brows. And how would you know what the inside of a schoolhouse looked like, Mr. Tupman?

That drew a few snickers.

Only by rumor, sir, Shandy replied good-naturedly.

Allow Mr. Franklin his glory, Mr. Tupman, a beetle-browed fellow named Dawkins said. It’s little enough of it he has, as it is.

A contagious chuckle passed around the room at that, and Franklin kept his smile small: he was not the least well-known man in the British Commonwealth of America.

Very gracious, Franklin said. And to my question?

Bed mites! someone offered.

Piss-thin beer!

Foolish, prattling, overblown husbands! asserted a lightly built woman with sapphire eyes. Her exclamation was punctuated by assenting jeers.

My dear, Franklin said, peering down his nose at her. There’s no cure for that sort of man but a sensible wife.

Some cures take a lifetime to work, it seems, she said back sweetly, especially when the patient is so deeply infected.

Franklin smiled. Well, it may be. But one good husband is worth two good wives.

And how do you reckon that, husband? she said.

Why, my dear Lenka, the scarcer something is, the greater its value.

He waited for the laughter to die, then put on a more somber face. Now. In all seriousness.

The malakim, August Stark said dourly. That devilish brood and their warlock footmen are our greatest worry.

That chased all the good humor out of the room quickly enough.

You’re on the right track, Franklin agreed, but I was thinking more specific.

Stark rubbed his hammer-heavy jaw. Tsar Peter and his demon ships.

There. Mr. Stark gets the prize.

You have remedy for them? Stark asked. What have you to show us, Benjamin Franklin? Enough of this French wit. What have you invented?

Franklin absorbed Stark’s frank challenge with a modest bow. He understood the man’s attitude—Stark’s father had died in Venice, fighting those demon ships. He was touchy on the subject, but a good man.

No more delays, Franklin promised, once I have two ’prentices to join me here.

I’ll sign no indenture papers with you, no more than I would sign for the devil, Stark said, but if it’ll get you on with it, I’ll assist—

And me! Tupman added.

The two men came up, as Franklin uncovered a simple wooden box, a yard long and half that wide and deep, with two handles.

Take hold there, fellows, Franklin encouraged, and try to lift her up.

They did. Tupman was a wiry little man, but Stark was a blacksmith with arms like the shanks of a plow horse. As much as they strained, neither could budge the box.

Nailed down, ain’t she, Shandy complained.

Alley-oop, Franklin replied, and in a sudden motion, the box lifted from the bench, taking the two surprised men up with it. It rose without pause to the height of the ceiling—some fifteen feet—and stuck there, Stark and Tupman dangling from the handles, to the enthusiastic clapping and calling of the small crowd.

And there you have it, Franklin said, bowing just a bit.

Roger Smalls raised his hands. A flying box, very well. But there have been flying engines for nigh on ten years now.

Ah, but not like this one, Franklin said. Those globes on which the tsar hefts his ships are shells ’prisoning aethereal spirits—malakim. Every machine to this day which flies owes its motivation to those evil and untrustworthy creatures. We all know the malakim plot against us—I for one will not trust them to bear me up a mile above the Earth. This device owes them nothing. It repels directly against gravity.

You solved the equation? You have the affinity of gravity?

Only last week.

No wonder you’ve been all puffed up! David Crowley said excitedly. And well you deserve it! I admit to being impressed!

So must we all, Smalls vowed.

I, for one, Stark called down from the ceiling, would now like to see how well it reverses itself.

At your command, Franklin said and, reaching into his pocket, pulled forth a small box and twisted a key set in it. The box floated back down, the two men with it.

This is grand, Smalls went on. Now the enemy loses his advantage, if the depneumifier y’ spoke of last month works as well as this new flying engine. You can bring their ships crashing down as you float on up past ’em.

The depneumifier needs testing, Franklin cautioned. But, yes, we can at least build flying machines. I’ve got a good start on one, as a matter of fact.

Will you publish it to us, Franklin? How it was done?

I would not have called you together otherwise. We members of the Junto do not hold back from one another, and I shan’t hold this back. In fact, if you are all prepared, I shall—

He was interrupted by the door suddenly banging open. In the doorway stood Robert Nairne in scarlet coat, Spanish rapier hanging rakishly at his side, a pistol in one hand.

Pardon me, he said, a bit out of breath, ladies and gentlemen of the Junto. He paused long enough to gaze around the room, to make certain that only members of that organization were present. But a warlock walks among us.

Franklin’s feeling of well-being vanished as the crowd broke into angry rattling. He held up his hands for quiet, and got enough to be heard. Where?

He’s in the Boar’s Head, right down the street, plain as you please.

You’re certain?

Robert pulled out a brass device that resembled a compass. Look for yourselves.

Around the room, similar devices came from pockets and haversacks, and then a grim mutter of confirmation.

Well, Franklin said coldly, his bad luck, then. Robert, you and Shandy keep a watch on him. At nightfall we’ll make our move. He glanced around. "We must delay discussions of matters scientific whilst we take up the other task of the Junto."

The bright copper sunset had tarnished to verdigris when Franklin pulled his greatcoat on and stepped into the streets of Charles Town. The day had been warm, but even here, in May, in the sunniest of colonies, evening brought chill. Boston, the town of his birth, languished beneath ice, as did New York and Philadelphia. The heart of America had been driven south by the cold years after the fall of the comet, and Benjamin Franklin had come south with it.

Lights were brightening in houses, and the streets were beginning to thicken with those seeking the joys and comforts of ale and wine, or the thousand darker sins it was said one could find in the city that had once been Blackbeard’s capital. Young men in bright Venetian silks strolled arm in arm with their mistresses, damsels of every hue and nationality. Deerskin traders spit-washed their palms and faces, hoping some girl in a salon might be drunk enough to find them presentable. Sailors, adventurously seeking the taverns far from the docks, strutted unsteadily on legs not yet used to land—or perhaps already filled with waters stronger than the sea.

Franklin strode purposefully through the newly paved streets, comforted by the weight of the smallsword at his side, the arcane pistol in his belt, and the waistcoat aegis he wore beneath coat and greatcoat.

Outside of the Boar’s Head, he met Robert.

We’ve got him buttoned in, Robert told him, his mischievous green eyes more serious than usual. He tugged nervously at his long auburn braid, hung fashionably in front of his right shoulder. I think he knows it but don’t give no never mind.

Interesting. They usually try to run when we discover them. They’ve learned to fear us, at least.

Robert shrugged. Maybe this fellow is behind on his American news. What now?

I’ve a mind to say hello to this fellow.

Did y’ ever consider that’s exactly what he might want? You within sword distance?

Well, then he shall get his wish.

Are you a genie now, granting wishes?

Franklin winked. More a leprechaun, I hope. He turned and strode into the Boar’s Head.

Six steps later, Robert was still with him.

Alone, Franklin clarified.

Robert shook his head, a firm no. "I’ll play Roger Pipe-smith with the ugliest girl in Charles Town before I let my best friend walk into a sea that deep over his head, Robert said. I’ll be quiet as a Quaker, but it’s with you I’ll be, no mistake. I’m a free man, last I heard from myself."

I don’t want him thinking me a coward, Franklin explained.

You know what he is, and probably he knows you know what he is. The last warlock we met took seven bullets and a severe case of headlessness t’ put down. He won’t think either of us coward, goin’ in only two t’ one.

You have a point there, Franklin admitted.

Aye, an one here, too, Robert said, patting his sword.

And here, Franklin finished, pointing to Robert’s head. Let’s go, then.

The fellow wasn’t hard to spot. The place had not begun to fill yet, and he sat all alone, lanthorn light glinting red in his eyes. For an instant Franklin was so filled with fury and loathing that he nearly pulled his pistol and murdered the thing on the spot. The first such creature like this he had met—a man-looking thing named Bracewell—had killed his brother, James, and done his level best to kill Franklin as well. Even after more than a decade, he couldn’t forget that weird look of surprise in James’ dead eyes, or the red glow of Bracewell’s familiars pursuing him through the night.

But he calmed himself, walked to the table, and sat down across from the creature.

The warlock looked up, his eyes now mild and normal. Blue. He had a high forehead and a slightly weak chin, and was young, surely no more than twenty.

Benjamin Franklin, I think, the man said in a German-sounding accent.

My father gave me that name, a good man, and I’d appreciate you keeping your tongue off it.

What offense have I offered you, sir?

You know what you are. Your existence is an offense.

The fellow blinked. One cannot help how one is born, sir, only what one does afterward.

And what have you done?

I have come here to see you.

Many of your kind have, Franklin said in a low voice, and we have purged you. Go back to the Old World. Keep it. But America is not for you.

The man smiled. Yes, you have the great ones talking out there in their palaces of night, Benjamin Franklin. You have them worried, I must say. In all of the lands in all the world, this is the corner they know the least about. And all due to you.

Franklin did not correct him. The Junto had members in every city of the Commonwealth, and other places besides, and their mission was the same—find and kill these agents of the malakim. He, Franklin, had begun it, but it was beyond him now. If he died this moment, the work would go on.

No use telling it that, however. ‘They’ cannot see or know the world of matter without human—or animal—eyes and ears, Franklin said. They cannot strike at what they cannot see.

"Oh, no. It is difficult to strike at what you cannot see, but it can surely be done. You have chafed them but not beaten them. He lifted his mug and took a long quaff of beer. You have some method of detecting us, don’t you?"

Friend, you would be better off with your questions unanswered. We have been known to pack your kind back to whence you came alive. But, frankly, as much as I abhor killing, I’d as soon put you in the mouths of the worms, if you give me the least excuse. Now, you’ve been waiting for me here, it seems. What have you to say to me?

Just this. That things are not as simple as you might have them. Do you know what I really am?

Franklin shrugged. What word shall I use? ‘Warlock’ is popular, and ‘sorcerer,’ and ‘demon.’ From my reading, I suspect your kind have been faeries and goblins and all manner of things that slither in the night. What you are is a traitor to Man, and I care only to call you enemy.

The man sighed and took another drink of beer. He leaned forward on his elbows and stared intently into Franklin’s eyes.

They come to us when we are young, very young. I remember their voices from my mother’s belly, I think. How is a child to know? How old was I before I knew that every boy did not have this voice in his head, this secret mother and friend? She taught me and made me what she could, my angel mother, and when I was old enough to travel and hold a sword, she sent me out into the wide, wide world to serve the secret emperor. And I was proud to do it. He leaned back. Tell me, Franklin. You are not a poor man, as I hear it, nor an unimportant one. Why, then, do you dress in linsey-woolsey rather than silk and lace?

What divergence is this?

If you plan to kill me, you might at least answer that one question.

Because I am Benjamin Franklin, the son of Josiah Franklin, a tallow chandler and a more honest man than any silk-gowned lord on Earth. Plain cloth is good enough for me. If I wore silk, I would still have all the same faults, with vanity added to them, and would have gained nothing but the respect of fools.

"A lovely sentiment, very Protestant. But once you wore fine, courtly garb, ja?"

Once I was younger. Experience is an expensive school, but fools will learn in no other.

"So you thought yourself a fool for going ’gainst your father. He brought you up one way, and when you strayed from it, you eventually brought yourself to task, ja?"

Will you compare my father to your damned familiar? Franklin asked heatedly.

Yes. How is a child to know? And once the child is man, how hard for him to doubt? You might leave your father behind, and stray from his ways under other influences, but me—

And yet I think you have come to convince me that you have, indeed, strayed? That you are no longer an enemy? Oh, this is sweet. How many years it has taken you to use honey instead of vinegar! What genius among your number came upon this stratagem? Your own ‘mother’?

No. She is no more.

You mean to say you dismissed her?

No. I mean to say she is dead.

Dead?

Ha. And now I pique your interest, if I didn’t already. Yes, they can die. They are strange, they are ancient, but not immortal. Wouldn’t you like to know how to kill malakim?

I know how.

Sir, with all respect, I do not think you do.

"I know how to kill you."

"I am not a malakim, nor ever was I. I am a man, or something they have made from a man. If you are confused in that, you are confused indeed."

"But—as I said—without your kind, there is little they can do."

"Not true. There are more sorts of malakim than you can dream. Know you not of the cherubim who humbled mighty Gomorrah? Do you think you have met them in your travels? I assure you, you have not, or you would not walk on two legs. But you will meet them, sir—you will. Their way is being prepared."

So you say. I have no proof of them.

Ah, the scientific. If you have not seen it, ’tis not real.

Why, yes. Why haven’t I seen these death angels? If I am such a thorn in their sides, why do they continue to send such ineffectual assassins as yourself, when Michael himself might claim my soul?

The man hesitated. As you said, they normally have little influence in our world, the world of matter. But engines have been built—dark engines, which bring their hideous strength from the aether to atoms. A year ago, they had no such contrivances; a month from now—or two—they will. As well, their ancient law still restrains them, a law older than Adam. But that is changing, too, my friend.

Call me ‘friend’ again, and I will have your heart.

The fellow blinked, and was suddenly a blur of motion, a long silver splinter in his hand. Robert moved quickly, too, but the difference was as a hummingbird to a starling.

Robert was not the hummingbird. He managed to slap away the blade darting for Franklin’s throat, but the warlock’s other hand snapped out faster than vision and cracked solid against Robert’s jaw. Franklin had time to sprawl back and drag at his pistol, but had it only half from his belt before the warlock had bounded over the table like a cat and landed with the point of his smallsword pressing into the flesh that covered Franklin’s heart. A small red stain began to spread on the white fabric. Franklin tried to look brave, waiting for the yard of steel to slide into his chest.

The warlock stepped back, saluted, and sheathed his blade. Franklin stared at him. About the same time, Robert wobbled up, kraftpistole drawn. Franklin held up his hand and signaled not to shoot; Robert understood, but kept the pointed tip of the weapon trained on the warlock.

The patrons and landlord of the Boar’s Head were staring at the three of them, wide-eyed.

Frowning, Franklin took a step toward the man. And now I am to trust you, I suppose? he whispered. Was that the outcome you hoped?

The warlock unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop. He held up his hands. No, I would not expect that, he replied. But I place myself in your care.

Franklin nodded. You will regret it, if I find this to be some sort of ruse, I promise you. He looked around at the crowd. Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen, he shouted. My friend and I here had a wager to first blood. As you all will witness, I’ve a bet to pay. I’m sorry if we disturbed you.

Some nodded, and most looked dubious; but in Charles Town, one rarely asked questions about such things.

Come along with me, Franklin commanded.

Once outside, Tupman and Stark joined them. Is he for the ship or the dirt? Stark growled, his intonation clearly indicating his preference.

Neither, for the moment. He’s for the jail we keep out on Nairne’s plantation. He glanced meaningfully at their captive and rubbed the pricked spot on his breast. For the moment, he repeated, with feeling.

The warlock turned back to him, and his eyes flashed feral red. Don’t keep me waiting too long, Mr. Franklin. Things are not as they were. My old masters are troubled and impatient. Their plan proceeds in a new direction as we speak. Their goal is in sight.

What goal?

The eradication of that troublesome race of insect, Man.

2.

A Death

Adrienne rode a wheel of Ezekiel toward the top of the sky, angels burning beneath her feet. The midday sun brightened as they ascended, as the sky paradoxically darkened and the air grew chill. Below, the Earth showed her generous curve.

Beautiful, Veronique de Crecy murmured from her armchair. Like Adrienne, she gazed thoughtfully out the thick windows of the carriage, her pale face tinted blue by the light thrown up from distant seas. How much higher may we ascend?

Adrienne glanced at the brass banks of dials thoughtfully. Not much farther. We are near to six leagues above the Earth now. Outside of this carriage, we would die from lack of air. My djinni keep the atmosphere in the carriage thick, but must draw it from somewhere. If we advance much higher, they will have none to give us.

A pity. I should like to walk upon the Moon and gaze earthward.

One day. Adrienne shrugged.

Before I am a hag, that I might seduce a moon man.

Adrienne was considering a remark at her friend’s expense when the death appeared.

Adrienne could see more than most people. With better-than-mortal eyes she could gaze upon the intricate patterning of the aether that gave matter form; she could see the djinni which served her, flitting through that unworldly terrain.

But not with human vision. The aether had no optical reality, no colors, no shade nor line. Her angel eyes were translators, making the language of aether into that of light. Like any translator, they must use words already in existence, and so Adrienne saw those beings and that insubstance as if they were mathematical diagrams, plates from a book of science—translated, so to speak, into the visual language of science.

Usually.

But the death looked like Death. Scraps of skin like black parchment clung to a white skull swaying on rotting vertebrae. From between yellowed scapulae, raven wings sprouted and spread high apart, each feather surrounding an open human eye. Taloned fingers groped for her.

She sat frozen by the sight for only a heartbeat before lashing out. Once her command of the djinni had been clumsy; but over the years they had developed a shorthand together, and now the aethereal creatures carried out her commands almost as she thought them. Air hardened and quivered with bound lightning around her and Crecy, as a hundred djinni grappled the death, tore at it, sought to unravel the subtle harmonies of which it was made.

It shrugged them off, grinning its skull grin. It waved aside her protections.

Finally, you come where I can reach you, it said. It spoke in her own voice—as all the djinni spoke to her in her own voice.

Adrienne renewed her attack. It gave back briefly, but then came on again, folding its wings down around her. She caught a last glimpse of Crecy, frantic with alarm. Crecy likely saw none of this, save the air suddenly flashing with light and flame.

Wrapped in the dark pinions, Adrienne knew she was dying. Her heart shuddered in her chest, and her body faded into unreality.

All but her right hand, her manus oculatus. It remained real: an anchor, a beacon, her source of power. She had found it years ago, in a dream, and knitted it to the stump where her real hand had once been. Awaking from the dream, she had found it true. The manus oculatus was her link to the djinni, the source of her power and unnatural vision. Ultimately, it was what kept the Ezekiel wheel in the air, and her and Crecy breathing.

She reached with it and caught hold of something that hummed like a plucked lute string. No, not a lute string, but a string of figures mathematical, almost forgotten, suddenly complete as they never had been before. She pulled on the thread, and it sang a higher pitch.

The death tore apart like a rotten linen cloth hung in the wind. It was gone.

She came to herself with Crecy kneeling over her, lean frame bowed with tension.

Adrienne, what happened? Are we still in danger?

Adrienne took a moment to gather the reports of her surviving servants, then shook her head. No. But start us back down.

Crecy nodded, and turned the appropriate valves.

What happened? she repeated a moment later.

Shh, Adrienne replied, closing her eyes. Shards of the death blew about the cabin like snow in a crystal globe, settling on her shoulders and skirt, melting into nothingness. She caught at them, searching for some clue as to its nature—what it was, who had sent it. She saw some hint of that—an eye, a voice, a unique vibration. She also saw how she had killed it, though that knowledge was vanishing with equal speed.

She saw instantly that she had a choice. She could either learn something of where the death had come from, or she could retain the knowledge of how to kill it. She could not do both.

It would be more useful to remember how to kill another such creature, wouldn’t it? But then she saw something she recognized, and she made the other choice, cupped the fragments and nurtured them, melted them together until she had something whole. It was an image, hanging in the frame of her thoughts like a little oil painting. Just an image, but she almost wept at the intensity of her recognition.

She saw a boy, around twelve, sitting on a raised wooden platform. He was clad in a silk robe of Chinese design, surrounded by men in similar dress. But while the boy was pale of complexion, those surrounding him were suited to the raiment, Oriental. Two others—clad in clothing of rougher weave—reminded her of the Natchez and Huron Indians she had seen at the court of Louis XIV.

Ah, she finally gasped, and opened her eyes to Crecy’s concerned gaze. I’ve seen him, Veronique, she whispered, as gravity sucked them down through thickening air. After ten years, I’ve seen my son.

They watched the Earth grow larger for a space. Crecy, long used to Adrienne’s moods, waited for her to continue.

Don’t speak of this, Adrienne finally told her friend, neither the attack nor what I just told you. I need to think upon it.

Crecy nodded. "But what sort of attack was it? I saw some of your defenses. I sensed more, but with each passing year I am less able to see the malakim. It was one of them, wasn’t it? One of the malfaiteurs?"

I don’t know. It was different from any djinn I have ever known.

But no match for your own guardians.

No. It was more than a match for my djinni. I don’t know how I survived, or even what I did.

"But—it brought you a vision of Nicolas?"

Yes.

How do you know it was him?

I know. He has his father’s face, and— She paused, considering. —I just know.

We will find him, then, Crecy vowed.

Yes, we will, Adrienne agreed.

A long silence seeped into the cabin.

Congratulations, by the way, Crecy added after a time. Your wheel seems to be a success.

I suppose it is, Adrienne replied.

You don’t sound pleased. Did you hope to fail?

No, of course not. But this device is nothing very new, really. The same sort of articulator, a somewhat different variety of djinni, nothing more. Indeed, in some ways it is not as impressive as the winged flying machines Swedenborg invented five years ago.

Nevertheless, I’m sure the tsar will be pleased by yet another sort of flying engine.

I suppose. If he ever returns, Adrienne replied. He has not been heard of for three months, since he left Peking.

Little point in worrying about it.

"It may be time to do something about it."

The great wheels surrounding their suspended carriage slowed as they neared the ground.

Right back to the square, Crecy noticed. How did we manage that, with the Earth spinning beneath us?

The djinni know their way home. It is a simple matter, Adrienne replied. Something had been bothering her all day, even before the attack; and that statement seemed to sum it up without actually revealing it to her. For ten years she had commanded the malakim, and the number of her servants had grown. She had built devices—like the one they rode in now—that she could only have dreamed of as a younger woman. What then seemed so pale about it all?

They emerged into the square before the Saint Petersburg Academy of Sciences, greeted by cheering and applause from hundreds of voices and hands. Peasant and aristocrat alike crowded near to see the angelic device and its creator.

The tsar’s lieutenant, Prince Menshikov, met them as they stepped from the carriage. Dressed jauntily in a sanguine and gold coat and waistcoat, he swept his plumed tricorn from his head and bowed deeply.

Ladies, how was your voyage? We followed you until even telescopes could show us nothing.

Adrienne smiled diplomatically. Our journey went well. Perhaps next time you would care to ride in it yourself, sir.

Menshikov’s return grin was tight. She knew he did not like flying machines, even the proven—if ponderous—airships of early design. It would by my honor, lady, he replied. Whatever Menshikov was, he was no coward. Together they walked back to the academy, accompanied by the jubilant crowds.

Still no word from the tsar? Adrienne asked Menshikov. There was no chance that they would be overheard amongst the tumult.

No. I rather hoped you would see him from up there. He paused. I’m joking, of course.

Of course. But with the wheel we can at least mount fast expeditions, faster by far than the old airships.

How quickly before one could cross Siberia to North America?

I thought he vanished in Peking.

We now have reliable intelligence that he left there—headed, we presume, toward the American settlements. I wonder, as one crosses the demarcation, if somehow aetherschreibers are rendered useless?

It’s possible, Adrienne replied. I shall send servants to investigate. But the wheel could close even that distance in mere days.

Very good, Menshikov said. Perhaps we could discuss this more fully later—in private?

After two or three beats, when she did not respond, he patted her on the shoulder. I’m joking, of course!

Of course, Adrienne said. She did not particularly like Menshikov, with his sly suggestion of a leer, but he was the tsar’s closest friend and, for the moment, ruler of Russia. There was no point in insulting him.

I’ve prepared something of a celebration, Menshikov