The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [11]
“Perhaps that would explain why the upper tier of the palace is crusted with those glowing gargoyles,” Ben said. It was almost dusk, and the pale pink glow of alchemical light was clearly visible, both in the castle and outside.
“Here come the gunboats,” McPherson said.
“Let me talk to them,” Penigault said. “I'll explain who you are.”
Franklin turned a wary eye on the approaching craft. “Sterne and his cronies have been here for almost a month. He's had plenty of time to poison the well, as he did at Coweta. I hope we fare better here.”
“It does feel a bit stupid just walking in,” Robert added by way of agreement. “Sterne is a persuasive warlock.”
“And a murdering one,” Franklin said. “But what else are we to do? Skulk about? That will never get us a meeting with these French. The only way to do it is to be bold. Still, it's been nice knowing you fellows, should anything go wrong.”
“And if it don't?” McPherson asked.
“Then you are the smelliest bunch of blockheads I've had the poor fortune to share a canoe with,” Franklin replied. That got a few nervous laughs.
He glanced back. Don Pedro and his Apalachee warriors filled two more boats, which was comforting, though Franklin doubted that their increased numbers would matter much here.
“Voltaire, you say you know this duke somewhat.”
“I've met him.”
“How do y’ suppose he would take to Sterne and Sterne's King James?”
Voltaire offered a Gallic shrug. The journey had taken pounds from him that he could ill afford, and he looked almost like a scarecrow in his muddy justaucorps. “Louis XIV, his uncle, was always kindly disposed toward the pretenders to the English throne, as they were thorns in the British backside. He supported both James’ conquest of Scotland, and was supporting it still when the comet fell. Orléans and James used to sport a bit, though I seem to remember they also had some argument over a certain mistress. As I said, Philippe never had much of a political head on his shoulders—what with the way things have gone, I'm very much surprised he has any sort of a head on his shoulders, much less any fraction of a kingdom to rule.” He repeated the shrug. “I'm sorry. I cannot say.”
“Will he remember you?”
“If he does, I'm not sure it would be with favor. I was exiled from France for writing a satire of the court at Versailles—which he seems to have satired here quite a bit better than I ever did.”
“Ah. Well, you should be able to help us with our manners, at the very least.”
“Always count on me for the very least.”
The gunboats drew up, and French marines in blue justaucorps called a challenge. They were armed with what looked like Fahrenheit guns.
Penigault spoke rapid-fire French, and tired as he was, Franklin had trouble following it.
He saw the result though. The marines snapped up their guns and fired.
With a thought and a motion of her hand, Adrienne de Mornay de Montchevreuil warmed the water in the tub to almost boiling, then drew the screen that separated it from the rest of her cabin. She started working at the fastenings of her gown, absently gazing out the window. Her ship flew on, level with the clouds, and through one of those clouds, half obscured, she saw the Dobrynya, another vessel in her aerial flotilla. It looked like a large, flat-bottomed man-of-war, save that instead of mast and sails it was borne aloft by eight glowing red globes, prisons for the ifrit who pushed against the pull of gravity. She stopped at the fifth button and raised her right hand, the one given her by the angel Uriel. For an instant the ships and clouds vanished, replaced by lines of force and attraction, the aetheric patterns behind the mask of matter.
The ifrit were well, her people on the other ship safe. That was good.
She pressed her face against the glass, extending her sense farther into the aether. Where are you, my son?
She felt him, like a slender strand unraveled from her dress, being pulled from far away. Wherever he was, he did not hear her now.
Someone scratched