The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [65]
“It isn't happening,” Franklin muttered. “Euler was wrong or lied. It isn't—”
At that moment, Den Pedro lunged—a mistake. Sterne parried the weapon and drove his own point through the Apalachee above his left hip. The blade went through and came out the other side. Sterne, overextended, stumbled, so that the two men were face-to-face.
Don Pedro whooped, his free hand darting out and knotting in Sterne's shirt.
“Now,” he said, “as I told you, you will die.”
Sterne's eyes went wide as he tried to withdraw his blade, but it was stuck in the other man.
And then it did happen. In the air, just above Sterne's head, a cloud formed with a red eye of fire in the center. It swept forward and engulfed Don Pedro, who gasped and fell back, releasing Sterne but taking the weapon with him.
He wasn't the only one to gasp. Shrieks went up all around the court.
So did weapons.
“Call it off, Mr. Sterne,” Franklin shouted. “Call it off, or we shall see how well your pet demon serves you when you are well-Swissed with bullets.”
Sterne's eyes flashed red. For an instant he looked as if he were ready to fight everyone in the room, even bare-handed, but then his shoulders slumped. The malakus thinned and vanished.
“That was very clever, Mr. Franklin. Again. I suppose I ought to be wise to little tricks like that by now. It doesn't matter. All of you, listen to me. You cannot stand against my masters. You will join them or they will kill you. It is extremely simple. I tried to treat with you like gentlemen, but that is useless, I see. Very well—if you will act like dogs, you will die like dogs.” He turned to the king. “Your Majesty—I wish to depart and return to my sovereign. I think he has your answer.”
“Indeed he does,” Philippe snapped, “but he shall not have it from you or from your men.”
“Sire, may I remind you that my status as an ambassador—”
“Entitles you to nothing, in my eyes. You are a warlock, sir, and will be treated as such. Your men will be treated as the servants of a warlock. I advise you to lay down your weapons.”
Sterne stood, fuming, for a tense moment, then smiled. “I have no weapon to lay down,” he said, pointing to Don Pedro. The Apalachee's eyes had gone glassy, but he was still breathing. “Don Pedro may keep the blade, with my compliments.” He turned to his men. “The rest of you disarm. If ever anything gave our king reason to burn this pitiful hovel to the ground, it is this breech of diplomatic relations.”
“I suspect,” Philippe said, “that he never needed an excuse, but I am happy to provide him with one. We fled France to escape the Russians and their demons. We will flee no more. France will flee no more. Here we stand.”
A profound silence followed his pronouncement, and in it d'Artaguiette stood, bowed to the king, and placed his hand on his breast. “Before God,” he said, “I confess. I collaborated with this … creature. Many of you know it. More do not. I plotted against my king and in so doing disgraced my office and station. Your Majesty, I offer you my sword as well. Take it if you will, and mete out the punishment I deserve. But I swear to you, before God, that I am with you now, heart and soul. I will go in the vanguard against our enemies, and I will not flinch. I urge all my countrymen to do the same.”
Philippe's mouth hung open for an instant. “You, d'Arta-guiette? You worked against me?”
“I did, Sire.”
“You thought me inadequate to my throne, or were you merely ambitious?”
“Both, Sire.”
“And you have changed your heart? What if you should change it again?”
“I cannot prove I will not—but I can swear I will not.”
Philippe scowled and waved a dismissive hand. “Keep your sword, d'Artaguiette. We have few enough men with military experience as it is. And it is time—no, well past time—that we raised an army. It is time we demonstrated, again, why the French once ruled the world.”
“France!” A hoarse voice shouted. It was