The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [81]
Franklin hesitated, then clasped the tsar's palm.
“I say this once,” the tsar told them, “once only. This war is not my doing.”
“So we are given to understand,” Philippe said from his armchair, “but this is not your first war.”
“When I am returned to my rightful throne, France is yours again, every inch of it. So I swear.”
“There are other reparations.”
“I will make them, inasmuch as I can—if my own country is not ruined by this idiotic affair.”
The French king nodded thoughtfully. “We shall see. Given our current situation, however, I could say that your throne might as well be on the Moon, and any recompense that might come from that throne about as useful. What can you do for us now?”
“I can offer you what I know about the weapons and size of the army. I can offer my expertise as a general, which has been tested on more than one occasion.”
“To be frank, I will not trust you to command men.”
“I did not expect you to. Give me a gun and a sword, then, and put me on a horse. I will kill a few of them for you, at least.”
“Kill your own countrymen?”
The tsar's smile was bloodless. “Men who turn on their king have no country but treachery—something you ought to appreciate.”
Philippe's eyes shifted briefly to d'Artaguiette. “Some treachery is pardonable. Will any of this army follow you if they see you are alive?”
“Some. I'm sure many think they serve me. I was kept from the sight of the men when held captive.”
“Then you are worth keeping alive, despite your crimes,” Philippe told him.
“A noble sentiment,” the tsar said ironically.
“These are not noble times. They are desperate ones. I will want to hear your story soon.”
“You will have it.”
“One question first, however. If you don't lead your country in this war—who does?”
Peter's eyes narrowed to black slits. “Don't you know? It is the angels— of heaven or hell I do not know nor care.”
“So Mr. Franklin said,” Philippe replied, his voice weak. “You confirm it?”
“I do. I have seen them. I have known them.”
The French king looked imploringly at Franklin. “How can we fight angels?”
“I destroyed my own,” the tsar rumbled. “It cost me my wife and all my crew, but I am rid of him. If they can die singly, they can die by the thousand. If I can be rid of one, we can be rid of them all.”
His own? Was the tsar like Euler? Like Bracewell and Sterne? Franklin pulled out his aether compass, but it did not point at Peter. He remembered that it had indicated Euler, even though the fellow no longer had a malakus with him.
“And what will God do, when we have killed his angels?” Philippe asked, his voice shaking as if for the very first time he believed who their true foe was.
“One thing at a time, Your Majesty,” Franklin told him. “One thing at a time.”
The troops from Azilia arrived three weeks later, a weary, bedraggled-looking lot numbering around four thousand, including some two hundred warriors who had joined them in Apalachee. They were led by Thomas Nairne and a man named Martin from Newbern. Oglethorpe was not with them. They were welcomed in grand style, with fife and drum and trumpet, which seemed to cheer them considerably. Don Pedro insisted on getting out of bed to greet them, though the doctors much advised against it. He whooped and hollered and only occasionally clutched the bandages at his side.
Franklin clasped Nairne warmly at the approach to the chateau. The man had aged considerably since Franklin had last seen him; he walked with a limp and his shoulders seemed somehow more sloping.
“Mr. Franklin,” he acknowledged. “You seem to have done your job.”
“As best I could, Governor, as best I could.”
“Can you bring me to date?”
“Of course. Let us find you quarters, first.”
“Mr. Franklin, your wife, Lenka. I fear