A Calculus of Angels by J. Gregory Keyes Read Free Book Online

sleep.”
    “Crecy, I—”
    She broke off because one of the bandits ahead—a thick, stupid Picard named Roland—folded to the ground. She blinked once before she heard the faint report.
    “Flame!” someone shouted. The tall grass hissed as if full of snakes, followed by more distant gunfire, like hands clapping. Adrienne turned and saw a neat row of little blue clouds in the field behind them.
    Two more bandits fell and another ran screaming, gripping an arm that flopped like the broken neck of a chicken.
    Crecy’s musket was already up, and now it spat fire. She knelt as the smoke enveloped them, reloading with enviably smooth motions.
    “Crawl that way thirty feet and then run,” the redhead hissed.
    “Not without you.”
    “I’m coming. One more shot.” She grinned nastily. “I think our decision is made, by the way. Monsieur Le Loup has grown a third eye.”
    “You saw?”
    “I put it there.”

    A CALCULUS OF ANGELS
    “God will damn you, Crecy—”
    “Run. For Nicolas.”
    For a heart-stopping instant, Crecy thought her friend meant the other Nicolas, the man she had loved, who now rotted somewhere near Versailles.
    But of course she meant the child.
    And so she ran, the tough shafts of the weeds tearing and scratching at what little was left of her dress. As she ran, finally, little Nico began to wail.
    Behind her, Crecy shouted orders. The remaining bandits had clumped behind her and were retreating with a certain amount of order; half kneeling to fire while the others ran and reloaded, and then reversing places. Most were old soldiers, and so had the training in their bones, but Crecy could reach into that marrow in a way that Le Loup never could.
    She realized that she was glad Crecy had shot the foul little man. To hell with him.
    Adrienne topped the rise of a hill, and her heart sank. Three men on horses—wearing the familiar blue coats—were fast flanking them from that direction.
    She shouted toward Crecy, to warn her. Whether from the gunfire or her own barking voice, the other woman did not appear to hear but continued retreating toward the riders. In a moment, she and the bandits would crest the hill and be visible.
    Adrienne sank down. As the retreat continued, it began to lose its illusion of order. She had not counted survivors before, but they were fewer. Cursing, Adrienne unslung the carbine from her back and reprimed the pan, noticing as she did so how precious little powder remained.
    Crouching in the brush, she took aim at the nearest rider. Her weapon was shorter than a normal musket, designed for firing from horseback, and it was thus less accurate. The mounted man had a pistol, however, which was less dependable still—unless it happened to be some sort of scientific weapon, in which case she was doomed. She let him come closer, not certain whether he had yet seen her, determined to use any advantage she had. The other two A CALCULUS OF ANGELS
    horsemen still rode at right angles to her, completing their flanking motion.
    Something familiar about the man’s uniform nagged at her. It was blue—most of the robber gangs had formed from army regiments, so that held no surprise for her—but the facing was silver, like that of a Hundred Swiss, the old personal guard of the king of France. Nicolas had been a Hundred Swiss.
    She let him come closer, closer. Still he hadn’t seen her, or had lost her if he had.
    And then Nico screamed, a long wail that only the deaf or the dead could not hear. As the horseman located them, she fired. The recoil rocked her back, and as she recovered she saw her foe still sat his horse, his pistol leveled. It spat flame, but not at her—over her—a wild shot.
    Or so she thought. The horse pivoted broadside, rearing, and the man fired a second pistol, also over her head; and this time Adrienne turned to follow the deadly ball.
    Crecy had just come over the hill, but even as Adrienne watched, crimson erupted from the center of her waistcoat and she