A Calculus of Angels by J. Gregory Keyes

was—the mouth of the Thames. London lies yonder.” He pointed west and north.
    “Well then”—Blackbeard scowled—“you’re the overlander. You go find it. And while you’re at it, find me a port, before the men mutiny over lack of food and rum.”
    “We need to talk with Bienville and Mather, first.”
    “By my leave,” Blackbeard grunted, still staring at the shore. “Invite Bienville over.”
    Bienville shook his head and took another puff from his pipe. “I am loath to send my men there,” he said. “Better that we sail on until we find some sign of life.”
    Blackbeard, red eyed, downed another cup of Portuguese wine, his eighth.
    “You mean sail on to France?”
    “Yes, that is precisely what I mean. If this is truly the mouth of the Thames, then the world has gone more mad than ever we thought. It is safer for us to stay in numbers until we have some idea what has befallen here. If the coast of England is silent, perhaps in France we will find answers.”

    A CALCULUS OF ANGELS
    “More answers generally are gotten from the murderer than the murdered, though perhaps not truthful answers.”
    Bienville reddened and blinked angrily. “Sir, I suggest you restrain yourself from drawing conclusions. If this expedition is to stay of a piece—”
    “If you want it of a piece, then give me command of your men.”
    “That was not the agreement, as well you know, Mr. Teach,” Cotton Mather interrupted, clasping his hands together on the table they all sat around. He had been sickly for most of the voyage, and his voice still shook a bit, but his words were firm enough. “This armada is governed by council, something that you should also keep in mind, Monsieur Bienville.”
    “I have not forgotten it, sir. I was only making a suggestion.”
    Mather nodded. “You are a gentleman, Monsieur, and I do not doubt your word. Nor do I doubt your commitment to this flotilla. We will sail to France, on that we are all agreed. It is just a matter of when. For now, as we are here, I believe a closer look at England—by a small number of men—prudent.”
    Bienville nodded thoughtfully and glanced at Red Shoes. “And you, sir? You are a part of this council as well.”
    Red Shoes blinked. That had been said, of course, but this was the first time he had been consulted on anything since the voyage began.
    “I think it a bad idea to set foot here,” he said at last.
    “Why is that?” Mather asked mildly, perhaps with a trace of annoyance.
    “It is not right, this place. I see that you are all afraid, and I know these are not just my feelings.”
    He did not mention the other thing: that he had sent a shadowchild to reconnoiter, that it had died somehow, that the loss haunted him deep. It would only anger Mather.

    A CALCULUS OF ANGELS
    “I find little sense in that,” Mather said, a trifle coolly, “but thank you for your opinion. Gentlemen?”
    Bienville sighed. “Choose your men, and I will furnish a matching number.”
    “Agreed,” Blackbeard said. “And who shall command the trek across land?”
    “I will,” Mather said quietly.
    “You?”
    “Yes, me. I am the only man of science among you, the only member of the Royal Society. We have here a puzzle, gentlemen, and it is, I believe, a scientific one. I shall go, and the governor’s men with me.”
    “Well, the whole council represented on foot then,” Blackbeard noted. “And so who will you send for your people, Choctaw, into this land that is ‘not right’?”
    There was, of course, only one answer to that.
    The earth beneath the grass was as black as charcoal. In fact, it was charcoal, as Mather noticed almost immediately.
    “Evidence of conflagration,” he murmured.
    “You mean ‘twas burnt,” Tug said, looking about worriedly at the featureless landscape.
    “Burnt, yes. But by what?”
    “Fire, I’d expect,” Tug answered nervously.
    “Yes, one would expect that. Captain Nairne, which way?”
    “London should lie in that