The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) Read Free Page A

understand you’re willing to betray all sides, Monsieur Gage,” said someone with a Prussian accent, as if reading my mind.
    A ruddy German as sturdy as a stump barred our way, his boots planted apart. He had blond hair, a crimson eye patch, a Teutonic cross at his throat, and enough other medals to bedeck the coin belt of a belly dancer. “You’ve served France, America, and Britain in turn.”
    “Which simply means I’m a diplomat. And you are?”
    “Count Lothar Von Bonin. I’m here to foster friendship between Berlin and St. Petersburg. I couldn’t help noticing you conversing with Minister Czartoryski.”
    “I’m his advisor. A confidant of President Jefferson. And did you hear that I’m a Franklin man?”
    “I’m a Freemason myself, and understand Franklin was a member. You as well?”
    “Missed a few meetings.” It was disquieting that odd strangers felt enough familiarity to strike up unwanted conversations. I don’t recommend having a reputation; you never know whom it will attract. “I’d have assumed Prussians too hard-headed for Masonry.”
    “Not at all. The Illuminati and Rosicrucians have their roots in Germany. Our King Frederick-Wilhelm is one of the latter. The Russians are enthusiastic Masons too, ever since the Scot James Keith introduced it. All of us mad for the occult, I suppose, to balance the tyranny of rationalism. Remarkable adventures you’ve had.”
    I tried self-deprecation. “Misadventure.”
    “And now both of us are in a place that combines science and mysticism. St. Petersburg is the head and Moscow the heart, the saying goes. The Enlightenment and Old Russia. Savants and saints.”
    “The marriage of our times,” said Astiza, who’d make a far better Mason than me. Don’t know why the fraternity won’t permit women since her gender improves any gathering. I’d add them to an infantry regiment if it were up to me. They’d lend some sense, temper the language, and clean up the camp.
    “Indeed, Madame, indeed!” His smile, however, was tightly sewn. “Something Czartoryski doesn’t entirely understand; he urges the tsar to modernize too quickly. But Slavs are different than the West. Russia is moralistic without morals, and powerful without purpose. Alexander employs liberal advisors and yet recently imposed press censorship and a secret police. So I take lesson, and adjust my advice.” He extended his arm. “I actually admire the flexibility of your allegiances. It means we might be friends.”
    I reluctantly reached to take his hand, and was startled when I was met with an upraised ivory stump. I paused in confusion.
    There was a click, a snap, and a wicked blade a foot in length popped from the prosthesis, the candlelight catching the blade’s edge. I started. The stump had a muzzle hole as well.
    Von Bonin laughed. “Or enemies. It is your choice.”

 
     
    CHAPTER 2
     
     
     
     
     
    I was saved from this display of bad taste by a blare of trumpets that announced the royal family. This custom is not as pompous as Americans might assume, since a buzzing crowd needs to know to quiet down, brush off crumbs, and turn the right direction. The French had told me that elaborate etiquette was invented to avoid embarrassment, not be the cause of it.
    Certainly one needs skill for a palace soiree. The trick is to be seen, to meet useful people, and to avoid unpleasant ones like this one-handed, one-eyed Prussian. A dash of cleverness doesn’t hurt, but flippancy is frowned upon. One must never arrive too early or too late, never laugh too much or not enough, never refuse a toast, and never drink past one’s capacity.
    The source of all favor stepped into the room with his imperious mother on one arm, his unhappy wife two steps behind, and his saucy mistress right behind her. Tsar Alexander is not just a king but god on earth, his empire stretching from the Baltic to Alaska. Its mongrel-mix of more than forty million is Europe’s largest, twice that of