“We may have to capture an arsenal very early in the campaign,” Bolstrood said, “God willing.”

Talk of campaigns and arsenal-captures made Eliza nervous, so she attempted a change of subject: “When may I have the pleasure of meeting the Client?”

“As soon as we can find him clothed and sober,” Bolstrood answered immediately.

“That should be easy, in a Barker.”

“The Client is nothing of the sort!” Gomer Bolstrood scoffed.

“How very strange.”

“What is strange about it?”

“How came he to oppose Slavery if not through religion?”

“You oppose it, and you’re no Calvinist,” Bolstrood parried.

“I have personal reasons for feeling as I do. But I phant’sied that the Client was one of your co-religionists. He does oppose slavery, does he not?”

“Let us set aside phant’sies, and speak of facts.”

“Can’t help noticing, sir, that my question is unanswered.”

“You appeared at the door of our church in Amsterdam-some felt, like an Angelic visitation-with a most generous donation, and offered to make yourself useful in any way that would further our work ‘gainst Slavery. And that is just what you are doing.”

“But if the Client is not opposed to slavery, how does it further the cause to buy him powder and musket-balls?”

“You may not know that my father-God rest his soul-served as the late King’s Secretary of State before he was hounded to exile and death by the Papists who do France’s work in England. He submitted to that degradation because he knew that upright men must sometimes treat with the likes of King Charles II for the greater good. In the same way, we who oppose slavery, and Established religion, and in particular all of the abominations and fopperies of the Romish faith, must give our support to any man who might prevent James, Duke of York, from long remaining on the throne.”

“James is the rightful heir, is he not?”

“As those diplomats just proved, cavilling over the seniority of their Kings,” Bolstrood said, “there is no question that cannot be muddled-and powder-smoke muddles things ‘specially well. King Louis stamps Ultima Ratio Regum on all of his cannon-”

“The last argument of kings.”

“You know Latin, too-?”

“I had a Classical education.”

“In Qwghlm!?”

“In Constantinople.”

THE COMTE D’AVAUX MOVED THROUGHthe Hague’s canal-network in the gait of a man walking across red-hot coals, but some innate aplomb kept him from falling down even once.

“Would you like to go home now, monsieur?”

“Oh no, mademoiselle-I am enjoying myself,” he returned, biting off the syllables one by one, like a crocodile working its way up an oar.

“You dressed more warmly today-is that Russian sable?”

“Yes, but of an inferior grade-a much finer one awaits you-if you get me back alive.”

“That is quite unnecessary, monsieur-”

“The entire point of gifts is to be unnecessary.” D’Avaux reached into a pocket and pulled out a square of neatly folded black velvet. “Voila,” he said, handing it over to her.

“What is it?” Eliza asked, taking it from his hand, and using the opportunity to grab his upper arm for a moment and steady him.

“A little nothing. I should like you to wear it.”

The velvet unfolded into a long ribbon about the width of Eliza’s hand, its two ends joined together with a rather nice gold brooch made in the shape of a butterfly. Eliza guessed it was meant to be a sash, and put one arm and her head through it, letting it hang diagonally across her body. “Thank you, monsieur,” she said, “how does it look?”

The comte d’Avaux, for once, failed to offer her a compliment. He merely shrugged, as if how it looked was not the point. Which confirmed Eliza’s suspicion that a black velvet sash over skating-clothes was rather odd-looking.

“How did you escape your predicament yesterday?” she asked him.

“Made arrangements for the Stadholder to summon the English Ambassador back to the Binnenhof. This compelled him to make a volte-face: a maneuver in which the diplomats of perfidious Albion are well practiced. We followed him down the street and made the first available turn. How did you escape yours?”

“What-you mean, being out for a skate with a lug?”

“Naturally.”

“Tormented him for another half an hour-then returned to his place in the country to transact business. You think I’m a whore, don’t you, monsieur? I saw it in your face when I mentioned business. Though you would probably say courtesan. ”

“Mademoiselle, in my circles, anyone who transacts business of any sort, on any level, is a whore. Among French nobility, no distinctions are recognized between the finest commercants of Amsterdam and common prostitutes.”

“Is that why Louis hates the Dutch so?”

“Oh no, mademoiselle, unlike these dour Calvinists, we love whores-Versailles is aswarm with them. No, we have any number of intelligent reasons to hate the Dutch.”

“What sort of whore do you suppose I am, then, monsieur?”

“That is what I am trying to establish.”

Eliza laughed. “Then you should be eager to turn back.”

“Non!”The comte d’Avaux made a doddering, flailing turn onto another canal. Something bulky and grim shouldered its way into a gap ahead of them. Eliza mistook it, at first, for an especially gloomy old brick church. But then she noticed up on the parapet light shining like barred teeth through crenellations, and many narrow embrasures, and realized it had been made for another purpose besides saving souls. The building had tall poky conical spires at the corners, and Gothic decorations along the fronts of the gables that thrust out into the cold air like clenched stone fists. “The Ridderzaal,” she said, getting her bearings; for she had gotten quite lost following d’Avaux along the labyrinth of canals that were laced through the Hofgebied like capillaries through flesh. “So we are on the Spij now, going north.” A short distance ahead of them, the Spij forked in twain, bracketing the Ridderzaal and other ancient buildings of the Counts of Holland between its branches.

D’Avaux careered into the right fork. “Let us go through yonder water-gate, into the Hofvijver!” Meaning a rectangular pond that lay before the Binnenhof, or palace of the Dutch court. “The view of the Binnenhof rising above the ice will be-er-”

“Magical?”

“Non.”

“Magnificent?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Less bleak than anything else we have seen?”

“Now truly you are speaking French,” the ambassador said approvingly. “The princeling*is off on another of his insufferable hunting expeditions, but some persons of quality are there.” He had put on a surprising-almost alarming-burst of speed and was several paces ahead of Eliza now. “They will open the gate for me,” he said confidently, tossing the words back over his shoulder like a scarf. “When they do, you put on one of those magnificent accelerations and sail past me into the Hofvijver.”

“Very devious… but why don’t you simply ask them to let me through?”

“This will make for a gayer spectacle.”

The gate was so close to the Binnenhof that they would nearly pass underneath the palace as they went through. It was guarded by musketeers and archers dressed in blue outfits with lace cravats and orange sashes. When they recognized Jean Antoine de Mesmes, comte d’Avaux, they ventured out onto the ice, skidding on their hard-soled boots, pulled one side of the gate open for him, and bowed-doffing their hats and sweeping the ice with the tips of their orange plumes. The gate was wide enough to admit pleasure-boats during the warmer months, and so Eliza had plenty of room to whoosh past the French Ambassador and into the rectangle of ice that was spread out before William of Orange’s palace. It was a maneuver that would have earned her a broad-headed arrow between the shoulder blades if she were a man. But she was a girl in a short skirt and so the guards took her entrance in the spirit intended-as an amusing courtly plaisanterie of the comte’s devising.