Weight could be transferred from lead to floor-boards, and thence into joists, and thence into beams, and from beams into pillars, then down into footings, and thence into log piles whose strength derived from the “stick” (as Dutchmen called it) between them and the mud they’d been hammered into. The final settling of accounts was there: if the “stick” sufficed, the structure above it was a building, and if it didn’t, it was a gradual avalanche…

“It is very curious, mademoiselle, that the chilly winds of the Hague were balmy breezes to you-yet in this warm room, you alone clutch your arms, and have goosebumps.”

“Chilly thoughts, Monsieur d’Avaux.”

“And no wonder-your beau is about to leave for Hungary. You need to make some new friends-ones who live in warmer climes, perhaps?”

No. Madness. I belong here. Even Jack, who loves me, said so.

From a corner of the room, clouded with men and pipe-smoke, a trumpeting laugh from Mr. Sluys. Eliza glanced over that way and saw Monmouth plying him-probably reciting the very sentences she’d composed for him. Sluys was giddy with hope that he could get rid of his burden, frantic with anxiety that it might not happen. Meanwhile the market was in violent motion all over Amsterdam as Aaron de la Vega sold the V.O.C. short. It would all lead to an invasion of England. Everything had gone fluid tonight. This was no time to stand still.

A man danced by with an ostrich-plume in his hat, and she thought of Jack. Riding across Germany with him, she’d had nought but her plumes, and his sword, and their wits-yet she’d felt safer then than she did now. What would it take to feel safe again?

“Friends in warm places are lovely to have,” Eliza said distractedly, “but there is no one here who would have me, monsieur. You know very well that I am not of noble, or even gentle, birth-I’m too exotic for the Dutch, too common for the French.”

“The King’s mistress was born a slave, ” d’Avaux said. “Now she is a Marquise. You see, nothing matters there save wit and beauty.”

“But wit fails and beauty fades, and I don’t wish to be a house on piles, sinking into the bog a little each day,” Eliza said. “Somewhere I must stick. I must have a foundation that does not always move.”

“Where on this earth can such a miracle be found?”

“Money,” Eliza said. “Here, I can make money.”

“And yet this money you speak of is but a chim?ra-a figment of the collective imagination of a few thousand Jews and rabble bellowing at one another out on the Dam.”

“But in the end I may convert it-bit by bit-into gold.”

“Is that all you want? Remember, mademoiselle, that gold only has value because some people say it does. Let me tell you a bit of recent history: My King went to a place called Orange-you’ve heard of it?”

“A principality in the south of France, near Avignon-William’s fiefdom, as I understand it.”

“My King went to this Orange, this little family heirloom of Prince William, three years ago. Despite William’s pretensions of martial glory, my King was able to walk in without a battle. He went for a stroll atop the fortifications. Le Roi paused, there along a stone battlement, and plucked out a tiny fragment of loose masonry-no larger than your little finger, mademoiselle-and tossed it onto the ground. Then he walked away. Within a few days, all the walls and fortifications of Orange had been pulled down by le Roi ’s regiments, and Orange had been absorbed into France, as easily as Mr. Sluys over there might swallow a bit of ripe fruit.”

“What is the point of the story, Monsieur, other than to explain why Amsterdam is crowded with Orangish refugees, and why William hates your King so much?”

“Tomorrow, le Roi might pick up a bit of Gouda cheese and throw it to his dogs.”

“Amsterdam would fall, you are saying, and my hard-earned gold would be loot for some drunken regiment.”

“Your gold-and you, mademoiselle.”

“I understand such matters far better than you imagine, monsieur. What I do not understand is why you pretend to be interested in what happens to me. In the Hague, you saw me as a pretty girl who could skate, and who would therefore catch Monmouth’s eye, and make Mary unhappy, and create strife in William’s house. And it all came to pass just as you intended. But what can I do for you now?”

“Live a beautiful and interesting life-and, from time to time, talk to me.”

Eliza laughed out loud, lustily, drawing glares from women who never laughed that way, or at all. “You want me to be your spy.”

“No, mademoiselle. I want you to be my friend.” D’Avaux said this simply and almost sadly, and it caught Eliza up short. In that moment, d’Avaux spun smartly on the balls of his feet and trapped Eliza’s arm. She had little choice but to walk with him-and soon it became obvious that they were walking directly towards Etienne d’Arcachon. In the dimmest and smokiest corner of the room, meanwhile, Mr. Sluys kept laughing and laughing.

Thou hast met with something (as I perceive) already; for I see the dirt of the Slough of Despond is upon thee; but that Slough is the beginning of the sorrows that do attend those that go on in that way; hear me, I am older than thou!

-JOHNBUNYAN,The Pilgrim’s Progress

JACK WAS BURIEDup to his neck in the steaming manure of the white, pink-eyed horses of the duc d’Arcachon, trying not to squirm as a contingent of perhaps half a dozen maggots cleaned away the dead skin and flesh surrounding the wound in his thigh. This itched, but did not hurt, beyond the normal wholesome throbbing. Jack had no idea how many days he’d been in here, but from listening to the bells of Paris, and watching small disks of sunlight prowl around the stable, he guessed it might be five in the afternoon. He heard boots approaching, and a pad-lock negotiating with its key. If that lock were the only thing holding him in this stable, he would’ve escaped long ago; but as it was, Jack was chained by the neck to a pillar of white stone, with a few yards of slack so that he could, for example, bury himself in manure.

The bolt shot and John Churchill stepped in on a tongue of light. In contrast to Jack, he was not covered in shit-far from it! He was wearing a jeweled turban of shimmering gold cloth, and robes, with lots of costume jewelry; old scuffed boots, and a large number of weapons, viz. scimitar, pistols, and several granadoes. His first words were: “Shut up, Jack, I’m going to a fancy-dress ball.”

“Where’s Turk?”

“I stabled him,” Churchill said, pointing with his eyes toward an adjacent stable. The duc had several stables, of which this was the smallest and meanest, and used only for shoeing horses.

“So the ball you mean to attend is here. ”

“At the Hotel d’Arcachon, yes.”

“What’re you supposed to be-a Turk? Or a Barbary Corsair?”

“Do I look like a Turk?” Churchill asked hopefully. “I understand you have personal knowledge of them-”

“No. Better say you’re a Pirate.”

“A breed of which I have personal knowledge.”

“Well, if you hadn’t fucked the King’s mistress, he wouldn’t have sent you to Africa.”

“Well, I did, and he did-send me there, I mean-and I came back.”

“And now he’s dead. And you and the duc d’Arcachon have something to talk about.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Churchill asked darkly.

“Both of you have been in contact with the Barbary Pirates-that’s all I meant.”

Churchill was taken aback-a small pleasure and an insignificant victory for Jack. “You are well-informed,” he said. “I should like to know whether everyone in the world knows of the duc d’Arcachon’s intercourse with Barbary, or is it just that you are special?”