Gamesmanship

Chapter 1: Wild Card

London Waterfront. October 1704.

Jack slid onto the bench next to the elderly sailor. "I got the shillings for you," he murmured.

"Well done, Jacko." The man patted his thigh under the table when he slipped him the coins.

Jack was willing to wager that none of the patrons at the Golden Rat, one of the seedier pubs along the quays in London, recognized Isaac Newton, Master of the Royal Mint. Isaac had taken up his post several years ago with a conscientiousness that amazed his friends and dismayed counterfeiters.

Jack thought it was a good joke, even if Father H didn't, that he could now lift coins for Her Majesty, Queen Anne.

Forty years ago, Philippe and Father H had arranged for him to work with Isaac at Cambridge. Philippe had grand designs for him to graduate from the university. They didn't last long. He took a few courses in mathematics, but structured university life wasn't for him. Most of the math he learned was through working with Isaac.

As for Isaac, he was far more interested in his knowledge of Tom Harriot's experiments and Henry Percy's alchemy studies than in what he picked up at university. Many of their experiments were unpublished or had never been written down. He was by no means an expert on them, but he'd retained enough for Isaac to consider him a valued assistant. For once, he didn't need to hide the fact that he was a wearh. Rather than despising him for it, the daemon rejoiced in his longevity.

Much of Isaac's research seemed akin to witchcraft. How else to describe an invisible force that causes objects to fall to the ground? Isaac called it gravity but to Jack, it seemed remarkably similar to the silk cords Goody Alsop used to teach Mistress Roydon knot-making.

He'd maintained his interest in art and music, not that Isaac cared a fig for either. The only drawings Jack did that Isaac liked were for his optics experiments and movements of the planets.

Jack scanned the rowdy patrons warily. Some shifty-eyed lowlifes were eyeing him and Isaac while muttering among themselves.

For the past month, Isaac had been gathering evidence on Thomas Tyler, a counterfeiter in the mold of William Chaloner. That infamous criminal was hanged five years ago based on evidence provided by Isaac. Tyler would likely suffer the same fate. But Chaloner's case had made Isaac, and by association Jack, the enemy of London's street gangs. The counterfeiter had been popular with thieves. He gave lavish gifts to keep them in his pocket. Tyler had been one of his associates, and he'd learned his lessons well.

Jack had lost track of the number of times he'd been waylaid or assaulted, but always he'd managed to keep Isaac safe. Father H had no tolerance for anyone causing locals to suspect wearhs lived in London so he was forced to hide his strength. His preferred tactic was to flee at the first hint of trouble.

Isaac scowled. "I'd hoped we could acquire some guineas as additional proof."

"In this hovel? I was lucky to get shillings. We may have better luck in shops."

Isaac continued to frown but reluctantly stood up after Jack gave him a none-too-subtle nudge. He'd have a much easier time of it if Isaac would stay at home and let him cut purses on his own. But Isaac was adamant that he needed to be present. He claimed that in case of trouble, he'd be able to keep Jack from being arrested. Jack's argument that he wouldn't get caught fell on deaf ears.

So fine. Isaac could come along, but he needed to leave when Jack said so. He wasn't about to let the sixty-year-old mathematician get beaten up on his watch.

"You know you're getting worse than a mother hen," Isaac grumbled as they walked back to his house in Haydon Square. "Daemons are quite capable of defending themselves."