Grantville Gazette Volume 93

by Bjorn Hasseler

  "We have a business proposal for you to consider," Adolfo replied.

  "A business proposal? Ha! Really? Any business you were involved in was a disaster." He started counting with his fingers. "Hmn. Let's see. Partnering to a failed ridotto business. You entered in a partnership with his brother Jan," he pointed at Cosimo. "And you almost went broke. This is Venice. How could he manage to do that, I ask?"

  "Petro . . ." Cosimo looked at Francesco, who was going to say something and raised a cautioning hand at him. Francesco stopped.

  "Then,"—Petro kept on with counting—"you entered in a partnership with Antonio Retano, Paolo van Gansepoel, and Michiel van der Casteele. How did that go? You and Retano haven't spoken a civil word to each other for a few years now."

  Cosimo saw Francesco pursing his lips, but Adolfo laid a hand on his brother's forearm.

  "In fact, Adolfo," Petro continued unabashed, "if it weren't for your late father-in-law, God bless his soul, both you and your brother would be in prison for debts." He smiled smugly. "Tell me, how is your lovely wife?"

  That struck a nerve. Cosimo saw that Adolfo was ready to return the insult. He had to act quickly before the whole situation got out of hand. "I don't know why you think that the ridotto business was a failure," he interrupted. "A certain eminent merchant of our acquaintance said that the currency in Venice is not money, it's information. It's nothing short of astonishing, what one might hear around the gaming tables, especially when there is a good wine at hand." He turned to Adolfo who was looking at him now with an amused curl at the corners of his mouth. "What do you think, cousin? Was it a failure?"

  "No," Adolfo replied.

  Cosimo turned his gaze at Petro. "Not every partnership or business venture is guaranteed to work. Something like that might happen to anyone, even you. That doesn't mean you are a bad businessman. It's just life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose." He knew he had the other man's attention. "A good businessman," he continued, "is someone who can grab the opportunities as they arise. In that regard, my cousins are good businessmen. The ridotto and my cousin's marriage were opportunities to be exploited."

  Petro looked at him for a long moment. "For someone absent for such a long time, you are very well informed about your cousins' affairs."

  Cosimo shrugged. "I have kept in contact through their brother, cousin Lubbert in Amsterdam. They helped me financially through all these years. When I was presented with an opportunity to repay their kindness, I returned to Venice."

  "Opportunity? What kind of opportunity?"

  "An opportunity to make serious money by trading," Cosimo replied. He saw Petro raising his eyebrow. It was the opening Cosimo wanted. "Some peculiar trades have been taking place in Venice in the past months."

  "When were there not such trades? Be more specific, Cosimo."

  Cosimo reached into one of the pockets of his coat and produced a sheaf of papers. He glanced at them for a moment and handed one of them to Petro.

  Petro took a couple of minutes to peruse it. Finally, he looked up, his eyes meeting Cosimo's. "Interesting. Where did you get these?"

  "I have my sources," Cosimo simply stated. "These were some of the trades made by Signora Edelman and Dottoressa—"

  "Queste puttane," Petro erupted. "Queste streghe. I will—"

  "Petro!" Both Adolfo and Francesco admonished him.

  Cosimo waited for Petro to calm down. "Whores? Witches? I think not. How convenient that notion would be, if we sought only excuses! But that would get us no closer to the truth, let alone profit. There is a much more mundane explanation."

  "Which is?" Petro inquired, still furious at hearing the women's names.

  "The up-timers have the means to spread word of the day's market prices far and wide."

  "Ha! I knew it. Magic is involved. Witches!" Petro exclaimed.

  "Magic? Hardly." Cosimo laughed at the other man's outburst. "They used a powerful kind of semaphore. Instead of fires or flags, they used the properties of the air above us to send messages. They call it radio."

  "Radio? I've heard about it," Petro replied. "It needs a tall stone tower, like the one in Grantville, in order to operate. If they were inhabiting the Campanile, I would know it." Cosimo found himself echoing the smirk on his cousins' faces. "What's the matter?" Petro said.

  "We know for a fact that this is not entirely true," Adolfo replied.

  "They have the use of the Campanile? There is another tower? Where?" Petro wanted to know. "I haven't seen or heard of one."

  "No, what my brother meant is that a stone tower is not necessary for radio to operate nor is a tower of any kind invariably required, " Francesco clarified.

  "And how do you know that?" Petro demanded. "Did someone from the Embassy tell you so? Or the Stones?" He raised his finger in an accusing manner. " After all I've done for you—"

  "I told them," Cosimo interrupted.

  "You?"

  "As you pointed out, I've been appointed a secretary under Alvise Contarini," Cosimo continued. "How did that happen? Alvise Contarini can call on nearly anyone he wants. And, true, there are quite a few who would appear more qualified than I. So why have I been chosen?"

  He saw Petro looking at him speculatively. "I wondered myself," the other man conceded.

  "Because I have spent a considerable time in Grantville studying." Cosimo paused for a moment. "Not only medicine as I first intended, but also radio and other arts. There is little that they keep secret there. I was trained and licensed as a radio operator there. And when I came to Venice, I began to help my cousins."

  "To help them? How?" Petro looked at Cosimo and then the van Axels, somewhat confused. And then . . . "Those trades two months ago. They weren't lucky guesses, were they?"

  Cosimo grinned. "Not at all," he replied and handed another piece of the papers to Petro. "Here are last night's closing market prices in Grantville, Magdeburg, and Amsterdam. A gift."

  "So, this is your business proposal?" Petro inquired, still reading the paper. "To eavesdrop and sell me the prices?"

  "I could do so," Cosimo conceded. "But it would be of little value to you," he continued. "You don't have access to the embassy's radio, and you need to use pigeons to contact your factors in Grantville. It would take days—whereas Stone and his associates would use the embassy's radio and place their orders in hours."

  Petro looked at him. "So, then, what do you propose?"

  "To build our own radio service," Cosimo replied. "Technically, we can build a radio station here in Venice." He raised his hand to forestall Petro's reply. "Not as powerful as the one in the Embassy, not yet anyway. It would be too expensive—and it would take quite some time to do so. But we can build a few smaller—and simpler ones. With a few of them positioned correctly—one station relaying to the next one—we can reach Grantville easily." He handed Petro another piece of paper. "This is our proposal."

  Petro gave it a stare for a couple of minutes. He looked at Cosimo. "Procurement? Of what, in what quantities and at what prices? Is this to be some trivial, profitless distraction, as those two women sought to bother me with?"

  This was exactly the response Alvise had predicted and for which he had drilled Cosimo. Pride and vanity. Cosimo stared back at Petro and smiled. "How did that turn out for you, Missier Falier?" he sneered. "A few moments ago, you belittled my cousins for making bad decisions. It seems you have made one for yourself. Everybody profited from “those two women's” trades. Even my cousins indirectly. Everyone but you. By your intemperate behavior towards those two, you have already forfeited any hope of doing business with any part of the USE government now or in the future." He pointed at the paper in Petro's hands. "This is your chance to profit from the up-timers. Your only chance." Cosimo leaned forward, still looking at Petro. "You are free to decline, of course. There are others we could approach."

  Petro went silent for several heartbeats, while his jaw worked. Cosimo could see the astonishment in his eyes. Only a few dared to talk to
him like that. Finally, he spoke again. "And the part your cousins are to play? "

  Cosimo smiled. Excellent! "My cousins are to find the bright young men to bring whole new trades into existence," he replied. "To guide them and equip their craft shops, so that these materials and money you will provide can be turned into working radio sets. There will be much to do and little time to do it. Also, I must train the operators. Many of them. And after that . . ." He stopped and let Petro take a few long minutes perusing the paper.

  Petro looked up with a stiff expression on his face. "I will make inquiries and let you know."

  "Bon!"

  ****

  Palazzo Ducale, Venice

  A couple of days later

  Cosimo took a moment to look around at his new office. It was a well-ordered little chamber on the second floor of the palace, on the section where the servizi segreti was located. Furnished with just a small desk, some shelves and a sturdy chest with a lock for secure storage, it still had some space for an additional desk. Looking at the old heavy door he spotted a newly-installed lock. He patted the key in his pocket. The implication was clear. Cosimo was expected to bring not only his radio equipment, but also a trained assistant. He smiled.

  And so, it begins, it really begins, he thought. Not even in his wildest dreams would he have foreseen himself as a senior bureaucratic figure in the Venetian government apparatus. Yet I became one, he contemplated. And just today, the magnitude of the work ahead had grown alarmingly. Or, to be more accurate, his realization of it. But it was not enough.

  Now he was committed. He needed to make the radio partnership between the van Axel and Falier trading houses a success. Cosimo was altogether certain that Petro would push for his own people to be trained and employed in critical positions within the partnership. Well, whatever brought the quickest results. And once the radio service was established . . . Falier would make his move to grab it for himself and his house. Cosimo smiled. Petro, old friend, you are so predictable!

  Let him try, he thought. Petro Falier would find out the hard way, who the real powers behind this venture were. People that had close business ties with the Stones and the up-timers. People that wanted deniability and paid Cosimo and his cousins handsomely to act as front men. People like his boss, Alvise Contarini.

  "Well, dottore. How do you find your new office?" he heard the voice of the head of the five patricians overseeing the servizi segreti.

  Cosimo leaped from his chair. He was so entangled in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Alvise entering the room.

  "More than expected, Signore," he replied after a slight bow. "How was your trip to Padua?"

  "Most interesting. But then, meeting the famous Tom Stone is always an interesting experience."

  Profitable also, Cosimo thought. The Contarini family was one of the first to enter into a business partnership with the Stones.

  "So how was the meeting, Dottore?" Alvise wanted to know. "Did Falier agree?"

  Cosimo nodded. "Exactly as you predicted, Signore."

  "Eccellente! And the other assignment? Do we know if anyone else eavesdrops on the embassy's radio messages?"

  "It is difficult to tell," Cosimo replied. "The Cavriani and the Abrabanels maybe, but why do so? They are both creatures of the up-timers. If someone only eavesdrops, as we do, and doesn't send messages, then it will be very hard to find them. I will keep my eyes open for that. We might need to use some of the Council's informants."

  Alvise nodded. "I will make arrangements. What about us? Do they suspect?"

  Cosimo smiled. "I don't think so. According to our sources in the embassy they don't think much about our abilities. The interesting thing is that the Cavriani and the Abrabanels seem to think that also. For the love of God, the Abrabanels have lived here for a long time. They should know better!"

  Alvise's laughter echoed to all around the room. "Magnifico!"

  Cosimo understood. Underestimating someone, opponent or not, was always a bad move. It gave the other party too many advantages. In the hands of a skillful opponent, it could cause much damage. That was something that Cosimo knew from personal experience. Painful personal experience. "They are concerned, though," he added.

  "Concerned? Concerned about what?"

  "That we might suspect the truth about radio," Cosimo replied. "Especially after the trades of Dottoressa Nichols and Signora Stone. I think they are concerned enough to send Signore Turski here to contain any damage done and keep an eye on them."

  "Assistant Ambassador Wells Turski," Alvise murmured.

  Cosimo watched his boss while he was thinking over it. He could almost hear Alvise's thoughts. Wells Turski was a recent addition to the USE Embassy in Venice. He'd arrived not long ago, not as an assistant to the ambassador, which was a senior secretarial position, but as assistant ambassador in Venice. He presented his credentials to the doge and the Council. Why would the USE need two ambassadors in Venice? Unless—

  At the end, he saw the mischievous twinkle in the patrician's eye.

  "I think the time is opportune for a meeting with Signore Turski, while the ambassadora is still with Stone in Padua. To discuss our concerns about the misinformation regarding radio. Please, arrange it for tomorrow morning!"

  A knock on the door caused Alvise to pause. It opened and a young man, a page of the Doge, entered. "Signore, they are ready."

  Alvise nodded in acknowledgment. The page bowed and exited the room.

  "Also, write a report about the other matter. The Capi have asked that we keep them informed." With the command for action given, he departed his office and made his way to the Council's chamber for the morning meeting.

  "As you wish," Cosimo bowed again.

  ****

  A chamber in the Palazzo Ducale

  The same evening

  The Torre dell' Orologio, St Mark's Clocktower, struck the hour. Cosimo put down his pen. It was time to end his day and go home. He imagined his protégés taking positions beside the radio set, the earphones—originals, handmade in Grantville, costing him a small fortune each—firmly set on their heads. It was a game for the two of them, who would be the quickest and the more accurate one.

  Cosimo felt blessed. Arranging for the two girls to lodge with him was a personal favor to Adolfo. Margarita, Adolfo's illegitimate daughter, and her best friend Martha, the orphaned child of an English merchant and Francesco's godchild, were at odds with Catarina, Adolfo's wife. The situation at home was . . . strained. Since Catarina couldn't be persuaded, the girls had to go. They were bright, beautiful, and well educated for their age and sex. Martha even taught Margarita English, as a way of communicating without being understood. Which became handy when he taught them to copy high-speed Morse code. Maybe it was time for them to take over the eavesdropping full-time. And start training more radio operators. How many men would be willing to be trained by two girls? Cosimo chuckled.

  With that thought, he grabbed the goblet of fine grappa sitting on the desk near him and took a sip. Oh, how I've missed this nectar of the gods, he thought.

  The cough came unexpectedly. The goblet instantly slipped from his hand. Still coughing, he reached for his handkerchief and put it on his mouth. He coughed a little more. Then it stopped. He looked at the handkerchief. As he suspected, there were blood stains on it.

  It was then he took notice of the room; the goblet with the spilled grappa on the floor, the disordered papers on the desk -- some papers even thrown not that far from the spill.

  You are running out of time, old rascal, he thought. So much to do, scores to settle and debts to pay . . . and so little time . . . so little.

  It was time to start delegating. But there was no more that could be done today. With that thought, he turned to a quick tidying-up. He put the finished report inside the sturdy chest he used as a secure storage. It was time to lock up and go home. Home to his girls.

  ****

  Chapter 8: Grantville

  This entire trip had been
a waste. Nicholas had come to Grantville looking for answers. Instead, he found only more questions. Instead of solidifying his faith, the sand that it was built upon was being washed away. The waves of doubt those questions raised eroded away certainty. Had his faith been too fragile to stand against questions? But now . . .

  To make it worse, Nicholas was certain he would fail in his second mission to secure assistance from the USE. If Michael Stearns had been prime minister, Nicholas would have at least made the trip to Magdeburg to file a petition. Nicholas didn't know the man, but all of the stories he had heard were of a man who worked for those with no say. He could have accepted rejection that came from considered deliberation. Nicholas wasn't so sure of the man who occupied that office now.

  So much sin and sorrow. Nicholas was scarred—physical, emotionally, and spiritually. All of it was for naught.

  Nicholas had tried to find the dirtiest, most dilapidated tavern that he could. It seemed to fit the mood he was in and the state of his soul. However, Grantville had only so many options, and his soul wasn't so far gone as to drink at the Club 250. So, he had ended up at the Thuringen Gardens. While it was a combination of building styles and techniques, there was still a feeling of welcome as he walked through the doors.

  He had spent a few hours nursing a tankard of ale, his thoughts careening through his mind. He knew he was being overly dramatic, histrionically melancholy, but he just couldn't help himself.

  "You look like you could use some cheer, love." A lady sat at his table, uninvited. She was past budding youth, but not old by any measure. Her eyes were wise, wiser than they should be, and she moved with a grace that spoke of absolute confidence.

  ~I'm sorry, I'm not interested in company.