by Eric Flint
Unfortunately, the meeting with the Protestant Burgermeister wasn’t going much better. Another town functionary, Hans Kaspar Funk, was sitting stolidly in a chair beside the Burgermeister’s vast desk. As the town’s Pfarrpfleger, Funk ensured the timely and adequate external maintenance of Biberach’s churches, and he was also a member of the Innere Rat, or inner council. Not surprisingly, he had been named in the documents in Quinn’s possession: his involvement in the aerodrome negotiations was a matter of record. Indeed, he had been Kurzman’s primary point of contact for sorting out the details, once the general agreement had been reached.
Except now it sounded as though the agreement—which was written in clear black and white on the sheets that Quinn had politely advanced across the table toward Burgermeister Hanss Lay—had never been an agreement at all. Thomas felt the need for a drink redouble as Lay spread his hands expressively and continued his enumeration of unresolved contractual impediments. “Then there is the matter of gold.”
“Gold?” echoed Quinn. “Did you expect additional compensation?”
“Nein, nein, nein: not gold coins. Gold that one works. Gold for goldsmiths.” Lay threw up his heavy hands. “Biberach’s weavers are its most famous craftsmen, yes, but what is our second most famous product?”
Aggravation, Thomas answered silently.
Lay provided the response to his own question. “Fine work in gold. We have a considerable goldsmith’s guild here, and my predecessor was its senior member. His nephew, Hans Jakob Schoenfeld the Younger, is a member of the Rat and has made his guild’s special problem very clear, we feel.”
“Special problem?” Quinn repeated quietly. And somewhat helplessly, Thomas thought.
“Yes, of course. The problem with Venice.”
The sudden, powerful increase in Thomas’ already strong desire for a drink triggered a fleeting concern that perhaps he was becoming an alcoholic, after all.
Quinn’s voice was admirably level. “Tell me about the Venice problem.”
“Is it not obvious? Your airship will create easier access to Venice. This will increase the flow of raw gold stocks to this area. That increased supply will depress prices on all gold objects. It would be disastrous.”
Quinn held up a pausing hand. “But as I understand it—and as Herr Kurzman explored with you—cheaper raw stocks of gold are actually good. If the finished items sell for a little less here in Biberach itself, that is only a small percentage of your final market, the rest of which lies well beyond the effects of the greater influx of raw gold. Besides, the airship means your finished gold products have much wider markets—including those in Italy. According to Herr Kurzman, you saw that advantage before he pointed it out to you.”
“Yes, well, we all said a great many things. I believe Herr Kurzman is quite mistaken in this recollection of them.”
Funk spoke sepulchrally from his wide-armed chair. “Besides, there is also the originally undisclosed nature of our primary business partner. We had been under the impression that the airships were being created and run by the up-timers of Grantville. But we have since learned that the true owner of these balloons is this fellow Estuban Miro.”
“That is true. This was made clear during the negotiations.”
“Not the fact that he is a Jew,” Funk sniffed haughtily. “We are not…comfortable dealing with one of his kind.”
Thomas forgot all about the drink he wanted. “Certainly you are not serious. This town deals with ‘his kind’ all the time. Jewish communities are the largest suppliers and conveyors of both raw and finished gold in this entire area. How could you be—?”
But Quinn was rising. He interrupted Thomas with a bow and a “Guten Tag,” and was then towing the Englishman toward the door.
“But this is sheer rubbish, Larry. This is—”
Low and hasty, Quinn whispered. “Thomas. Let it be. The problems here are not about Venice, not about Miro, and not about his religion. There’s something else going on here.” Larry continued after they had closed the door behind them and were walking toward the stairs. “They’re nervous now because their objections are all bullshit. And they know that we know they’re bullshit.”
“And do they know that we know that they know that we—?”
“Okay, Thomas: that’s not funny.”
“Really? I found it exquisitely amusing.”
* * *
By the time Thomas had a stein in front of him at the Grüner Baum, he was ready for a drink again. “I think this constitutes a dead end, Major Quinn. What is our next option? Removal of the civilian government?”
“Don’t tempt me. But what’s standing in our way is simple ignorance.”
“They are a blinkered bunch, I’ll give you that.”
“No, Thomas: not their ignorance. Our ignorance. Since the reasons we got were pure bullshit, that means we haven’t seen the real reason for their change of mind. I just wish we had access to someone who knew what was going on in their minds between the time they agreed to the deal and then went back on it.”
“You mean, someone like him?” Thomas pointed toward the bar, where a young man in military gear had just placed an order. The exchange with the owner was cordial, but not familiar.
Larry looked at Thomas. “An officer from the garrison?”
North sipped, shrugged. “You know any other soldiers in town? But why wonder when we can just ask?”
* * *
The young officer was glad for the invitation to join them and introduced himself as Georg Prum, commander of the Protestant Garrison of Biberach.
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Commander, you say?”
Prum smiled; he was a good-looking fellow, the kind that was always presumed to have “aristocratic blood” even if he was the lowest-born pauper’s bastard in a town. “The plague has a way of promoting us before our time, Major. Consider the youth of the town’s Rat.”
“I thought they were spared the plague.”
“Yes—thanks largely to your up-time methods of quarantine, as I understand it. But diphtheria struck, too, and is a much subtler infiltrator of towns. As is often the case, the old and the young had a particularly hard time of it. As did we.”
“And so you are the ranking officer remaining?”
“I am. And we lost our senior sergeant, as well. Not that there were many of us to begin with. From what our late commander, Captain Grieg, told me, General Horn deemed this area largely secure by the onset of winter last year and wanted all his Swedish troops back west where the primary action was. So although a garrison of fifty was withdrawn from Biberach, he only sent twenty-five of us as replacements for it. The plague and diphtheria cut us down to almost half that.”
Quinn shook his head sympathetically. Thomas took a meditative sip before commenting, “You know, we were contemplating coming out to visit the abbey.”
Prum pushed back one dark black wing of a trim moustache. “You’d be the first. And most welcome. Although if you do so, I doubt you’ll be very welcome back here, anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because you might pick up whatever stench was apparently thick upon us when we arrived.”
“I take it you were not met with open arms?”
“We were turned away at the gate. Seems our predecessors had not made themselves very welcome in the town: they were such ardent Lutherans that they made the joint government difficult to maintain in any practical sense of the word. And of course, we showed up sick and too weak to really debate the matter: the half of us who were healthy enough to move under our own power had our hands full supporting those who were not. So they sent us off to the abbey—probably to die. The abbess there had died not too long before; plague also. It cleared the abbey.”
“Well,” Larry offered, “at least you have plenty of room.”
“Not as much as you think. Toward the end, the nuns obviously had no way to bury their own dead. Half of the rooms still have one or more corpses in them. And I am not abo
ut to order my plague-panicked men to do anything other than close the doors, seal those buildings off, and let the rats have their way.”
“Sounds charming,” Thomas said with a barely suppressed shudder. “We’ll be sure to visit your pestilential abode.”
“I’m sure you will,” Prum responded with admirable good humor.
Larry leaned forward. “Why haven’t you sent word back to Horn’s staff? Being forced to live in a plague-hole is simply unacceptable. Besides, you can’t carry out your orders from there. How would you even know if Biberach was being endangered?”
“We wouldn’t. And you are absolutely right: there’s little enough we could do from out there. We maintain a patrol between the abbey and Ringschnaitt, but even that earns us wary looks. The town—well, particularly the Rat—wants us to keep to ourselves, so we do.”
“What brings you to town, then?”
“Man may not live by bread alone, but one has to have it, nonetheless.”
“Ah. Provisioning.”
“Just so. My men will fetch it tomorrow, but I must arrange for it today. Which requires a drink—often stiffer than this one—first: the local merchants are none too happy providing us with our daily needs in exchange for the promise of General Horn’s coin. Coin they’ve never seen.”
“Which is a violation of the revised conduct code of the USE,” murmured Larry.
“Yes. Well. I am not sure how much General Horn believes in the authority of the USE. He certainly does believe in the authority of King Gustav, however. Perhaps if you were to bring up the matter with His Majesty…” Prum trailed off with a rueful grin.
“Yes,” Quinn answered with a matching smile. “I’ll make it the first agenda item for our meeting next week. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could shed any light on why the local Rat changed its mind on a business arrangement it made with Grantville about three months ago?”
Prum frowned, then his eyebrows lifted in understanding. “Ah. This is the airship I’ve heard mentioned once or twice?”
“It is.”
Prum shook his head. “I am sorry. I would not be aware of it at all except for some overheard conversations amongst common workers. And the arrangement has come undone? A pity; I should have liked to have seen such a miracle.”
Thomas nodded understanding. “Any advice on what to do?”
Prum seemed surprised. “Me? About getting them to reaccept a balloon? Here?” He shook his head sadly. “If you have a long time to wait, I suppose you could try to use the power of sweet reason. But if you’re in a hurry, I think you’ll be disappointed. The town fathers are most intractable.” Seeing the looks on their faces, Prum hastened to add, “I’m sorry to be discouraging. But now I must see to securing food for my men.” He rose. “If there’s any assistance I can offer, do not hesitate to ask.”
“We won’t,” grumbled Thomas.
Larry stood, put out his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Herr Kapitan Prum.”
“Likewise, Major Quinn, Colonel Thomas.”
Thomas muttered a pleasantry that even he couldn’t hear as the trim young officer exited the taproom. Once he was gone, the Englishman stared up at the American. “Well, your impressions, Major?”
“Only nice guy we’ve met so far.”
“Which is precisely why I’m suspicious of him,” North grumbled.
“There is that,” Quinn conceded with a small smile.
One meal, two hours, and three drinks later, Johann Schoenfeld entered with a relative whose family resemblance was unmistakable. However, the newcomer—the artist’s younger brother Ferdinand—spent a great deal of time in a dark distraction, missing bits of the initial conversation in his somber preoccupation.
Granted, Thomas reflected, the evening’s small talk about weather, trade, politics, trade, and oh yes, more trade, hardly made for riveting conversation. But Ferdinand seemed not merely bored or disinterested: he was fretful and barely touched his beer. Even Johann’s good-natured ribbing about his sibling’s second bout with impending fatherhood elicited only wan smiles.
However, Ferdinand became suddenly alert when, with the dinner hour, their server changed and the new one—a slightly older woman who was more concerned with the patrons as customers than potential husbands—clapped a friendly hand down on his shoulder and asked, “So, how is your little Gisela enjoying the new school in Nuremburg? I’ll bet she misses her Vati!”
Ferdinand muttered congenial pleasantries that sounded both pained and evasive. The server smiled and frowned simultaneously and then swept on to the next table.
Thomas watched the brother as Quinn asked. “So, how is your daughter doing in school?”
“Well,” was the brittle answer, “quite well.”
“What made you decide that she start studying so young, and away from home? Are the schools in Nuremburg so much better?”
Ferdinand drew himself up. “Our schools are every bit as good as those in Nuremburg…” Then he faltered, became furtive again. “But it’s a bigger town. It’s a city. It’s safer.”
“Safer?” his brother Johann wondered. “Safer than here?”
Ferdinand was openly nervous now. “Ja, safer. At least in the ways that matter most.” He rose quickly and bowed. “You gentlemen will excuse me. I have a pregnant wife and it is getting late.”
Thomas and Quinn rose, returned his bow, saw Johann’s face folded in creases of concern as Ferdinand made for the door. “I think I should see him home. Something has been bothering him.”
Ya think? Thomas wondered silently, cherishing the sassy up-time idiom.
Quinn frowned after the departing brothers. “You know, Thomas, given Ferdinand’s strange answers and jittery nerves, it might be helpful to have a chat with his wife tomorrow.”
And now, with a smile, Thomas got to say it aloud: “Ya think?”
* * *
The next morning, their ruse to speak with Ferdinand’s wife at home was a dismal failure. Their claim that they were trying to return what might be Herr Schoenfeld’s lost pipe (it actually belonged to Thomas’s batman, Finan) was rebuffed by the a cronelike servant who answered the door and avoided sharing her name. She indicated that her young mistress was indisposed and added the unsolicited observation that men should not come calling to see pregnant women unannounced, and particularly when the husband or another male family member was not present. It did not perturb her sense of indignation in the least that they had started by asking to speak to the husband (whom they knew to be at work), not the wife, and that it was difficult to send word ahead when one was trying to return a lost object as promptly as possible.
Still, Larry proved a source of unflappable, underplayed charm: well, then might they make an appointment for later?
The crone shook her head once and responded in her limited English: “Not possible.”
Well then, would the servant herself consent to allow them in to show her the pipe, so that she might describe it to Master Ferdinand for his subsequent consideration?
Again, this was “Not possible.” But then came one tantalizingly unusual piece of information. “I am house servant. I do not meet with outsiders. And I do not leave.”
Really? wondered Larry. Never?
“No more. Not now. You are going now.”
Larry’s tone was the epitome of reasonableness; his foot was also in the gapped door. Well, what about one of the other servants? The ones who brought in the food, the water?
“Kein. None. The only other servant ist gone. It is well; she vass lazy.”
Oh? And who might that have been?
A wicked glint illuminated the crone’s one visible eye: she would not share much, but would be happy to advertise the failings of the younger, discharged servant. “Ursula Bodenmüller. The granddaughter, I mean. A weaver’s daughter who cannot weave. Dummkopf. Now you go.”
Larry got his foot out of the way just in time to avoid losing it.
“So,” said Thomas with a smile. �
�Ursula Bodenmüller, Dummkopf. She shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
* * *
And indeed, she was not.
But extracting information from her was difficult and exceedingly dull. After countless digressions into the difficulties of being a weaver’s daughter, of the intellectual challenges of weaving, of the comparable intellectual challenges of shop-cleaning for a butcher, and of the intricacies of being a twenty-seven-year-old woman whose virtue was daily threatened by various suitors (of whom there was no material evidence), Larry and Thomas finally found a way to keep her talking about the household of Ferdinand and Anna Schoenfeld. Luckily, the key to their continued conversation was the daughter, little Gisela, the darling of her eye who had gone off to school in Nuremburg just before turning three. Which was rather odd timing, Ursula reflected: why send such a small child off to school in the last month of winter?
“Why indeed?” prompted Thomas, who knew not to speak further. One more phrase from him and Ursula was sure to be off on some other tangent.
But Ursula’s focus remained on Gisela. “Do you know, this is what I wondered, too. There had been no talk of school for her; her mama Anna was looking forward to having her around when the new baby comes.” Ursula looked crestfallen. “And to send her off in the middle of the night that way. So strange.”
Thomas looked at Larry; Larry looked back at Thomas. Who urged, “They sent Gisela off to school in the middle of the night?”
“Yes, and it was as though they had forgotten they were going to do so.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you see, Herr Schoenfeld spoilt his little girl rotten.” Ursula smiled happily at the recollection of this dubious parenting. “But even so, Gisela was always so sweet. And she always liked sweet things. So he made sure she had a fresh sweet roll every morning. Which means I always had to buy them late the day before. Which is just what I did the day before Gisela left.” Ursula sighed and stopped.