by Eric Flint
Another commotion in the underbrush augured further drama: a boy—perhaps nine years old—broke free of the clutching foliage in a thrashing tumble of leaves and limbs. He jumped up and swore vehemently: “Heugabel!” Ignoring the wagon and its occupants, his searching gaze found the young ram’s receding rump. The boy’s mouth opened wide; invective streamed out: “Ess-oh-Essen, du verdammten scheisskopf! Komm’ doch hier! Schnell!” And, the sound of his further exhortations dwindling along with his spare form, the boy—and his wooly charge—were lost to sight.
The wagoneer shook his head. “Here, around Grantville, ist all-vays trubble. Even der rams are rebellisch...‘rebelyus,’ I tink ist die Englisch wort.” He shook his head again. “All-vays trubble.”
Miro shrugged and carefully resheathed his dagger. Trouble, he supposed, was in the eye of the beholder. Miro had begun his journey to Grantville by debarking upon the shadiest wharves of Genoa, then heading north to begin his transalpine journey via Chiavenna. That newly open city had been tense: still patrolled by various Hapsburg detachments, this gateway to the Valtelline had lately become a hotbed of suspicion and intrigue.
Of course, Italy in general was tense. The anti-Spanish restiveness in Naples was increasing steadily. Rome had been simmering higher as Philip of Spain became increasingly impatient with Urban VIII’s “irresolute stance” toward heretical faiths. And with Galileo’s much-anticipated trial approaching...Estuban Miro had simply been glad to leave Italy when he did. As a marrano—a “hidden Jew” of Iberian origin—any region in which both Spanish truculence and religious intolerance were on the rise was a region he preferred avoiding.
His transalpine journey had been slow (as he had been warned), but not particularly arduous: the light, intermittent snows of spring had been far less trouble than the run-off from the post-winter melt. The passes weren’t the only messy parts of Switzerland, though: tariffs, tolls, and other administrative pilferings mired every border between the cantonments. Once beyond the alps in Konstanz, his travel choices had been either an armed caravan through still-embattled and bandit-ridden Swabia, or a barge up the Rhine and over on the Main to Frankfurt. And thence by wagon, and occasional cart, to—well, to this very spot on the road.
The trees diminished on either side of the lane as it neared a more substantial east-west road. The driver pointed to the northeast, where the land seemed to jump up with an eerie suddenness: the famed rampart that was an artifact of the Ring of Fire. “Grantville,” he announced. And with a shake of his head, he predictably amended, “Trubble.”
Miro smiled. For the driver, the growing cluster of strange buildings and strange customs would certainly define “trouble.” But for Estuban Miro, it simply meant “new and different.”
And that, in turn, meant “opportunity.”
July 1634
Don Francisco Nasi rose and proferred his right hand as Miro entered. The reputed spymaster’s shake was not perfunctory, but it was brief.
Sitting in unison with his host, Estuban noted that this office, like every other he had seen in Grantville, was spartan by Mediterranean standards. Indeed, it was austere by any standards of the world outside the borders of this strange town, even considering that this small room was merely Nasi’s occasional “satellite office”: his duties were now in Magdeburg.
Don Francisco evidently eschewed small talk: “I’m sorry we could not meet earlier. My work for the Congress of Copenhagen was quite time consuming. Tell me, how are you enjoying Grantville, so far?”
“It is full of wonders, mysteries, and puzzlements. I had heard the tales, of course, even seen some of the books. But it does not prepare one for...all of this.”
Nasi almost smiled. “Yes, it can be a bit overwhelming. Perhaps that is why you have not yet called upon my brothers or cousins? After all, it is not every day that a relative from the Mediterranean arrives in Grantville.”
Miro managed not to smile: Nasi was tactful, but wasted little time. “It would not have been appropriate, Don Francisco. It was best that I made my presence generally known in town so that you might—assess me—first.”
“ ‘Assess you’?” Don Francisco repeated mildly.
“Of course: to determine if I am whom I claim to be.”
Nasi spread his hands in dismay. “But you could no doubt furnish us with letters of introduction from your many commercial contacts. Or from your own father, my father’s nephew—” and he stopped when he saw Miro’s widening smile.
Miro shifted into Hebrew as he asked: “My father is your father’s nephew? Hmm: shall I trace the entwined branches of our family trees, Reb Francisco? My father is your father’s first cousin once removed, not his nephew. Joaquin Nasi is your grandfather through his son—your father—Mendo. Joaquin is my great-grandfather through his daughter Ana, my grandmother. But this proves little: any clever impostor would think to memorize our family tree.”
Don Francisco smiled, responded in the same language. “Perhaps—but not many could recite it so concisely and certainly as that, cousin. And I doubt any impostors would be able to mimic that Mallorquin accent so well, as well as the small linguistic quirks of Palma’s xuetas.”
Miro answered Nasi’s smile with one of his own. “You have a keen ear, Don Francisco.” Even other marranos usually failed to discern his origins as a son of Mallorca’s Jewish—or xueta—community. Even when Estuban allowed his home dialect to emerge.
Nasi leaned forward, all business again—but now, with a decidedly sympathetic undercurrent. “So tell me: why do you have no letters of recommendation? As I hear it, you have contacts in Venice—”
Miro waved a negating hand. “Impossible. Seeking their attestations would have compromised my family in Palma.”
One of Nasi’s eyebrows elevated. “How so?”
Miro shifted to Spanish, and adopted the bearing and diction of a true hidalgo. “Don Francisco, I was not just any marrano. No one outside of the xueta community in Palma knew I was a Jew. No one. The marranos I dealt with in Portugal thought me a Spaniard. And I never undertook any action, or entered into any relationship, that connected me with other marranos—including my own family. That is why I have not been back to the Balearics in eight years.”
Don Francisco leaned back, and despite his legendarily imperturbable demeanor, his mouth hung open a little. “Eight years?”
Miro nodded. “I went on my first trading voyage when I was seventeen. My father decided I had a gift for commerce and for navigating the various social complexities that it implies for us marranos. So at nineteen, it was decided that I was to be withdrawn from activity beyond the xueta community. I disappeared, insofar as the outside world was concerned.”
Don Francisco nodded, understanding. “So you could emerge with a different identity, six years later, groomed to pass as a hidalgo and to operate as one in all regards, down to the smallest detail. And all the records of your community’s hidden holdings, accounts, contacts—?”
Miro tapped his temple. “All up here. Never written down, not one bit of it.”
“And your credentials were never questioned?”
Miro kept his shrug modest. “Why would they be? I never attended a court, I never went to a ball, I never proposed a joint family venture, I never wooed a gentleman’s daughter. My purpose—and my activities—were purely business, and my demeanor and speech were my bona fides.”
“So, given your extreme separation, how did you manage to function as a factor for the xuetas in Palma?”
“By working as a cargo broker only, and by making sure that my terminal clients in the Mediterranean were non-Jews who had a record of preferring to do business with the xuetas of Palma. I was able to impose terms on most transactions which made it inevitable that they would be brought—advantageously—to my community. Whose merchants would know, by a variety of codes, that it was I who had sent the deal to them. The money I made as a broker and speculator was, however, the source of our greatest gains, and I funneled both
my profits, and my community’s, into separate accounts in Venice. My family and friends access theirs through a lawyer who specializes in handling confidential transactions in the Rialto.”
Nasi frowned. “And you left your position—why?”
“Firstly, many excellent opportunities in the Mediterranean were compromised when the Nasis departed en masse from the Ottoman Empire.” He allowed himself a smile at Don Francisco’s raised eyebrows. “I do not criticize your decision; indeed, have I not made the same one myself? But the regional consequences were undeniable: the marrano business networks that you managed in the Mediterranean faltered when your direct control dissipated.
“Besides, the trade in the Mediterranean is changing and as it does, it attracts new scrutiny. Any determined attempt to track where my trades ultimately resolve would reveal a suspiciously high percentage of them ending quite favorably in the hands of the xuetas of Palma. Not that I am particularly worried about the Spanish government: Olivares’ hordes of auditors and investigators have troubles enough without worrying about small fish such as myself. Besides, they would only discover that I am facilitating trade upon which they grow ever more dependent, as their failures in war and diplomacy mount.”
Nasi nodded. “So, since exposing your past did not threaten you personally, your primary fear was for how it might impact your community.”
“Exactly. I was particularly worried by a group of broadly inquisitive Portuguese nationalists that I knew: they would have found me extremely useful against their Spanish occupiers. Even though attempts at directly extorting me would have been fruitless, the related knowledge of how we xuetas have been manipulating trade would been decisive leverage against my community.”
Nasi steepled his fingers. “Our old Ottoman masters might have seen a similar advantage in coercing you to become their confidential agent—and not just with regard to the Spanish, but all the European nations of the Mediterranean.
Miro nodded. “So, to protect my community, I left my life as a broker quickly, unannounced—and with no time or opportunity to access my own funds in Venice.”
“And now you hope to go into business in Grantville?”
“That is my hope. Although I am open to opportunities involving an official position, as well.”
Evidently Don Francisco heard the subtle inquiry; he shook his head—sadly, Miro thought: “Had you arrived two years ago...” Nasi shrugged. “But now, if I tried to—to find a place—for you, there would be strong accusations of nepotism. And let us speak truth: what credentials, besides your claims of who you are and what you have done, do I have of your abilities and accomplishments?”
“None whatsoever.” Miro smiled and stood. “My regards to your family.”
August 1634
While he waited for the bank’s chief officer, Señor—no, “Mister”—Walker, to finish guiding an elderly lady through a lien agreement, Estuban Miro considered his unusual situation. He was, by any reasonable assessment, a relatively affluent man, yet all his money was trapped in a Venetian bank. Radio was, unfortunately, no answer to his predicament. Even if access had not been highly restricted, no responsible bank would transmit or receive confidential instructions through these devices, since their nonofficial operations were expressly excluded from any assurances of secrecy.
So he would have to endure the to-and-fro tedium of exchanging bonded letters with Venice. The first several would be necessary to establish his identity, achieved through a multi-tiered set of codes and checks. Next would come detailed financial instructions, and finally, the actual transfer of credit to the bank here in Grantville. Even if he was fortunate, it would be at least four months before any of his assets—other than his emergency stash—became available.
So here he sat, waiting to see if there was a way to parlay his remaining travel monies into real estate. If the bank was willing to extend him any credit whatsoever, it might allow him to buy a humble property in which he himself could live while subsisting upon the meager rents generated by boarders. The plan elicited a small grin: the price of his newfound freedom was, evidently, a life of penurious humility. His old, Talmud-spouting neighbor in Palma would have found much to appreciate in this pass of events.
However, it wasn’t the frugality of the investment that irked Miro: it was the wrongness of it. There was a new kind of business booming here in Grantville, which was the epicenter of an expanding trade in information and credit-based (or as some called it, “liquid”) finance. In all the known world, only Venice and Amsterdam had possessed primitive precursors of this kind of fluid commercial network. And of course they—and so many others—had now assiduously studied and selectively adapted the vast array of up-time financial instruments for the specific needs of their rapidly altering markets.
These trends were spawning a peculiar kind of economy, particularly in Grantville: here, the power of the up-timer bourse was not vested in traditional accumulations of common goods, coin, and land, but in a far-flung network of high-value, and often rare, equipment, information, and expertise. Interestingly, many of the most lucrative contracts involving the transfer of these “new goods” resembled the contraband trade. The freight was extremely low-volume, high-value, and required maximum security: the most common examples were bonds, contracts, bank notes, correspondence, research, copied up-time books, sometimes gems and specie. And in addition to safe transport, these objects also wanted rapid transport: it seemed that a constant challenge in this new economy was that its crucial assets were always needed in too many places at precisely the same time. And that, Miro knew, was the key to a whole new kind of wealth: anyone who could figure a way to swiftly and safely move these key resources from one nexus of need to another would become a very rich man, indeed.
But how to do it? Airplanes possessed the obvious, needed characteristics—but, just as obviously, were not a practical answer at all. Regularly chartering airplanes was as completely out of the question as was owning them. Those few that existed were already overtaxed, and those in private hands seemed to spend half of their working hours commandeered by the government or its confidential agents. Furthermore, the airplane’s need of specialized infrastructure—airfields, prepositioned fuel and maintenance caches, repair personnel and ground crew—made the establishment of a broad, commercial network based upon these rare and complex vehicles something far beyond his capacity for investment, even if all his Venetian resources were at his fingertips...
But they were not, and that lack echoed the very problem he sought to solve: if only there was a faster way to transfer the funds, to access his remote capital for a timely local investment...
Miro caught movement from the corner of his eye: Coleman Walker was finally heading his way, the banker’s elderly customer now being escorted to her safe deposit box by a teller. However, before Walker crossed half the distance, his subordinate—an eager, but somewhat disheveled looking fellow named Marlon Pridmore—rose and snared his manager with an eager, urgent phrase. Behind, the elderly lady reemerged from the vault, evidently in some dither of uncertainty, her eyes scanning intently for her implicit savior, Mr. Walker.
Miro, sensing a further delay in the offing, edged closer—and heard Marlon Pridmore gushing: “So we’ve got the burner running at peak efficiency now, even with alternate fuels.” Walker, facing slightly away from Pridmore, rolled exasperated eyes as his employee burbled on: “I tell you, Coleman, that balloon of mine is going to soar...”
By which time the little old lady had returned: she scooped her desperate arm through Walker’s, who allowed himself to be drawn away with an apologetic glance.
Which Miro hardly saw. All he could see was the radiant glee of the ballooning enthusiast who stood before him, albeit now somewhat sheepishly.
“Sorry, sir—I just get carried away when I’m talking about the balloon I’m building.” Pridmore looked away guiltily. “Other folks can get pretty tired hearing about it.”
“Not me,” Miro averred
flatly. “Tell me more.”
* * *
Pridmore did just that. In excruciating detail. Miro estimated that he had understood about one third of Pridmore’s discursis, possessed a vague conceptual appreciation of a second third, and was absolutely baffled by the rest. But he also knew that none of that mattered: what mattered was that Mr. Marlon Pridmore—an indifferently skilled bank officer—might be able to construct a working balloon. Or, in Estuban Miro’s mind, a commercially viable form of air transport.
Pridmore was wrapping up: “I’m actually amazed you can follow all this, Mr. Miro, particularly without any drawings or models to show you. Understanding a blimp is easier when you can see it.”
“Well, then: may I see it?”
Pridmore, like a proud father being asked to display his newborn child, beamed mightily. “Why, sure you can! Whenever you want.”
Miro rose. “How about now?”
* * *
The ride to Pridmore’s house was not long, and was the first Miro had ever taken in an up-time automobile. But he almost failed to notice the marvels of this conveyance, so focused were this thoughts.
Balloons. He had read a little about them in the library already. They were not fast in terms of absolute velocity—certainly not in comparison to airplanes—but, like airplanes, balloons recognized few obstacles. Because the sky was their home, they flew as straight as the crow, rather than crawling as crooked as the tortoise. And for them, airfields were not required: a network of the simple support facilities would be easy enough to set up in communities located at the right intervals. And the operation of a blimp was, in comparison to piloting an airplane, almost laughably simple: it was the difference between manning a rowboat on a fishpond and steering a three-masted merchantman through treacherous reefs.