by Eric Flint
Part Two
November 1636
Axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder,
Wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong
“The Seeress’s Prophecy,” The Poetic Edda
Chapter 7
Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia
Gretchen Richter distrusted airplanes. Deeply. In part, that was because the first time she ever flew in one it crashed upon landing, but for the most part it was due to her idiosyncratic theological views. Those stemmed from her life experience, which precluded the possibility that the Almighty Lord was a just, kind and benevolent God. While still a teenager, much too young to have committed any serious sins, she’d seen her mother abducted, her father murdered and she herself subjected to gang rape followed by forced concubinage.
The most benign term that could be applied to any deity who allowed such things—even ordained them, if the claims that he was omnipresent and omnipotent were to be believed—was “capricious.”
She’d ridden in airplanes since that first flight, several times. And from the moment her aircraft lifted into the air until the moment it taxied to a halt after landing, the thought that God was capricious never once left her mind.
Her misgivings were not ameliorated at all by the most common explanation of the presence of evil in a universe created by an omnipotent Creator: God moves in mysterious ways. To Gretchen, that truth was self-evident. Which meant that at any moment one was riding through the sky in an airplane, God might very well muse to Himself: Oh, this is silly. People can’t fly—and down you went.
Nor were the unnatural machines safe once they had landed. No one could say when God might decide that a propeller should start up again just when someone walked by—and off went their head.
Her head, to be specific. So after Eddie Junker brought his plane to a standstill and shut off the engine, she not only waited for the propeller to stop moving but waited until the passenger had emerged and had walked safely past the possibility of decapitation.
She had nothing against Noelle Stull—indeed, her few encounters with the woman had left her favorably disposed toward her—but if anyone was going to suffer God’s mysterious ways on this clear, bright and chilly November morning, let it be the woman who had so rashly tempted Him rather than her.
When Noelle reached her she said, smiling: “I’m flattered. I didn’t expect the Lady Protector of Silesia herself to come out to the airfield to greet me.”
Gretchen smiled back, but did so while shaking her head. “Actually, I didn’t.” With her chin, she gestured toward the pilot, who had just come out of the cockpit and was now on the ground. “I came to see Eddie. He’s got—should have, anyway—information I need immediately.”
Noelle’s brow was creased with a little frown. “You still didn’t have to come all the way out here. I’m sure he’d bring it to you right away.”
“Probably, but he might not, too. Denise is in town, don’t forget.”
Noelle’s brow smoothed out again. “Ah. I hadn’t considered that. You’re right.”
Gretchen slapped her stomach, reveling in the restoration of its normal flat and firm state. “Besides, I enjoy moving around easily again. I just gave birth recently.”
“I heard. And the baby is fine, I take it?”
“Oh, yes,” Gretchen replied casually. Then, smiled. Noelle had the half-quizzical, half-worried expression on her face that women who’d never yet given birth had when discussing the matter. Some women, anyway.
Eddie had almost reached them. Glancing back at him, Noelle said: “I’ll be on my way then, since I assume you’ll be wanting to talk to him privately. Am I correct that that’s our transportation into town? If so, I’ll wait for you there.”
The vehicle she was pointing to was a large carriage—more like a wagon putting on airs than a real carriage—standing just off the airstrip. The teamster driving it was slouched in his seat; clearly a fellow who saw no reason to let an idle moment go to waste when he could be napping. The four horses attached to the carriage were like-minded, except for the one who was shortening the grass in the vicinity.
“There’s no reason you can’t hear what Eddie and I will be talking about,” said Gretchen. “In fact, it’s probably a good idea, since it may have a bearing on whatever mysterious mission brought you to Breslau.”
Noelle tried to look innocent. “Mysterious mission…?”
Gretchen sniffed. “Why else would you be here?”
Eddie came up. After glancing back and forth from Noelle to Gretchen to assure himself that Noelle would be privy to the conversation, he said: “Francisco agreed. Any mission you want, including combat sorties.”
“Still with no time limit?”
“None. Understand, though, that he might recall me from time to time for a mission of his own. But he said he’d try to use commercial air transport if he needed it.” Eddie smiled. “My boss isn’t much fonder of flying than you are. Although he disguises his unease a lot better.”
Gretchen saw no reason to dignify that with a comment. She just used her chin again to point to the carriage. “Let’s be off, then.”
* * *
Within an hour after they arrived at the town hall, everyone whom Gretchen thought needed to hear whatever Noelle had to say was present—and one whom she didn’t think was needed at all.
That was Denise Beasley, who vigorously pressed her status as Francisco Nasi’s agent to shoehorn her way into the meeting room. Gretchen thought her arguments were flimsy, given that Nasi already had an agent present—Noelle Stull, who was the very person at the center of the affair.
But… She didn’t feel any great need to exclude Denise, either, so she let her stay. When she told Noelle she was doing so, Noelle pursed her lips for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, why not? I always felt bad anyway that we hadn’t—” She shook her head. “Never mind that.”
Eddie was with Denise. He had enough grace to claim he should be present since it was likely his pilot’s skills would be needed for some portion of Noelle’s proposal, instead of presuming on his status as another of Nasi’s agents.
“All right, everyone,” Gretchen said loudly. “Settle down. Noelle, you have the floor.”
The slender American-cum-Bohemian-noblewoman-though-still-an-Austrian-resident rose and stepped forward where everyone in the room could see her. Noelle hadn’t decided yet whether she’d become a citizen of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. Cold-blooded political considerations propelled her in that direction, but habit and sentiment were holding her back.
She was an American, dammit. Had been all her life until that preposterous Ring of Fire had put her in a fantastical situation. True, she’d gotten a husband out of the deal. Still…
“What I’m about to say has to remain a secret. No one in this chamber can repeat any of it to anybody not here already.”
She swiveled her head slowly, taking a few seconds to give everybody present a stern look.
Until she got to Red Sybolt, who was rising to his feet. “In that case, Noelle, I don’t see any reason for me and Krsysztof and Jakub to stick around. Not that any of us has any trouble keeping our mouths shut when it’s necessary, but this won’t be any of our business, so—”
“Red, please sit back down. This matter does concern you. That’s why I asked Gretchen to summon you here.”
Gretchen had wondered about that, but she’d done as Noelle bade her. This was getting more interesting by the moment.
Red shrugged and sat back down.
“I need to start by giving you all some information. The two youngest of the Austrian royal siblings—Archduke Leopold and Archduchess Cecilia Renata—never got out of Vienna before the Ottomans seized the city. Their fate and whereabouts have remained unknown since.”
She paused dramatically. Gretchen was a little amused since Noelle was not naturally suited to dramatic pauses. She looked more embarrassed than anything else.
“Except to a few people. Of whom I am one. They are still… Well, you can’t say they’re ‘free,’ since they’re trapped in Vienna. But they’re not captives. The Ottomans have no idea they’re still in the city.”
“How did they manage that?” asked Eric Krenz.
“There are secret cellars beneath a detached and no-longer-inhabited wing of the royal palace,” Noelle explained. “They managed to get there before the palace was overrun by Turkish troops. They’ve been in hiding there ever since.”
Again, she paused. She seemed to brace herself, as well. For what? Gretchen wondered.
“They are not alone, thankfully,” Noelle continued. “They have two companions with them. The American girl Judy Wendell and one of Francisco Nasi’s agents, Minnie Hugel—”
“EEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!”
It was no wonder Noelle had braced herself. Gretchen’s ears were ringing from Denise Beasley’s shriek of joy and excitement. She might have suffered a permanent hearing loss.
Denise leapt to her feet. “You’re planning a rescue mission! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I’m going! I volunteer! I’m going!”
“No, you’re not.” That came simultaneously from Noelle and Gretchen.
“Why not?” Denise demanded.
“You can’t pass as a down-timer,” Noelle said. “Your teeth are too good.”
“Oh, bullshit! It’s a myth that all down-timers have crooked teeth. They don’t. Hell, Noelle, your own husband has good teeth.”
Gretchen weighed in. “That’s beside the point, Denise. Leave the teeth aside—yes, you’re right that not all down-timers have bad teeth.” She left unsaid the fact that her own teeth were actually in better condition than those of most up-timers.
Which turned out to be a waste of modesty, since Denise immediately pointed at her and said: “Yeah, no kidding, Gretchen. Your own teeth look great. Especially to men. ’Course, that’s partly ’cause they’re preoccupied ogling the rest of you or trying not to.”
Gretchen liked Denise—quite a bit, in fact. But, dear God, the girl could be exasperating.
“Yes, and that’s the problem,” Gretchen said. “You have a lot of nerve, Denise, accusing another woman of being too attractive to men. You?”
Denise scowled. “Hey, it’s not my fault most guys can’t think with their brains instead of their dicks.”
“I didn’t say it was. Nonetheless, the fact remains that the moment you enter Vienna you’ll be drawing the attention of every janissary in the city. Half the court eunuchs too, probably. You’ll be jeopardizing—”
She broke off abruptly. Everything had just come into focus.
She looked at Denise; then, at Red Sybolt and his companions. Mostly, she looked at Krzysztof Opalinski.
Who was in every measure and respect a perfect specimen of the Polish and Lithuanian szlachta. Tall, ruggedly built—no one would have any trouble picturing Krzysztof as a winged hussar—even moderately handsome. More importantly, he carried himself with the indefinable air of someone who’d been born to a high station in life, even though he was now a political radical who had eschewed all such aristocratic pretensions. Done so in his conscious mind, at least. But he couldn’t help maintaining habits which were so deeply ingrained he wasn’t even aware of them.
“That’s why you wanted them to stay, isn’t it, Noelle?” Gretchen said. “You want to send a delegation from the Galician rebellion to the Ottoman court. With Krzysztof Opalinski as the leader of it. No one will think that’s unusual. Every realm in eastern Europe, no matter how small or shaky or haphazard, sends an embassy to the Turks. And they almost always accept them, even if they don’t take them very seriously. If the Ottomans check—which they might since they have good intelligence services—they’ll soon find out that Opalinski is a notorious radical even though he was born into one of Poland’s most prestigious noble families. In which case…”
She looked back at Denise. “It would actually make sense for Denise to be part of the mission. Someone like Opalinski would very likely bring a beautiful concubine with him—”
“Hey!” Denise protested. “No fucking way!”
“And the fact that she’d distract Ottoman officials and soldiers would be entirely to the good.”
Denise’s mouth had been open, ready to issue further objections. But by the time Gretchen had finished, her mouth was clamped shut. Then, after perhaps two seconds had elapsed, she said: “Well, okay then. I’m for it.”
She glanced at Krzysztof. “As long as it’s just for show. No funny business.”
Throughout, Noelle had been staring at Gretchen, with a deep frown on her face. Clearly, she hadn’t thought of that angle.
“Gretchen, are you sure…? I’d been planning to go myself. Posing as Krzysztof’s wife. I’m a reasonable age for it—a few years older than he is but that’s not unusual—and unlike Denise”—here Noelle smiled, a bit ruefully—“men usually don’t have any trouble not noticing me.”
She opened her mouth and pointed into it with a finger. “Even got crappy teeth.”
Actually, they weren’t that bad, certainly not by down-time standards. Her parents hadn’t had the money to pay for orthodontic work, so Noelle’s teeth weren’t all even and straight the way the legends proclaimed up-time dentition to be. But she’d still gotten reasonably frequent care from a dentist. None of her teeth were missing or badly colored.
Jakub issued a sarcastic-sounding snort. “Not a problem. You go as the wife and she”—he nodded at Denise—“goes as the concubine. Sitting on either side of His Exaltededness in his carriage. You think a great magnate of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth has any shame or scruples regarding such matters?”
Sitting next to him, Krzysztof shook his head. “I agree that’s not a problem, but it’s still not possible.”
Red had started shaking his head at the same time. “Sure as hell isn’t. Noelle, your plan overlooks a critical problem, which is that we—especially Krzysztof—need to get back to Lviv. Pronto. This fancy-titled ‘Galician Democratic Assembly’ of ours is still rickety. A lot of what holds it together is just the prestige of having an Opalinski in the leadership.” He glanced at Jakub. “Sure, me and him have good organizational skills, but…”
By now, Jakub had joined the head-shaking. They were like a little a cappella chorus. “He’s right, Noelle. People back in Galicia are willing to bide their time until we get back, given the nature of our mission here. But if they find out that Krzysztof’s gone off on what you up-timers call a wild-goose chase, many of them will conclude he’s given up on the revolt and almost all of them will be disheartened.”
Noelle stared at him. Clearly, she hadn’t anticipated this problem. She must have thought the prospect of getting on very good terms with the Austrian-Hungarian dynasty would be enough to persuade them to join in.
But Gretchen had been thinking ahead and the solution was obvious to her.
“We just need to get Lukasz to agree to do it,” she said. “He looks enough like his brother to fool the Ottomans, unless they have an agent in Vienna who’s personally familiar with Krzysztof. Which I think is very unlikely.”
Noelle looked at Krzysztof. Who nodded his agreement.
“The truth is, Lukasz could do it better than I could,” he said. Then, with a little smile: “You should see him when he puts on what we called ‘the Opalinski Bravura’ when we were boys. No magnate is more magnificent, at least in his own mind.”
Jakub and Red both nodded as well, continuing the chorus. It was all Gretchen could do not to laugh.
“Okay, then,” Noelle said. “But will he agree to do it?”
Gretchen shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”
* * *
She came back a half-hour later. “Lukasz says he’ll do it—but he’s got one condition. We have to drop the charge of espionage against Jozef and let him go.”
“No goddamn way!” That c
ame from Eric Krenz.
“Goddamn blasphemer!” Denise exclaimed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
Thereby exhibiting the very first sign of religious sentiment Gretchen could ever recall coming from the girl.
“You just want to get Minnie out!” chided Krenz.
“Well, yeah, of course I do. She’s the best friend I ever had. You still committed blasphemy and nobody should take the advice of a blasphemer.”
She turned to Gretchen. “So let him out.”
A struggle ensued, between the girl’s mind and her heart. It was the most amusing thing Gretchen had encountered that day.
“Please,” Denise added, looking like she was sucking on a lemon.
Chapter 8
Ottoman airfield
Formerly Racetrack City
Just east of Vienna
Murad IV was a big man, so he satisfied himself with looking into the narrow, armored space rather than trying to climb into it. “And it will withstand the Jooli?” he asked the engineer at his side.
The engineer’s name was Özil Demirci. He belonged to the Ottoman Empire’s Cebeci Corps, one of the branches of the Topçu Ocaği, their corps of gunners. It was being expanded by Murad to support the new weapons. The cebeciyan were the armorers who made and maintained guns as well as almost everything else used by the artillery.
Özil had been in Murad’s service long enough to learn that whatever anxiety he might have about the young sultan’s reaction, the most foolish thing to do was to lie to him—or even fudge the truth too much.
“The problem is not the Jooli, My Sultan. It’s the type of gun she will be using.” He leaned into the gun turret and rapped his knuckles against the steel sheet that formed one of the walls. The sound produced was tinny, not solid. “I am confident that if she uses the same type of gun I believe she used at Linz—and her shot does not strike the armor head on—that this will be enough to deflect the bullet. But if she uses a more powerful gun…”
He spread his hands as if making a presentation of something. “Our airships will only carry so much weight, My Sultan. As it is, this light armor leaves only enough lifting power for a skeleton crew, one janissary and an assistant, two guns and some ammunition. Adding thicker armor would only deduct from the mission’s very purpose.”