by Eric Flint
“Actually, no. Gustav Adolf knows me too well. If I’d droned on and on about how tough I had it, he would have gotten suspicious right away.”
“Well… true. Your style when it comes to stuff like that is more along the lines of ‘piece of cake’ and ‘consider it done.’ My wife—that would be your sister, who’s known you her whole life—thinks you sometimes suffer from overconfidence.”
“So does my wife,” agreed Mike, “except Becky usually leaves off the ‘sometimes’ part.”
Freising, Bavaria
After inspecting his wife and daughter’s new quarters—which were his too, technically, but he figured he wouldn’t be there very often on account of the cavalry patrols he’d be leading—Alex Mackay pronounced them adequate but no better, marched to the open door and stood in the doorway glaring at the inhabitants of the town beyond. Best to dishearten the Bavarian swine right off, lest they begin entertaining notions of rebellion against their new rightful masters.
And mistresses—even if the one whose well-being he was particularly concerned with had a lackadaisical attitude.
“Oh, leave off, Alex!” Julie scoffed. “There’s nobody out there for you to scowl at in the first place.”
It was true that none of Freising’s indigenous residents were visible from the doorway, but that could be due to their cunning. Bands of them might be out there lurking in cellars and whatnot, just waiting for nightfall when they would sortie and commit unspeakable depredations—
“Leave off, I said!” Julie now had her hands planted on her hips and was scowling even more fiercely than her husband. “The town’s been swept twice and there aren’t more than twenty people still living here—because they’re all too old to move around much anymore, or they’re immediate family members who had the gumption to stay behind to take care of their old folks and what you ought to be doing is figuring out how they might get a little help.”
Mackay’s shoulders hunched slightly, as if he were bracing himself against a gale. “’I’m a cavalry officer,” he muttered.
“So what? You can’t engage in Christian charity without losing your spurs or something?”
She pushed into the doorway, forcing Alex to the side. Then, pointed a finger at those portions of Freising which were visible. Which wasn’t all that much, since the domicile the USE army had sequestered for Alex and Julie’s use wasn’t on either of the town’s little squares. All that could be seen was a narrow street—not much more than an alley, really—and some nondescript buildings much like the one they were in. Most of those, as was true of buildings everywhere in Freising, had been seized by the Third Division to provide housing for its officers and men. In the distance beyond, perhaps two hundred yards away, they could see a church spire rising above the roofs.
“There’s a whole family still there one street over—no, two streets, depending on what you call a ‘street’. A husband who’s got some sort of disability, I think from an accident, his wife who’s holding everything together, her mother, who’s so frail I think she’d blow away in a breeze, her mother’s second husband—not her dad, her stepdad—who’s even more frail than Grandma is, and five kids of whom two are orphans she took in. That’s what your”—here she did a fair imitation of Alex’s brogue—“’desp’rate Bavarian blackguards’ actually look like.”
She lowered the finger. “The oldest kid’s a girl named Mettchen, somewhere around sixteen years old. I already talked to them and Mettchen will be coming over every day to help me out with whatever I need.” The finger of accusation became an open hand, palm up. “For which we are going to pay them, so cough up, buddy.”
“Well…”
“Yes, I insist.”
“Well…”
“Do I need to drag out the Wand of Womanly Wrath?”
“Well….”
* * *
The town’s Rathaus had been one of the very first buildings in Freising seized by the Third Division. Sieges of a major city like Munich were protracted affairs, and the division’s commanding general had seen no reason his troops shouldn’t enjoy their stay in Bavaria as much as possible, within the necessary limits dictated by military discipline.
So, the tavern in the Rathaus’ basement was operating at full capacity, around the clock. There wasn’t much food left, and wouldn’t be until the supply barges coming down the Isar arrived. By now, units of the SoTF National Guard had taken control of the Danube all the way down to Passau, well past the confluence of the Danube with the Isar. That provided the Third Division with an excellent water route to bring all its supplies.
But if the food was low, the beer wasn’t. Since the Hangman regiment had been established in the first place as the Third Division’s disciplinary unit, it had been placed in charge of the Rathaus. From the point of view of the regiment’s commander, Lt. Colonel Jeff Higgins, that had the up side of providing him with the best quarters in the town. On the down side, it meant he was now in charge of a bunch of drunks.
Would-be drunks, anyway. He’d established a limit of three steins of beer per visit and only two visits a day—with records meticulously kept.
And bribes meticulously taken also, he didn’t doubt. But by now Jeff’s sergeants knew him quite well. The DM didn’t mind soldiers enjoying themselves, but if things got out of hand he’d crack down hard so it was best to make sure everything stayed within reasonable limits.
The sergeants’ task was made easier by the fact that almost all of Freising’s inhabitants had fled and taken refuge inside Munich’s walls. The worst disciplinary problems with soldiers occupying an enemy town or city usually came about when liquor was combined with the presence of young women. But Jeff had had his adjutants check and there was only one family with a teenage girl still in the city—and that family was under the protection of Julie Sims. Jeff saw to it that the word was passed around through the whole division.
Nobody in the USE army was going to annoy Julie Sims, certainly not a unit as heavily made of CoC recruits as the Third Division. Partly, because they knew what an asset she’d been to their cause. Partly also, of course, because they knew that Julie never went anywhere without her Wand of Womanly Wrath, which no soldier in his right mind—or dead drunk, for that matter—wanted to have applied to him.
All in all, as Lt. Colonel Jeff Higgins relaxed in his quarters on the top floor of the Rathaus, with his feet propped up, a book in one hand and a stein of beer in the other, things were looking good. War still sucked, but some parts of it were a lot less sucky than others.
Royal Palace
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe
Gustav II Adolf, Emperor of the United States of Europe, King of Sweden, High King of the Union of Kalmar, contemplated his next title. Should he stick to the existing “emperor,” with a newly-enlarged empire? Rather greatly enlarged, too, since Bavaria was one of the bigger realms in the continent.
Or should he add “King of Bavaria” to the list? But he only spent a short time considering that option before setting it aside. It simply wouldn’t do for a Lutheran king to be ruling a Catholic kingdom. If he was going to exercise direct power over Bavaria, it would be better to have that power filtered through the USE’s provincial structure.
Except that… For a moment, he silently cursed the religious compromise he’d made with Mike Stearns. By the terms of that agreement, Bavaria would be able to create its own provincial established church if it chose to do so, and he had no doubt at all the stubborn papists would insist on hanging on to their superstitious creed.
Better than being “King of Bavaria,” certainly, but still not good.
That left… What was the term the English usurper had used? The Oliver Cromwell fellow?
The emperor rose from his armchair and went over to one of the bookcases in his library. This one was devoted entirely to down-time copies of up-time texts from Grantville.
He found the volume he was seeking—The Century of Revolution, by someone named Hill�
��and quickly found the entry he was looking for. As he had many times before, Gustav Adolf silently blessed the American concept of the “index.” Since he still had enormous power as the monarch of his own nation, he’d decreed two years earlier than all books printed in Sweden were required to have indexes. Yes, all of them! There’d be none of this up-time slackness about not requiring indexes in books of fiction.
Lord Protector.
He mused on the matter as he resumed his seat. Yes, he thought, that would do quite nicely. Lord Protector of Bavaria. The very uncertainty of the term—what exactly is a “lord protector”?—would allow him to sidestep the awkward issue of religion. Let the Bavarian heretics manage their own internal affairs, so long as he controlled the duchy’s foreign relations.
That matter settled in his mind, Gustav Adolf decided to re-read the report he’d received yesterday from General Stearns. He rose and went to look for it. That took a bit more time because he couldn’t remember which trash can he’d thrown it into after he balled up the report, cursed it mightily—nothing silent there—and threw it away.
After he found it, he unwadded the report, flattened it out as best as possible, and read through it again.
Which didn’t take long. Mike Stearns had faults—a great many of them, in the emperor’s current mood—but one thing he was not was pointlessly loquacious.
So.
He read through it again.
“I am not fooled,” he growled. But he knew perfectly well that Stearns didn’t think he was fooled. The man was a duplicitous maneuvering scoundrel, but he wasn’t disrespectful. The purpose of the report was not to fool Gustav Adolf but to fool anyone else to whom the emperor might show the report as a way of demonstrating that his now-public clash with the so-called “Prince of Germany”—ridiculous title, not to mention a presumptuous one—was entirely justified.
But…
“Perhaps it’s just as well,” he mused. Then, rising again, he went over to the small fireplace that was always active whenever he was in residence and tossed the report into the flames. That wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to leave lying around.
Lord Protector. It did have a nice ring to it.
Chapter 28
Dresden, capital of Saxony
Gretchen Richter looked from Jozef Wojtowicz to the two small children at his side—the girl was holding on to his leg with both hands—from there to the large fellow named Lukasz Kijek who had accompanied him back to Dresden, back to Jozef, to the children again and back to Jozef.
“I am provisionally willing to accept the idea that you rescued these children from their destroyed village even though I have never previously gotten any sense that you cared for children at all.” She lifted her shoulders in a minimalist sort of shrug. “But I long ago learned that most people have unseen depths so it is possible. I am also willing to accept—very provisionally—that you just happened to run into your old friend Lukasz Kijek wandering around in Breslau even though your explanation as to the reason for his being there is ridiculous.”
She now shifted her scrutiny to the Kijek fellow. “If he is a grain merchant then I am the queen of Sheba. Within three seconds of entering this room he had positioned everyone in his mind, especially the three men with weapons. So had you, but you told me you’d been trained as a hussar. He is some sort of soldier, and one with a lot more experience than you’d expect of such a young man.”
She now looked back at Jozef. “I don’t mind that you’re lying to me since it has been clear for some time that there are things you’re being secretive about. Up to a point, I don’t mind people hiding things from me. Whether or not we have now reached that point is what needs to be determined.”
The boy standing next to Jozef, who’d been fidgeting all the while she’d been talking, erupted in protest.
“You shouldn’t call Uncle Jozef a liar! It’s not right! And it’s true what he said! He found us after the soldiers killed everyone in our village! And then when four of them tried to attack us he killed them all!”
Jozef rubbed his hand over his face.
“Killed four of them, did he? All by himself. Why am I not surprised?” She shifted her eyes back to Lukasz. “And you, grain merchant. How many men have you killed in the course of plying your peaceful trade? And please spare me tales of fighting off bandits. Bandits do not rob grain boats.”
By now, Eric Krenz and both guards standing at the door were on full alert. Gretchen made a little waving motion, indicating they should stand down. “Everyone relax. I am not making any accusations, I just dislike being taken for a fool. What I really want to discuss with you, Jozef, is the report you brought back. If we subtract all the business involving the tall blond cold-eyed fellow with the big shoulders and the still posture, how much of what you told me is true?”
To her surprise, the big “grain merchant” answered the question. It was the first time he’d spoken since he’d come into her presence.
“All of it’s true,” he said. He spoke Low German, not Amideutsch, and his accent was something of a cross between Prussian and Polish. “Except for the part about me, which you’re right about. I’m not a grain merchant and never have been. I’m a hussar.”
“Why did you lie, then?”
“I wasn’t sure of my reception here if you knew who I really was.”
“There is only one way to find out, isn’t there?” She now scowled at Krenz and the two guards, who’d started to edge closer again. “I said, relax. They’re not going to attack me—and even if they did, so what?”
She slapped the table that she’d been sitting behind when the two Poles came into the room. It was big, heavy—and interposed between her and them. “By the time they could get around this or move it aside, I’ll have shot them both dead.”
The Lukasz fellow gave her an intent, quite interested look. “With what?”
“This.” She brushed her vest aside, exposing the 9 mm pistol in its shoulder holster.
“That’s a very impressive-looking gun. An up-time model, if I am not mistaken.” He actually did sound very impressed. “But your tactics are flawed. I wouldn’t try to move around the table or push it aside, I’d just ram it straight into you. Pin you against the wall with it. Crush you, probably. I’m very strong; even stronger than Jozef.”
“I don’t doubt it, but you underestimate my powers of concentration. I’d still empty this whole clip into you and Jozef even if you broke my ribcage. I wouldn’t miss many shots, either. Maybe not any. I’ve become very good with this pistol.”
The evenness of her tone seemed to impress him even more.
“Be afraid,” she heard Wojtowicz mutter. “Be very afraid.”
His friend Lukasz’s lips twitched. “I’m beginning to understand why you said that.”
“Enough of this,” said Gretchen. “Tell me who you really are and we’ll just have to see what happens.”
“I’m Lukasz Opalinski—yes, that’s the Opalinski family—and a hussar in the service of Grand Hetman Stanislaw Koniecpolski.”
Wojtowicz rolled his eyes. “We’re fucked.”
“That makes you the sworn enemy of the emperor of the United States of Europe, Gustav II Adolf,” said Gretchen. “I would have you arrested even though I strongly disagree with the emperor’s policy toward Poland except that you’re also the brother of Krzysztof Opalinski, who is an associate of the highly respected Red Sybolt—”
Eric Krenz spluttered a little laugh. “Highly respected by whom?”
Gretchen gave him a cold eye. “By me, for one—and every right-thinking member of the Committees of Correspondence.” She brought the same cold eye to bear on Opalinski. “Both of whom are known to be agitating for democracy in Poland, which means they are more likely to be enemies of King Wladyslaw than the USE, which in turn means that your position here is complicated and hasty action would therefore be a mistake. So.”
She pointed to some chairs lined up against the wall facing the room’s wind
ows. “Pull up some chairs. We need to talk.”
As they did so, she looked at the two guards by the door. “I think it would be awkward to have Administrator Wettin present at this discussion. And it would only distress him. So one of you step out in the corridor and let me know if you see Ernst coming this way.”
Brussels, capital of the Netherlands
Amsterdam was a bust, for all the reasons they’d made Rita come on this stupid trip which was still stupid even if they’d been proven right.
“It’s fucking ridiculous,” she grumbled, as they got off the train. “They’re building the airship in Holland, right? At Hoorn, north of Amsterdam. All the artisans, all the equipment—the money guys, you name it”—she waved her free hand toward the north while she wrestled her valise off the rail car, stubbornly ignoring Heinz Böcler’s offer to help—“they’re all up there.”
She lowered the valise to the ground. It might be better to say, got it down with a more-or-less controlled drop. The thing was down-time made, which meant it was very sturdy but not what you’d call lightweight.
“So why the fuck are we all the way down here in Brussels?” she demanded.
That being a purely rhetorical question, Rita moved right on to providing the answer without giving either Bonnie or Heinz so much as a second’s pause in which to insert a response. “I’ll tell you why. Because in the seventeenth fucking century—no offense, Heinz; you’re okay but your time period sucks—you can’t chew gum without getting His Royal Uppitiness to sign off on it.”
She paused for a breath of air, her hands planted on hips, and surveyed the train they’d arrived in. It consisted of a very primitive more-or-less open air steam locomotive hauling five equally primitive if not quite as open air coaches, all of it traveling on a single heavy wooden rail with—in some places; not others—thin iron plates attached to the top of the rail to cut down on wear and tear. The locomotive and all the coaches had outrigger wheels which ran on the side of the road to maintain balance. They reminded Rita of nothing so much as the wheels on Conestoga wagons she’d seen—once in a museum; a jillion times on TV.