Eric Flint's Blog, page 198

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 14

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 14

Chapter 6

Cologne

July, 1634

Some weeks after midsummer Father Johannes was enjoying the clear summer morning on his way back from Beauville’s store. The river was sparkling beneath the green curtains of the weeping willows, and the white and yellow larkspurs dotted the grey stone walls and piers. The war seemed so far away and such a long time ago.

Father Johannes sat down on a stone plinth and threw a pebble into the still water of the shallows to watch the rings spread. His work here in Cologne was nearly finished. The entire town area belonging to the Hatzfeldts had been cleared of unwanted structures, and the new stables and outbuildings were planned. Building those didn’t need Father Johannes’ skills, and all that remained to do in the main house was installing the new furniture and textiles Trinket had ordered from France. It had been a disappointment that there had been nothing in the Würzburg papers about Paul — the ladies had moved on to the Fulda archives a week ago — but at least the fact that no one seemed know where Paul was, also made it unlikely that he was still in the hands of the Inquisition.

He would miss the ladies and Melchior. Melchior had never gone into details about the personal part of his reasons for leaving Vienna, but he had gathered what information he needed to make his report to the Emperor about the military situation, and had left Cologne a few weeks ago.

Before leaving, Melchior had a major quarrel with Franz, when Melchior once again flat-out refused to bring his regiments to Cologne, and use them on behalf of his brother — and Archbishop Ferdinand — to regain first Bishop’s Alley and later as much of Franconia and other USE areas as possible. Afterwards Franz had managed to quarrel with nearly everybody, and by the time he went with the archbishop back to Bonn, he really wasn’t on speaking term with anybody in the family.

On the positive side there wasn’t much chance that the archbishop’s plans still involved Father Johannes in any way. That Maxie had grown up as the oldest of sixteen siblings — and was definitely in the habit of making decisions — apparently more than compensated for her being ten years younger and nominally the archbishop’s subordinate. Darling Maxie. Father Johannes threw in another pebble.

Maxie had used all her powers of persuasion to get Archbishop Ferdinand to back down from whatever it was he had planned, but had been unable to make her cousin listen. Instead she had written letters to their family in Bavaria, and as Melchior was going to Vienna by way of Munich, he had offered to personally deliver the one to Duke Maximilian. Hopefully the duke would see the folly of stirring up trouble in an area already so unsettled, and call the archbishop to order.

Instead they’d had a letter from Melchior yesterday, delivered to Lucie directly from the hands of one of the two the lieutenants, who had accompanied Melchior to Cologne. Apparently Bavaria was in complete chaos following the flight of Duke Maximilian’s Habsburger fiancée, and no one with enough authority was willing or able to come to Cologne. Melchior had met Duke Maximilian in Landhut, and more that indicated in his letter that the Bavarian elector was even more unbalanced than the archbishop. Melchior’s letter had also confirmed the rumors that the third brother, Albrecht, was now fleeing from his brother with a price on his head. And that Duke Maximilian had almost certainly been involved in the death of Albrecht’s wife and one or more of their children.

Melchior also wrote that he had changed his mind, and now hoped to be able to bring some of his men to Cologne. The main part of his army could remain in Linz under command of his cousin and second in command Colonel Wolf von Wildenburg-Hatzfeldt, but in Vienna Melchior now intended to ask for permission to bring his dragoons westwards. He did not intend to place them at Archbishop Ferdinand’s disposal, but wanted to take control of the Cologne area himself before it went completely up in flame, and could be had by anybody coming along to pick it up. The ties between Bavaria and the archdiocese of Cologne had always been strong, and with chaos in Bavaria, Cologne was fast becoming totally isolated. Duke Wolfgang of Jülich-Berg had not been regarded as a particularly safe neighbor lately, but the death of both him and his heir, followed by the disappearance of his pregnant wife, had left Jülich and Berg without much in the way of leadership, and Essen, Hessen, and the Low Countries were all showing interest in the situation. In Melchior’s opinion the main reason conquering armies were not already pouring in from all side, was simply that they didn’t want to risk ending up fighting each other. What a mess! And Melchior’s brother was caught right in the middle unless Franz could be persuaded to break with the archbishop.

Father Johannes had passed on a report of the latest news this morning, and it should reach Don Francisco within a week. Perhaps that clever young man could figure out the archbishop’s plan. Of course doing something about it in time would be another problem. Father Johannes suspected that some kind of radio was available to Moses Abrabanel, but people still had to travel from place to place, and news had spread about a peasant rebellion around Würzburg, which might slow down travel on the Rhine if it spread.

Still, all Father Johannes could really do today was to try convince Trinket that Hermann, her rather ascetic new husband, would not be pleasantly surprised by her cleverness if he came back from buying a steam engine in Essen, and found that her newly furnished pink and gold parlor, had been completely — and even more opulently — re-fitted in the new fashionable pale lilac. The combination of gold, pale lilac and Trinket really was enough to make a strong man cry.

Some ducks were swimming closer to see if the disturbance of their waters were something eatable, and Father Johannes rose to continue back to Hatzfeldt House.

* * *

When Father Johannes entered the hall one of Lucie’s children sat waiting for him on the stairs. According to Maxie, Lucie’s husband had been a cheerful man with very dark in skin and hair due to some Moorish blood on his mother’s side, while his long time mistress had been a very temperamental red-haired Scot with absolutely no interest in her children. This had resulted in a series of copper-curled, cheerful and independent children as alike as peas in a pod. Lucie could tell them apart, but everybody else had taken to follow Father Johannes’ lead and simply address them all — boys and girls — as Peter. Lucie had been a bit doubtful about this — and Father Johannes’ explanation: that they were obviously all Wild Boys at heart — had not been accepted until Father Johannes had started telling American stories about Peter Pan and the Wild Boys in the muniment room. As those stories spread via the children on page-duty, even Lucie had given in to the pressure and started calling them Peter.

“Father Johannes,” said the fairly-big-but-probably-not-oldest Peter, “Lady Lucie requests your company in the muniment room.” The formal words and bow were somewhat spoiled by a big grin and an attempt to pull Father Johannes along by his hand.

In the muniment room Lucie sat looking like a cat in a cream pot. “Come take a look at this, Father Johannes,” she said while pushing a ledger across the table towards him. “Entry four and five plus the upper half on the next page.”

Father Johannes sat down and looked. “The Church of Saint Severi. A stone grinder, oil and minerals.”

“Isn’t that exactly the kind of grinder you mentioned using to grind your paints, Father Johannes? And I’m sure these are minerals that you have mentioned buying from Beauville.”

“Oh yes, these are for paints, probably for Al Fresco murals. Where is Saint Severi and what’s said about wages for the painter?”

“That’s just it, Father Johannes,” Lucie’s smile got even brighter, “there are no wages. About four years ago Saint Severi started buying paint for decorating, but no payment for using what was bought, and no mention of by whom. I haven’t yet found the yearly reports from the church to the Abbey, just the accounts. It could be an old monk or somebody just doing it for free, but it had continued for two years when the monks fled from the Protestant army, so the painter must have been good. And look at the date of the first entry; it’s six weeks after your friend disappeared near Aschaffenburg. And Saint Severi is in Fulda; some seventy miles north from Aschaffenburg.”

“Fulda! Again! That town has come back like a bad coin all spring.”

“Perhaps somebody was trying to tell you something, Father Johannes.” Lucie was now laughing out loud. “Do go there and see what you can find.” Lucie turned somber. “Peter, go tell Maxie and Cook that I want lunch in the blue room today, on a trestle table in the sun.”

“Yes, Lady, but Sobby is going to protest sitting in sunshine.”

“Lady Sophia to you young man! And she can eat in the Grand Salon as usual if she want to, but find her and ask.”

When the door closed behind the child, Lucie reached across the table to caress Father Johannes’ cheek. “I’ll miss you, Father Johannes. More than I had planned to. Will you be coming back?”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 32

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 32

Chapter 15

Royal Palace

Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

Gustav II Adolf wasn’t quite squinting at Rebecca Abrabanel with suspicion but someone who didn’t know him as well as she did might think he was. To some degree, that was because the position of the man added so much weight — what her up-time husband Michael called gravitas, stealing from the Latin — to anything he said or did that it was easy to inflate a chuckle into a belly-laugh. Or a slight narrowing of the eyes into a glare of dark suspicion.

King of Sweden, Emperor of the United States of Europe, High King of the Union of Kalmar. It was enough to make even a Habsburg envious.

“Surely you didn’t resign your seat in Parliament just in order to be able to visit your husband,” he said.

Rebecca fluttered her hands. “Oh, no, of course not. Even though I really haven’t seen very much of him since you made him a general.”

His narrow-eyed gaze moved down to her belly. “Seen him often enough, I’d say. You’re pregnant again.”

Rebecca was neither surprised nor taken aback by his bluntness. Her friend Melissa Mailey had told her once of the delicate and discreet customs of up-time monarchs of a later era than this one. Apparently there had been one queen — Victoria, she was called — who became outraged whenever anyone so much as suggested that human beings were not actually ethereal spirits.

Kings and queens in the seventeenth century, though — emperors too — lived much closer to the mud and muck of practicality. Thankfully, while Michael and Rebecca were very prominent political figures of the day, the legitimacy or lack thereof of their offspring was of no great concern to anyone. If she’d been royalty in line of succession, not only would she have had to give birth in the presence of onlookers and witnesses, she’d have had to conceive the child under the same scrutiny.

“Well, yes, I am pregnant again.” She was tempted to add that was thanks to Gustav Adolf himself. After Michael had brought the semi-conscious emperor to Berlin following his terrible injury at the Battle of Lake Bledno, he’d then spent a few days with her in Magdeburg before resuming command of the Third Division in Bohemia. Very pleasant days, those had been; the nights, even more so.

But that would be impolitic. Gustav Adolf had come to terms, more or less, with the ongoing disability that he was subject to periodic seizures. But he didn’t like to be reminded of the episode that had produced that disability. Technically, the Battle of Lake Bledno was one of many victories he could add to his roster of such. But he knew perfectly well — as did his opponent in that battle, Grand Hetman Koniecpolski — that from any strategic point of view the outcome had been entirely to Poland’s advantage. Gustav Adolf had been incapacitated for months, the USE had been plunged into a near-civil war, and Poland had been given a precious half-year to strengthen its defenses. There was no longer any realistic prospect for the USE to win a quick and decisive victory over the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

“But, no, of course I didn’t resign my seat just to be able to visit Michael. We want Ed Piazza to be the next prime minister if we win the election, and legally that requires him to be a member of the House of Commons. So I gave up my seat in order to provide him with one.”

“I doubt if there is a single burgermeister anywhere in the Germanies who would believe that twaddle, Rebecca. Piazza could have run for special election in any number of districts that are perfectly safe for the FOJs. Dietrich Essert’s seat in Mecklenburg, for instance, or Reineke Bäcker’s in Thuringia. Either one of them would have been perfectly happy to step down for Piazza.”

Rebecca was not surprised by Gustav Adolf’s detailed knowledge of her party’s inner workings. He’d be even better informed concerning the Crown Loyalists. The moderate Hesse-Kassel/Brunswick/Wettin wing, at least, if not the outright reactionaries.

“I see I can’t deceive you,” she said, smiling.

“You’re trying again — right now,” he accused. “You’re about to come up with some other illogical explanation.”

Well… yes, she had been.

She’d told Ed this wouldn’t work.

Nothing for it but the truth, then. “The plan is for me to become the new secretary of state. Assuming we win, of course.”

“Ha!” His big hand smacked the armrest with a meaty sound. “I knew it! I knew that had to be the reason! Anything else would have been a waste.”

With a much more genial expression, he leaned back in his chair in the small reception chamber he liked to use for meetings of an intimate and informal nature. “I approve of the scheme. I’ll deny ever saying that — and in a high dudgeon, too! — should it become public. But you’ll make an excellent secretary of state for the nation. Better than Hermann has been, for a certainty.”

He was referring to the existing secretary of state, Landgrave Hermann of Hessen-Rotenburg, the younger brother of the recently-deceased ruler of Hesse-Kassel. Mike Stearns had appointed him secretary of state as a gesture of political goodwill and after he’d been replaced as prime minister by Wilhelm Wettin in the 1635 elections, Wilhelm had kept Hermann in the post. That would probably have been a temporary measure except that the instability which gripped the USE after the emperor’s injury at Bledno pushed the issue to the side.

“Being fair to Hermann,” Rebecca said, “he never wanted the post to begin with.”

“Yes, I know. And I have no great complaint concerning his performance. It’s been adequate. But I won’t be sorry to see someone with real talent at the work taking over the position.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed a bit. “I have to admit, Your Majesty, I am surprised by your reaction. I would have thought you’d prefer a Crown Loyalist secretary of state.”

Gustav Adolf chuckled heavily. “I would prefer an actual royal, if I lived in a perfect world. If I could make the decision, I’d appoint Prince Ulrik.”

“He’d be very good.”

The emperor shrugged. “But we have a constitutional monarchy, and while I am prepared and willing — Ha! Watch me! — to gnaw at the edges of it, I have accepted the basic principle. So, a political party must choose the new secretary of state and at the moment…”

He looked aside, his gaze seeming to lose a bit of its focus. “Again, were this an ideal world — one I’d prefer, at least — I’d be more comfortable with people like Amelie Elizabeth running the government. Not herself, of course. She’d have to abdicate as the landgravine and run as a commoner and I’d expect my pagan ancestors’ Fimbulwinter to happen before that does. But people of like mind, I mean.”

His eyes came back to her, now in sharp focus. “But that’s neither here nor there, as your husband likes to say. We live in tumultuous times and at least for the moment the Crown Loyalists are still in great disarray. You and your Fourth of July Party will win the coming election, I am quite sure of it, and” — his massive shoulders heaved another shrug — “it may be just as well. For a time, at least.”

He rose to his feet, signaling an end to the interview. “And now I have other business I must attend to. Please give my best regards to your husband, Rebecca.”

She rose and curtsied. “I shall, Your Majesty.”

When she brought her gaze back up, she saw that Gustav Adolf’s expression seemed a bit surprised.

So did his tone of voice. “I actually mean that, you know.”

Wallenstein’s Palace

Prague, capital of Bohemia

“You’ll have to excuse my longitudinality,” said Wallenstein. “Is that even a word, I wonder?”

He was lying on his back in the big bed he’d had placed in one of the audience chambers in his palace. His head and shoulders were propped up by several pillows so that he could look at the people he was talking to, and he had a small short-legged writing table perched across his middle. The former mercenary general and now ruler of Bohemia was a semi-invalid — more like a three-quarter invalid — but he still kept constantly busy.

His American nurse and sometime bodyguard Edith Wild wasn’t happy about that. But there were limits to how far even her fearsome self could bully Wallenstein.

He was an odd man in many ways, Noelle had come to realize in the days since she and Janos had arrived in Prague. He could be utterly reptilian in his ruthlessness, as he’d demonstrated just a few years earlier when he launched the Croat raid on Grantville and its high school, yet also quite solicitous of the well-being of those around him. His ambitions were great; going far beyond Bohemia itself. Morris and Judith Roth had already told Noelle and Janos of Wallenstein’s longterm plan to ingest as much of Ruthenia as he could manage — that was after taking Silesia. (Or taking it back, as he preferred to put it.) Janos was also certain that he had ambitions on Austria’s Royal Hungary as well, or at least parts of it.

Yet except in formal proclamations it was clear that he preferred the name Wallenstein to that of King Albrecht II. He was invariably courteous to those around him, except on the very rare occasions when his temper rose. And with his closest confidants — Noelle had never witnessed this herself but she had been told about it by Judith — he insisted on being called by his given name Albrecht rather than by any of the many titles he held or appellations he could claim.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 13

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 13

Chapter 5

Cologne, Hatzfeldt House

July, 1634

“You could move your regiments here by way of Trier!” Bishop Franz was almost shouting at Melchior, and obviously far from his usually calm self.

“No, dear brother, I could not.” Melchior went to put his hand on Franz shoulder trying to calm him down, but Franz shook it off and went to stare out the window at the masons building the framework for the new stable wall.

“I’ve told you before,” Melchior continued, “that unless I had permission from every ruler along the way — starting with Bavaria or Bohemia both of which are equally unlikely at the moment — I would be fighting a new army every time I crossed a river or a mountain pass. Usually small armies, true, but even if I had a direct order from The Holy Roman Emperor, I would still try to talk my way out of it.” Melchior took a walked to stand beside his brother and put an arm around the shorter man’s shoulder. “I cannot do what you want, my dear brother,” Melchior smiled, “but then you never did have the slightest understanding of military matters. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? You know I want to help you regain your winegrowing kingdom on the river Main, but why do you insist on trying to do so by fighting, when all that you have ever achieved has been gained through negotiations. You are acting totally out of character, and none of us understand it.”

Franz turned to his brother and opened his mouth — then shook his head and walked out the room slamming the door behind him.

Cologne, Beguine of Mercy

The market stalls were closing down, but a fair number of people were still standing around talking. Not, Charlotte noted, the usual gossiping housewives, who had gone late for the market looking for bargains at the end of the day, but men from all set of life standing around with serious and slightly worried expressions talking in low voices that fell silent as Charlotte came near.

Well, Charlotte was worried too. Worried about the fate of the child frequently kicking in her womb; worried about the lives of General Merode and his men fighting as well the army of Essen as the Hessians moving in from the East; worried that her brother had once again been delayed; but most of all worried about the letters from Archbishop Ferdinand in Bonn getting more and more insistent that she should seek his protection and place herself and her unborn child under his authority. She had not intended to even let the archbishop know that she and Elizabeth had taken refuge in the Beguine of Mercy in Cologne, but her stupid sister had written to the man, when Charlotte didn’t, and since then he had kept pestering her to come to Bonn, He had even gone so far as sending that disgusting lackey of his, Felix Gruyard, whom Maxie had told her was actually a torturer from Lorraine.

Maxie had come to visit her twice at the Beguine, and Charlotte was becoming more and more impressed with the sheer number of people Maxie knew, and the amount of information they brought her. Charlotte had rarely left the Beguine since her arrival, not just because her growing belly made it difficult for her to get around, but also because she didn’t want anybody to recognize her. Hopefully Friedrich — or at least one of her uncles — would come soon in response to her letters. She felt vulnerable in the Beguine knowing that both De Geer of Essen and Wilhelm of Hesse-Kassel now had armies in Berg and certainly would have agents searching Cologne for her and her unborn child.

Today, however, Elizabeth’s nagging and fretting had been driving her up the walls, and after the evening meal Charlotte had covered her face with a veil, quietly slipped out, and headed for Hatzfeldt House to spend an hour with Maxie before the Beguine closed its doors at sunset. Unfortunately Maxie had left Cologne to visit her brother in Bonn, and was not expected back until late tonight, so instead Charlotte had walked slowly around the market until they started to close down.

Heading back towards the Beguine Charlotte was startled to see the cadaverous shape of Felix Gruyard, the archbishop’s messenger and torturer, talking with two men on the street across from the Beguine, and she made a quick turn to head for the side door, only to feel her thin leather shoe slip on the uneven cobbles. Curling her arms around her belly to protect her child as she fell, Charlotte felt a strong grip on her dress and shoulder pull her back upright again, and she looked up to see the man she had just passed smiling down at her.

“I do not see your maid, Milady. May I be of any assistance to you?”

Charlotte made a quick glance over her shoulder to where Gruyard was still talking, then looked back at her rescuer, and nodded. She couldn’t see much more of his face than a rather ragged red goatee beneath the broad-brimmed hat, but his language assured her that he was well educated, and his clothes were new and in a cut that allowed easy movements and reminded her of General Merode.

“Yes, please. I had left the Beguine for a brief visit to a friend, but I seem to have become more fatigued than I had realized. If you’d be as kind as to lend me your arm across these uneven cobbles?”

“Certainly.”  The man turned around and held out his arm, obviously intending to take her to the main door.

“To the side door, please. It is down that street. It would be much closer to my room.” Going that way would also keep the man between her and Gruyard. She really didn’t like that man.

The walk to the door was brief, and Charlotte didn’t feel like talking, but it felt nice and calming just walking with the strong arm to lean on. The man beside her smelled faintly of lavender and horses. He was probably an officer of some kind, and she briefly considered asking for his name. No. That meant that she would have to give her own, and she wanted as few people as possible to realize where she was.

At the door she said a polite goodbye, and slipped unseen back to her room. The walk seemed to have calmed her mind as much as she had hoped a talk with Maxie to do, and it now seemed possible to write a few letters before going to sleep.

* * *

An hour or so later Charlotte was just pressing her seal into the warm wax on the final letter when the door to her room was opened without a knock.

“The archbishop bids you come to Bonn.”

“What!” Charlotte looked up startled from the letter she had been writing. The Beguine would have closed its door for the night by now, and she had expected the person entering the room to be her sister, Elisabeth, but instead Felix Gruyard stood in front of her. She had thought him a most unpleasant person ever since he had first come to speak with her husband, but now just facing those cold, unwavering eyes for some reason frightened her out of her wits.

“I’m sorry, Master Gruyard. Did you come to bring me a letter?” Charlotte had barely managed to pull herself together when a scream from another part of the building made her jump up from the chair and turn run toward the door leading to the inner courtyard.

“No. You will come with me.” Gruyard grabbed her arm.

“But what is happening? My sister, Elisabeth? The other women?” There were now several voices screaming and shouting.

“That does not concern you.” The flat voice showed no sign of human emotions, only a total concentration on his task. He pulled Charlotte out of the room, and past what looked like soldiers standing in the hall with drawn swords. Outside the main door a carriage drawn by four horses was standing with two more soldiers beside it, and Charlotte was bundled inside before she could formulate a protest. Gruyard entered after her, and the carriage went off with a speed quite unsuited to the cobbled streets it was travelling over.

Cologne, Hatzfeldt House

“Good morning, Simon.” Melchior took the reins his courier extended towards him and looked towards the sun not yet visible above the roofs. “It’ll be hot today.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want to cross the river and take the forest roads? I can go get the rest of the troop waiting by the eastern gate and we’ll meet you by the ferry. We might have to wake up the ferryman though.” Simon sounded much too fresh and eager for this time of the morning, and his boyish enthusiasm made Melchior feel old — especially now after a very late and rather emotional night.

“No, that’ll be too slow. We’ll stop at The Black Goat on the other side of Bonn for the warmest hours, and then try to get as close to Koblenz as possible before stopping for the night.”

Melchior swung into the saddle just as Father Johannes came out the door still yawning and rubbing the last sleep from his eyes.

“I wish you a safe and pleasant journey, and success in your endeavor.”  Father Johannes gave a slight bow.

“Thank you.” Melchior smiled down at the man he had so quickly come to consider one of his best friends. “And thanks also for your attempt at inserting a little sanity in the discussion last night, Father Johannes. I got a little heated after dinner. My brother, Franz, used to be a most rational and level-headed man, but now …”

“I find all four of you — and your sister as well — to be both competent and calm, but I do believe the Prince-Bishop is what the Americans call ‘caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea,’ and that must be a most unsettling place to be.”

Melchior gave a grunt. The two years that Father Johannes had spent in Grantville teaching and reading as many of their myriad of books as possible had given the man a taste for using these odd, but very vivid expressions.

“After you had retired for the night, Maxie remembered yet another person whom you might contact in Munich, and went to write a letter of introduction. Did you find it this morning?”

“Yes, but I have a nasty suspicion that reason is not going to carry the day. If Maxie cannot talk Archbishop Ferdinand into changing his plans, it’s unlikely that anything short of overwhelming force is going to. But on a totally different subject: I was wondering if you would be willing to do an errand for me, Father Johannes?”

“Certainly.”

“Yesterday I escorted a quite pregnant young woman to the Beguine of Mercy. She didn’t give her name, and the veil keeping the dust off her face made it impossible for me to see her clearly, but there cannot be that many pregnant women staying there. The servant bringing me my shaving water this morning mentioned a disturbance last night in that part of town, and I would like for someone to see if she is in any kind of distress.”

“I’ll make a detour on my own errands this morning,” Father Johannes gave a little grin, “and should I try to discover if she might be a widow?”

“Never mind that, Father Johannes, and fare thee well.”

As Melchior and Simon let their horses amble slowly over the cobbles, Melchior noticed Simon sneaking peeks at him, as if gauging his mood. Lieutenant Simon Pettenburg was a rather bright young man, and one of the most promising officers Melchior had trained, so he caught Simon eyes and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“It is said that in China the wish “May You Live in Interesting Times” is considered a most powerful curse.” Simon had obviously decided to ask his question in a roundabout way.

“I’ve heard that too.”

“And you visiting old friends all around the area — that was at least partly to see if anything interesting was going on?”

“Yes. And unless you are a lot more stupid than I think you are, you must have realized that I was gathering a report on the military situation around Cologne for the Emperor.”

Simon nodded. “And the archbishop seems likely to make things very interesting indeed? And also for your brother, the Prince-Bishop of Würzburg, so you have to do something about it? Only your brother wants you to fight for him to get him Würzburg back, and that wouldn’t be wise?”

Melchior nodded. Simon’s boyish looks hid a sharp mind, and those big blue eyes saw more than most men twice his age could manage.

“There were men from the mercenaries Archbishop Ferdinand has stationed at Bonn visiting Cologne last night. Not just for a lark, but doing something with the archbishop’s Lorranian torturer, Gruyard. I don’t know what.” Simon finally volunteered the information he had been leading up to, just as they came into sight of the rest of the troop, so Melchior just said: thank you. Whatever the archbishop was up to, the best Melchior could do was getting those letters to Munich and Vienna, and hope someone there would and could rein in Archbishop Ferdinand.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 05

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 05

Chapter 5.

“All, right, Simon; you insisted we have breakfast in private today,” Ariane said; per Simon’s request, she’d even had Wu Kung stay outside the meeting room. “What is so important?”

Simon was uncharacteristically sober; his usual smile was a shadow of its normal self. “I would have brought this up yesterday, but by the time I got back you were dealing with Arena business, and it was rather late before you were free. This… is something best tackled with a fresh mind.”

“So stop beating around the bush, Simon.” She was concerned now; Simon, while certainly rather loquacious, usually didn’t evade answering a question.

Simon looked down at his plate, long white hair momentarily shading his face from view; with an audible sigh he raised his head, looking directly at her. “I had a very disturbing conversation with Orphan yesterday. You remember, of course, the weapon I improvised for Zounin-Ginjou?”

She nodded.

“Well… Orphan claims that he cannot duplicate it.” He went on to recount the exact conversation he had heard.

He copied the device and it doesn’t work? “Was he serious?” Ariane was trying to get her head around this idea.

“Deadly serious, Ariane,” Simon said, helping himself to a samosa. “Oh, he was clearly enjoying the confusion his news engendered, but there was no sign that he was actually joking around.”

“Is what he describes even possible?”

She felt embarrassment well up within her as Simon laughed. “My apologies, Ariane, but… you ask this in the Arena. In the normal way of things, no. With the tools we have, and that I presume Orphan has at his disposal, if you create the closest replica you can of a device, then the two devices will work very nearly identically. To not even come close to functioning? No. That makes no sense.

“Yet, if I believe what Orphan said – and I do – then the nonsensical is fact: this device which functions flawlessly cannot be duplicated.”

Ariane took a few bites of omelet while she thought. “The Arena.”

“Obviously, yes. The Arena itself must be doing this – either allowing my modifications to work despite them not actually being able to accomplish what I thought they would, or preventing a duplicate which should work from functioning.” He spread some Arena-local fruit over his pancakes. “The how is not terribly relevant – the Arena’s capability to switch nuclear reactions and AIs off on a whim show that it has the capability. What I cannot quite work out is why.”

“I can work out a reason why,” Ariane said. “Really, several reasons. Maybe it doesn’t want that weapon being used in a general sense. Maybe it just wanted you to be able to…”

Simon nodded as she trailed off. “… able to rescue you. Yes, that thought occurred to me. But if that is the case…”

“Crap.” She couldn’t even express the mixed brew of confusion, fear, and even a strange elation that this thought triggered in her. But this touched on the question that DuQuesne, Simon, and she had discussed the day after their return to the Arena: why, precisely, had the Arena spoken to her directly? None of them had managed to come up with an answer. But this new fact…

“That would mean,” she said finally, “that the Arena has taken a direct interest in us – something that seems completely contrary to the way it usually functions.”

“If that was the reason, yes,” Simon agreed.

Ariane forced herself to consider the situation carefully as she finished what was on her plate and drank some coffee. The idea that the godlike intelligence that controlled the Arena had a direct interest in Humanity – or, even worse, her personally – was terribly disturbing. Why would that apparently dispassionate being or power suddenly focus on one newcomer species or individual?

“There is a way we might test some of that,” Ariane said after a few moments.

“Which part?” Simon asked.

“Whether it was, in essence, a one-time thing allowed to permit the Zounin-Ginjou the firepower it needed to have a good chance to rescue me,” Ariane said. Because there is another obvious possibility. “Simon, could you duplicate what you did to that gun?”

“Given another such weapon?” He looked abstracted, his eyes gazing thoughtfully into nothing. “I… believe I could, yes. I would have to focus myself into achieving that… connection again, but my impression, upon thinking about it, is that I could choose to duplicate those actions.”

“We have some of the same energy cannon on the ships Orphan has loaned us. I want you to go back to our Sphere and try to duplicate that change. If it works, see if other engineers on our side can copy it.”

Simon smiled suddenly, a bright flash that helped her relax the tiniest bit. “I see, yes. Well thought out, Captain. No desperation or immediate need, so if that was the reason, my new cannon should not work. If our engineers – not of our inner circle – can duplicate it, that would indicate a general favoritism of Humanity, for whatever reason.” He paused. “And if my version functions and theirs does not… that would indicate…?”

“My guess? That you have the same, oh, what was it that Gona-Brashind said… that was it, ability to trick the Arena, to bend its rules, that the Shadeweavers and the Faith’s Initiate Guides – and probably me – have.”

Simon’s eyes lit up with understanding… and then dimmed with concern that mirrored her own. “But a completely different form of that capability. Even yours appears, from our limited knowledge, to be closely related to, if not identical with, the powers of those two groups; they both certainly believe that is the case.”

“But you were an accident,” Ariane said, feeling a certainty growing within her. “You said yourself that this happened during the very climax of the sealing ritual, when it was nearly disrupted and all three powers – the Shadeweaver, the Faith, and my own – were connected solely through you. You then saw… well, the same thing I saw when it happened, the entirety of the Arena at once.”

“Yes. And I feel something odd, as do you, whenever we go between the original universe and that of the Arena.” He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You believe that this is indeed the case.”

“I’m betting on it. I think you’ll find that you are the only one who can build that ‘primary beam’ variant. And probably other things, if you are using that strange connection of yours to build them, especially under pressure.”

“I see. So where you and the others are magicians or, perhaps, empowered priests, I am… what? An alchemist?”

“Something like that. Or,” she grinned suddenly and gestured to his habitual white outfit, “a mad scientist, perhaps.”

Simon burst out laughing. “But I’ve already shown the fools at the Academy!” he said finally, still chuckling. “When we arrived here, after all.”

“I know. But it would fit.”

Simon nodded decisively. “It might well.” He stood, finishing his fruit juice in a single quick set of swallows. “Then I shall commence the experiment today.”

“It shouldn’t take long, should it?”

“No. I would expect to have a definitive answer by tomorrow, in fact.” He looked at her with a warning expression. “I presume I don’t have to warn you how sensitive this information is?”

“No. We won’t talk about it to anyone outside of our group even after you’ve got your answer. I suppose,” she said, continuing the thought, “that Orphan probably guesses what’s going on.”

“I am sure he guesses something is going on, but as far as I can tell he has no way of knowing that I have this… power. However… yes, he obviously has made his own guesses and deductions, and he was implying to DuQuesne and I that there were secrets he had guessed about us – about Humanity, I think.” He started to turn, then stopped. “On the subject of secrets -”

She knew what he was about to ask. “I have for the moment decided to follow DuQuesne’s advice. What he told us last night…” she shook her head. “It’s not certain that it’s true, yet, though the indications are strong, and if it is, it’s as he would say a trump card that we want to keep very close to our vests. The fewer people know, the fewer could give it away – or trigger it – voluntarily or accidentally.” She stood and looked him in the eye. “I feel the same way about your ability too. You tell me the results of your experiment privately, and we’ll decide who to tell after that.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I won’t pretend I’m not a bit put out, and certainly burning with curiosity, but I will leave it to your judgment. I will not push further.”

It suddenly dawned on her. “Simon… you could just find out, couldn’t you?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand. “I suspect so, yes. And it is a temptation. But if I ever start abusing this power in such a petty fashion… well, I would not be the sort of person who should ever have such a power.” She nodded, as he went on, “I have to accept that you and DuQuesne understand the dangers as well as advantages of secrets, and not get in the way of you doing your job.”

He stepped forward and took her hand. “You have always had my support, and you always shall.”

The burst of warmth washed away her tension and concern, at least for the moment, and she impulsively pulled him closer, hugged the slender form tightly. “Thank you, Simon.”

He returned the hug, then pulled gently away, smiling. “My pleasure, Ariane. Before you go on Orphan’s mad expedition, though, promise me one thing?”

“Depends on what it is,” she said with an answering smile.

“I take you to Mairakag Achan’s restaurant for that dinner we were supposed to have, oh, almost a year ago? But this time without getting interrupted.”

She laughed. “You have a deal, Simon!”

“Then I am off. I have, as Orphan would say, a most interesting experiment to conduct!”

She finished her own breakfast and then got up. “DuQuesne,” she said into the green comm-ball that appeared, “are you ready for the Challenge negotiations?”

“I think so. On my way, we can talk face to face.”

DuQuesne met her a few minutes later in one of several lounges in their Embassy, this one projecting a view as though they were a hundred meters above the floor of Nexus Arena, looking out over the other Embassies and out at the Grand Arcade, with the Great Faction Houses looming in the distance. “Nice view. Gives you a grasp of the size of this place.”

“Yes, it does. So what’s the situation with the Challenge?”

“Talked to Relgof while you were off talking to four different Factions last night. How’d that go, by the way?”

“Well enough. They recognized that as First Emergents we’re still reorganizing our politics to handle the Arena, so our absence wasn’t as bad as it might have been otherwise. The Tensari are very much attached to Oscar Naraj, so I’ve had to agree that he will continue to be a liaison. The others also spoke well of him. Regardless of what his connection to Ni Deng’s actions, he really was doing the rest of his job well.”

“So he’s coming back soon?”

Wu Kung growled slightly.

She glanced at Wu with a wry smile of understanding. “Tomorrow, I think. He does understand how very much under probation he is, I assure you both.”

“He better,” Wu said.

“If he steps even an angstrom out of line, Wu, I will have him shot back to Earth so fast that he won’t need a Sandrisson Drive to go faster than light. And,” she continued as DuQuesne opened his mouth, “I’ve already given Laila and Carl full authority to do that too.”

He grinned, and Wu Kung’s smile showed his fangs. “Fair enough,” DuQuesne said, “I figure you’re right; he knows just how close he came to a trial for treason, and besides, he’s lost his main play for power anyway. His best chance now is to play the game our way.”

DuQuesne sat back in a chair that was apparently a classic leather recliner; Wu was standing in a corner that gave him a clear view of the door. “So, the Challenge negotiations. Relgof’s on board all the way, gave me a rundown of what I should expect; it seems pretty similar to what you went through in preparation for yours with Amas-Garao, although at least in this case it should be more straightforward; we’re not dealing with Shadeweavers and their wonky powers.”

“Do we know who their second Champion is?”

“Yeah, and I’m relieved as hell. They picked a Dujuin who’s a known master of these kind of games, I guess something like their equivalent of a top gambler and poker player.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And you’re relieved about that… why?”

He grinned, with a humorless glint in his eyes. “Because I was damned certain they were going to pick Maria-Susanna.”

She winced. The renegade Hyperion multiple-murderer was, according to both DuQuesne and Oasis, fully the equal of any of the others. “Of course. Why didn’t they, I have to wonder.”

“That’s the part that isn’t a relief,” DuQuesne admitted. “She’s a part of the Vengeance now, so she’d seem a natural choice. And she would certainly be a natural to match up against me.” He shrugged. “Well, she was always hard as hell to predict.”

“Could she just be… well, playing the Vengeance? Using them to get something?”

“I’d bet a whole stack of vals on it, to be honest. Sure, the Vengeance fits her general outlook, but there’s nothing to hold her there specifically. The way she was… designed, she’s supposed to be a co-star, so to speak, with a hero, and no one at the Vengeance is going to fit the role. Since she went crazy, she’s been a solo act, and I don’t see that as changing. There’s something she wants from the Vengeance, and once she’s got it, she’ll move on… to what, I haven’t a clue.” DuQuesne frowned, black brows drawn down and sharp-pointed beard adding emphasis to the grim expression. Finally he sighed and relaxed. “Never mind; for now, I’m glad we aren’t facing her.”

“So am I,” Wu said, with the sadness that always touched his face whenever the subject came up. “She would be a hard opponent… and I do not want to fight her anyway.”

Ariane gave him a smile of sympathy, then looked back to DuQuesne. “So do you have a clearer idea of the actual Challenge procedure?”

“Yeah. We’re going to hammering the details of the actual game that’ll be the “Chance” part of the deal, but basically what happens is that the two racers start out on the same course and start running. The course has a base set of obstacles on it, and it’s long enough so that even someone moving real fast will leave time for a good deal of play – think a lot of hands of blackjack or at least several hands of poker. The game ends when one of the racers crosses the finish line.

“The racers themselves are not allowed to directly interfere with each other – that is, they can’t injure each other, or push each other off a cliff or something – but they can themselves arrange to make the course harder.”

“How?”

“Well, it depends on the course, but say that part of it goes through a forest, one of them could knock down a small tree across the path if they were ahead of the other guy, slow them down a bit. That kind of thing.”

Ariane nodded. “All right. Go on; what about the other side of this Challenge?”

“The Chance players start playing at the same time. Each of us have a set of Obstacle points that we can choose to either use as bets, or to have an obstacle of our choice placed in the way of the opponent, or possibly remove an obstacle from in front of ours – those mechanics are part of what we’re discussing tonight.

“Anyway, the level of obstacle you can buy, so to speak, depends on how many Obstacle points you pay for it. So you could spend, say, one point to put a rock right in front of the racer’s foot where he’d probably trip on it, or forty points to have a wall suddenly appear in front of him, stuff like that. Choices are basically limitless, as far as I can tell, except that you’re not supposed to choose lethal obstacles, and even ones that injure are really expensive. Past versions of this have had people throw obstacles ranging from a sudden dust-devil throwing sand in the racer’s eyes to calling one of the Adjudicators in against the opposition.”

“Adjudicators? You can call in the Arena’s enforcers to be an obstacle?”

“In theory. Apparently it happened once, about nine thousand years ago, when one side was just totally outmatched in the Chance section and the other could accumulate insane amounts of Obstacle points. Naturally that pretty much ended the race.”

Wu looked up with interest. “They are that dangerous, DuQuesne?”

DuQuesne seemed surprised, then grinned. “That’s right, you’ve never run into them yourself. Yeah, they sure are. They don’t hurt people, but they’re apparently boosted up past whatever other people, even the Molothos, can manage, and they’ve got this impediment field that makes movement like wading through mud; that pretty much ruins any fighter’s day.”

Ariane remembered that mired-in-glue field that an Adjudicator seemed to radiate at will, and the complete confidence they emanated. “I’d think so. But you’re good at this kind of thing, right?”

DuQuesne grinned. “Ariane, I used to play poker for money with the best Hyperion had to offer. If I can match Slippery Jim, Giles Habibula, Hannibal Gunn, and Dave Strider, I’m pretty sure I can handle the Arena’s best. Remember, too, these guys are a lot more risk-averse.”

Ariane remembered how she and Simon had discovered that, and the reactions of various Arena denizens to the humans’ perception of acceptable risk. “True. If you can push the game to something like what we’re used to in odds…”

“That is indeed the plan. They’ll still play, but if I keep pushing them into their discomfort zone, it’ll have to throw their game off.”

Ariane nodded. “I hope so. It’s not so important for us, not immediately, but remember there’s a whole species’ hopes riding on this.”

“I know, Ariane,” DuQuesne said soberly. “Believe me, I know. And it is important to us. This is the first time anyone’s publicly put their trust in us. Sure, the Genasi aren’t technically full citizens of the Arena, but everyone knows them, and the fact that they’re trusting us newcomers to somehow give them victory? That’s big, Ariane.”

The truth sank in. She didn’t like it, but DuQuesne was – as usual – right. “Then you and Wu had damned well better win.”

“We will,” Sun Wu Kung said. “I will. I promise you, Captain, no matter what obstacles they throw, no matter how fast my brother in combat Tunuvun is, I will win this race – for him, and for you.

“By my honor, I will win.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 31

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 31

They made sure their teeth were perfect, no matter the pain and the cost involved. Their hair had to be just so. They fretted endlessly over their weight. He’d even heard that some of them underwent surgery to have features like noses brought into line with what they considered the proper form.

Hugelmair, clearly, suffered little from that unease. Her left eye might not move properly, but since the rest of her did she wouldn’t worry about it. What was, was. What was done, was done.

She was quite a pretty woman, the scar and the glass eye aside, with a sturdier frame than either of the two American girls she was with. He wondered who she was and where she came from.

“Is there any new word about the Turks?” Denise asked.

Leopold nodded. “They’re coming. There’s no longer any doubt about it. We haven’t received specific word yet, but they would have probably started their march within the past week.”

“Are you going to try to fight them before they reach Vienna?” The American girl — so typical of them! — didn’t seem to find anything odd in her asking such a question of a member of Austria’s royal family. For a moment, Leopold was tempted to order her arrested for being a spy.

But it was just a fleeting whimsy, probably brought on by his residue of anger at Judy Wendell. The guards standing by the entrance to the hall would certainly obey him if he gave the order — he was an archduke of Austria, after all, in direct line of succession to the throne should his brother Ferdinand and his children die for some reason. But the order would soon be countermanded by Ferdinand himself and Leopold would be soundly berated, albeit in private.

However annoying the Americans could sometimes be, in the present circumstances the Austrian emperor was determined to stay on good terms with them. An invasion by the Ottoman Empire was nothing to take lightly, and the Austrians were going to need allies. Only the USE and Bohemia were close enough to provide assistance quickly, and relations with Bohemia were very tense. Their best chance at getting an ally was with Gustav Adolf.

Who, for his own reasons, made every effort to stay on good terms with the Americans also.

“Why are you looking at me funny?” Denise asked. Leopold had been told the girl was brash almost beyond belief, which was apparently true.

“He’s thinking about having you tossed into the dungeon for spying,” said Minnie, “but warning himself not to do it because that’d cause a mess. Me, I think he ought to go ahead and do it anyway. Denise, you’re my best friend but sometimes you’ve got the sense of a chicken.”

Denise gaped at her. “What do you mean?”

Minnie mimicked her friend’s voice, adding what Leopold presumed was an exaggerated overlay of American dialect. “Are y’allllllll gonna go on out and whup on them there Turks right off or are y’allllll gonna wait until they mosey on up a bit before you start whalloping on ’em?”

She then slipped back into her normal speech. “That’s what they call a ‘state secret,’ Denise. You can get yourself arrested asking those kind of questions from a cobbler or a fishwife. Much less asking an archduke.”

“Oh.” Denise grimaced. “Sorry, Your Highness. I hadn’t thought of that.”

By now, Leopold was quite amused. “Think nothing of it. The proper appellation is ‘Your Grace,’ by the way. The only persons in Vienna at the moment whom you’d call ‘Your Highness’ are my nephew Ferdinand and my niece Mariana.”

He nodded toward a corner where Queen Mariana occupied the only chair in the chamber. A three-year old boy was standing next to her with a scowl on his face, presumably caused by the impertinence of his year-and-a-half old sister who was occupied in tugging at his sleeve. “You’ll find them over there.”

“Now that I’ve put Denise in her place, Your Grace,” Minnie said, “I’m actually interested in the answer myself. Are you planning to fight the Turks before they get to Vienna, or do you figure you’d fare better to just wait until they’ve besieged the city?”

She gave him a gleaming smile. Her teeth were very good, he saw. He wondered if that was due to nature alone or if she’d gotten help from one of the American tooth-doctors.

What did they call them? “Dentists,” if he remembered right.

“If you want to have me arrested,” Minnie continued, “you can probably do it without there being any big trouble. I won’t object too much unless you put me in a dungeon that’s got rats. I really don’t like rats.”

He burst into laughter. “I wouldn’t think of it!”

Looking around, he saw a number of curious looks being sent his way. For whatever quirky reason, that made up his mind concerning the issue at hand.

“We’ll wait until they invest the city,” he said quietly. “They outnumber us badly and the terrain to the southeast is often marshy. Our troops would be likely to get bogged down and we’d suffer bad casualties. Here…”

He looked around the chamber, as if he could see the walls of the city beyond. “Vienna withstood Suleiman a century ago and according to the American history books we will — would have — withstood the Ottoman Empire again in 1683. We’ll take our chances with a siege now, as well.”

He bestowed a big smile of his own on the girl. “You’ll pass that information along to Don Francisco, I assume?” It wouldn’t do to let her think he was ignorant of her association with the Jewish spymaster in Prague.

“Yes, I will.” The gleaming smile didn’t fade a bit. “But I’m sure he knows already.”

That… was probably true, Leopold had to admit. By now the “secret” plans of Austria’s high command had spread through enough of its notoriously sieve-like court that he could only hope the Ottomans still didn’t know as well.

Partly in order to deflect the discussion onto a safer topic, but mostly because he wanted to continue talking to Minnie, Leopold said: “You should really get out of the habit of calling them ‘Turks,’ you know.”

The gleaming smile was replaced by a slight frown. “Why? They are Turks, aren’t they?”

“Not exactly — and it also depends on what you mean by a ‘Turk.’ It’s true that the Ottoman Empire had its origins in the Turkish tribes who migrated into Anatolia after the Seljuks defeated the Byzantines at the Battle of Manzikert. But what really holds it together is the Ottoman dynasty — and that dynasty by now is more Balkan than it is Turkish. It you wish to give them any specific tribal identity, you’d do better to call them Albanians.”

By now, Denise and Judy had frowns of puzzlement on their faces as well.

“Huh?” said Denise. “How does that work?”

“Their royal customs are very different from ours,” Leopold explained. “The Ottoman emperors sire their children on the women of the harem — who are often recruited from the Balkans. Succession is usually passed on to the oldest son, but not always. There are powerful factions in the Ottoman government, who often use one or another of the younger sons to give themselves more leverage. The disputes can become so contentious that they threaten the normal rules of succession — as we saw recently in the years leading up to Murad becoming sultan.

“It’s not just a question of lineage, either,” he added. “For the past century — at least — a good half of the Ottomans’ grand viziers have been Albanians and most of the rest have been of devşirme origin.”

“Devsh –” Denise fumbled with the term. “What’s that?”

“It is the custom by which the Ottomans recruit Christian boys, almost always from the Balkans, and then convert them to Islam and indoctrinate them to serve the dynasty. Most of them become janissaries. Others enter the civil service. They provide the Ottomans with a body of capable and loyal servants who have no ties to the Turkish nobility. To be honest, that’s one of the big advantages they have over us. Their government is better-organized; more efficient.”

Leopold looked around the chamber again. His expression must have become a bit sour, because Minnie laughed and said: “Getting envious, are you?”

When he looked at her, the gleaming smile was back. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “If I had to deal with noblemen all the time I’d go mad.”

“Absolutely bats,” her friend Denise agreed.

Leopold wondered what bats had to do with the matter.

****

They were interrupted shortly thereafter by one of the very noblemen in question, a ponderous and pontificating fellow who buried Leopold under a litany of woes involving the depredations and criminal activities of Wallenstein and his accomplices. Leopold didn’t doubt that the woes were woeful and that Wallenstein indeed behaved criminally — he was a traitor under sentence of death, was he not? — but it was never made clear what the nobleman wanted Archduke Leopold to do about it.

Soon after the fellow began his peroration the two American girls and their one-eyed companion politely took their leave and departed for greener or at least less voluble social pastures. Leopold was sorry to see them go — even Judy — but didn’t blame them in the least.

****

Eventually, the nobleman left also. Only the Flemish artist remained behind.

Since Leopold had already agreed to place Adriaen Brouwer on a retainer before the three girls showed up, he felt no hesitation in employing him for a non-artistic purpose. And why should he? The Habsburgs had a long tradition of employing artists in other capacities, as witness the many times Peter Paul Rubens had served as a diplomat for the dynasty.

“I’m curious about that one girl, Adriaen.”

“One of the Americans?”

“No. The girl with one eye. Who is she? Where did she come from? How and why is she so closely attached to the Americans?”

The artist’s nod was so deep as to almost constitute a bow. He understand how these things worked.

“I shall find out, Your Grace.”

 

Concerning “1632 Snerking the Plots FenCon 25 September 2016″

There was a post in “Snerker’s Only” on Baen’s Bar titled “1632 Snerking the Plots FenCon 25 September 2016″.

Since somebody made a comment here that involved information that was posted in that “Snerker’s Only” post, I’d like to remind anybody who had read that post of the First Line.

It was “Not to be reposted or discussed ANYWHERE ELSE, including any other conference at Baen’s Bar.”

 

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 30

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 30

Chapter 14

Vienna, capital of Austria-Hungary

“So that’s him, huh?” Denise and Minnie studied the Austrian archduke across the room. He was engaged in an animated discussion with another man. “His Royal Highness Damn-My-Balls-Hurt,” Denise continued.

Judy Wendell, the young lady who had been responsible for that emphatic rejection of the archduke’s advances, shook her head. “He’s not that bad a guy, actually. Most of the time, I enjoyed his company well enough. It’s just… You know. Monarchy. I mean, real monarchy, not that show business stuff we had with Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana and all them back up-time. These guys get raised really weird and it goes to their heads. The girls too, although I don’t think they get as screwy. Women are more sensible than men under pretty much any circumstances.”

Denise and Minnie nodded, indicating their full agreement with that proposition. They then went back to studying the royal person in question. “And he’s a bishop on top of everything else?”

“I’m not actually sure about that,” Judy said. “Everybody refers to him that way, as the prince-bishop of Passau — he’s also the prince-bishop of Halberstadt and Strassburg and Bremen, too, they say.”

“Hey!” Denise protested. “He’s got a lot of nerve. We control Bremen and. Strassburg.”

“That’s not how it works,” Minnie corrected her. She wasn’t exactly what anyone would call a studious girl, but she did pay more attention to what their employer Francisco Nasi explained to them about the political situation in Europe than Denise usually did. “The pope hands out those bishoprics like candy, whether he actually controls them or not. They call it in partibus infidelium, which is a fancy Latin way of saying ‘in the land of the unbelievers.'”

She cocked her head toward Judy. “What did you mean when you said you weren’t sure about that?”

“I’m not sure he’s actually a bishop — the way the church means it. Somebody told me that technically he’s just the administrator of the bishoprics. That way he gets to collect the revenues — from Passau and Halberstadt, at least — but he hasn’t taken any holy vows or anything.”

“As he proved when he tried to stick his tongue down your throat,” snorted Denise.

Judy grinned. “Oh, hell, girl, we’re in the year 1636. The freaking popes in this day and age will try to stick their tongues down your throat.”

“And stick you elsewhere with other parts,” Minnie agreed. She said that with no outrage or indignation; just the way she might have said roses are red, violets are blue. She had the seventeenth century’s pragmatism in full measure. “He’s kind of cute,” she added, still examining the royal fellow across the room.

Denise frowned. “Are you kidding? With that long bony nose and the Habsburg lip?”

The three girls spent a few more seconds in study.

“I gotta say I’m pretty much with Denise on this one, Minnie,” Judy said. “I mean, Leopold’s not ugly or anything, but I’d hardly call him ‘cute.'”

Again, they resumed their critical examination. Archduke Leopold Wilhelm, the brother of the current Austrian emperor, Ferdinand III, was a young man — he’d turned twenty-two a few months earlier — and on the tall, slender side. He had dark and wavy hair parted in the middle of his head, which was long enough to spill over his shoulders. His narrow face was decorated with a Van Dyke beard.

In all fairness, Denise’s accusations were not wide of the mark. The prince did have a long and bony nose and his heavy lower lip could have been put on display in a museum with a caption saying: If you ever wondered what the famous Habsburg lip looked like, this is it.

“Come on,” Judy said, starting across the floor. “I’ll introduce you.”

Even as brash as she was, Denise lagged behind. “You sure? I mean…”

“Relax,” Judy said. “The emperor himself laid down the terms of the peace treaty between me and Leopold. Of course, nobody said anything to me directly. But he’s been on his best behavior ever since and everybody here at court pretends like nothing ever happened. The French call it sang-froid.”

“Cold blood,” Minnie translated. Despite — or perhaps because of — the little formal education she’d received in Grantville’s school system, Minnie spoke several languages quite well. Her wanderings with Benny Pierce had been linguistically fruitful. Minstrels tended to be a migratory bunch.

The parquet floor they were moving across seemed about the size of a basketball court to Denise and Minnie. The chamber — it might be better to call it a reception hall or even a ballroom — was almost entirely devoid of furniture. Down-timers, at least those in the upper classes, were more accustomed than Americans were to spending large amounts of time in social occasions on their feet rather than sitting down.

As if to compensate for the absence of chairs or tables, practically every square inch of the walls — and they were tall, too, since the ceiling was a good twenty feet above the floor — were covered with paintings. The great majority of them were portraits, and the great majority of the portraits seemed to consist of representations of various members of the centuries-old and far-flung Habsburg family.

As they neared Leopold and his companion, the prince spotted them coming and broke off his conversation. When they drew up next to him, his expression was simply one of calm and relaxed attentiveness.

Despite herself, Denise was impressed. Sang-froid indeed!

“Your Serene Highness,” the archduke said politely. Whatever he might have personally thought about his older brother’s decision to elevate all the Barbies to noble status at the end of the previous year, nothing showed but affable courtesy. Of course, the grandiose titles they now held — Denise had to keep herself from spluttering at the idea of Judy Wendell as a “serene highness” — carried a lot less weight than they sounded. It was a court title and didn’t mean you ruled anything.

“May I introduce my companions, Your Royal Highness?” Judy said. After she’d done so, the prince gestured at his companion, a good-looking fellow who appeared to be about thirty years old. “This is Adriaen Brouwer, a Flemish artist who arrived here in Vienna recently. He was recommended to me by my sister Maria Anna.”

Again — and again, despite herself — Denise was impressed. The sister being referred to was now the queen in the Netherlands, having married her Habsburg cousin Fernando less than two years earlier. Fernando was the younger brother of the king of Spain, who was — to put it mildly — less than pleased at Fernando’s presumption in declaring himself “the King in the Netherlands.”

It was easy for up-timers to think lightly of the Habsburgs, with their odd-looking lower lip and their inveterate habit of marrying their own cousins. But if Denise had gotten nothing else from the tutelage of Francisco Nasi, it was that only an imbecile underestimated the Habsburgs.

There were now three separate powerful realms in Europe ruled by Habsburgs — Spain, Austria and the Netherlands — and their monarchs were no farther apart from each other than one degree of separation. King Philip IV of Spain was the older brother of King Fernando I in the Netherlands, who had married Maria Anna, the sister of Ferdinand III, the emperor of Austria-Hungary.

Austria and the Netherlands got along quite well, these days. Spain and the other two… not so much. Like many big and sprawling families, there was a lot of what you could call dysfunctionality involved. Being fair about it, the Habsburgs weren’t nearly as screwed up and dysfunctional as Grantville’s very own Murphy family — as Noelle would be the first to tell you. There was a reason she’d changed her last name to Stull.

There was this difference, though, Denise had to remind herself. When the Murphys fell out with each other, the worst that happened was that Francis Murphy tried to shoot Noelle’s mother Pat at the funeral of Pat’s new-except-he-was-really-old-boyfriend Dennis Stull’s mother because Pat was his ex-wife and she hadn’t paid her respects to Francis’ father after he died. In any case, he missed and the bullet hit the body of old Mrs. Stull so he only got charged with mutilating a corpse.

If the Habsburgs fell out with each other, a good part of Europe would go to war with casualties likely to be in the hundreds of thousands.

****

It would have been hard for Archduke Leopold Wilhelm to have chosen between Judy Wendell and Denise Beasley with regard to which of the two young women was more beautiful. Perhaps for that very reason — reinforced by his still vivid memory of Judy Wendell’s knee coming up to his groin — he found his interest drawn more to the third member of the female trio.

She was quite a contrast. To begin with, Minnie Hugelmair was clearly a product of his own seventeenth century. Leaving aside her accent, quite different from the distinctively American accent of the other two girls, Minnie had any number of subtle behavior traits which made her origins clear in ways that Leopold could not have specified exactly but which were unmistakable.

Except for one trait, now that he thought about it. The girl’s face had been disfigured at some point in her life. Judging from the scar that ran from her hairline down through her left eyebrow, she’d been struck by some sort of object which had destroyed the eye as well. In its place she had a remarkably well-made glass eye which, however, neither moved with her good eye nor had an iris of the same color. Her good eye was hazel; the glass one, blue.

An up-time girl would have been devastated by the loss, not so much due to the practical difficulty of having only one eye but because of the distortion of her appearance. They were odd that way, the Americans. They didn’t hesitate to spout the most outlandish opinions and comport themselves in sometimes exotic forms of behavior. But any deviation from what they considered proper bodily standards was viewed with unease, sometimes verging on horror. That seemed to be especially true of the women, from what he’d been told and what he’d seen himself.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 04

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 04

Chapter 4.

“That might not have been the best choice, Ariane,” DuQuesne said somberly.

Simon was puzzled by the gravity in his voice. Reflexively, he glanced around the meeting room, but there was no one present except the members of the “core group”, as Simon thought of it – DuQuesne, Ariane, Simon himself, Laila, Carl, and the newcomers Oasis and Wu Kung. “Do you think Wu might lose? Or is there some other reason?”

DuQuesne looked down; the brows were lowered, and Simon could tell that his friend was thinking furiously.

Finally, DuQuesne looked up, meeting Ariane’s gaze first before looking to Simon. “Yes, he might.” He held up a hand to forestall Wu’s protest. “Wu, I know that no one here knows what you’re like when you actually go all out – and that we’re both finally back in shape for real. But ‘Racing Chance’ is only about half the ‘racing’ part. The rest of it – as Carl described to us,” he nodded to the tall, slender controls specialist, “and as I verified by checking in our records, is a game of chance and skill. That’s the section of the challenge still to be hammered out, but it throws a royal wrench in the works compared to a straight-up race.”

“On the other hand,” Laila said, with her usual analytical calm, “was there a reasonable alternative? We want the Genasi to win their Challenge, correct?” At the nods around the table, she continued, “Then what alternative was there? Speaking honestly, is there anyone else here who could possibly be a better choice than Wu Kung, at least for the racing portion of this Challenge?”

Oasis tilted her head. “Well, Marc and I could… but no, not better. Not for something as relatively straightforward as an obstacle race.”

“Something else is bothering you, Marc,” Simon said flatly. “Or something else is relevant that you don’t want to say.”

Ariane’s quick look showed that she’d come to the same conclusion.

The big Hyperion pursed his lips, then gave a short, explosive laugh, followed by a quick grin that subsided all too swiftly. “You’ve got me pegged pretty well, Simon. Yeah, there’s a couple things that’ve got me chasing my tail. One… well, I’d like to take Orphan’s route and wait until we’re in the Deeps, but then we’ll be on Orphan‘s ship, which wouldn’t do us any favors in security. I like that exoskeletal joker, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t trust him all the way.”

He drew in a deep breath. “It… has to do with some of the things I guess about the way the Arena operates. And it’s pure dynamite, if I’m right.”

DuQuesne paused again, looking around the table, and Simon was struck by his hesitation. He just doesn’t have this kind of… indecision. “Marc, what is it?”

“Sorry. Look… No offense to anyone here – and I mean that – but I can only discuss this with Ariane and Oasis.” He caught Wu Kung’s gaze. “And that means not with you, either, Wu. Sorry.”

Ariane frowned. “Marc, I trust Simon – everyone here, in fact – with anything. If -”

“This isn’t a matter of trust. It’s a matter of need to know, and I think no one else needs to know, yet.” DuQuesne held up his hands. “Now that will be your call, Ariane. If you decide you want to let the whole crew know, that’s up to you, and I’ll back you on whatever course you take. You are the Captain, and that’s the pure-quill truth; you’ve proven it to all of us, and my not accepting that damn near got me killed once. I will try to never second-guess you again like that. But you can’t decide to keep it a secret if I let it out to begin with.”

Ariane looked over to Simon.

Well, now, she’s obviously giving me a chance to object. It was highly gratifying, really; she was basically saying, without words, that if he raised an objection she’d override DuQuesne, which was something she was very reluctant to do (and for extremely good reason, given their history in the Arena).

Simon was tempted. He really wanted to know what sort of secret was so desperately important, and how it involved Ariane and Oasis but not Wu or himself. But at the same time, he trusted DuQuesne implicitly. Marc DuQuesne hadn’t been the most approachable of people to begin with, but in the year and more since they’d become crewmates, he’d found Marc’s insight and advice invaluable – even before they first launched Holy Grail.

“If Marc thinks this is the best choice, I’m not going to second-guess him either, Ariane,” Simon said. “But before we all leave, is there any more to discuss that doesn’t require we leave the room?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Simon,” DuQuesne said, and Simon could hear the sincerity in his tones. “Yeah, we need to talk a little about strategy and timing. Tunuvun and the Genasi decided to go all-in with Humanity – they’ve turned the whole Challenge over to us.”

“Really?” That startled Simon. “I would have thought their pride would require otherwise.”

Wu Kung shook his head. “They’re proud as warriors, but Tunuvun said to me that this is more important than pride. He’s their best Challenge-warrior and now the Vengeance has him. He knows all the Genasi’s other candidates cold, but no one really knows us that well, so we’ve got an advantage.” He grinned, fangs glinting sharply. “And after our victories, we’re making people nervous. A good thing in an opponent. Tunuvun said we were on a winning streak.”

“More than he knows,” Simon murmured; the rest of the Arena didn’t know about the kidnapping of Ariane and the subsequent utter humiliation of the Blessed to Serve, making that three of the major powers – Molothos, Shadeweaver, and Blessed – that Humanity had managed to defeat soundly in less than a year.

“Like Wu said,” DuQuesne said, “We’re on a winning streak, and they’re betting it holds. In any case, Selpa’s not going to give us too much time before we choose our representative in the Chance section of the Challenge, and then we have to all agree on the exact details of the game – we went through this before, with Ariane’s Challenge against Amas-Garao. We’ll want an Advocate – I’m thinking either Nyanthus, if he’ll do it again, or maybe Orphan.”

Simon nodded. The Advocates mediated the decision making process between the Challenge parties, enabling, at least in theory, a fair and reasonable compromise to be reached with respect to all aspects of the Challenge; they also watched for any inherently unfair aspects of the Challenge. From that, Simon deduced that only in extreme cases did the Arena itself intervene directly. “Nyanthus would be my preference initially, but I think he would be a poor choice, given that the Faith and the Vengeance are well-known to be opposed.”

“Technically, pretty much everyone’s in competition with everyone else here,” Oasis said. “Even allies seem to think it’s a good idea to keep their friends on their toes, you know what I mean?”

“Right,” Carl agreed. “But Simon’s got a point. We don’t know what the Vengeance’s second Champion will be, and even less do we know who they’ll choose as Advocate, but picking an Advocate specifically known for hostility towards the Vengeance – is that a good idea?”

Ariane shrugged. “The Advocate’s supposed to be on our side, just not part of our faction or – I’d guess – so heavily associated with us that they might feel pressure to bend the rules in our favor. The latter might put Orphan out; we’re well-known to be about his only reliable allies.”

“Point taken,” DuQuesne said. “We’ll leave him out of it, then. Any other candidates?”

Oh, here’s a thought. “If we want to stick with the high-profile sorts,” Simon said, “then I propose Dr. Relgof.”

DuQuesne brightened. “I could go for that. He’s friendly towards us, not hostile towards any faction – except maybe the Molothos, which goes for pretty much anyone still breathing – and he’s sharp as a box of razor blades.”

“I like it,” Ariane said. “He’s been one of our supporters, but no commitment to do so.”

“I approve,” Laila said emphatically. “If, of course, he will accept.”

“I would be willing to bring up the question,” Simon said.

“Please do, as soon as we’re done here,” Ariane said, after her quick survey of the conference table got nothing but approving nods. “What else, Marc?”

“Well, we’ll probably want to take a few days to practice whatever the game is that we end up with, but we don’t want to delay Orphan’s trip, either.”

“I’ve already contacted Orphan,” Ariane said. “His response was ‘My dear Captain Austin, such a Challenge takes precedence over anything. And in truth, I look forward to watching this one. Your friend Wu Kung versus Tunuvun? Alas that I cannot sell admissions!’.”

Simon laughed along with the others, at least as much from the way in which Ariane managed to capture both the intonations and the posture of Orphan perfectly in her quote. “So who will be our other Champion?”

“Marc,” Ariane said instantly.

Simon nodded. “That makes sense, but why are you so certain?”

“Any of us might make good players of a game of skill and chance – sounds like it could be the equivalent of a game of poker. But with Wu Kung involved, and – per Carl’s description – the fortunes of the game being able to directly affect the obstacles and difficulty of the racing course – that pretty much argues that whoever’s playing the game be someone very familiar with Wu Kung’s habits, capabilities, and limitations. That means really only DuQuesne and Oasis, and – being honest here – I understand Marc’s capabilities a little better than yours, Oasis.”

The redhead tossed back her long ponytails. “No offense taken, Captain. I’d make the same choice; Marc’s beat me at cards more than once.”

“All right, then that’s settled.” Ariane looked up at the rest. “Now, I’ll listen to whatever Marc has to say; if we need you again, I’ll call you in.”

Simon nodded, and he and the others filed out; Wu Kung looked particularly hesitant, but finally he left. “Carl, can we do some sparring?” he said. “I want something to keep me focused instead of just waiting.”

“Sure thing, if you’ll take a heck of a handicap. I don’t mind a little practice, but imitating a punching bag isn’t really practice.”

“No problem – make it as hard on me as you want!”

“In that case, I’ve got some ideas that should still make it fun for you. Let’s go. Simon, you want to watch?”

“Perhaps later. I’m going to speak to Relgof; that’s a time-limited situation, you know.”

“I’ll watch,” Ariane said, coming up behind them.

Simon jumped slightly. “I thought you were having a top-secret secret meeting with DuQuesne.”

“I was, but… I saw how tense he was, and I asked him if there was a good reason, in his view, that he should keep this a secret from me too, as a real ace in the hole. He hemmed and hawed a little but eventually said yes.” She smiled. “I trust his judgment, really, and since he was straightforward about trusting me and was going to tell me whatever it was flat-out, I decided to return the favor. Besides, I think I’ll just see if I can figure it out myself; I’ve got some clues to work with.”

“Always time for a little mystery in life, yes. All right, I’ll see you all later, then.”

Ariane nodded and turned to Carl. “Then let’s go!”

“Right. Onward to my beating!” He gave a cheery wave and led Wu away, Ariane just behind.

Simon stepped out into the simulated evening of Nexus Arena. The light was just starting to fade, and there were even faint pink shades to the light, a perfectly-emulated sunset behind the various buildings. Is even that a matter of tailored perceptions? Would I see something different if I were a Genasi or a Tantimorcan? Or is day and night here something very real, and thus seen at the same time and, as much as perceptual equipment allows, in the same way?

Not for the first time, he was tempted to reach inside himself and push for answers – to whether this was real or generated perceptions, for what secrets DuQuesne was telling Oasis, for hints as to what they should consider with this new Challenge, but he shoved the temptation away. Having the potential to look into the mind of God and be a panopticon at the same time is far too potentially corruptive. I’m not taking chances with this.

With one of the floating cabs to take him, it was only a few minutes to reach the great square-faced headquarters of the Analytic, third of the Great Factions. The door opened for him – his one-year pass to the Archives gave him entrance at any time – and he stopped within the entrance hall. “Relgof Nov’ne Knarph, would you be free to speak with me?”

The green comm-ball appeared even as he began to speak, and floated before him; no red aura appeared, which meant that the call was not being blocked or, as of yet, refused.

A moment later it flickered. “Dr. Sandrisson, it would be my pleasure. You are here in the Faction House, I see. Is this a private matter?”

“Moderately so. Nothing terribly secret, but a request made in person and with reasonable privacy seemed preferable.”

“Then come, come. I will meet you in the third conference room, the same one we discussed your fascinating book in.”

Simon remembered that discussion well, and found the room without much difficulty. True to his word, Relgof, in his customary white outfit, entered only moments later. “Simon, my friend, it is good to see you. I trust you and your Faction are well?”

He returned the handclasp, noting again the peculiar sensation of a second thumb gripping his hand. “Very well at the moment. But we have an issue we believe you could assist with.”

“By all means, tell me of your problem,” Relgof said, waving him to a seat. His filter-beard flip-flopped in a gesture that seemed to be related to a smile.

“I do not know if you are aware, but the Genasi have issued their Challenge to the Vengeance.”

“That much I had heard, yes. The details have not been released by any yet, however. Already you interest me!”

Information, the greatest coin of the realm for the Analytic. “Well, as the Challenged party, the Vengeance chose Racing Chance as the Challenge method. They also called upon the terms of a previous contract and selected Tunuvun of the Genasi as their Champion.”

Relgof, who had bent to scoop a bit of the water from the inset flowing bowl in the table, started and splashed himself and his usually spotless uniform. “Silt and sand! Now that is a bold and clever move. They seek to use the competitor’s own honor and dedication to his craft against him.”

“Exactly. So Tunuvun countered by selecting Sun Wu Kung of our faction as the Genasi Champion.”

“Wu Kung… yes, of course! The one who fought alongside Tunuvun in a rather impromptu and unofficial challenge, and won. The bodyguard of your Leader, correct?” At Simon’s nod, Relgof rubbed the side of his head pensively. “A most interesting Challenge this promises to be. But there are two Champions in Racing Chance.”

“We do not know the Vengeance’s second, yet, but the Genasi gave us the option on that as well. I believe they think that our tactics are less likely to be open to the Vengeance. We have selected Marc DuQuesne as the second.”

“An excellent choice. The very fact that he faced the Molothos and defeated them will weigh heavily in the mind of any playing against him. So, then, what is your problem?”

“We are, of course, still very unfamiliar with many details of these Challenges,” Simon said. “And there are a great many specifics to be nailed down for this Challenge -”

“Say no more. You would like me to be your Advocate – or more specifically that of the Genasi – in the negotiations.”

“Exactly. Now, I don’t know what sort of fee, if any, is normal and customary -”

“It varies extremely, depending on the relationship between factions and individuals, the interest in the Challenge, and many other factors. In this case, I would like to charge you, but honesty compels me to say that I would never forego the chance to observe the process for such a unique confrontation. The only recorded Challenge by native species of the Arena for their right to be First Emergents? It is without precedent. To be an observer first-hand for the Analytic is, itself, sufficient payment. I accept, Simon!”

Simon felt a rush of relief – and gratitude towards Relgof for his inherent honesty. “That’s wonderful, Relgof. I will let Tunuvun know.”

“Excellent. I look forward to it. Now, before you go, Simon, I have some questions for you about some details of your translated book – and in exchange I may be able to answer a few questions for you as well.”

Simon settled back into his chair. “I’d be glad to play ‘trading questions’ with you. Go ahead!”

About an hour later, Simon waved goodbye to Relgof and began to make his way back to the Embassy. As he boarded one of the taxis, a tall, very familiar form leapt up beside him.

“Doctor Sandrisson, a pleasure to see you,” Orphan said.

“And you, Orphan. Are things going well?” Simon realized this couldn’t be coincidence; things rarely were in the Arena.

“Well enough. I would like a word with you in private, if I might, Doctor.”

With me? Interesting. “I have no objection.”

“Excellent.” The alien raised his voice. “To the Embassy of the Liberated.”

The cab swiftly drove them to Orphan’s Embassy. Simon was silent through most of the short trip, trying to figure out what Orphan might want. He couldn’t ask any significant questions on the way, though, since the planned expedition to the Deeps was secret. “Ariane,” he said to air, and the expected green sphere popped into existence. “This is Simon.”

“What is it, Simon?”

“Orphan’s asked me to stop by and talk with him about something. I don’t know what, yet, but I presume it won’t take long?” He said the last looking at Orphan quizzically.

“Not too long, no.”

“Not long, then. So you can expect me back relatively shortly.”

“No problem, Simon.”

He followed Orphan into the Embassy and to one of Orphan’s conference rooms – the same one, as near as he could tell, that Orphan had previously used to meet with Humanity. “All right, Orphan, I am about ready to burst from the suspense. What is it?”

“Something I think you will find most interesting, Doctor Sandrisson, if things are as I suspect. You recall, of course, that during our… rather forceful negotiations with the Blessed to Serve you not only temporarily repaired Zounin-Ginjou, but also improvised a quite impressive weapon that Doctor DuQuesne referred to as a ‘primary beam’, yes?”

Now it made sense. A new weapon was something you certainly wouldn’t want to discuss in any public area. “That would be difficult for me to forget, given that I had to help it fire manually and that I fought Vantak in the same room with that gun.” A combination that had very nearly killed him, and one that made Simon wince just remembering it.

“Even so.” Orphan ran his hand absently along his lefthand crest, a gesture showing he was thinking and distracted. “Might I ask, then, if you intended to keep its workings… proprietary, I suppose is the right term? That is, if you did not intend the Liberated to be able to make use of it and duplicate it?”

“What? Oh, no, Orphan, I am sorry if you somehow got that impression. It was on your ship, and I put it together out of your components, and to make it a really practical weapon there would be many refinements. It is certainly as much yours as it would be anyone’s. You’re welcome to make use of it as much as you like – although I’d very much appreciate you sending the design data over so we could replicate it. I confess I didn’t really pay exact attention to memorizing what I’d done.”

That was something of an understatement. He’d cobbled the clumsy superweapon together using that strange ability of insight and understanding that he’d gained in the near-catastrophe of the sealing ritual that had inactivated Ariane’s Shadeweaver-like powers. Thinking back on it, he really didn’t remember it all clearly, although he thought he probably could if he focused on the problem enough.

Orphan’s hands made the twin dismissing gesture that meant disagreement. “You mistake me, Simon. I have already attempted to do so. I examined your revision of my topside turret gun carefully, and applied those modifications to my portside guns.” He paused, studying Simon so intensely that the human scientists found himself extremely nervous. “Those portside guns, however, refuse to function. Not only do they not produce the most impressive intensity and power of the topside cannon, they do not function at all. And my initial analysis of the design is that it should not function.”

“What?”

“The topside cannon, by contrast, continues to function exactly as before. I have added an automatic reloading option and found a way to store replacement matrices, of course, but I am extremely hesitant to actually disassemble the original – it is, after all, a ‘trump card’ as you might call it, of inestimable value. But I am at the same time confident that my scans and analysis of the unit are accurate. The portside guns are as near duplicates as I can manage… yet they are dead weight now.”

The alien leaned forward, and despite the mostly expressionless face gave the impression of someone with a disquieting grin on his face. “I find this … interesting, Doctor Simon Sandrisson. Immensely interesting… would you not agree?”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 12

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 12

“As for winning by negotiations?” Father Johannes shrugged, “I don’t think that’s possible at all. Not because of the terms and deals that might be made, but because the American “land” will always be defined by ideas rather than borders; and those ideas are going to spread. Those Committees of Correspondence we discussed the other day are just a small part; no matter the result of a negotiation, people will sooner or later hear those ideas and chose for themselves among them.” Father Johannes gave a grin. “Of course people don’t always choose wisely, so I also want the church around to guide them. But guide, not dominate.”

“Hm!” Melchior kept pulling his beard. “The archbishop wants me to lead an army — nothing surprising in that — but those regiments he has been hiring don’t stand a chance of success even as far up the Rhine and Main as Frankfurt. My own regiments are quartered at Linz under temporary command of my cousin Wolf, ready to strike northwards if Wallenstein makes a move. Since it’s highly unlikely that Wallenstein would do anything so stupid, Archbishop Ferdinand want to borrow me and my men from the Emperor. If that cannot be done, he plans to use his own dragoons as a kind of decoy, to draw attention while he strikes in some other fashion. Wouldn’t give me the details, but hinted at discrediting the Americans in some way. One of the Bamberg clerics was very drunk and started giggling about a renegade Jesuit, spying and corrupting for the Americans: nurtured like a snake at the bosom of the church. The way Franz cut him off made me wonder if you might not better keep your saddlebags packed, Father Johannes. You could also come with me back to Linz.”

“I’m getting really annoyed with Ferdinand,” said Maxie tapping her fingernails against the table, “and THAT he can just forget about!”

“But Maxie,” Melchior’s broad grin was an open challenge, “since you are a nun, an archbishop is surely in a position to give you orders.”

“Nun, my bare arse!” Maxie suddenly slammed her hand against the table. “I’ve spend fifteen years trying to make it possible for nuns to enter seclusion for the contemplation of God same as it is for monks, and I’ve gotten nowhere! Nuns are supposed to work for their support. Teaching young girls and tending the sick. Not even studying medicine. Oh, no. Just cheap nursing. When Ferdinand sent for me last year I was this close,” she held up two fingers barely an inch apart, “from renouncing my wows, and telling my ducal relatives to go to hell. I’m sick and tired of trying to placate everybody to get their support. Playing by the rules while every male relative I’ve got are flaunting any that don’t suit them.”

“Well, I don’t blame you, dearest Maxie,” Melchior was openly laughing now, “and if you find yourself in need of gainful employment, I could certainly use an officer with your talent for organization.”

“No thanks. Trousers don’t become me, and I’ve got enough people owing me debts and favors to set myself up for any life I fancy. And now I want to get rid of this pearl-encrusted armor I’m wearing. Good night. Lucie, do you want to come?”

Magdeburg, Government Palace

June 26, 1634

“Welcome back to Magdeburg, Chancellor Oxenstierna.” Amalie smiled up at the spare face of the Swedish chancellor, while maneuvering in the crush of people attending the party celebrating the Congress of Copenhagen to place herself directly before him. “Did the journey go well?”

“Yes, thank you, My Lady.” The chancellor seemed to decide that escape was impossible, and that trying to direct the conversation was his best option. “And how is the organization of the new Hesse-Kassel province coming along? Are you having any trouble with getting the last commitments?”

“None whatsoever, Chancellor.” Amalie fixed the smile on her face. The chancellor was very good at keeping informed, even when travelling around the Baltic Sea. Some members of the Nassau family were indeed still making trouble. Oh, they’d agree in the end, but not until they had squeezed every bit of advantage out of the situation. She continued. “I assume that the whole of Berg is to be included in Hesse-Kassel, now that both Duke Wolfgang and his heir are dead.”

“I’m quite certain that the emperor does not wish to make a final decision on that question, until after Princess Katharina’s young cousin, Katharina Charlotte, has given birth to the child she is carrying.” The chancellor smiled back at Amalie. “So, you’ve got the final holdouts among the Nassau family to agree to the proposed structure for the province? Impressive.”

“Has a guardianship been settled for the unborn child?” Amalie headed into battle. “We have written Gustavus Adolphus offering our house for this. Katharina Charlotte is little more than a child herself, but with Hesse-Kassel as overlord we would have…”

“You over-step yourself, My Lady.” All traces of a social smile had now disappeared from the chancellor’s face. “The child has plenty of relatives on its mother’s side, and any guardianship for the child and the land will be settled within the Vasa and Zweibrücken families. Also, according to a codicil to the marriage contract the late Duke Wolfgang settled the entire Jülich-Berg on Katharina Charlotte as her dower and heritage, if the duke died without heirs of his body. So, whether the child lives or dies, Jülich and Berg are not necessarily included in your province. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have a few words with Duchess Hedwig. Christian August, her oldest son, would be next in line for Jülich-Berg if it had not been for that peculiar marriage contract.”

“I think I’ll go with you, Chancellor. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to inquire after Christian August’s health. As you know, he had trouble recovering from the pox that killed his father and brothers. Quite a crush here tonight, don’t you think?” Amalie took the chancellor’s arm and thought quickly. Oxenstierna’s care for the interest of the Swedish royal family was well known, but he would never have spoken for Gustavus Adolphus like that unless he really was certain that this was the Emperor’s decision. Had she just made a major mistake? It was too late to stop the letter.

“Quite so, My Lady. And talking about crushes, there seems to be quite a lot of soldiers gathering west of the proposed borders of Hesse-Kassel, so I’ve sent a message for your husband to remind him not to engage in any combat with the army of Essen presently occupying Düsseldorf. The emperor does not want a battle with Essen.”

“Oh, and does Gustavus Adolphus intend to donate to his good friend De Geer the entire lot of land once belonging to Johann the Insane — or just those areas the Americans tell us potentially forms the most important industrial area of Europe?” Amalie very nearly lost control of her temper to see the chancellor silently laughing at her. With Wolfgang gone — and Brandenburg turned traitor — Jülich, Berg, Cleve, Mark and all the smaller areas should be up for grab. And to be blocked by the emperor, who owned Hesse so much for all those years of faithful support! Making Hesse-Kassel the center of a USE province was not enough, when it included nothing but rural backwaters.

“Good evening, Amalie, Good evening, Chancellor. You look a bit out of temper, my dear.” Hedwig of Holstein-Gottorp leaned forward to brush a kiss on Amalie’s cheek, and just looking into the kind eyes of her old friend made Amalie calm down. Hedwig was a very nice woman, even if they might now be rivals. It should be possible to reach some kind of accommodation with her.

“Good evening, Hedwig. I was just discussing the Jülich-Berg problem with the chancellor.” Amalie smiled. “I think he was needling me a bit. But, where do you stand my dear? Is Christian August well enough to handle that mess Wolfgang left behind?”

“A twelve year old, sickly boy?” Hedwig smiled wryly. “No, thank you. I may not have your interest in politics, Amalie, but I’m not a complete idiot. As soon as we got the information about the demise of both Wolfgang and his heir, I sat down and wrote a statement leaving all claims on behalf of my son to the emperor’s discretion.”

“I see.” Amalie looked up at the chancellor, whose eyes were still laughing in an otherwise completely somber face. “And do Wolfgang’s two other siblings agree with Hedwig, Chancellor?”

“Since Hilpoltstein’s wife, Sofie Agnes, is Hesse’s first cousin, I’m sure you know that she has been unable to carry a child to term. And that the American doctors couldn’t help. Anna Marie von Neuburg is still undecided, but little Elisabeth Sophia is her only living grandchild, so Saxe-Altenburg also plans to follow Hedwig’s example. Apparently some of your peers believe in trusting the emperor to do what is best, for their class as well as for the USE. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.”

This time Amalie let the chancellor escape and sat down silently beside Hedwig, slowly using her fan to cool her face, while automatically nodding and smiling to the people passing by. Damn! It simply hadn’t occurred to her to seek the emperor’s favor by leaving the decision to him. If Gustavus Adolphus was heading towards becoming one of those absolute monarchs that the American books had told about, then the old ways of playing for power simply had to be dumped. Mary Simpson had more than indicated that the time for independent military conquests was over, but this quickly and with no protests? Amalie looked at Hedwig sitting serenely next to her. Jülich and Berg had come to the Neuburg family from Wolfgang’s mother, Anna, who was one of Johann the Insane’s four sisters. With all her other children out of the way there were none who could contest Wolfgang’s marriage contract on the basis of consanguinity, since the nearest male heir after the baby would be Katharina Charlotte’s brother, Count Palatine Friedrich von Zweibrücken.

Hesse’s artillery had been stalled for weeks crossing the mountains south of Ludenscheid, while the Hessian cavalry had wasted their time hunting French cavalry, which had not been attacking Essen, but rather coming rapidly first north and then south near Soest. With the army of Essen now firmly in control of Düsseldorf, this entire month of campaigning had been a total waste, and there didn’t seem to be anything else to do but go back to taking Cologne. Amalie rose from her seat with a brief invitation to Hedwig for a visit the next day, and headed for the door. She had to get another telegram off to Hesse, but first her bladder demanded a visit to a water closet.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 11

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 11

Chapter 4

Düsseldorf, The Castle

June 24, 1634

“My Lady? Pardon me for disturbing your vigil.”

Charlotte turned her head at the voice of General Merode, and rose stiffly from the pad where she had been kneeling. She had gone along with her sister’s suggestion that they would keep the old custom of holding a vigil, praying in the chapel on Saint John’s Night, hoping that the quiet of the night would enable her to put her options in order and make some plans for the future.

“My Lady?” Merode reached out to touch her sleeve. “Are you unwell?”

Charlotte shrugged and tried to smile. She felt dizzy and lightheaded. Holding a vigil while short of sleep and more than seven months pregnant had probably not been very wise. “You bring news, General Merode?” The man looked as worn-out as she felt, but she couldn’t read the emotions in his weathered face.

“Yes, My Lady. And I’m afraid it’s very bad news.” The general bowed. “Your husband and his son were both killed yesterday afternoon, and the troops suffered heavy casualties. The army of Essen may be expected to reach Düsseldorf either today or tomorrow, and I think you had better flee. The battles have been unusually bloody, and unless the Essen command is able to re-establish discipline very quickly, things could get badly out of hand. I’ve got only a few hundred men, but I believe our best option is to head for Jülich.”

“Thank you, general.” Charlotte pulled herself together and ignored the agitated babbling of her sister and the other people around her. “But I would like for you to try organizing some kind of defensive lines stopping Essen from taking more of Berg than the area here around Düsseldorf. The sack of the town should buy you some time, and heaven knows the mountains form their own defenses. I shall travel up the Rhine to Cologne. Archbishop Ferdinand is an old friend of my mother. Stop wailing, Elisabeth, and go pack.”

Cologne, Hatzfeldt house

On the evening of Hermann’s wedding Father Johannes sat sketching lamps for the new library on a piece of scrap-paper when Maxie and Lucie came into the muniment room. He had received an invitation to join the celebrating in the palace, but though the invitation had come from Melchior, and had no other motive than their fast growing friendship, Father Johannes had not wanted to catch the attention of the Archbishop — nor of Felix Gruyard.

“Back so early, ladies?” Father Johannes rose with a slight bow and helped Lucie to her chair.

“We used Lucie’s leg as an excuse, and borrowed Peter von Hardenrat’s carriage,” said Maxie with a frown. “Neither of us liked it there. No one talked about anything but that mess with Essen and Wolfgang of Jülich-Berg except Cousin Ferdinand, who would not talk to me about anything except the food — which he didn’t touch. And everyone who came with him from Bonn drank too much and their smiles never reached their eyes. I wish my brother had come with the archbishop, but Franz Wilhelm remained in Bonn. And immediately after the banquet Ferdinand and some of his friends pulled Melchior aside and withdrew from the hall; such rudeness towards the mayors and the city councilors worries me. Ferdinand is the son of a Duke, he cannot just sit waiting for his land and power to be eroded; it’s totally against his nature and upbringing. But if Melchior is more important than the support of the Council of Cologne…. Damned.” Maxie’s striding up and down the floor came to an abrupt end when her thin embroidered slipper connected hard with a crate.

“Do sit down Maxie,” Lucie tilted her head a bit and looked at her friend. “Melchior will tell us something when he comes back. Like you, I favor negotiations, but I cannot blame Archbishop Ferdinand and Franz for wanting to negotiate from a position of power. We’ve all heard how Schweinsberg’s doing in Fulda after simply going back to his diocese. Franz would hate to be so powerless. He might do it if he thought the people of Würzburg were being badly mistreated, but Father Johannes has made it clear that this is unlikely.”

“Actually, your brother has shown far more interest in the conditions in Fulda than in Würzburg,” said Father Johannes.

“Fulda? Why Fulda? I think my toe is broken.” Maxie winced as she eased off her shoe and moved her foot. “Help me get my stocking off, Father Johannes. I want to take a look.” Maxie leaned back on the big table and pulled up her skirts to show her pink embroidered stocking tied with a matching garter above her knee.

“Maximiliane!”

“Oh, bother Lucie. I cannot bend down in this boned stomacher, and you are in pain already. Besides, if Father Johannes hasn’t untied a lady’s garter before, then it’s high time he did.”

Knowing his face would be beet-red, Father Johannes knelt down in front of Maxie, and was trying to figure out which ribbon to pull when the door to the room opened.

* * *

Melchior walked slowly from the archbishop’s palace back to Hatzfeldt House. There was something seriously wrong. Archbishop Ferdinand was up to something that he wasn’t willing to talk openly about — and he was involving Franz in the intrigue. That would not necessarily have been a problem if Melchior had any confidence in the archbishop’s ability to succeed, but every bit of military experience Melchior had gathered during almost twenty years as a mercenary officer told him not to rely on Archbishop Ferdinand as a leader.

Melchior nodded to the servant by the entrance, and went down the steps to the muniment room where the candles still burned along that passage. He opened the door and stopped in surprise at the sight of Maxie with her skirt drawn up to show her legs leaning against the table with Father Johannes beetroot red in the face kneeling before her — and with Lucie broadly grinning in her chair.

“Oh my God!” After a surprised stop Melchior collapsed in a chair and bend over with laughter.

Father Johannes totally by chance pulled the right end and eased off the stocking by touching only the heel and toes. Then he returned to his chair scowling at the still laughing Melchior — and carefully avoiding the eyes of either lady.

“Will you stop laughing, Melchior. It’s not that funny. And that toe will certainly be blue and black in the morning.” Maxie frowned at her toes before dropping her skirts and sitting down. “I said stop it!”

Melchior dried his eyes, but kept smiling. “I really needed that dear Maxie. It was such an antidote to the poison I’ve inhaled tonight.”

“Glad to be of service,” Father Johannes half snarled, “but could you possibly explain what going on with the archbishop; because the rest of us haven’t got a clue.”

Melchior leaned back in his chair and looked far more somberly at Father Johannes. “No offence intended Father Johannes, but though you are a Catholic priest — a Jesuit of all things — I need to ask if your primary loyalty is to the Catholic Church or to the Americans.”

“The Americans are Catholics,” Father Johannes shrugged, “at least some of them. They have sent a delegation to the Pope to clarify their status within the Church, and I refuse to consider it a problem until and unless it becomes one. Also, I’ve never given any kind of oath to the Americans; they never asked for one or even mentioned the idea. What I give to them I give freely, without pressure or obligation, based only on my own judgement. As for the Church?” Father Johannes sighed. “I broke my vow of obedience towards my superiors at Magdeburg, and I’m totally certain I never did anything more right. Your brother arranged a pardon for this from Archbishop Ferdinand, but no one has asked me to renew my broken oath. And I’d much prefer no one did. I serve God to the best of my abilities, but there are things I’d never again do for the Church: making propaganda for a “holy” war is one, attempting to stop the American ideas from spreading is another. I really do believe they’ll do more good than harm.”

Melchior nodded. “My own oath of loyalty is, of course, to the Emperor I serve, and the most important part of “Holy Roman Empire” is first, last and always: Empire. I was sent here partly to evaluate the military situation in the West, partly for an irrelevant personal reason, and I’m far from certain that the archbishop’s plans are in the Emperor’s best interest. Maxie, are you quite certain your cousin is of a sound mind?”

“Ambitions are encouraged in the ducal family, especially for the boys.” Maxie looked down on her hands, fingers twisting her shining rings. “The only subject where I have known Ferdinand to be lost to reason concerns his older brother Philipp. There was only a year between them, and they were as close as twins, played together, studied together in Ingolstadt, and went to Rome together when Philipp became a bishop at the age of sixteen. Philipp was a Cardinal when he was killed by a fall from a horse only six years later. That was more than thirty years ago, but Ferdinand still wants to become a Cardinal like Philipp. He really has neither Philipp’s brilliant flair for theology nor his genuine interest in spiritual matters and charity. So for thirty years Ferdinand has slowly been building a power base.” She looked up at Melchior and Father Johannes. “You should understand, that for Ferdinand it is not the land, the people, the wealth or the fame, it is influence in clerical circles that has his main interest. This is illogical as he doesn’t really want to be a Cardinal for any purpose; it’s just a goal. But watching that power base erode, seeing that dream fade, feeling he failed his dead brother … Despite his long experience and political acumen, he could be making decisions based on other than logic.”

“Sorry, Maxie, but I do not think logic or reason has any part in his decisions anymore.” Melchior started twining his goatee between his fingers, a sure sign he was thinking hard. “Father Johannes, how would you estimate the chances of winning against the USE here in the West — providing the Americans remain in alliance with the Swedes?”

Father Johannes sat up, suddenly very alert. Was there a danger to that alliance? “Winning by military means? None, unless the Catholic countries suddenly started working together and didn’t count the cost. The present engagement could barely stop the Swedes and their German allies, and the addition of the Americans has made the Protestant army much more efficient. The Americans are very good at fighting, but their real value is their handling of resources, which they call the Sinews of War. Oh, winning a few battles against them would be entirely possible, perhaps even regaining a major part of Bishop’s Alley while they were occupied elsewhere. But sooner or later, they’d turn this way to push back. And then they’d just keep pushing until they reached the sea. Something like the entire French and Spanish armies might get them to accept a border not drawn by American conquests, but I wouldn’t count on it. The concept of accepting defeat gracefully appears to be incomprehensibly to them.”