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1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 05

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 05

Chapter 3

          Gotthilf Hoch, detective sergeant in the Magdeburg Polizei, walked out the front door of his family’s home in the Altstadt, the oldest part of Magdeburg. The early morning air was cold, even for December. He remembered hearing that the up-timers from Grantville sometimes said this was the “Little Ice Age.” On days like today, when his breath fogged in front of him and the hairs in his nose tingled when he breathed in, he could believe it. The old pagan stories about Fimbulwinter were easy to accept right now.

         He pulled his hat down over his ears and pushed his gloved hands into his coat pockets, then started off down the street. Just his luck, when he wanted a cab, there wasn’t one to be seen.

When he reached the Gustavstrasse, he turned right and headed for Hans Richter square, where he turned right again and headed for the nearest bridge across Der Grosse Graben, the moat that encircled the Altstadt, which was usually called The Big Ditch. He passed through the gate in the rebuilt city wall, which triggered his usual musing about the fact that the walls had been rebuilt. He’d never seen much sense in all that time and effort being spent on that task, but the city council of Old Magdeburg had insisted on it, saying that the contracts they had signed years ago to allow people to seek protection in times of war and siege required it. From what Gotthilf could see, all it did was emphasize a boundary between the old city and the new. Which, come to think of it, may have been what the city council was intending all along.

Gotthilf looked over the railing of the bridge at the water moving sluggishly through the moat. Dark water; it looked very cold. He shivered and moved on, feet crunching in the gravel after he stepped off the bridge.

Only the busiest streets in the exurb of Greater Magdeburg were graveled. Most of them were bare dirt. One thing that Gotthilf did appreciate from the cold was that the ground was frozen most of the time, reducing mud to solid. He still had to watch his step, because an ankle turned in a frozen rut could hurt like crazy, but at least he didn’t have to scrape the muck and mire off his boots like he did in the spring and fall.

There were more people on the streets now, as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky behind him. The bakers had been up for hours, of course, and he swung by one to grab a fresh roll for breakfast, since he hadn’t felt up to facing his mother across a table that morning. He munched on that as he walked, watching everyone walking by.

Construction workers of every stripe were moving briskly about; carpenters, masons, and general laborers were in demand for the new hospital expansion, as well as several other projects in the city, not to mention the navy yard. Several women were out selling broadsheets and newspapers, including the shrill-voiced hawk-faced young woman who handed out Committee of Correspondence broadsheets in that part of town.

But still no cabs. He shook his head. Never a cab when you wanted one.

A hand landed on Gotthilf’s shoulder, startling him. He looked up to see his partner, Byron Chieske, settling into place alongside him.

Gotthilf had to look up at Byron. In truth, he had to look up at most adults. He wasn’t very tall; not that he was a dwarf, or anything like that. Nor was he thin or spindly. He was a solid chunk of young man; he just wasn’t very tall.

Byron, on the other hand, was tall, even for an up-timer. He stood a bit over six feet, was well-muscled, and had large square hands. His clean-shaven face was a bit craggy in feature, but not of a nature that would be called ugly.

“Yo, Gotthilf,” Byron said. “Ready for the meeting with the captain this morning?” The captain would be Bill Reilly, another up-timer. Byron was a lieutenant. The two of them had been seconded in early 1635 to the Magdeburg city watch to lead in transforming that organization from what amounted to a group of gossips, busybodies, and occasional bullies to an actual police force on the model of an up-time city police group. They had both been involved in police and security work up-time; they both had at least some education and training in the work; and they had both been in an MP detachment from the State of Thuringia-Franconia army that was stationed in Magdeburg at the time, so they had been available.

“As ready as I’m going to be,” Gotthilf muttered, “considering we have nothing of worth to report.”

“Yeah, Bill may chew on us a bit,” Byron conceded as they walked down the street toward the station building. “But he knows we can’t make bricks without straw. No information, no leads, no results.”

Gotthilf snorted. Byron looked at him with his trademark raised eyebrow, and the down-timer snorted again, before saying, “You know, for someone who professes to not darken the door of a church, you certainly know your way around Biblical allusions.”

Byron chuckled. “Oh, I spent a lot of my childhood in Sunday School, Gotthilf. I may have drifted away from it some as an adult, but a lot of it stuck.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and grinned down at his partner.

Gotthilf grinned back at Byron, who seemed to be in a garrulous mood this morning — by the up-timer’s standards, anyway. Byron was ordinarily one who wouldn’t say two words where one would do, and wouldn’t say one where a gesture or facial expression would serve instead. So to get five sentences out of him in as many minutes bordered on being voluble.

As they stepped on down the street, Gotthilf’s mind recalled their first meeting, ten months ago. He had trouble now even remembering why he had joined the watch; something to do with wanting to do something to prove to his father he was more than just a routine clerk, if he recalled rightly. He had been smarting from another comparison to his brother Nikolaus, studying law at Jena. Not that his father was impressed with the city watch, either, as it turned out.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 36

This book should be available now so this is the last snippet.

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 36

One bodyguard moved to the window, obliquely. The other came closer to the desk, hand on his sword. “Cavalry,” said the window-peerer with some satisfaction. “The Ilkhan’s troops, by the looks of it.”

Technically, Trebizond was an independent state. But they paid tribute to the Ilkhan. It looked like the illusion of independence might be being suspended. Right now that seemed like a good idea, if it got rid of the Baitini.

But it was still not a good idea to go to his window to look, because a watcher could, all to easily, take that opportunity to shoot him. Was a prisoner less free because the guards were changed?

At least the prisoner might get more reliable meals. Privileges perhaps. And would not have to fear the guards would be suborned.

 

Constantinople

 

Since her worshipper had left the city that now stood at the tear the Earth-Shaker had made in her gates, Hekate had walked there with her dogs more often than just at full moon. More than merely walking, she paid attention to the city around her, to the people, to their doings, even though they seemed at times incomprehensible. She was a goddess, she had no limitations except those she chose to impose on herself. Eventually, she would comprehend.

She also began to roam across the fringes of the lands of her people, the parts that had survived the deluge, the ones that still might contain some of the bloodlines of those that had sought shelter there. The world had changed a great deal, but some things not at all. Robbers and murderers still watched the crossroads. She’d been aware of Antimo’s libation, and watched and given him guidance. She had welcomed the fact that his action had caused another to copy him, and had graciously allowed the second man to share in her protection. Already…she felt just a little stronger.

And then one night, to her surprise, found she had another human pouring a stoup of wine out at the cross-roads, asking for her guidance. She heard his desperate question clearly, as she turned her feet towards him. In the way of a goddess, she was beside him before he had completed it.

“Do I go on to my mother or back to Eleni?”

She recognized him. It was the young farmer who had been on his way to market on the same road as Antimo, the one she had extended her hand to because he had copied Antimo. Thrace had once been hers, and although he spoke Greek, well, worship was worship. And this was clearly worship; he understood what he was doing.

“Eleni is your wife?” she asked, from out of the shadows.

He started. “I didn’t see you there, Kyria. Yes, my wife. Our baby is near. I…I just wondered whether to go home or go on to my mother. Either way, I will make one of them unhappy, and this is not a time to make either unhappy.”

“Go this way,” she said, pointing. She walked with him a little way too, with her dogs. He too could see her. That was interesting. He had deliberately invoked her. That was even more interesting.

She inspected his thoughts, gravely. His mind was troubled not so much with the path to choose, but with one of her other aspects, that of birthing. So much so that he confided in a total stranger, chance met, or so he thought, at a crossroads. “Eleni and my mother…they don’t see eye-to-eye. And she lost her own mother when she was young. So I can’t turn to her mother. But we’re far out. Old Zathos farmed the land next to us, but he died last year and his boys have yet to come back from the sea. Before her time comes I must get her closer to the midwife in Thasaski. If she would stay with my mother…”

He was troubled by a problem that he could see no answer to. “But she will not. There is only my cousin. And how do I know when to take her to Thasaski? If she stays in the house of my cousin, there will be no space for me. And the animals on the farm?” He spoke of the small concerns of peasant farmer. Who would milk the goats? See to the hens?”

Hekate had not been the goddess of warriors and great kings. She’d been the confidant of just these sorts of people. Small farmers, hunters, herdsmen. She’d been the goddess of their concerns; no one had ever called on her for victory in war, but rather, for victory over a threatened harvest. It was something of a shock to find the same kinds of people were still here, even if the gate had failed and flooded the lowlands that had been the center of her worship. Yet here they still were, though the people of the city seemed opaque to her, and so much else had changed.

She bent her mind to his problems. The peasant’s wife’s time was not supposedly that near, but Hekate had her ways of seeing, and…

It was a good thing he had invoked her.

She went with him to the cottage. It was a humble little place with the mountain behind it, and the stream close by for water, laughing across the rocks. Nature had put a hard sill of rock there, so a little rich pocket of good earth was retained, while most of the mountainside was stony and not productive. It was a beautiful spot, if lonely. They ran the last part of the journey to the cottage, because they could hear in the distance that his wife was calling, desperately.

They arrived to find a very young woman on the verge of tears. Her waters had broken, and having been too proud and in too much conflict with her mother-in-law to ask for help before, now she wanted, with a terrible desperation, to go to the village, to the midwife. She was too inexperienced to know it was far too late for such a journey. But she was also afraid, too afraid to want to know or to care just what her husband had been doing on the mountainside with a tall woman with two red-eared dogs.

Hekate looked at her with her wise, old eyes. Read the signs as others might a book, for this too had been a part of her purview, in the days before the gate broke and the waters came. “It is too late for the village. The babe is on his way.” She gestured imperiously towards the hut. “Come.”

The wife looked at her with relief and disbelief. “You…you are midwife? Spiro brought home a midwife? He is…”

A pain silenced her and she gasped instead of speaking.

Hekate had been an actual midwife too, as well as the goddess of childbirth, and it as just as well that she was here and had experience to draw on, and her magics too. The baby was coming early. It was a first child, and it was not going to be an easy birth. In fact, without She who opens, it would have also been a last birth, with mother and babe going to Aidoneus’s shadowy land.

But that would not happen today. All because a young farmer had poured a libation.

“Be calm,” she said. “Now come inside.”

The woman grasped her belly in both hands and stooped to enter the house, obedient, and glad to be so.

Hekate pointed at the peasant. “Go and bring me yarrow, and the root of the valerian plant. Be off with you.” She needed neither herb, but she wanted to examine the mother properly, and the spells she needed were not aided by male presence.

It was apparent that both of them needed to be told what to do. “I…I am not very good with herbs,” he said, wringing his hands. “Eleni does that kind of thing.”

Hekate shook her head. What was the world coming to? “You must learn better in the future. Who will gather herbs for healing if your Eleni is herself ill? But do not fear.”

She called one of the dogs. “Here, Ravener. Take him and show him,” Hekate said to the dog. She turned back to the farmer. “He will point with his nose. You will gather the whole plant, root and all, that he points to, I will separate what I need. Now go.” She turned back to the dog. “And bring me some Lad’s Love too. There are fleas.”

So he went, following the dog, and left Hekate to her delicate task.

*   *   *

When he came back she set him to boiling water to make an infusion of the yarrow, and to chopping up the Lad’s Love and scattering it on the floor. He needed to be kept busy and out of the way. It was always thus with young fathers; older ones, seasoned ones, might actually be useful, but young ones? Good only for fretting if you did not keep them busy.

Hekate worked her magic loosening cartilage, and easing muscle, dilating, and helping the young woman to breathe and to push. Still, this was going to be hard. Hekate knew she was going to be here well into the night.

In the midnight hour the child was born. And with that first cry Hekate bound herself again to the mortals she had left behind.

It hurt of course, bringing back memories of her own children, prisoner of her faithless lover. But that was hardly this grateful peasant girl’s fault, as she stared lovingly at the babe being put to her breast.

So, there it was. She had a people again. And two — maybe three — worshippers. There might be more. She had taken up her ancient responsibilities. And though it hurt…perhaps it was a hurt like birthing, that would bring something good into the world.

But there were practical things to deal with now. Hekate had already taken steps to deal with the bleeding and possible infection, and the baby’s first attempts at suckling would help. Once the placenta was out, the babe was warm and asleep, and the exhausted young mother close to joining her in sleep, Hekate’s work was done.

She called the husband, who was pacing outside, watched by the dogs. “Now, your question is answered; now you can go back to where we met, and choose the other path, and go to your mother. Tell her she has a grandson. He is well and strong and has fine lungs. Tell her to come at once, and that your wife called for her. I think that will do much to reconcile the two of them. Your mother needs grandchildren, and your wife needs help.”

He bowed respectfully. “Yes Kyria.” He paused a moment. “Kyria…who are you?”

“I am Hekate, She of the Cross-roads and Gateways. Childbirth, the Hunt, and the Darkness were mine once.” She swept the night’s darkness around her and left by the third way, as the astonished young farmer scrambled for a drop of wine to pour when he reached that crossroads again.

The dogs seemed happier, somehow.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 27

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 27

Thinking of Old Joe made her stand straighter.  Yes, old Joe was probably nuts in many ways.  But then, from things he’d said about being alive before the domestication of horses… she was fairly sure that no human brain — no shifter brain either — was designed to store that much information.  Though he wasn’t addled as such.  It was more that he’d decided that following human rules, or shifter rules, or any rules at all was no longer in his interest.

In his human form, he lived the life of a vagrant, hitting all the soup kitchens and the clothing giveaways in the city — and the diner too, half the time — and sleeping in parks and under underpasses.  In alligator form… well…  He roamed all over town, and seemed to enjoy himself immensely, judging from reports of people finding an alligator in all sorts of unusual places, including but not limited to the archeological dig at the edge of town, which he haunted for reasons that he’d never been willing to explain to Kyrie.  Probably like old people hanging out at the cemetery, Kyrie thought.  They’re digging up dinosaur bones, after all.  He’s probably looking up old friends.  The idea was very silly.  Old Joe had never given any indication of being on Earth before human occupation, and that might not have been possible anyway.

But one thing was sure.  Old Joe was one of the older shifters still alive, and if something weird was happening with Tom and the dragons, he would probably be able to explain it to her.  Supposing she could get him to tune in to the present and pay attention to her for a change.

His memory might or might not be erratic, but Old Joe often gave the impression that his perception — the part of him that was aware of his surroundings — wandered through the millennia in which he’d been alive.  His responses were random and nonsensical most of the time.

Unless Tom was around, of course.  For reasons not immediately clear — unless it was gratitude to Tom for looking after him — Old Joe seemed very fond of Tom, or perhaps amused by him.

Kyrie finished her notes on the accounting for the night, and caught Jason’s eye, right after he set down a load of dirty dishes.  There was only one table occupied in the diner right now, though there would be the usual burst of activity at about half past midnight, as people came in from late movies and late art-shows, or just having finished a study session.  But Jason had been tried by fire in one of the most demanding nights the diner had ever seen.  “Jason, do you think you could hold down the fort for an hour or so?” she asked.

“Uh.”  He looked behind the counter dubiously.  “I don’t know how to operate anything.  I suppose I could manage the dishwasher and the grill, but…”

“Well, that’s fine.  Just tell them we’re out of fries.  It’s actually true, I think we went through all the potatoes, certainly all the pealed ones we had reserved.  It will be an hour or little more.”

Rya cleared her throat.  “Are you going to… find out where the guys went?”

“Sort of.  I’m trying to figure out what made them go.  What… this is all about.”

“Um,” Rya said.  “Sometimes I help out.  When Conan works on Saturday afternoons.  I think I can manage the grill and stuff, if Jason will do the serving, and I will do some potato peeling too.”

“The fryer?  You can manage the fryer?”

Rya looked up at the sky.  “I’ve given a hand now and then when… you know… dragon business.”

“Don’t tell Tom.  Whatever happens, don’t tell Tom,” Kyrie said.  “He’d go insane thinking of the insurance costs.  But,” she said, more calmly, as she took off her apron and passed it to Rya.  “If you can man … er… woman the cooking now, we won’t say anything more about it.  I’ll go and see an alligator about some dragons.”

* * *

Tom looked at the dragons standing at the back, and though he didn’t say anything, and though none of the other dragons moved, he had the sense that every one there was aware of the dragons there, at the back, and of their standing in… defiance? Challenge? Of him.

He looked at them a long time, while the back of his mind ruffled through files.  He had an impression he should know their names, should know who they were and what they wanted.  “Li Liu,” he said at last as the names came to him, as well as the explanation that these two were brothers.  “And Sun Liu.  Do you believe you’re bigger than the Great Sky Dragon?”

“We are collaterals of the Great Sky Dragon,” the taller of the two dragons said, hissing his language like a pro.  “We are the many-time sons of the Great Sky Dragon’s brother, and we say our claim is greater than ours.”

Tom hesitated.  Of course, rationally, he wanted to say “Fine, you be the Great Sky Bastard, then.”  But he suspected that like most things involving the triad this was not a gentleman’s dispute, involving his stepping down and their receiving the honor.  In fact, he wondered if they could receive the honor at all, even were he dead.  He didn’t think so.  He remembered the Great Sky Dragon’s gambit with Bea, and he very much doubted so.  There was something else going on here that he could not fully comprehend.

He felt, as if a touch in his mind, from Conan.  It was both friendly and diffident, not so much an intrusion in his mind, as there had been when The Great Sky Dragon had sent him warnings before, but rather an hesitant touch, as though of a friend knocking at a room’s door.  He received the touch with relief, and Conan’s voice said in his mind, weirdly still in his Southern drawl, “I don’t think they understand how it works.  I mean, no one does.  Everyone thinks it’s being the son’s son of the Great Sky Dragon, but I think… it’s more than that.”

Tom gave him a mental indication that it was indeed more than that.  But meanwhile, he suspected the blue gentlemen dragons would not be fobbed off with that.  He tried to reach into their minds, but he could not.  Wasn’t the Great Sky Dragon supposed to be able to reach into the mind of every member of the triad?

“See, you are not him,” Sun Liu said.  “We can keep you out.”

A pull through Tom’s mental files brought up the idea that the Pearl of Heaven, which Tom had had in his possession far too briefly, would solve that, but the process seemed complicated, and Tom wasn’t at all sure he understood it.  What he was sure of was that this was not the time for a philosophical discussion.

He sighed.  The file also informed him the only way to solve this was to kill his challengers and gave him, in knowledge under-his-skin the sense of how to do it, as though he’d grown up in the culture and fought a hundred such battles, which the Liu brothers very well might have..  He didn’t want to kill anyone.  Then a thought intruded.  Fortunately, in the dragon world, death could be painful and, in fact, horrible, but it need not be permanent.

Tom reared on his hind dragon legs, and flapped his wings to the sky.  “We fly,” he said.  “We fly.”

* * *

Old Joe wasn’t by the dumpster, and Kyrie walked some way down the alley, whistling his peculiar whistle, which had become Tom’s way of calling him.

She was about to give up, when something moved inside the ruin of the burned out, water-soaked bed and breakfast across the parking lot from the diner.  At first she thought it was a cat or a dog.  That part of the ruin, where the tower collapsed, was open to the world, but when she blinked, she realized it was an old man, white haired, soot-smeared, coming towards her, with a smile that exposed broken and missing teeth.

She recognized Old Joe at the same time she realized he was wearing a trench coat and barefoot.  That he looked like he’d been sleeping in a coal pile was something else.

His smile enlarged, and he squeezed his eyes in amusement.  “I was looking for clothes,” he said.  “So I could come into the diner.  I thought there might be some clothes in there, no?  And there was.” He gestured, proudly, towards his trench coat.

It was something Kyrie appreciated in Tom that he could have heard a declaration like this and smiled and said, “How nice.”  But Kyrie was not Tom and their minds didn’t work in the same way. Throughout her upbringing, she’d often found herself being the oldest foster child in seriously inadequate households, and having to look after all the young ones, as a means of keeping them from being neglected.  This had bred a personality into her that was somewhere between mommy and educator.  The mommy was willing to concede that Old Joe putting on … anything before sauntering into the diner was an improvement.  It wouldn’t be the first time he crouched outside the side windows, popping up now and then like an insane Jack O’lantern, his hair all on end, and his wrinkled, naked body flashing up and down, trying to catch Tom’s eye, so Tom would bring him clothes or food.  The educator on the other hand felt forced to say, “Well, yes, but it’s filthy.  Come into the back, I’ll get you clothes, and you can wash and put them on.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 04

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 04

Schultze nodded. “Your judgment, Otto, is much the same as Fürst Ludwig’s. And his situation as administrator of the property formerly owned by the Archbishopric of Magdeburg is a bit complicated. On the one hand,” Schultze held out his left hand, “his authority comes from Gustav Adolph; he gave an oath to the king of Sweden before he became emperor, and therefore he might be considered to be under the chancellor’s authority as he acts as regent for Princess Kristina during her father’s incapacitation. On the other hand,” he held out his right hand, “he detests Oxenstierna, so he would dearly love to tell him to, ah, ‘take a flying leap’, as one of the Grantvillers described it. Even for a Swede, the chancellor is overbearingly arrogant. On yet another hand . . .” Otto smiled as he saw his stepfather struggle for a moment over which hand to hold up again, only to drop them both back into his lap, “Wilhelm Wettin, the prime minister, is his nephew. And although he loves his nephew and would ordinarily support him just on that cause, he is very much concerned that Wettin has made some ill-advised decisions in recent months. So he has a great desire to be very cautious as to what he does.”

          “I can see that,” murmured Otto, who nonetheless wished that the Fürst would be more direct. And his earlier feeling was proven correct — this was going to be a headache day. He propped his head on his hands, massaging his temples.

“So, he is delaying responding to demands from the chancellor and his nephew, while he sent me hurrying from Halle to meet with you here. I had planned to ask Otto to bring you here, Jacob,” Schultze focused his gaze on Alemann, “so the coincidence of finding you here at the moment simply speeds my errand. Jacob, I need you to reconvene the Schöffenstuhl.”

Otto burst out laughing as his father-in-law’s jaw dropped. A moment later a long finger was pointed in Otto’s direction.

“You put him up to this, didn’t you? Confess it!”

Still laughing, Otto raised both hands to the level of his shoulders. He finally choked back the hilarity enough to speak.

“Before the throne of heaven and all its angels, Jacob, I did no such thing. I had no idea that Papa Christoff would even be here today.”

He turned to his confused step-father.

“You see, I just told Jacob I need him to bring the Schöffenstuhl back into being in the service of the city of Magdeburg.”

Both of them started chuckling as Alemann directed a dark look first at one of them, then the other.

“Oh, leave off, Jacob,” Schultze finally said, waving his empty hand in the air. “There is no collusion here.”

“Well enough,” Alemann said, shifting his foot on its stool. “And if that be so, then what brings you here seeking the Schöffenstuhl?”

“What the Fürst would ask of the Schöffenstuhl is an opinion, a judgment, as to whether under USE law, custom, and practice, the chancellor of Sweden can serve as regent for Gustav’s heir for the USE in the absence of a specific appointment by Gustav.”

For the second time in less than an hour, Otto saw his father-in-law taken aback. He could see the objection in Alemann’s eyes, and spoke up before the older man could.

“Authority,” Otto said. The eyes of both the other men shifted to him. “As we discussed, Jacob; you already possess the moral authority, and I will give you the legal standing and authority.”

He could see the words really sink in this time. Alemann responded with a slow nod.

“Such a judgment could have great effect, you know,” Schultze observed in a quiet tone.

“And what if we were to rule in favor of the chancellor?” Alemann asked, no, demanded.

Schultze shrugged. “Ludwig is willing to take that chance. And in truth, if you ruled that way, it would allow him to support family, which for a man of his lineage is always an important consideration.” He paused for a moment. “But I do not think that is the ruling he truly wants. As much as he finds many of the recent changes distasteful, Ludwig is fearful of what will result from Oxenstierna’s machinations.”

“And why do you not send this request to the Reichskammergericht, or rather, the USE Supreme Court as it is called now?”

“Time, Jacob,” Schultze responded. “We need an opinion soon, and if we send our request to Wetzlar, who knows how long it will take those ‘learned men’ to respond?” It was evident from the sarcasm in his voice that he did not have a high opinion of the Supreme Court.

Otto thought about the matter for a moment, then looked to his father-in-law. “Jacob, do it. You know you want to.”

Alemann snorted, then turned to Schultze. “Have it your way, Christoff. Let Fürst Ludwig have the petition and brief drawn up and sent to us. I will convene my fellows, and we will deliberate; perhaps even consult with someone like Master Thomas Price Riddle from Grantville, or Doctor Grotius at Jena. I will even endeavor to conduct the deliberations at a pace somewhat faster than deliberate.” He smiled at the joke.

“And you, Otto,” Alemann looked back to his son-in-law, “if you would have us do this, then find us space. The rebuilt Rathaus in Old Magdeburg will not contain us. And it is most likely that those members serving on this year’s council will not allow us to use it anyway, once they hear of what we are doing, Brandenburg sympathizers that they mostly are.”

There was a tinge of distaste in the way he said “Old Magdeburg.” The term was commonly used to refer to the half-a-square-mile within the fortifications that was the original city. Despite its near-total destruction in the course of the sack of Magdeburg by Tilly’s army, the still-official status of Old Magdeburg enabled its authorities to maintain a legal façade for their behavior. Obstreperous behavior, so far as both Alemann and Otto were concerned.

Schultze pulled a folded document from an inside pocket of his coat. Otto began chuckling as the document was unfolded and seals dangled from the bottom of it. “Here,” Schultze said, “one petition and attached brief, duly executed and sealed by the petitioner.”

“The Fürst anticipated me, I see,” Alemann said with a wry grin.

All three men sobered quickly. “Yes, he did,” Schultze replied. “And his last words to me were ‘Tell them to hurry. The time when I will need this is fast approaching.’ Ludwig is not one to jump at shadows, you know. If he feels fear, then should we all.”

With that thought Otto had to agree.

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 35

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 35

 

Chapter 23

Baghdad

 

In his magnificent palace in the great city of Baghdad the Ilkhan, Hotai the Ineffable, glowered at his grand vizier and the four assembled generals. He had moved far from his Mongol origins in dress and indeed in habit, but not in traditional diet. And he ate as if he spent the same number of hours in the saddle or at war as his distant cousins. Sheep-meat and good wine, if not qumiss, had not been kind to him. It had made him rotund and lazy, he admitted to himself. But he was not a fool, and he managed his empire, and his large court, and even his harem, well.

Running the empire had kept him here…sedentary, being an administrator. But that was why he had generals running each of the fronts of the empire, unlike his father who had liked campaigning himself and lived to eighty doing so, forever crisscrossing the empire and dragging his court around.

However, the news that brought his generals and his vizier before him was nasty hearing, and made the old warrior blood in him rise and demand that something sharp and pointed be brought to bear on the problem. “What do you mean, they are everywhere? These Baitini are not spirits! We know where they come from! Take punitive steps. Alamut must be destroyed. Bring its master to Baghdad in chains.”

“I was alerted to just what the problem was by the Old Man of the mountain, in Alamut,” said the grand vizier, with a conciliatory wave of his hand. “This time, it is not the Old Man’s doing. It appears that the group no longer takes orders from there, and destroying Alamut would be counter-productive.” He coughed. “They have actually always part of the local governance. They made reliable…agents… and once we bought them, they were relentless. It was the way they worked, and they’re good for solving…problems. In fact, we have used them a great deal, Your Ineffability. Only, now they have turned against us — or some of them have, at any rate. We, um, had no idea of their numbers or how high they had risen in certain administrations. We have identified some of them, of course, but we don’t know who all of them are. But there are several satrapies which are effectively being made ungovernable by their actions. And what worries me is that I don’t know why, or what they plan.”

“We need to make an example,” said General Quasji, of the northern march. “I propose that we sack their principal cities.”

The Ilkhan eyed him unfavorably. Normally such interviews were conducted with the entire court. The grand vizier had not called for this meeting to be private for no reason. Plainly he had chosen these men for loyalty and to ensure secrecy in this council. But this fool general was playing as if to the gallery. Playing for future power. “They are our principal cities, Quasji. Our sources of taxation and income. Why would we sack our own cities and destroy the livelihoods of our own subjects?”

“Besides, they seek to make a religious schism in our troops,” said General Harob. “We have no small number who have gone over to being followers of the Prophet Mohammed. While the great majority of the Moslems in our domains do not share the sect…they have put it about that we are the enemy of Islam.”

General Harob was in control of the campaign in Cicilia. Hotai knew him to be a devout Nestorian. It was why he’d been put in Cicilia, to keep the war there from being perceived as a religious one, to draw in allies against the Mongol from the Christian lands to the west. The Ilkhan played a slow game in Asia Minor, gradually nibbling away at the kingdoms there. Actually Hotai had no vast appetite for conquest. But it was a Mongol tradition and it kept the army in a state of readiness. “If we were to persecute our own people in the hopes of destroying these Bataini, we would appear to actually be the enemy of Islam.”

“I think a show of real force might be in order,” said General Malkis. The elderly campaigner was effectively retired from the campaigns in Hind, but still wielded a great deal of influence. He had been a loyal friend of Hotai’s father, and it had been his support that had made it clear that there was to be no dynastic squabble when Hotai had become the Great Khan.

“That must be done,” said the Ilkhan, “Assuredly. But what? Throwing ourselves against our own people is like skinning the sheep to get the wool. True, you have wool and meat and skin, but only once. Then it is gone forever.”

“But we do not wish to show any sign of weakness to our foes. We’ll have invasions and insurrections,” said the grand vizier. “There is unrest in many quarters already.”

Hotai knew this was all leading somewhere, and not towards his dinner “What do you propose then?”

“A royal procession, Great Khan. With attendant troop maneuvers and parades and displays of force. And a few salutatory lessons, perhaps. Especially if we can capture some of these Baitini. We might bring back the polo game using the heads of the condemned, perhaps.” The vizier pulled at his lip. “The general populace would enjoy that. They fear the Baitini, I am told.”

Unlike his father, Hotai had not left Baghdad since being raised to being Ilkhan to the Southern Horde. He blinked. He had traveled as a young prince, of course. Just to move the whole court was…

Actually, a pleasant idea. It would do some of them a great deal of good to have something other than debauchery and intrigue to deal with. They’d like it less than he did. “Plan to make it so, Grand Vizier Orason. And I think we need a few visitations of troops to areas which have had particular problems. Just their being there will be a reminder for them. So: where shall we go first?”

“West or north, Great Khan. There are more problems there. The Arab tribes are restive, but we have more troops there anyway. And they have little more than sand, goats and banditry to the southwest.”

Hotai smiled and made up his mind. “We will proceed first to Mosul. And have proclamations read in the cities of Aleppo, Tabriz and Damascus, so that they are to prepare. We will visit them as well.”

“But…they are, well, in opposite directions, Great Khan,” said the grand vizier, plainly wrestling with the idea of explaining geography to his overlord.

He nodded. This was part of his plan. Altogether, he was cautiously pleased with it. “Precisely. We will not say when we will visit them.” They would be in a froth, a frenzy of preparation and worry. They would also have great motivation to root out these Bataini themselves, to have prisoners to present to their Khan.

That drew a smile and an acquiescent nod. “It shall be done, Great Khan. There is also the matter of requests from several of our subordinate states. It is an opportunity to draw them more under our control. They’re asking for help.”

He made a gesture of agreement. “It will of course be our gracious pleasure to render it. And now you are dismissed from my presence, except for you, General Malkis, and you, Orason.”

When they had paid their respects and left, and the tongueless guards were back at their stations at the great closed doors, the Ilkhan cleared his throat. “And now. We need to discuss how we rid ourselves of this canker within.”

The grand vizier scowled. “I have been compiling lists, Great Khan. The problem is, well, they are well suited to spying and gathering information. It is difficult to know who to trust. Several of them are in high positions. And they have been loyal to the Ilkhanate for a century. We thought them loyal, at least. But it appears that they have been like maggots beneath the skin of a sound-seeming apple. It is only their numbers that hold them in check at all.”

“Not so in the tumens,” said General Malkis. “We are Mongol.”

The Ilkhan knew that this was not really so. In theory, the military were Mongol. Of course in practice this had not been so for many years. The noble Mongol were still largely of Mongol blood, but intermarriage, especially with the Turkic tribes whose the way of life was similar, was normal. And of course skilled military engineers had always been welcome in the army of the Khans. They had received many honors and become part of the nation.

The general correctly interpreted the look his overlord gave him. He had known his father well, and Hotai had been told he shared many mannerisms with the late Great Khan. His father had mostly been a distant man, often away and at war, so Hotai really could not say. “They are Mongol in loyalty at least. Your great-uncle the Ilkhan Hulagu decided the ‘shmaeli made poor soldiery. He disliked and distrusted them and put measures in place against them.”

Hotai’s great-uncle had been an erratic and occasionally brutal ruler. But his legacy had been a secure empire, and, it would seem, had kept the enemy within out of the military.

“There will be a few. They’re allowed to lie to unbelievers in the name of their religion. Still, it is a strength. But it will draw the army away from its usual work.”

“What effect will this have on our campaigns?”

The old warhorse shrugged. “Great Khan, we fight many small wars all the time. I think our enemies scattered, and unlikely to ally…but they will push back in places. Or find relief and regroup. Cicilica is one such front. Hind another.”

The Great Khan considered his options. “Plan for the worst,” he decreed. “But let us act as if we had no such plans at all. We, too, may lie.”

 

Trebizond

 

Michael Magheretti, the Podesta of the Venetian community of Trebizond, had moved his life into a well-practiced non-routine since the fleet had left. Tasks had to be done, and work dealt with…but according to no pre-ordained pattern. Trebizond was still in the grip of mayhem and fear. The sultan himself had survived an attempt on his life. Michael…three.

The city had degenerated into a series of cantons, with barricades and armed men with cross-bows at the windows, watching them. Still, somehow, life went on even with the honest — or at least, the more-or-less honest and honorable — confined to their houses and their work places constantly under guard, de facto prisoners, while the murderers and thugs roamed free. The wrong people behind bars…

One got used to it, thought Michael glumly. And the Venetians had at least been able to draw together. It had not been good for their cohesion with the local Greek-speaking inhabitants, and even less so for the newer settlers from the hinterland. Once this had been one of the melting pots of East and West. Now they were separating out, with agony for many of the mixed families.

He settled himself at his somewhat dimly lit desk — away from the barred window — where his eyes would struggle but at least he would not be visible. He looked at the pile of paper. At one of his bodyguards picking his teeth with his dagger. “What is that noise?”

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 34

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 34

 

“They’ll change their minds about that. After you have done, come back. I’ll have had time to interpret this, and to look at the maps.”

“He is an exceptional map-maker,” said Benito, mildly envious.

The Old Fox nodded. “And an exemplary agent. He seldom fails. But he could not find you for some time.”

“That may have been more luck than judgment,” said Benito.

“Or divine intervention,” said the Old Fox, smiling wryly.

*  *  *

Benito and the fleet were able to sail, much to the shock and surprise both of the people of Corfu, and the ship-crews, two days later, to meet the fleet of Genoa and a token five ships from Aragon, sailing for Corfu.

He had had news from the tritons of a huge storm.

 

Venice

 

The addition into his household of a lively inquisitive toddler, was a not-unmixed joy, Marco found. It was true, that she had an infectious laugh and craved being cuddled, it was true she was not what you would call anything like “naughty.” She was tender-hearted to a fault, and had cried so much over a dead bird found on the balcony that they now let her feed the birds from there. Her giggles rang through the halls, and made even the grimmest servant smile.

As for Kat, well, Kat adored the child. And at first it had been hard to get her to part from the little girl. But now that she had settled in, well, her presence was also not an unmixed blessing. ‘Lessi liked being with him most, Kat second most, and if possible, both of them. She was often found glued to their sides. Yet she was perfectly capable of vanishing the minute he turned his head.

And she was into everything. “Like a monkey,” one of the servants had sighed, and Marco was inclined to agree. She could not see a drawer or a cupboard without wanting to open it, and if possible, play with what was inside. How she managed to do that, as little as she was — at least once, he’d found that she had patiently pulled out all the (now emptied) drawers beneath the one that was out of reach, and used them as a sort of staircase to get to the one they had fondly thought was safe. He was strongly considering finding a way to tie drawers and cupboards shut. As much of a nuisance as it would be if someone wanted something, the consequences of her getting hold of something that could harm her were not to be thought about.

And everything went into her mouth, which was the other problem with her constant rummaging. Books too! So far she hadn’t actually ruined anything but there were a few leather-bound volumes that now had gummy corners.

Then there were mornings. Ah yes, the mornings. She got up very early and her idea of a good time was to slip out of her nursery and creep into their bed. Squirm in between them, and giggle. And wiggle. And twist and turn and pat her hands on them and sing to herself. And her little feet were never still. She was as restless a child as her father was as an adult.

It was hard to grasp just how the addition of one very small person could add so much extra effort to life at the Casa Montescue, but certainly the servants seemed to have twice as much work now, and he and Kat half as much time.

And yet…and yet… No one could bring themselves to actually complain, not when she would come up to you and tug at your sleeve and when you looked down at her, she would put up her arms and lisp, “Tiss?” She was very good at bringing all of them — from Lodovico to the scullery maids, around her very small thumb.

But something had to be done, and Marco knew it. Rescue came at last from an unexpected quarter. Marco had forgotten the priest from Cannaregio, and his promise to look for some form of genteel employment for the woman who had lost her daughter. When Old Pietro came to his study — where Alessia was attempting to open drawers, many of which had surgical implements in them — and told him Father Gotaro begged for an audience, and had a woman accompanying him, he felt very guilty indeed.

‘Lessi of course did not let him go alone. They went to the small drawing room off the main hall, where Pietro had put the visitors to wait — It was raining outside, he could scarcely have left them on the step, he later explained. Marco set his niece down, opened the door and she toddled in.

The priest bowed…but not the woman. The woman instead squatted down, ignoring Marco, her face transformed, tortured lines eased — hands outstretched to Alessia — who, being the child she was, trotted cheerfully up to her.

“Ah. M’Lord.” The priest bowed again. “What a lovely child. I just wanted to press the matter,” he jerked his head slightly at the woman entranced with Alessia. She was smiling, looking like a different person. “It…does her so much good to be with the little ones. She’s hard to get to eat properly. But local mothers…” he shrugged. “I suppose they blame her.”

Marco could understand that, even if it wasn’t logical. He could also understand just how easily a toddler could disappear into the canal. Of course not here in the Casa Montescue — the door-handles were out of reach, and there were servants about to find and watch. But…

And that was when he put two and two together and realized that this was the answer to both problems. They could use some help with Alessia. This woman wouldn’t be alone, and the priest was right, she clearly adored children and was good with them. The priest vouched for her. With all the servants here, he could simply tell them that rather than interrupting their own work to be running after the child, all they needed to do was to keep a discreet eye on ‘Lessia and her nursemaid, just in case something was needed. It would do the woman a great deal of good. And it would assuage his conscience.

He cleared his throat. “Well, actually, Father, I hadn’t actually found anyone yet — but as you see, we’ve acquired our little niece temporarily. It occurs to me that we could give her a trial with Alessia. It would be a temporary thing — until my brother and sister-in-law get back. I’ll talk to Katerina about it, this instant.”

Before the priest could thank him, he got Pietro to go and find Kat.

Kat was less-than-sure, when they spoke in the hall. “I mean, Marco…we don’t know her at all.”

“We could try it out for a day or two. Alessia’s interests must come first of course. Just mornings. They will stay inside the Casa. There are always servants too — and us.” It was obvious — at least to him that they were going to have to do something of the sort. They hadn’t had enough hours in the day before ‘Lessia; now…now it was very difficult to get anything done.

And he and Kat had no privacy.

She seemed to be mulling all that over in her mind. “Well…let me meet her. I really didn’t like that priest.”

They went in, and rather than standing on her dignity—the potential employee was sitting on the floor, playing peek-a-boo with a laughing Alessia.

A better way of persuading Katerina would have been difficult to find. The woman stood up, curtseyed — still being held onto by Alessia. Her voice was quiet and sad and her accents refined.

By the second day the new nanny Marissa was an essential part of the household. Not only did she get in very early, but her only task was to entertain and watch ‘Lessi. Which she did with an obsessive care. She talked to her, listened to her, carried her, fetched toys, fed her…”Makes life a lot easier,” said Marco, listening to the laughter as they sat in bed.

It did. It was a few hours which were now miraculously and deliciously less full of a small child. You couldn’t not love ‘Lessi — she was just rather a dramatic and chaotic change in their previously childless lives. Marco began planning on getting to that less sedentary lifestyle. Of course Marissa was only a support, and there to help while they were home, and while they had temporary custody of Alessia, but perhaps later…

Well, at this point, who knew what the future would bring.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 26

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 26

* * *

Rafiel had been asleep.  At least, he was almost sure he’d been asleep.  He didn’t quite know how to describe the state he’d been in.

His mother would have been deeply gratified had she known that Bea had, in fact, made such an impression on him, that he was considering a relationship.

He couldn’t have explained why to himself, much less to his mom.  Or to Bea.  Which was why he intended on saying exactly nothing until he found a coherent way to explain how he felt.

But the truth was, deep inside, and in a way that made no sense to him and probably would make no sense to anyone else either, he was already sure that Bea was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.  Which was loony, right?  After all, she was a dragon.  If he was going to settle with another shifter, shouldn’t it be a nice lion-girl?

The idea had made him smile sleepily as he lay there, between sleep and wakefulness, between reality and dream.

So, Bea was still in college.  Art.  Well, the advantage of art was that she could practice her profession anywhere, right?  He hadn’t asked what year she was in, but she’d said she was twenty one, so it should be either her junior or her senior year.

It would be hard of course, Georgia was a whiles away, and Bea hadn’t flown here, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take her to fly as a dragon – but probably too long.  It took Tom an hour just to get to Denver, though to be honest the only time he flew to Denver was when it was such bad weather that he couldn’t drive, and his father had some sort of emergency.

Anyway, so flying was a third of driving, and that was still too long.  Over a weekend, she’d be able to do little more than fly here and fly back.

But after all, there were airplanes, and though he was suspicious of airplanes, as he was suspicious of all forms of transportation or lodging requiring him to be compressed in next to someone else, he could manage that.  He could fly up and visit every other weekend.  Expensive, but doable.

Doable for a year.  And then they could get married, and she could move here.

In his mind’s eye he could already see them married, with a few kids, bringing the kids up to the cabin on weekends, with grandma and granddad.  They would buy a place of their own.  Even his parents had to understand that.  They would settle down in a routine and take the kids for the Tuesday-children-eat-free special at the George, and having Tom go all goofy as he usually did around kids, and make his special dragon-shaped fries and rocket-ship jelly doughnuts for the little ones.

In the middle of this pleasant revelry, imagining a slightly more plump Bea sitting across from him at the diner table, smiling at their kids’ antics, he heard a big crash.

It wasn’t quite enough to wake him, but it was enough to startle him.  He was aware it came from above, and that … But he didn’t hear Bea cry out or any other sound of distress, and he assumed she’d just tripped and knocked something over.  For him to go running to see what it was would only make her feel uncomfortable and out of place, which was not something he wanted to do.

So, instead, he stayed very still.  But just as he was starting to drift into dream again, he heard the sound of dragon wings.

It was unmistakable to anyone who had heard it even once.  That flap, flap, flap, might sound somewhat like sheets waved in the wind, but only if the sheets were massive and more substantial than any sheet ever was, and if the wind whipping them around were gale-force.

No.  It was a dragon.

Rafiel sat up in bed listening, as the sound of wings circled the cabin.  His heart was beating very fast, near his throat.

Was it Bea?  It might be, even though they’d thought she wouldn’t be able to shift for a day.  But why would she be shifting like this, without telling him?  Was she really, secretly, an agent of the Great Sky Dragon or some other shifter organization?  Had she shifted in order to take word to someone else?   Or was something else at work?  Was she uncomfortable?  Had he made her uncomfortable?  Had he come on too strongly?  He’d tried to be good about it, but what if he’d hinted at his certainty that they’d end up together?  That was enough to spook many a young woman, dragon or not.

And what if it wasn’t Bea at all, but one of the dragons of the Great Sky Dragon?  He had to know.

Half awake, he rushed into a robe, then across the hallway and the kitchen to the back door of the cabin.  It opened onto a covered porch, set with rocking chairs, where his parents sat on Saturday afternoons and read, while watching the wild life around.

Rafiel ran down the back steps, barefoot, thinking, belatedly, that he was going to get the mother of all wood splinters, and trying to ignore it.

He ran a little while down the back path, trying to look up, but there was no dragon in sight.

“Umph,” he said, standing on the beaten-dirt path as a raccoon came running out of the forest, took one look at Rafiel and disappeared running into another part of the forest.

“Right,” he said.  He’d imagined the wing sound, and probably the big crash too, for all he knew.  He would go back upstairs and…

At that moment it hit him.  It was a smell, but it was a smell such as he’d never smelled as a human before.  It was… louder than words, a symphony of feelings, of offers, of seduction.

It was, he realized, the smell of a female feline in heat.  And as the thought crossed his mind, he had already changed, and was running, headlong, into the forest, lion-paws striking the soil so hard they brought up dirt clods. His nose followed the divine scent.

* * *

Kyrie finished counting out the drawer, and tallying everything.  It wasn’t as difficult as it had once been, because while buying the expensive fryer, they’d chosen to go into deeper debt for a computerized cash register.  So she had an accurate account of all the credit card purchases as well as a clear figure for what she should have in cash.  Which she had and a little more.  For a moment, she was confused, then remembered that Jason had told her Speaker had insisted on not taking tips.  She sighed.  It just made things difficult, but she imagined his intentions had been good, and it would be churlish to be upset.

The take was still staggering, particularly the profit part of it.  Partly because most of what people had ordered was relatively low-overhead stuff like coffee and iced tea. And they’d ordered a lot of it.

She looked up to see Rya hanging around disconsolately.  “I think they went on er… flying business,” she told Kyrie.

Kyrie nodded.  “I thought so,” she said, as she wrote down figures, to verify later.

Rya blinked owlishly at her.  “How do you put up with it?  The…” she lowered her voice, though the diner was almost empty no.  “The dragon thing? It seems more complicated than all the shape shifting is.”

You have no idea how complicated it can get, Kyrie thought, but didn’t say it.  Instead, she said, “Oh, it’s… well…  You cope with it.  Everyone has weird stuff, right?”

Rya nodded, but looked doubtful.  “It’s all the ancestral loyalty and stuff… though I think you don’t get that from Tom.”

“You’d be amazed,” Kyrie said, then took a deep breath.  She felt just as out of step as Rya looked.  She’d guessed Tom and Conan had gone, as Rya put it on “flying business” but what the business might be, she had no idea.  She did have a good idea that something had happened to Tom, something relating to the Great Sky Dragon, something she hesitated to think about too much, because every time the Great Sky Dragon came into their lives it was bad news.  Oh, sure, the last time, he had prevented Tom from being killed — probably several times over — but…  But — That was barely enough to forgive him what he had done to Tom before.  And besides, it seemed whenever the Great Sky Dragon became involved things were about to get complicated.

Either it was some problem with the dragon triad or… or one of the other older shifter organizations.  It seemed to Kyrie, though, admittedly, her actual experience of this was limited, that all the older shifters went crazy in a peculiar way, becoming paranoid and trying to enforce shifter-law, whatever that was, with a little group of other shifters, who were the only ones in the world they would trust.  There were the Triad and the Ancient ones, and Old Joe, the alligator shifter who often hung out around the dumpster of the diner, had hinted there were others.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 03

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 03

“And if that is so?” Alemann shook his head again. “It is a dying reputation, Otto. What use is it to talk of it?”

“Ah, Jacob. Perhaps the wine has affected more than your foot,” Otto said with a small smile. “Your position and authority as jurists has never been recalled or revoked. And Magdeburg the city needs you. I need you.”

“Say on,” Alemann replied.

“You want work to do. I can give you that work.”

Otto watched his father-in-law rock back in his chair with a bit of a stunned look. He rallied quickly, however. “Oh, come now, Otto. We are in no position of authority.”

“You may not now be, perhaps,” Otto conceded, “but you do occupy a position of undoubted moral authority. And I can give you proper legal standing.”

“How will you accomplish that?” Alemann looked at Otto in some surprise.

“Magdeburg is an imperial city in the USE, you know that. We are independent of the province of Magdeburg, yes?” Otto spoke incisively. “That means we should have an independent magistracy and judiciary as well. I’ve been making do, but we need the Schöffenstuhl to resume, to serve as the senior judiciary for the city, including as what the up-timers call an appellate court. Some of the matters that are coming before me and the other magistrates,” he shook his own head, “should be coming to you. So take on this work as the reconvened Schöffenstuhl, and I will then empanel you as part of the city governance. You will have good work to do, and it will take a fair amount of work off my shoulders.”

“And paper out of your office, no doubt,” Alemann retorted, looking at the files stacked on various tables and cabinets.

“A side benefit,” Otto waved a hand airily.

“And you have this authority?”

Alemann was sounding interested, Otto thought to himself. That was a good sign. He chuckled, then held up a hand as his father-in-law frowned at him.

“I think you will find, Jacob, that within the boundaries of Magdeburg, Imperial Province and Free City of the United States of Europe, my authority is limited only by the will of the emperor himself. He never got around to giving the new city a charter or giving me a job description before his injury, other than ‘Clean up the mess and build me a capitol city I can be proud of.’ And until he or his heir or Parliament does . . .” Otto shrugged.

Before Alemann could respond to that thought, there came an interruption. Albrecht opened the door from the outer office and stuck his head in.

“Excuse me, Herr Gericke, but your step-father is here and wishes to see you.”

“By all means, let him in, Albrecht.” Otto stood hurriedly and moved out from behind his desk just in time to embrace the man who almost charged past the secretary. “Papa Christoff, it is good to see you!”

“And you as well, son.”

Christoff Schultze was a lean man who was active beyond his years, as the thump he gave to Otto’s shoulder bore witness. He had married Otto’s mother after the death of her second husband, and had never treated Otto with anything other than care and consideration. Love may not have come into play between them, but certainly affection had, and it showed in their greetings.

“Please, be seated.”

Otto gestured to the other chair in front of his desk, and returned to the sideboard to quickly pour another glass of wine for his step-father.

“Aah,” Schultze sighed after taking his first sip. “I do like a glass of good wine. I only wish I had time to properly savor this one”

“Then I take it you are here on some official matter?” Otto asked.

“Indeed,” Schultze replied. “Ludwig sent me.”

That would be Fürst Ludwig von Anhalt-Cöthen, Otto thought to himself, Gustav Adolph’s appointed administrator for the archbishopric’s properties, owned by the Erzstift of Magdeburg, which in turn was now owned by Gustavus Adolphus.

“And how is Fürst Ludwig these days?” Otto asked, wondering just what errand could have forced the good Fürst to send his chief lieutenant.

Schultze’s response was very sober. “Concerned. Very concerned.”

“And who isn’t?” Alemann responded dryly. “The news from Berlin is not good, and Chancellor Oxenstierna’s actions do little to inspire one to confidence.” Otto nodded in agreement.

A darker tone entered Schultze’s voice. “Indeed. You know of Gustav Adolph’s condition.” Schultze was not asking a question — it was well-known that the emperor’s head injury received in battle with the Poles and the resulting wandering wits that Dr. Nichols called aphasia had for all intents and purposes rendered him non compos mentis. “I assume you also know of what Oxenstierna is attempting.”

Both Otto and Alemann started to reply. Otto waved his hand at his father-in-law, who nodded and said, “Every child above the age of three in Magdeburg understands what the Swedish chancellor is attempting. He desires to roll back, make null, the many changes that Gustavus has made in the governance of the USE, or at least the ones that changed the social order and the religious tolerance — or should I say, lack of tolerance?”

The older man looked over to Otto, who picked up the thread. “He and his allies have some kind of hold on Prime Minister Wettin, what the up-timers would call leverage, and between that and Oxenstierna’s position as chancellor of Sweden, they look to control the government of the USE. I believe they have misread the tenor of the times, but I am deathly afraid that we will all pay for their mistakes before they go down.”

 

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 33

Burdens Of The Dead – Snippet 33

Chapter 22

Corfu

The Venetian fleet sailed on the first day of November. Not a good season for sailing, but Benito had his weather information. All he had to do was persuade the nervous sailors, and particularly the ship’s officers, that he was right. The sailors…well, word had got around that he had help. The sailors of Venice had a rather ambivalent relationship with the mer-people. There was a fair amount of fear. But a grudging respect too. There were stories of those who been helped, or struck deals or friendships with the dwellers in the deeps. There were a few interesting sexual fantasies too. At least, Benito hoped they were fantasies. You never could tell with the nonhumans.

The sea was cold, wet, and tossed with small whitecaps. But there were, so far, no winter storms.

Still Benito was grateful to see Pantocrator looming on the horizon. At the same time it cut him to the quick to know that Maria and ‘Lessi were not there, waiting in a world that had become his.

Neither was the other thing he had been hoping for: word out of the lands of the Golden Horde. “Your kinsman send word that Prince Manfred and Erik arrived safely, and left under a Mongol escort. With the envoy flags a-flying,” said Guiliano Lozza. “But nothing has come back out.”

Benito swore colorfully. Lozza shook his head. “It’s consorting with sailors, Benito. Now, a man dealing with olives and grapes has to learn to moderate his tongue. By the way, I was told by my dear wife to give you this invitation to come and dine with us, to celebrate our harvest. She wrote it herself,” he said proudly, handing Benito a small roll of parchment.

Thalia had been illiterate, a peasant woman, and had felt her station precluded her marriage to the swordsman landowner. So she was taking steps, was she? Well and good. Being able to read and write broke a lot of other chains. He’d seen it with Maria. One day, perhaps, all children could be taught.

He unrolled the parchment. The care — and a slight unsteadiness still in one or two of the letters shone out of the script — a simply worded invitation in a childlike round hand. With the seal of the house Lozza and two thin strands of silk in the colors of the tassels on Benito’s sword scabbard. The colors of Ferrara.

“Thank you,” said Benito, looking at the script again. “I will be there. And I will treasure this,” he said, touching the invitation.

“And so you should, “said Lozza gruffly. “She only did it fifteen times.”

“You must be proud.”

“More than you can imagine, my friend. And more than grateful to you for pushing us to take that last step.” He paused. “We’ll name that first boy for you. And we have reason to believe,” he said, beaming, “that that may happen as soon as the springtime.”

Benito clapped him on the shoulder. And then embraced him. Lozza had been scarred by the murder of his wife and babe. Thalia had started the healing process. This, he hoped, would continue it. Some men are naturally suited to leadership and deeds of war. Guiliano Lozza was naturally suited to growing olives, and raising children. He also happened to be good at leading men and using a sword, but those skills were irrelevant asides so far as he was concerned.

“You do realize that my name may lead him into trouble and fighting?” said Benito, grinning and flattered.

Guiliano nodded and tried — and failed — to assume a serious expression. “Ah, but not as badly as the second boy. It will be hard for a good Corfiote boy to be called Erik. We will see you tonight, then M’Lord.”

That left Benito several hours at his desk to try and catch up on the work that had accumulated in his absence, and to wonder about the message in those threads of silk. It was not the expected place or a suspected place. Therefore…

He was hardly surprised that evening to be taken to the family chapel to meet a non-descript monk praying there. A man who had a passing resemblance to the House of Ferrara’s chief agent, Antimo Bartelozzi. The one who dealt with Family matters. “Convey my respects to Duke Enrico. I thought it would create undue suspicion to meet both him and you. I had heard you speak of Lozza, and I knew his father well. I have news from Constantinople.”

Antimo had more than news. He had a detailed report to send to Duke Enrico. Reports of troop numbers, of supplies, of amounts of gunpowder, and maps. Detailed measured maps. Most of the maps Benito had seen were little more than drawings from memory. These had been done to scale with a great deal of precision. Looking at them, Benito understood just how his Grandfather had acquired such a towering reputation for strategy. Good staff work was obviously a major part of it. There was also a sealed package. “For the duke’s eyes only, M’Lord Valdosta,” he said apologetically. “Money matters. And contacts. If you would pass on to the duke that I shall shortly be returning to Constantinople, overland. I will attempt to be outside the walls when you arrive.” He coughed—more clearing his throat than anything else. “M’Lord…” there was an odd tentativeness to his voice. “I have reason to believe you’ll…um, have a lot of influence with both the soldiery and the sailors. A sack is always a grim thing. I…I have a request to make. If you could advise…tell the troops there is a woman in the city, always accompanied by two large hunting dogs with red ears. She’s been of help to us. To me.”

“There are lots of women in every city,” said Benito gently, thinking he understood, and being a little surprised. “I’d get her out, Antimo. Troops…well, they get out of hand.”

“There are no other women who always have those two dogs with them. I tried to get her to leave, M’Lord. She’s…strange. She’s no leman of mine,” he said hastily. “Just a very strange woman, with very strange dogs. Her name is Hekate.”

*   *   *

Benito sat with his grandfather and then, once he was seated, and armed with a glass of wine, handed over the parcel from the duke’s spy. Considering just what the agent had told him, he was intensely curious about that flat little parcel.

The Old Fox raised his eyebrows. “Antimo. Well, well.”

“He was afraid you’d be watched.”

“That’s not stopped him in the past,” said Duke Enrico, looking just like a wary fox for a moment. “He is…unusually good. He nearly killed me once, you know.”

“You’ve mentioned that.” Normally Benito would have pressed for the story. He’d yet to get it out of his grandfather, but they had become closer with time spent together during the voyage and in Venice. “What’s in the parcel? He gave me a detailed report of the situation in Constantinople and of the areas of Byzantium he crossed, and quite a few exceptional maps of the city and its surrounds.”

The Old Fox smiled. “You don’t even want me to keep a few secrets, boy?”

“No. My curiosity has been killing me for half the night. He was out at Lozza’s estate.”

The duke laughed and opened the packet. It appeared to be nothing more than a tangle of string. The duke shook it out carefully. It now appeared to be a shawl of knotted strings, all hanging down from a single cord. “Now you know. And not a bit of use feeling it through the covering has been to you, young man. Usually he attaches it to a carpet.”

“A code in string?”

“The knots are numbers. It’ll take me a while to read it, but they correspond to letters, and the letters give us the names of the mercenaries within Constantinople we have reached an accommodation with.”

“And?”

His grandfather scowled. “And the amounts of course.”

“Ah. Cheaper than a long campaign though.”

“So, where is Antimo? I’d have preferred to talk this through with him.”

“He said he was going back. He would see us there, hopefully outside the walls.” Benito hesitated for a moment. “I think he’s involved with some woman there.”

“Antimo?” Enrico was plainly surprised and intrigued…and perhaps a little perturbed. “It would be the first time I’ve seen any signs of it. He pays more attention to dogs than to women.”

Benito shrugged. “This woman, it appears, has the dogs. Two of them with red ears. The only other thing I know about her is that her name is Hekate, and he’s worried about her. Now, I’d better finish this wine and go and chase a few people down at the little Arsenal. They may not really believe we plan to sail within the week.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 02

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 02

Chapter 2

          Otto Gericke looked out the small diamond shaped panes in his office window at the sprawl of the exurb of Magdeburg, what some had taken to calling Greater Magdeburg. When Gustavus Adolphus had chosen Magdeburg to become the capitol of his new continental realm, what had been a city of perhaps half a square mile within its fortified walls had quickly mushroomed into a metropolis that, if it wasn’t in the same league as Paris or London as far as size, bid fair to grow into that league in the not-too-distant-future. And as the up-timers put it, it was Otto’s baby . . . or his headache, depending on which up-timer you talked to. He was mayor of Greater Magdeburg, appointed so by Gustavus Adolphus, who had then scurried off to war without giving him much more instruction than “Clean up this mess, and build me a capitol to be proud of.” Certainly there was no provision for a city council for Greater Magdeburg to share the work, or for an election of a replacement. Which meant that everything of any consequence, and most items of little consequence, ended up on Otto’s desk. He had started mentally labeling days as “baby” or “headache”, and when he had shared that thought with up-timers like Jere Haygood, all they had done was laugh.

          Looking at his clock, Otto decided that he’d best get back to work. He had just settled back into his chair when the door to his office opened and an elderly man was ushered in by his secretary.

“Thank you, Albrecht,” Otto said. “See to it that we are not disturbed, if you would.” The secretary nodded and closed the door as he stepped out.

Otto stepped around his desk and embraced the man in turn. “Papa Jacob. It is good to see you.” He smiled. “Even if you did catch me somewhat dishabille.” He indicated his jacket on the coat tree and his rolled up shirt sleeves.

Jacob Alemann, Otto’s father-in-law, stumped over to a chair obviously prepared for him, sat down and lifted his foot onto the waiting stool. He leaned back with a sigh, holding his cane with loose fingers.

“I see the gout still troubles you,” Otto commented as he walked to a sideboard and busied himself with a wine decanter. “Have you not read what the Grantville doctors are saying about gout?”

“I have, and what is worse, my wife has. And I am, with reluctance, willing to moderate my eating, but I will not give up my daily regimen of wine. After all, it was Saint Paul who said, ‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake,’ and who am I to disregard the instruction of an apostle and saint?”

Otto returned to offer a glass of wine to the older man. “With all due respect, Jacob, I somehow doubt that the good saint had in mind the quantities of wine that you drink.”

Alemann chuckled, then took a sip of the wine. His eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he looked at the glass with respect. “Where did you get Hungarian wine around here?”

The destruction of the war so far had caused devastation in much of the farmlands of the central Germanies. The wineries in particular had been hit hard. Not much had been produced for several years, and the quality of what had been bottled was noticeably lacking.

“Wallenstein, actually,” Otto responded, settling into his chair behind the desk. He grinned at the frown that crossed his stepfather’s face. “He felt he owed Michael Stearns somewhat, so as a favor he shipped a small portion of the Bohemian royal wine cellars to Michael. Rebecca Abrabanel was kind enough to provide a small share of that to me. A small share of a small portion, to be sure, but I understand that the Bohemian wine cellars were, umm, significant, so there were more than a few bottles.” He chuckled as he swirled the wine in his own glass.

“Indeed,” Alemann said, lifting his glass again. “Small recompense for the damage Wallenstein’s dog Pappenheim did to Magdeburg, but I suppose we should be thankful for small blessings, no matter the source.”

Otto thought that was a remarkably temperate statement from one who had been in Magdeburg before the sack and resulting destruction done by Pappenheim’s troops several years before when he served under Tilly. Most survivors’ comments concerning the erstwhile Austrian army field commander began with the scatological and descended quickly to the infernal and blasphemous. The fact that Pappenheim was now firmly ensconced in Wallenstein’s court, and Wallenstein was now at least nominally allied with the USE and Gustavus Adolphus, had little effect on the depth of rancor that the survivors of the sack of Magdeburg had for him.

“Enough of unpleasant topics,” Alemann declared. “Why did you ask to meet with me, Otto?”

“Jacob, you are still a member of the Schöffenstuhl, correct?”

Gericke was referring to the senior jurisprudence body for the Magdeburger Recht association, the group of cities in central Europe which had been granted laws and rights by their sovereigns that were drawn from the laws and charter of Magdeburg itself. It had been located in Magdeburg, and until the sack had functioned as what the Grantvillers would have called an appellate court for cases that their own courts could not address or whose decisions needed ratification.

“Yah, you know that I am, but that means nothing now, Otto.” Alemann shook his head. “All of our files, all of our books, all of our documents were destroyed in the sack, except for a handful that I managed to snatch up in the face of the flames. Centuries of work, centuries of civilization, centuries of wisdom, now nothing but ash at Pappenheim’s hand.” From his expression, he would convert the soldier to a like condition if it were in his power. His mouth worked as if he desired to spit, but he refrained.

“But you and some of your fellow jurists still live.” Otto leaned forward, his expression very intense. “Your names still carry weight. People still respect your wisdom, especially people in this part of the USE. Maybe not so much over in the west or by the Rhineland, but definitely in Saxony, Brandenburg, Thuringia-Franconia, and even into Bohemia, Poland, and the Ukraine.”