Eric Flint - Grantville Gazette.Volume XIX

"A plague, as I said."

"May as well get used to it, Franz," Piccolomini said heavily. "When Wallenstein's Croats failed in their raid on Grantville, all of Europe was doomed to this lunacy. Even in Paris, I'm told."

He stopped in front of a nondescript doorway. Just one of many along the street, marked in no particular way.

"And here we are."

Uriel Abrabanel proved to be, just as Piccolomini had said, a man whom no one would think to call "comely." He was saved from outright ugliness only by the fact that his animated and jovial spirit imparted a certain flair to his coarse and pox-marked features. It was hard to believe, though, that the man was closely related-uncle, no less-to Rebecca Abrabanel, reputed to be one of the great beauties of Europe.

But von Mercy was skeptical of that reputation, anyway. He didn't doubt the woman was attractive, probably quite attractive. But he was sure that the near-Helenic reputation given to her appearance was mostly the product of the same glamorous aura that surrounded almost everything American by now, almost four years after the Ring of Fire. An aura that was just as strong-probably stronger, in fact-among the peoples who were the USE's enemies than those who lived under Stearns' rule directly or counted themselves as his allies. Unlike the Swedes or the Germans or the Dutch, who had had many occasions to encounter Americans or their Abrabanel associates directly, for most Austrians or French or Italians-to say nothing or Spaniards or Poles-they remained mostly a matter of legend and hearsay.

And if much of the hearsay and many of the legends involved their wicked ways and nefarious schemes, there was no reason those couldn't be combined with other qualities. So, if Mike Stearns was a relentless savage bent upon destroying all that was fine and sensible about Europe's social and political arrangements, he was also surely the most cunning and astute barbarian who had stalked the earth since Attila raged out of the east. So also, if his Jewish spymaster Nasi was evil incarnate he was also intellect incarnate-just as Stearns' Jewish wife combined the appearance of a goddess with a spirit fouled by the demons of the Pit.

For, indeed, the same aura extended to those closely associated with the Americans, even if they were not American themselves. That was especially true of the Jews, especially the Sephardim of the widely-flung and prominent Abrabanel clan.

Franz believed none of it. He'd read some of the philosophical and theological speculations concerning the nature and cause of the Ring of Fire. But, in the end, he'd come to the same conclusions that, by all accounts, the Americans had come to themselves. Namely, that they had no idea what had caused the miraculous phenomenon, and they were certainly not miraculous themselves. Just people, that's all. Granted, people from a distant future possessed of incredible mechanical skills and knowledge. But no more exotic, for all that, than visitors from Cathay.

Less exotic, in fact, in most ways. They spoke a well-known European language, and most of them were Christians. And all of them except a handful of African extraction were even of European origin. Solid and sturdy origin, at that: English, German, and Italian, for the most part.

As von Mercy had been ruminating over these matters, Abrabanel had spent his time studying Franz himself. Eventually, he seemed to be satisfied with something he saw, if Franz interpreted his expression correctly.

"Not a bigot, then," Abrabanel said softly. "Octavio told me as much"-here he gave the Florentine general a sly glance-"and I was inclined to believe him, even though he is an Italian and thus of duplicitous stock. So unlike we simple and straightforward Hebrews and even simpler and more straightforward Lorrainers."

Franz couldn't help but laugh. Partly, at the jest itself; partly, at the truth lurking within it. For, in point of simple fact, the seemingly-bluff Piccolomini was a consummately political general, as you'd expect of a man from a prominent family in the Florentine aristocracy. He'd spent a good portion of his years as a military officer serving more in the capacity of a diplomat or even-in truth if not in name-as what amounted to a spy.

Duplicitous, as such, he might not be. But Franz didn't doubt for a moment that lies could issue from Octavio Piccolomini's lips as smoothly and evenly as a gentle tide sweeps over a beach.

He recalled himself to the matter at hand. "No, I am not a bigot. I claim no particularly fondness for Jews, mind you. But I bear no hostility against you, either. What I don't understand, is what any of that has to do with your purpose in asking me here." He nodded toward Piccolomini. "Nor why you needed to use him as your conduit."

"In answer to the second question, I am not actually using Octavio as my conduit to you. It would be far more accurate to say that I am using him as my conduit-say better, my liaison-at-a-comfortable-distance-with Emperor Ferdinand."

The logic was clear enough, once Franz thought about it. "Ah. You feel that if you employed me directly, the Austrians might fret themselves over the purpose of the employment. And then, out of anxiety-"

"Oh, that's far too strong a term, Franz!" protested Piccolomini. "Don't give yourself airs! We would-at most-be motivated by reasonable caution."

He bestowed a fulsome grin upon von Mercy and Abrabanel both.

Franz returned the grin with a thin smile. "Out of reasonable caution, then"-he looked back at Uriel-"they would take steps that you might find annoying."

"Oh, ridiculous!" boomed Piccolomini. "That he might find disastrous to his plans! Utterly destructive to his schemes. Might lay waste his entire project for years to come." The grin returned. "That sort of thing. Much the better way to put it."

"Indeed," said Uriel, smiling also. "This way, at every stage, the Austrians are kept-to use a handy little American expression-'in the loop.' I think that will serve everyone nicely."

Piccolomini brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat noisily. "Except… well, Wallenstein, perhaps. If he finds out that I'm involved in any way. I assume he's still holding a grudge?"

"Well, yes. Of course he is, Octavio. His name is Albrecht von Wallenstein and you did, after all, plot and carry out his murder."

Piccolomini waved a meaty hand. "In another world! In this one, it never happened! And that, only according to a detestable play by a German of very dubious reputation. Why, the man hasn't even been born yet. How can anyone believe a word he says?"

All three men laughed, now. In truth, Friedrich Schiller's play Wallenstein was now one of the best-known plays in central Europe and very widely published and performed-despite the fact that it wouldn't have been written until the year 1800 and only one copy of it had existed in Grantville. Partly, because the subject was still alive and now King of Bohemia, a position he'd never achieved in Schiller's universe. And partly-such was the universally held suspicion-because Wallenstein secretly financed the play's publication and many of its performances. Although Wallenstein had its criticisms of the man who gave the play its title, the portrait of him was by and large quite favorable.

When the laughter died away, Uriel shook his head. "But I saw no reason-and see none now-for Wallenstein to know anything of your role in this business. All he will know, if all goes well, is that I met a fortunately-unemployed cavalry commander of excellent reputation in Vienna and hired him on behalf of Don Morris."

Piccolomini grunted. "So much is easy to explain. How about the other two?"

Franz wondered who "the other two" might refer to. But he decided to say nothing, for the moment.

Uriel shrugged. "They're only a colonel and a major, Octavio, and unlike General von Mercy they come alone, not accompanied by a complete regiment of cavalry. I doubt if Wallenstein will even think to inquire."