Eric Flint: 1635: The Cannon Law

"Captain Papas?" she asked.

"Was that him? I thought that was a dream-" his breath rattled as he spoke-"water?"

She offered the jug, and he drank the last of the water greedily. Giovanna knew she could wait for more, but Frank had had no more than the dribbles she had dripped through his lips for days.

"God, that tastes good," he whispered, his throat still plainly raw. "I feel weak as a kitten. I don't think I could move much even if I wanted to."

"Don't," Giovanna whispered back. "Your leg is broken, and you have other injuries."

"Yeah, I can feel-God, I can't tell. Everything hurts. The leg's bad, though."

"Lie still, Frank, if we can fool them long enough…"

"Yeah." His smile seemed to outshine the starlight that lit their cell. "Something's bound to turn up."

Padua, Italy

"Well, that's that," said Tom Simpson, demonstratively slapping his hands together, as if clearing them of dust.

"What's what?" demanded Melissa. She was glaring at the Venetian soldiers who were barring the road to Venice-and doing so just as demonstratively.

Tom gave her a sage look. "We've done what we can, come as far as the road takes us. If you give me a minute or two, I can probably drum up a few more cliches."

"Very funny," snapped Melissa.

"He's got a point, hon," said Dr. Nichols. He nodded toward the soldiers. "On the positive side, they've got ten times as many troops guarding the road into Padua. I figure the pope's safe enough for the moment, now that we're in Venice's terraferma. "

"Don't call me 'hon,' " Melissa snapped.

Nichols rolled his eyes. "Sure, babe, whatever you say."

Sharon couldn't suppress a gurgling laugh. Just… couldn't. Melissa's face had practically turned purple.

Melissa started to glare at her, but halfway through started a gurgling laugh of her own.

"Okay, I surrender!" she exclaimed. " 'Hon' it is. Anything's better than 'babe.' For God's sake, James, I'm sixty years old."

"Don't look a day over fifty-five, hon," Nichols assured her.

"Indeed so!" boomed Ruy, who had just emerged from the door of the very big taverna they were standing not far from. He gave Sharon a smile and a little nod. Then, swept off his hat and gave Melissa a sweeping bow that would have dazzled the court at Madrid. "I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, swear it is true!"

That was good for a real laugh, and from everybody.

When that was over, Melissa asked: "So now what?"

"At a guess," replied Rita, "Italy starts going up in flames. A good chunk of the rest of Europe as well. With those two over there"-she wiggled a thumb in the direction of the pope and his nephew, who were engaged in some sort of negotiations with three Venetian senators-"pouring on the gasoline."

Tom studied them. The pope and the cardinal were enjoying the shade next to the taverna's wall. Also enjoying a bottle of wine.

"I say we join them," he proposed.

"By all means," said Sharon. "You do so."

"You're not joining us?" asked Rita.

"No. Maybe tomorrow. For the moment…" She took Ruy by the hand. "My husband has made arrangements for a room."

"Rooms for everyone," Ruy added. "Separate rooms."

Seeing that everyone was staring at her, Sharon sniffed haughtily. "The stresses of the past period may have scrambled your brains and made you forget everything. But not me. Our wedding was interrupted, remember?"

And she was off, Ruy in tow.

"Well, that's that," said Tom.

Madrid, Spain

Philip IV had been staring out the window of the Alcazar throughout the count-duke of Olivares' report on the situation in Rome. Now, his hands still clasped behind his back, he hunched forward a bit. As if he were looking for someone in the gardens below.

"How many assassins do we have in our employ, Gaspar?"

The count-duke had been afraid of that royal reaction. He inhaled, preparatory to launching a little speech on the virtues of caution.

"However many there are," the king of Spain continued-there was a snarl coming into his voice now-"I want each and every one of them dispatched to Rome immediately. With firm and clear instructions to bring me back the head of Cardinal Gaspar Borja y Velasco. Note carefully-make sure to pass this along to the assassins-that I used the title Cardinal. "

The explosion finally came. The king unclasped his hands and slammed the palm of the right hand against one of the window panes. Fortunately, the glass was thick and well made. "We'll see how much that bastard likes the title 'pope' when he stares down at his severed neck impaled on a pike!"

"Better if we could have him brought back alive," said Don Jeronimo de Villanueva.

Olivares gave him a warning glance, but the Protonotario of the Crown of Aragon was too furious to notice. His own words had been said in a snarl.

"We could then entertain ourselves at leisure, with his torture," he finished.

Fortunately, the other two members of the hastily assembled council present, Jose Gonzalez and Antonio de Contreras, were more phlegmatic by temperament-and, unlike Villanueva, had been keeping an eye on their patron's reaction. They knew the count-duke of Olivares quite well, and interpreted the expression on his face correctly.

"I think we need to be cautious here," said Gonzalez.

He said it cautiously, of course. Granted that Philip IV was not generally a hot-tempered man; granted also, he normally left matters of governance to the count-duke while the king entertained himself with his patronage of art and literature. Still, he was the king of Spain, and he was in an obvious rage.

The king turned away from the window, bringing his heavy-boned face to bear on that of his advisor. The sweeping royal mustachios were practically quivering, below the prominent nose and above the classic Habsburg chin and lower lip.

" Why? " he bellowed. He pointed a rigid finger at the window. "That-that-"

"Traitor," Villanueva unhelpfully supplied. "Madman, also."

"Yes! That madman -that traitor -has just managed to bring down into ruins Our entire foreign policy! Every bit of it!"

"Ah-not quite, Your Majesty," said Olivares.

The king brought the glare to bear on him. "Indeed? Please explain to me, Count-Duke, which aspect of Our policy the creature Borja has not destroyed."

Philip didn't wait for an answer. Although he didn't concern himself with the day-to-day business of ruling the Spanish empire, the king was neither stupid nor ill informed. Most times, Olivares found that a blessing. On some occasions, however-this certainly being one of them-it was something of a curse.

The king brought up his thumb. "Shall We begin with a recitation of the casualties suffered by Our armies in the north? We recall them quite well, Gaspar, even if you seem to have mysteriously forgotten. How, We can't imagine-since those dismal figures were the principal subject of your report to Our council not so very long ago."

The forefinger came up. It was a large finger, and very stiff. Olivares had to restrain a momentary and quite insane urge to giggle. He had no difficulty imagining Borja impaled on that royal digit.

"Let's move on to a consideration of our military situation. We were all agreed that we faced an unavoidable period of retrenchment, did we not? While we scraped up the money-We shall get to that subject in a moment!-in order to recruit more troops and arm them with the new weapons that the cursed Swede and his American witches have inflicted on the world.

"Did we not?" he shouted.

A nod of hasty obeisance was called for here, and Olivares-hastily-provided it.

"Splendid," continued the king. The middle finger came up. "Let us now consider Our financial position-which is perilous, as always. The last thing we needed was to have a madman-no, a traitor!-produce a situation in Italy which will-unavoidably, Olivares, deny it if you can!-force us to pour bullion into that miserable peninsula."