Eric Flint - 1635 - The Papal Stakes

James Nichols shrugged. “At least the embassy is communicating with us by radio; that’s half of the potential intelligence leaks eliminated.”

Rita was frowning at Melissa. “So you think that the ca-the friar-could be intercepted before he gets to us?”

“Maybe. Maybe killed outright; it’s what Borja reportedly did to sixteen other ‘friars’ in Rome just a few weeks ago. Or maybe our friar will be apprehended and questioned to see who he was planning to meet here in Chiavenna.” Melissa’s gaze made a significant circuit of the table.

“Or he might have simply been followed,” put in Arco, “which would be the worst. If our foes were that clever-”

The door to the crotto creaked open slowly and a soldier sauntered in. A buff coat, a saber, one pistol on his belt, but the bandolier and high boots said “horseman.” He wore no colors or livery-typical for armies of the period-and hadn’t as much as a colored armband to suggest his allegiance. But, if the message passed on by James’ daughter Sharon was accurate, he would be a guard dispatched from the papal troops to provide the friar with an escort over the Austrian Alps and down to Rome.

The trooper’s eyes swept the room, rested on the table of locally garbed up-timers for a moment and then narrowed when they reached James Nichols. It was hard to tell if his expression was smile or sneer; perhaps a bit of both. He gestured for a small, rotund man to emerge from behind his shielding bulk. “I’ve eaten in this crotto before, friar. I can vouch for the food and prices”-he turned and started out the door-“but not the company. Arrivederci.” In exiting, he signaled the need for a hasty departure to a similarly equipped trooper just beyond the door, which he closed after himself with a tug at its rough iron handle.

The friar actually flinched as the heavy timbers slammed home with a drumlike boom. He stood wringing his hands, looking at them. Tom wondered if he was about to start crying.

In that second, Arco was on his feet, face bright, wide smile revealing an impressive collection of teeth that had evidently resisted the normal genetic command to follow a common scheme of alignment. “Friar Luigi, Mamma sends you warm wishes, and hopes for your health. Now, sit with us and share our meal.” A bit overcome, the man in the friar’s robes allowed Arco to guide him to the table. He looked at the up-timers as if they might make him their next course at dinner.

“Please, Friar,” said Tom, “have a seat. And please, I presume you will accept our hospitality, particularly since Brother Michael sends his regards?”

The friar looked up quickly at the mention of “Brother Michael.” “Yes…yes; I will. I am glad-very glad-for your invitation.” Small, clever eyes assessed the proximity of Tom and Rita, quickly determined the implicit relationship to be spousal, and then his eyes shifted to Rita, alone. “Tell your family-particularly Brother Michael-that his hospitality honors me.”

The friar who was in fact Cardinal Ginetti was probably not a man of action or courage, but he-like the rest of the cardinals Tom had met-was clever and subtle. Two sentences had been exchanged each way and they had already established each others’ identity, that asylum was being offered by Rita’s brother Mike Stearns-prime minister of the USE-and that it had been accepted. But for anyone not aware of the precise identity of the group around the table, the exchange would merely have sounded like a meeting that mixed old friends with new acquaintances. Either way, the contact part of this rendezvous went easily and quickly enough. These little cardinals are pretty smooth operators. Now, time to pay the bill and stroll back to the The door opened: a medium-sized man stepped in, closed it, a broad brimmed hat pulled low, covering the upper half of his face. His clothes were simple, but made for travel; they might be well-worn, but they were not worn out. There was no sign of a weapon on his belt or in the loose folds of his cloak, but his flowing attire would make it entirely possible to carry a large dagger completely undetected. The proprietor came rushing out: the Babelesque debate in the kitchen flooded briefly into the room before he shut the door. “ Signor — mangi? Food?”

The newcomer nodded, murmured a request, and took a seat at one of the two remaining tables, the one closest to the group. He turned his hunched back toward the up-timers in an apparent effort to afford both parties some modicum of privacy.

It was, even to Tom’s untrained eye, all an act. Judging from the long, significant looks he got from both James and Melissa, he was not alone in his assessment. Well, we never planned on this, at least not so quickly after meeting the cardinal. Whoever this guy is, he must have been right on the little friar’s tail. Which means Melissa was probably right: someone dropped a dime on our rendezvous with His Eminence. And with this new guy’s big ears only a few feet away, we don’t have any way to come up with a plan on the sly. He probably speaks the whole gamut of local languages: Italian, Lombard, Savoyard, German, Romansch, maybe Romlisch. And since he obviously knows that we’re the folks he’s looking for- James’ dark black skin was, to put it lightly, distinctive in Alpine Italy — this guy was probably chosen, in part, because he speaks English, as well. So how do we-?

But James was smiling. “ooD-ay oo-yay eak-spay ig-pay atin-lay?”

Damn, but Doc was smart. “I an-cay.”

Arco, for the first time in Tom’s acquaintance of him, looked utterly flummoxed.

Melissa looked like she was swallowing lye with every word she uttered. “Oo-yay av-hay an an-play?”

James nodded. “Tom, ell-tay Arco out-abay oor-yay ick-say other-May.”

Wha-? Oh, I get it. Tom rose, head hung a little. The crotto ’s newest patron shifted slightly, probably trying to use his ears to gauge what the movement behind him was and it if represented potential danger. Tom drew out the chair at the end of the table next to Arco, who had recovered enough to feign understanding of the pig-latin gibberish flying past him. “Arco-” said Tom with feeling.

Rita’s foot tapped against Tom’s ankle. Okay, I guess I was going over the top, already. Hell, my idea of method acting is Arnold Schwarzenegger. Whom he almost resembled, physically. “Arco, did I tell you how sick my mother is?”

One microsecond of confusion flitted across the young Venetian’s face, which then became a study in heartfelt compassion. “Tom, I am so sorry. I had heard she was doing poorly, but I had no idea-”

Under which James muttered. “Ore-may of em-thay in the eet-stray.”

Melissa nodded tightly. “No oubt-day.”

Tom hung his head as the proprietor brought his newest patron a bowl of the same black-cherry-and-game soup. “She’s so sick,” Tom sighed mightily. “I should return home at once, but-leaving here is so hard. How can I possibly go?”

That line-consistent with the “sick-mother” act, but also a pertinent question about the tactics of exiting the crotto — earned a broad smile from Melissa.

“Om-tay oes-gay irst-fay. I’ll et-gay the oor-day. James ext-nay. We eer-clay the eet-stray and un-ray. Okay?”

Tom nodded at Melissa’s plan, but made the nod also look like he was simply harmonizing with Arco’s consoling pat on the back. “So, how do we start you on your way home, Tom?” Arco asked. But as he spoke, he leaned in James’ direction.

James said, “Arco, I believe that fellow behind you just insulted Tom’s mother.”

Arco’s head snapped up straight, as though startled, but his eyes were bright with shrewd amusement. He turned, shocked, in the direction of the apparent patron behind them. “How dare you! Tom, do you know this suino? Do you hear what he said about your sick mother?”