1635: The Eastern Front (25 page)

Denise Beasley piped up. "Piece of cake. Throw out all the royal bums and set up a republic."

From the self-satisfied look on her face, the girl would have popped bubble gum by way of emphasis. Had she possessed any bubble gum.

She didn't, of course. Bubble gum had long since gone the way of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and Bic cigarette lighters. But her friend Minnie Hugelmair made up for it by spitting onto the cobblestones. She did that with a skill and assurance that properly belonged to a wizened old farmer.

"I agree," she said firmly. "Just get rid of the shitheads."

The teenage down-timer had lost an eye two years earlier in a brawl started by religious students. Grantville's then-mayor Henry Dreeson had given her his uncle Jim's glass eye to make up the loss as best as possible. He'd then been murdered himself, just a short time ago. The crime was presumed to have been committed by other religious fanatics.

The long and the short of all that history was that insofar as such a thoroughly non-theoretical person as Minnie Hugelmair could be said to have an ideology, it was awfully simple and clearcut. Get rid of all kings and nobles. Squash all religious zealots. Support the common folk. Support good music. (The last being the influence of her mentor, the old up-time folk singer Benny Pierce.)

She and Denise Beasley saw eye to eye on just about everything, except when they faced each other from Minnie's bad side. Then they saw eye to glass eye on just about everything.

Noelle was fond of both girls. Which was a good thing, given that she sometimes felt like drowning them.

"It's not that simple," she said, in perhaps the thousandth futile effort to instill an appreciation for nuance in the minds of two teenage girls whose view of the world was about as nuanced as that of wolverines.

Eddie just grinned. As well he might, Noelle thought sourly, given that Denise was his girlfriend and had an approach to romance that also had about as much nuance as a wolverine. On any other member of the weasel family, especially minks.

"You're sure of that?" Tata asked sharply. For a pretty young woman on the short and plump side, she had a surprisingly ferocious manner when she was in the mood. The young farmboy she was interrogating flinched a little, even though he really had nothing to fear.

Anna Piesel assumed that was the result of the other woman's CoC training. In point of fact, it was the product of Tata's upbringing as a tavern-keeper's daughter. She'd been pretty since she was thirteen, short all her life, and had the sort of plumpness that went with very well-filled bodices. By the time she was fifteen, she'd learned how to intimidate just about any male. Certainly young ones.

"Yes, I'm sure," he insisted. He turned and pointed to the southwest. "We saw him. You can't miss that great big carriage he fancies."

Tata and Anna turned to follow the finger. Of course, they couldn't really see anything because of the crowded houses. But Anna had no difficulty picturing the landscape beyond Dresden.

"He must be headed for Bavaria," she said.

Tata frowned. "Poland's a lot closer. The terrain's easier too, I think."

"Yes, it is. A lot easier. To get into Bavaria he's got to pass through the Vogtland, the Erzgebirge and the Bohemian Forest." Now Anna frowned. "Stupid to try to do that in a carriage, though."

"He could always swap the carriage for horses when need be. But why would he go that way at all? Why not head for Poland? King Wladyslaw would certainly give him sanctuary. Duke Maximilian probably would too, but who knows what that crazy Bavarian might do?"

They both turned to stare at the farm boy. Who, for his part, looked about as unhappy as a sixteen-year-old boy possibly could when he was the subject of close scrutiny by two good-looking young women.

"I don't know," he said, almost whining. "How am I supposed to know what an elector thinks?"

Tata and Anna now looked at each other. The boy's point was reasonable enough, after all.

"Maybe something's stopping him," ventured Anna. "I don't know. Whatever. Maybe they sent out cavalry patrols."

Tata decided she was probably right. She turned back to the farmboy.

"You're sure that's the way he went?" Seeing the hapless expression on his face, she waved her hand. "Never mind. We'll take your word for it."

She looked around. Spotting the towers of the elector's palace not too far distant, she pointed to them. "Up there."

Anna looked doubtful. "How . . . ?"

Tata started striding in that direction. "There'll be a way," she said, with the self-confidence of a tavern-keeper's daughter assuring a patron that if he didn't concentrate on his drinking instead of her rump he would soon be in an ocean of misery.

So it proved. The guards from the city militia who had appointed themselves to maintain order and prevent looting were no match for Tata's will. She got through them in less than a minute—in fact, she even got three of them to serve her and Anna for guides.

"I need the highest place in the palace." She dug into her pack and brought forth a short wave radio transmitter. "We sent one of these to Georg Kresse a while ago. He should have it by now. But I don't know how good the reception will be in those mountains."

The militiamen were suitably impressed by the up-time device. Without argument, they led the two women to the tallest tower in the
Residenzschloss.

Tata had to consult her notebook to get the Morse code right. She was too much of a novice to have more than a few letters memorized. But the message wasn't all that long anyway.

ELECTOR COMING. STOP. LEFT DRESDEN LAST NIGHT. STOP. MUST BE HEADED FOR BAVARIA. STOP. IN CARRIAGE WHEN HE LEFT. STOP.

The reception in the Vogtland was quite good, as it happened. But it still took Wilhelm Kuefer a lot longer to translate the message than it had taken Tata to send it. His knowledge of Morse was completely theoretical, to begin with. And secondly, he didn't have Tata's general familiarity with up-timers and their peculiar gadgetry.

But, eventually, he got it translated. No sooner had he finished than he said: "He'll have to swap out the carriage for horses. No way he can get to Bavaria unless he does."

Kresse's smile was as cold as a Vogtland winter. "We'll spot any party that size as soon as it enters our territory. After that, it won't matter what transportation he's gotten his hands on. Anything will get you into hell."

Chapter 20

Osijek, the Balkans

"And you're quite certain?" Janos Drugeth asked.

"Oh, yes," replied Doctor Grassi. "There's simply no way to hide that massive a mobilization. And once something like that gets started, as you know, it's almost impossible to stop it."

Drugeth nodded. There was a dynamic power to these things that made them effectively inevitable once a certain point was passed. Could even Zeus have stopped the fleets of Greece once they'd crossed half the Aegean on their way to Troy? And compared to the Ottoman emperor Murad, Agamemnon had been a paragon of prudence and deliberation.

"How soon, then?"

The Ragusan physician shrugged. "Hard to say. You understand that my information is of necessity somewhat outdated—and mostly gathered from a distance?"

Janos smiled. "I don't expect you to give me up-to-the-minute reports on a Turkish army marching into Mesopotamia, Doctor. Still, your guesses are likely to be reasonably accurate."

Grassi took a moment to look around the tavern. It was quite full, and noisy enough to make it impossible to be overheard unless you shouted. The clientele was as polyglot as any in the Balkans, and the Ottomans made no attempt here to enforce the Muslim laws against alcohol consumption.

"Have you read the Kinross book?" he asked.

"Yes. Three times, in fact."

Grassi took a sip of his coffee. Regardless of the situation here, he saw no reason to relax his customary vigilance. He'd gotten by among the Turks for years now, and had even gotten himself appointed as the household physician to several prominent Turkish families. He enjoyed wine and got an occasional bottle from his patron Schmid. But he was careful to drink it only in private.

"Then you know how it transpired in that other universe."

"Murad launched his campaign in the early summer of the year 1638—a little less than three years from now, if the calendars of the two worlds can be matched against each other. He left from Scutari, on the Anatolian coast of the Bosphorus. Baghdad fell in December, after a siege of forty days."

"Yes. From everything I can determine, Murad seems intent to repeat the victory three years earlier—and even more rapidly."

"Can he do it?"

"Quite possibly, I think. I have not been able yet to get definite information, but I am now inclined to believe that the Turks have either obtained up-time military technology or developed it on their own."

"Such as?"

"Rifled muskets, for one. I'm almost certain about that. In addition . . ." The doctor from Dubrovnik hesitated a moment. "They may have developed their own air force," he said, very quietly.

Drugeth was normally imperturbable. But on hearing that, his eyebrows shot up. "An
air force
? Doctor, I think that is highly unlikely. I have a far amount of experience with these matters myself, and it's not so easy as all that to duplicate the American engines."

Grassi shook his head. "You're thinking of the American airplanes. What the Turks would have developed would be . . . what do they call it? Lighter-than-air, I think."

"Balloons? Those might be possible, but what . . . Ah." Idly, Janos drained his wine glass, staring through the open door of the tavern at the busy street beyond.

"Ah," he repeated. "There is also such a thing as a blimp. Or a dirigible. I'm not quite clear on the difference. Either way, they are essentially elongated balloons that are capable of being steered. Very slow, however."

Grassi shrugged. "Such a machine would not need to be quick—if its target was a city. Baghdad will surely be much slower. And if my admittedly scanty information is correct, these machines can lift quite heavy weights."

"I believe that's true," said Janos. "Bombs, you're thinking?"

"That—and the spiritual factor. The Safavids are inclined to mysticism, you know. I do not believe they have paid much attention to the reports coming out of Europe, or given any credence to the ones they have heard. Even though they're farther away, I think the Mughals are more aware of the impact the Americans have had than the Persians are."

"I don't quite understand your point."

The Ragusan smiled. "That's because you have become more accustomed than you realize to this new world created by the Ring of Fire. I mean no offense, Graf. But try to imagine how you would have reacted five years ago—had you seen mysterious flying machines wreaking havoc in Vienna?"

Janos set down his wine and leaned back in his chair. "Now I see your point. Yes . . . The Persians might well panic."

"They don't even need to panic. Confusion alone will probably be enough to let Murad take Baghdad this year."

There was silence, for a minute or so. Then Janos rose to his feet. "I must be off now, Doctor. My thanks for your assistance."

For all the graciousness of his demeanor, it was all Janos could do not to curse aloud.

The Turks attacking Persia.
That meant the Austrian emperor would conclude he had no restrictions on his ability to intervene in the war to the north. Which Janos still thought was foolish, whether or not the Ottomans posed an immediate threat.

Besides, who could say what Murad might do the
next
year—if he was triumphant in this one?

Stockholm

"That was a truly miserable experience," said Baldur Norddahl, once they were far enough away from the queen of Sweden's audience chamber not to be overheard.

Prince Ulrik made a sour little noise. "Exhausting, too."

"At least now we know why the princess is sometimes given to moods."

Ulrik made another sour noise, this one not so little. " ‘Is sometimes given to moods.' Is that Norwegian berserk-speak for ‘is sometimes a miniature harridan and others a very short lunatic'?"

"Your words, not mine," Baldur replied serenely. "And that's a terrible way to refer to your future bride. ‘Harridan!' ‘Lunatic!' "

They reached one of the great doors that led to Slottsbacken, the street that provided the main entrance to the palace. It was more in the way of a plaza than a street, really. Stockholm's great church sat on its western edge.

As soon as they stepped through into the sunlight, Ulrik squared his shoulders. The gesture was half a shrug, half an expression of relief at getting outside. Under the cheeriest of monarchs, the Swedish royal palace would have been on the somber side. Under the influence of Queen Maria Eleonora, it was downright gloomy.

"Kristina is a very intelligent harridan and lunatic," Ulrik said philosophically. "I could do worse. As long as she takes after her father instead of her mother, the marriage should at least be tolerable."

"I certainly hope she doesn't inherit her mother's taste in entertainment."

Ulrik grimaced. The Swedish queen doted on dwarfs and buffoons. The wretched creatures had half-filled the audience chamber.

"Dear God. Yes, let's hope so."

They headed for one of the other wings of the palace, where Ulrik and his entourage had their quarters.

"Look on the bright side, Prince. For at least six more years—no, probably seven or eight or possibly even nine or ten—you won't have to be sharing a bed with the little lunatic harridan. And by the time you do, she won't be so little. Which means—"

"And to think it was you, Baldur, who showed Danish royalty how to execute a man by crushing him in a diving suit."

Baldur smiled, but did not pursue the train of thought further.

Mademann, Locquifier and Brillard watched the prince and his companion from a distance of slightly more than a hundred yards. They were partially hidden in the shade cast by a nearby elm tree.