by Eric Flint
“All of the ladies in Geneva wear black dresses with white collars.”
“There is that problem.”
“So the little duchess is better than nothing. Even if the Rohans are not typical, I will meet their associates.”
Marc lifted his head and nodded. The nod was affirmative. Reluctant, but affirmative.
“If Rohan agrees to having you in her household longer term, then all right. I’ll be back.”
He was thinking no, no, we’ve agreed to take Tancrède to Geneva and we’ll be doing it without Susanna.
She was thinking, serves them right for agreeing to take that kid to Geneva with them and expecting me to babysit him the whole way without even asking in advance whether I’d be willing.
* * *
Since September was often the last month to offer decent weather for fairly easy travel, October if you were lucky and November only if you liked to gamble, Marc and Gerry were off to the livery stable the next morning.
The rain kept pouring. It dripped off Marc’s cape, down onto the hand by which he was holding Tancrède. The boy pulled away from his increasingly slippery grasp and dashed into a passageway to which the description alley would have assigned undue dignity. It had been swept, but the running water was scouring residual slime from deep between the cobblestones and dropping it into the occasional puddles that formed in low spots. Tancrède splashed through them, uncaring, in pursuit of a feral cat.
Gerry dashed after him, indifferent to the muck landing on his boots and the hem of his cloak.
Marc stayed where it was cleaner. Mama will be thrilled to have another little boy to bring up, he thought to himself. Of course she will. If he thought it often enough, perhaps he would convince himself.
That Papa would be thrilled went without saying. Ruvigny’s “Anyone at all” really shouldn’t be interpreted as applying to Leopold Cavriani.
Scarface
Eric Flint
PART I
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe
Chapter 1
December 4, 1635
“Something is happening, Eva. I’m sure of it!” Elisabeth von Schwarzenfels hurried her pace still further—and she was already walking quickly. Any moment now she’d break into a trot, her companion thought with amusement.
Eva Katherine von Anhalt-Dessau reached out a hand and seized Elisabeth by the shoulder. “Slow down, Litsa! I’m too old to keep up with you when you rush about like this.”
Litsa glanced back at her and made a sarcastic noise halfway between a whistle and a hoot. “Too old! All of twenty-two!”
Eva smiled but didn’t relinquish her grip. “The difference between twenty years of age and twenty-two is quite significant,” she said. “Wait and see! And what’s the hurry, anyway? You said yourself we were headed for a meeting in Government House. When did those ever start on time?”
“With Rebecca Abrabanel in charge? And all those in attendance are up-timers except for her? They’ll start on time, don’t think they won’t!”
Litsa had a point. As young as she was, the wife of Michael Stearns—once the prime minister of the United States of Europe and now a general fighting the Poles in Emperor Gustav Adolf’s army—already had a reputation for being a formidable political figure in her own right. Eva’s brother-in-law Wilhelm Wettin had replaced Stearns as the USE’s prime minister, and Eva had heard him tell her sister Eleonore that you underestimated Rebecca Abrabanel at your peril.
As for up-timers, in the few short years since the Ring of Fire they’d developed a reputation of their own. That reputation had many facets, but prominent among them was the American penchant for being obsessively punctual. They even had an expression for it in English which had by now worked its way into the Amideutsch lexicon: “anal-retentive.” Eva thought the funniest part of it was the firm belief among the Americans that it was Germans who were given to an absurd attachment to order and routine.
Whether she had a point or not, though, Eva wasn’t going to let her younger friend force her out of her normal circumspection. She’d been born into one of the most prominent families in the Germanies, which were part of the Hochadel—the German upper nobility. That was true of Litsa’s family as well, but where Litsa’s folk were of fairly modest means Eva’s were not. Anhalt-Dessau was a wealthy principality.
But wealth and prominence were no protection against smallpox, which had struck Eva when she was a child. She’d survived, but not without suffering rather bad scarring, especially on her face. Thankfully, her eyes hadn’t been damaged. Everyone told her they were quite pretty, in fact. But the same could certainly not be said of her cheeks and much of the rest of her face.
It had been taken for granted by everyone in her family, as far back as she could remember, that because of the pox scars she’d never get a husband despite the dowry she’d bring. Nothing in Eva’s own experience had suggested anything different to her. Boys had ignored her completely during her teenage years, and while the same was not generally true of young men now that she was in her twenties, they certainly didn’t seek out her company.
So be it. The pox had not affected her mind. She loved to read, and had several close friends among women her age. The worst of her situation, as far as she was concerned, was that the older women in her extended family kept pestering her to enter a women’s foundation. That was something she had no interest in doing. For all that she was usually the quiet one in any gathering of friends, she greatly enjoyed their company and their conversation and had no desire to forego them for the sake of contemplation.
Despite her best attempt to keep Litsa to a reasonable pace, the two of them were walking very quickly when they came around a corner and almost barreled into a small group of men. Litsa came to an abrupt halt and Eva had all she could do not to stumble over her.
When she regained her balance she realized that her friend had become tense. Looking over Litsa’s shoulder, Eva saw that the five men were quite young, except for one who looked to be in early middle age. Judging from their clothes, all of them were workmen—and judging from their scowls, none of them were friendly.
She was suddenly apprehensive herself. As a rule, the streets of Magdeburg were fairly safe, especially in daylight. Add to that the weather—it was a clear day, but a cold and windy one—and neither she nor Litsa had been worried about being accosted by thieves.
But the main reason they hadn’t been worried about it was because the streets of Magdeburg, particularly here in the vicinity of Hans Richter Square and Government House, were patrolled by squads organized by the Committees of Correspondence. For all that people of Eva’s class complained about the matter, given the political attitudes of the CoCs, the fact remained that the patrols were quite effective in keeping crime to a minimum, especially in the streets.
Normally, the worst that people of wealth or nobility might expect from an encounter with CoC patrols was brusque rudeness—and that was not even a given. Depending on their leadership, some of the patrols were quite courteous, even pleasant.
But judging from the expression on the face of the older man who seemed to be in charge of this patrol, he was not given to courtesy under the best of circumstances—which these were certainly not. Ever since the emperor’s incapacitating injury at the battle of Lake Bledno, the political tensions in the USE had been escalating rapidly. The Swedish chancellor Oxenstierna was in Berlin organizing what looked more and more like a counter-revolution in the making.
And unfortunately, Eva’s brother-in-law was not only the current prime minister but had been foolish enough—such was her privately held opinion, anyway—to side openly with Oxenstierna. She could only hope—
“I recognize the pox-faced bitch,” said one of the younger men. “She’s one of the sisters of Wettin’s wife.”
So much for that hope. The group of men started clustering around them still closer, and the sense of menace was now quite open.
Eva glanced around, hoping to
spot a policeman, but there was none in sight. The capital city’s new police force was surprisingly good, when it came to solving crimes and apprehending miscreants. But it was not a large force and made it a point to avoid open clashes with the city’s Committee of Correspondence. So the police did very little in the way of patrolling the streets.
The only other people in sight were two men coming around a corner. Given the way their heads were lowered against the wind and their faces completely obscured by the hats they were wearing, she doubted if they’d even seen the confrontation taking place a block ahead of them.
And once they did spot it, they’d almost surely cross the street or turn back in order to avoid getting involved. They would also know that this was a CoC patrol, and very few people in Magdeburg wanted to get crossways with such.
Perhaps diplomacy—soothing words—
Not in Litsa’s company, alas. “Why are you impeding us?” her friend demanded angrily. “I’m a journalist with Simplicissimus magazine here to do a story.” She pointed to Government House, visible in the distance. “On…something happening in there,” she concluded, a bit lamely.
There were times when Eva thought Litsa had the brains of a goose. Simplicissimus magazine was not openly hostile to the Committees of Correspondence and the Fourth of July Party, no. But they were not on especially friendly terms with them, either. “A journal of criticism of society and the arts” was the way the magazine’s editors had characterized it when Stearns had been the prime minister. And while Stearns himself had maintained a civil stance toward the magazine, the same could not be said for others in his camp.
Certainly not the CoCs! Americans, from the long experience of their own history in that world of the future, tended to be fairly relaxed about political wrangles. The same was not always true of their down-time supporters and adherents.
“Simplicissimus, is it?” sneered the older man. “Just another pack of counter-revolutionary shitheads.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense!” exclaimed Litsa.
Eva decided to try a more deflective approach. “Shitheads, maybe. But counter-revolutionaries? They’re much too concerned with fussing over the latest poetical styles—”
That turned out no better. “Shut up, poxface!” said the man who’d recognized her. He stepped closer and raised his hand as if to strike her. “Nobody wants to hear any crap from a Wettin.”
Litsa seemed determined to plumb the depths of reckless obstinacy. “She’s not a Wettin! She’s—”
“Litsa, enough!” said Eva. Explaining to irate plebeian roughnecks that Eva was one of the daughters of the prince of Anhalt-Dessau and only related to Wilhelm Wettin by marriage would hardly be an improvement.
“I said, ‘shut up!’” repeated the younger tough. He cuffed Eva with his hand.
She evaded the force of the blow easily enough by hunching her shoulders, lowering her head and backing away. Unfortunately, instead of being satisfied the fellow took another step toward her and raised his hand again.
But that was as far as he got. A hand seized his wrist and pulled him away.
“Easy there, fellow,” said a man’s voice.
Looking up, Eva was surprised to see that the voice belonged to a stranger. She recognized the broad-brimmed hat, though, because of its distinctive plume. This was one of the two men she’d spotted approaching them earlier. Glancing to the side, she saw that his companion had come to a halt not far from the small group of CoC men.
But her gaze immediately came back to her would-be assailant and the man who’d blocked him. Angrily, the tough jerked his hand out of the man’s grasp and reached for a dirk belted to his waist.
“I really wouldn’t do that,” said the man wearing the fancy hat. Oddly, his tone remained cordial—and more oddly still, the expression on his face was an outright grin.
The CoC man started to draw his blade. The man he confronted brushed aside his buff coat—which Eva recognized as the informal armor worn by experienced cavalrymen. Thereby revealing, nestled in an expensive-looking holster, one of the peculiar American pistols whose smallish size did nothing to disguise its lethality. The pistol rested on the man’s left hip, with its butt facing forward, ready for a cross-draw.
“There’s an old saying where and when I come from,” said the man in the buff coat. Alerted by the pistol, Eva finally detected the traces of an American accent. But it was a very faint trace. The man’s German was fluent and easy.
“Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight,” he said. Then he rattled off something in Italian, but he spoke too quickly—that sounded quite fluent also—for Eva to understand what he said. Her own Italian was passable at best.
Not that the meaning of whatever he’d said wasn’t obvious. His companion was a big man with a dark complexion and a distinctly non-German appearance. Although he’d been spoken to in Italian, judging from his clothing Eva thought he was Spanish. The man took a couple of steps to the side, opening the flank of the CoC group. He also moved aside his coat, exposing a short sword to view.
The Spaniard’s expression was one of exasperation. He replied in Italian also and this time Eva was able to follow most of it. You swore off—something—and we don’t need—something something—business to take care of, Captain.
Eva looked back at the “captain.” He was quite a handsome man. Not as big as his Spanish companion, but very well put together. His shoulders were broad, his stance was poised and relaxed. His hands were now…very still.
Eva had been around enough soldiers to know she was in the presence of a veteran—and it was obvious by the worried expression on the face of the older CoC man that he knew it as well. What had started as a simple exercise in harassing two young upper-class women was becoming a much more dangerous enterprise.
The captain’s grin broadened. “But I’m a sporting man!” he said cheerfully, staring at his young opponent—who still had his dirk only half-drawn. “So let’s have no talk of gun play. Knives you want, knives it is.” And with that he brushed back the right side of his coat and drew out his own—
Knife? The thing was grotesque! It reminded Eva, more than anything else, of paintings she’d seen of old Roman gladii.
“We call this a Bowie,” said the captain, as cheerfully as ever.
The young tough’s face was now very pale. It had finally dawned on the fellow that the man he confronted was not only much better armed than he was but was also more experienced in real mayhem—and quite obviously willing to prove it.
Eva glanced at Litsa but saw there would be no help coming from her. Litsa had gone from excessive brashness to frightened paralysis.
“Please!” Eva exclaimed. “There’s no need for this!” She stepped forward, interposing herself between the two might-be combatants.
The key to resolving the conflict without bloodshed, she decided, was to appeal to the newly arrived American officer. The CoC men were too angry and confused to be able to react intelligently.
“You have the advantage of me, Captain. I am Eva Katherine von Anhalt-Dessau. And you are…?”
He shifted the grin to her and made a slight bow. Just enough to be polite, not enough to lose sight of his possible antagonist. “Captain Harry Lefferts, at your service.”
Litsa lapsed into blasphemy. “Oh, dear God!” she exclaimed, her hand now going up toward her throat. “You’re…real?”
Eva almost laughed. Truth be told, she’d thought herself that the “Captain Harry Lefferts” of current folklore was mostly nonsense. Seeing the man in the flesh, however…
Maybe not. Glancing at the group of CoC men, she saw that they didn’t seem to have any doubts about the captain’s bona fides.
Very gruesome bona fides, in some respects. One of the tales, as she recalled, had Captain Lefferts disemboweling a man in a duel. Judging from the easy way he held his blade, the legend might very well be true.
The man facing him obviously had no doubt at all. Hurriedly, he slid his dirk back in its scabb
ard and scuttled away a few steps. “I didn’t recognize you, Captain!” he protested, holding up his hands.
“And so no harm is done,” said Lefferts, as cheerily as ever. He slid the huge knife back into its scabbard and turned toward Eva, then extended his arm, crooked at the elbow. “May I escort you to your destination?”
A rather charming man too, Eva decided. He seemed to have no reaction at all to the scars on her face. That was normal, of course, for young men of her own class who already knew her or had been told what to expect when they encountered her for the first time. But when strangers met her, especially young men, they usually kept a certain distance. The reaction was subtle, as a rule, but Eva had come to recognize it quite well.
But with Captain Lefferts…nothing. That couldn’t be from his American origin and upbringing. By all accounts, smallpox had been eradicated in the world they came from.
“We were on our way to Government House,” she said, as they started walking.
“What a coincidence,” said Lefferts. “So were Vincente and I.”
Looking over her shoulder, Eva saw that Litsa had taken the Spaniard’s arm and they were following just behind. Farther back in the distance, the knot of CoC men were still staring at them.
She continued to puzzle over the problem, as they made their way to the east. Before long, she decided the best solution was simply to ask.
“You do not seem—what word should I use? ‘Dismayed’ is too strong. Concerned, perhaps—no, I think the American idiom is ‘put off.’ By my pox scars.”
He looked down at her. “Why should I be? Everyone who reaches adulthood has scars. No way to avoid it. Some are on the outside, some are on the inside.”
