by Eric Flint
Finally, as he neared, she found an anchor. Something that matched the writings.
The general's smile was crooked. She'd always thought that was just Macrembolitissa, indulging herself in poetic license.
She said as much.
Belisarius smiled more crookedly still. "So I'm told. Welcome to the Iron Triangle, Lady Saronites."
The general escorted her off the Victrix. Anna was relieved that he didn't offer her a hand, though. She'd be in far more danger of tripping over the long and ragged skirts without both hands to hold them.
She had to concentrate so much on that task that she wasn't really looking at anything else.
They reached the relatively safe footing of the wharf.
"Lady Saronites," said the general, "your husband."
She looked up, startled again.
"Oh," she said. "Oh."
There came, then, the most startling thing of all that day. For the first time in years, Anna was too shy to say a word.
"It's not much," said Calopodius apologetically.
Anna's eyes moved over the interior of the little bunker where Calopodius lived. Where she would now live also. She did not fail to notice all the little touches here and there—the bright, cheery little cloths; the crucifix; even a few native handcrafts—as well as the relative cleanliness of the place. But . . .
No, it was not much. Just a big pit in the ground, when all was said and done, covered over with logs and soil.
"It's fine," she said. "Not a problem."
She turned and stared at him. Her husband, once a handsome boy, was now a hideously ugly man. She had expected the empty eye sockets, true enough. But even after all the carnage she had witnessed since she left Constantinople, she had not once considered what a mortar shell would do to the rest of his face.
Stupid, really. As if shrapnel would obey the rules of poetry, and pierce eyes as neatly as a goddess at a loom. The upper half of his face was a complete ruin. The lower half was relatively unmarked, except for one scar along his right jaw and another puckerlike mark on his left cheek.
His mouth and lips, on the other hand, were still as she vaguely remembered them. A nice mouth, she decided, noticing for the first time.
"It's fine," she repeated. "Not a problem."
A moment later, Illus and Abdul came into the bunker hauling her luggage. What was left of it. Until they were gone, Anna and Calopodius were silent. Then he said, very softly:
"I don't understand why you came."
Anna tried to remember the answer. It was difficult. And probably impossible to explain, in any event. I wanted a divorce, maybe . . . seemed . . . strange. Even stranger, though closer to the truth, would be: or at least to drag you back so you could share the ruins of my own life.
"It doesn't matter now. I'm here. I'm staying."
For the first time since she'd rejoined her husband, he smiled. Anna realized she'd never really seen him smile before. Not, at least, with an expression that was anything more than politeness.
He reached out his hand, tentatively, and she moved toward him. The hand, fumbling, stroked her ribs.
"God in Heaven, Anna!" he choked. "How can you stand something like that—in this climate? You'll drown in sweat."
Anna tried to keep from laughing; and then, realizing finally where she was, stopped trying. Even in the haughtiest aristocratic circles of Constantinople, a woman was allowed to laugh in the presence of her husband.
When she was done—the laughter was perhaps a bit hysterical—Calopodius shook his head. "We've got to get you a sari, first thing. I can't have my wife dying on me from heat prostration."
Calopodius matched deed to word immediately. A few words to his aide-to-camp Luke, and, much sooner than Anna would have expected, a veritable horde of Punjabis from the adjacent town were packed into the bunker.
Some of them were actually there on business, bringing piles of clothing for her to try on. Most of them, she finally understood, just wanted to get a look at her.
Of course, they were all expelled from the bunker while she changed her clothing—except for two native women whose expert assistance she required until she mastered the secrets of the foreign garments. But once the women announced that she was suitably attired, the mob of admirers was allowed back in.
In fact, after a while Anna found it necessary to leave the bunker altogether and model her new clothing on the ground outside, where everyone could get a good look at her new appearance. Her husband insisted, to her surprise.
"You're beautiful," he said to her, "and I want everyone to know it."
She almost asked how a blind man could tell, but he forestalled the question with a little smile. "Did you think I'd forget?"
But later, that night, he admitted the truth. They were lying side by side, stiffly, still fully clothed, on the pallet in a corner of the bunker where Calopodius slept. "To be honest, I can't remember very well what you look like."
Anna thought about it, for a moment. Then:
"I can't really remember myself."
"I wish I could see you," he murmured.
"It doesn't matter." She took his hand and laid it on her bare belly. The flesh reveled in its new coolness. She herself, on the other hand, reveled in the touch. And did not find it strange that she should do so.
"Feel."
His hand was gentle, at first. And never really stopped being so, for all the passion that followed. When it was all over, Anna was covered in sweat again. But she didn't mind at all. Without heavy and proper fabric to cover her—with nothing covering her now except Calopodius' hand—the sweat dried soon enough. That, too, was a great pleasure.
"I warn you," she murmured into his ear. "We're not in Constantinople any more. Won't be for a long time, if ever. So if I catch you with a courtesan, I'll boil you alive."
"The thought never crossed my mind!" he insisted. And even believed it was true.
THE 1632 SERIES
Author's note:
The 1632 series is, so far at least, my "magnum corpus." The novels and anthologies which comprise this series are my most popular works, and I've written more of them than I have of anything else. As of today, eight novels and six anthologies have appeared in the series—see the appendix for a list of all the titles—with a lot more coming.
Most of what I write in this series are novels, but I've also written some short fiction. Included here is the first short piece I wrote, "The Wallenstein Gambit," which was my story for the anthology entitled Ring of Fire, which basically serves as the third book in the series. I use the word "short" advisedly, since "The Wallenstein Gambit" is long enough to be considered technically a short novel.
The other three stories are much shorter. They are the first of the Anne Jefferson stories, which I write for the paper editions of the Grantville Gazette anthologies. A fourth Anne Jefferson story, not included in this anthology, is contained in the paper edition of Grantville Gazette IV, which came out in June 2008.
These stories began as something of a joke between me and my publisher, Jim Baen. Jim designed the cover for the paper edition of the first Grantville Gazette in blithe disregard for any of the stories that were in the volume. When I pointed that out to him, after he showed me the cover, he very cheerily told me that he figured it was my job to fix that problem.
So, grumbling a bit, I did. The result was "Portraits."
So it went, from there. Jim would design a cover and have an artist do it—that's Tom Kidd, who has done most of the covers for the series—and then it would be up to me to write a story that illustrated it. It was quite a challenge, because I had to work within very tight constraints. The same model was used for all the covers, which meant that I had to use the same character, once I established her as Anne Jefferson in the first story.
So why would Anne Jefferson in a white dress be included as part of the night watch? Well, you'll find out in "Steps in the Dance," the story I wrote for the second volume. Why would she be posing for a
nother and different portrait with an artist also on the cover—his hands, anyway? You'll find out in "Postage Due," the story for the third volume.
As time went on, I found myself enjoying the challenge. Alas, with the fourth volume, it's now over. Jim died in June of 2006, and he'll no longer be around to play his side of the game. So, I'll have to do the best I can on my own, trying to figure what sort of perverse cover would have tickled his fancy, partly for its own sake and partly to goose his author.
If you'd like to see the original covers for which these three stories were written, by the way, you can see them on Baen's web site www.baen.com. Select "Catalog" from the menu, then select "F" from the alphabet of authors, then select "Eric Flint."
Better yet, you can buy them.
The Wallenstein Gambit
Chapter I:
The Bohemian Opening March
1633
1
"So what's this all about, Mike?" asked Morris Roth, after Mike Stearns closed the door behind him. "And why did you ask me to meet you in Edith's home?"
Grantville's jeweler looked around the small living room curiously. That was the part of Mike's request that Morris had found most puzzling. By the early spring of 1633, Stearns was usually so busy with political affairs that people came to see him in his office downtown.
As soon as he spotted the young man sitting in an armchair in the corner, Morris' curiosity spiked—and, for the first time, a trace of apprehension came into his interest. He didn't know the name of the young man, but he recognized him even though he wasn't in uniform.
He was a German mercenary, captured in the short-lived battle outside Jena the year before, who'd since enrolled in the army of the United States. More to the point, Morris knew that he was part of Captain Harry Lefferts' unit—which, in reality if not in official parlance, amounted to Mike Stearns' combination of special security unit and commandos.
"Patience, patience," said Mike, smiling thinly. "I'd apologize for the somewhat peculiar circumstances, but as you'll see for yourself in a moment we have a special security problem to deal with." He glanced at the man sitting in the armchair. "I think the best way to make everything clear is just to introduce you to someone. Follow me."
Stearns turned and headed for the hallway, Morris trailing behind. Edith Wild's house wasn't a big one, so it only took a few steps before he came to a closed door. "We're keeping him in here, while he recovers from his latest round of surgery. Edith volunteered to serve as his live-in nurse."
Morris restrained his grimace. Edith Wild was capable enough as a nurse, so long as it didn't involve any real medical experience. Like many of Grantville's nurses since the Ring of Fire, she'd had no background in medical work. She'd been employed in a glass factory in Clarksburg.
Her main qualification for her new line of work, so far as Morris could tell, was that she was a very big woman, massive as well as tall, and had much the same temperament as the infamous Nurse Ratchett in a movie he'd once seen, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Not the sadism, true. But the woman was a ferocious bully. She was normally engaged in enforcing Grantville's public health laws, a job which required a firm hand given the huge influx of immigrants who had a seventeenth-century conception of sanitation and prophylaxis.
A "firm hand," Edith Wild certainly had. Morris had, more than once, heard Germans refer to her as "the Tatar." When they weren't calling her something downright obscene.
And who is "he"? Morris wondered. But he said nothing, since Mike was already opening the door and ushering him into the bedroom beyond.
It was a room to fit the house. Small, sparsely furnished, and just as spick-and-span clean as everything else. But Morris Roth gave the room itself no more than a cursory glance. Despite the bandages covering much of the lower face, he recognized the man lying in the bed within two seconds.
That was odd, since he'd never actually met him. But, perhaps not so odd as all that. Like many residents of Grantville, Morris had a poster up in his jewelry store that portrayed the man's likeness. True, in the form of a painting rather than a photograph. But he could now see that it was quite a good likeness.
He groped for words and couldn't find any. They'd have been swear words, and Morris avoided profanity. The poster in his shop was titled: Wanted, Dead or Alive.
The man was studying him with dark eyes. Despite the obvious pain the man was feeling, his expression was one of keen interest.
Abruptly, the man raised a hand and motioned for Morris to approach him.
"Go ahead," said Mike, chuckling harshly. "He doesn't bite, I promise. He couldn't anyway, even if he wanted to. His jaw's wired shut."
Reluctantly, much as he'd move toward a viper, Morris came over to the side of the bed. There was a tablet lying on the covers—one of the now-rare modern legal tablets—along with a ballpoint pen.
The man in the bed took the pen in hand and, shakily, scratched out a message. Then, held it up for Morris to see.
The words were written in English. Morris hadn't known the man in the bed knew the language. He wasn't surprised, really. Whatever other crimes and faults had ever been ascribed to that man, lack of intelligence had never been one of them.
But Morris didn't give any of that much thought. His attention was entirely riveted on the message itself.
CHMIELNICKI
I CAN STOP IT
For a moment, it seemed to Morris Roth as if time stood still. He felt light-headed, as if everything was unreal. Since the Ring of Fire, when Morris came to understand that he was really stranded in the seventeenth century, in the early 1630s, not more than a week had ever gone by without his thoughts turning to the Chmielnicki Massacre of 1648. And wondering if there was something—anything—he could do to prevent it. He'd raised the matter with Mike himself, several times before. Only to be told, not to his surprise, that Mike couldn't think of any way a small town of Americans fighting for its own survival in war-torn Germany in the middle of the Thirty Years War could possibly do anything to stop a coming mass pogrom in the Ukraine.
"How?" he croaked.
Again, the man scrawled; and held up the tablet.
COMPLICATED
STEARNS WILL EXPLAIN
BUT I WILL NEED YOUR HELP
Morris looked at Stearns. Mike had come close and seen the message himself. Now, he motioned toward the door. "Like he says, it's complicated. Let's talk about it in the living room, Morris. After the extensive surgery done on him, the man needs his rest."
Morris followed Mike out of the bedroom, not looking back. He said nothing until they reached the living room. Then, almost choking out the words, could only exclaim:
"Wallenstein?"
Mike shrugged, smiling wryly, and gestured at the couch. He perched himself on an ottoman near the armchair where the soldier was sitting. "Have a seat, Morris. We've got a lot to discuss. But I'll grant you, it's more than a bit like having a devil come and offer you salvation."
After Morris was seated, he manage a chuckle himself.
"Make sure you use a long spoon."
Seeing the expression on Mike's face, Morris groaned. "Don't tell me!"
"Yup. I plan to use a whole set of very long-handled tableware, dealing with that man. And, yup, I've got you in mind for the spoon. The ladle, actually."
"He wants money, I assume." Morris scowled. "I have to tell you that I get awfully tired of the assumption that all Jews are rich. If this new venture of ours takes off, I might be. Faceted jewelry is unheard-of in this day and age, and we should get a king's ransom for them. But right now . . . Mike, I don't have a lot of cash lying around. Most of my money is invested in the business."
Mike's smile grew more lopsided still. "Wallenstein's no piker, like the rest of them. He wants a lot more than your money, Morris. He doesn't want the gold from the goose, he wants the goose himself."
Morris raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Figure it out. Your new jewel-cutting business looks to make a fortune, righ
t? So where's that fortune going to pour into? Grantville—or Prague?"
Morris groaned again. "Mike, I'm over fifty years old! So's Judith. We're too old to be relocating to—to—A city that doesn't have modern plumbing," he finished, sounding a bit lame even to himself.
Stearns said nothing, for a moment. Then, harshly and abruptly: "You've asked me four times to think of a way to stop the coming massacres of Jews in the Ukraine. Probably the worst pogrom in Jewish history before the Holocaust, you told me. This is the best I can manage, Morris. I can't do it, but Wallenstein . . . maybe. But it's a hell of a gamble—and, frankly, one which has a lot more parameters than simply the Jewish problem in eastern Europe."
