Ring of Fire III

by Eric Flint

  He didn’t hear the sound of cloth tearing.

  * * *

  Ahmed Pasha looked out over the ground where the bodies of the Persian cavalry lay. It had been an hour since a single volley of rockets had broken their charge. Even trained warhorses didn’t like the noisy flame-spitting rockets, whether or not they were hit by them. The cavalrymen trying to control their mounts had been defenseless against his cannon, his volley guns, and even his men with their old matchlocks. He had not lost a single man.

  The stories that would reach the redheads about the fall of Revan would terrify them. Terrifying the sultan’s enemies was a good thing and Ahmed felt no regrets about doing it. If this new way of making war did not terrify the Persians into making peace, then Ahmed would urge the sultan to let him pursue them with the new weapons until they were utterly annihilated. Not because he hated the Persians. He didn’t. If they made peace, so much the better. But the day was coming when the Ottomans would be facing men who also fought war in this new way, and when that day came they could not afford to still be fighting the Persians. He didn’t hate those men either. The men who claimed to be from the future. The men from whom the knowledge of the new gun carriages and the new rockets and the new design of volley gun and, most importantly, the best ways to use them had come. He didn’t hate them, but he knew he would have to fight them. And they would be harder to terrify.

  But now he had to deal with the Persians in the city. They had signaled that they wanted a truce. He would act angry, but in the end let them have the same terms. This attack would give him a reason for having them come out in small, easily controlled groups. His past experience told him that many of them would offer to forgo their false beliefs if it would save them from slavery. That would be good—even if they secretly continued in their errors, their allegiance would not be tested in the fight to come—these men from the future were all true infidels. And some of those who were adamant in their allegiance—perhaps a hundred—could be sent back to their shah with the body of Mir Arash Khan. A gesture of respect for a brave enemy, he would call it. That might make peace easier. And perhaps it might save some innocents in Esfahan.

  * * *

  Zaynab held her daughter and watched her son, who sat between her and the door. They waited in silence and near darkness. They had exhausted all possible diversions in the week that had passed since they had been confined after word had arrived of the fall of Iravan.

  Zaynab was torn. She loved her husband. She had wanted Arash to return. But if he lived, and perhaps even if he did not, she knew she and her children would pay the price for his failure to prevent the loss of that city.

  Beyond the fact that the city had fallen, she knew nothing. The servants who brought the plain food every day didn’t speak, and the guards that accompanied them also ignored her questions. All she had been told was that she and her children would be confined until the situation was clarified.

  The sound of the bolt being drawn seemed to echo. It was too early for the meal. Rustem stood up, still facing the door. His stance said he intended to defend his mother and sister as well as a nine-year-old boy could do.

  The door opened. Light spilled in, blinding her so that she could not make out the face of the man who stood in the doorway.

  “Your husband has fallen in the service of the shah. Go home and mourn him.”

  Frying Pan

  Anette Pedersen

  Part 1

  Rostock, the harbor, 31 October 1634

  “This is a cold evening, young man. Would you care to keep me company for a drink?”

  Lasse had noticed the thin man eyeing him for a while, and wasn’t surprised when he finally spoke. Instead Lasse turned with his sweetest smile and the twist displaying his elegant legs that he learned during the year he’d spend as Otto von Quadt’s plaything.

  “Gladly. I seem to have missed my ship.” Lasse tried to hide his lowborn Swedish accent, and imitate Otto’s upper-class German, but knew it wouldn’t quite work.

  “Ah, are you a Dane?” The thin man opened the door to the half-timbered tavern, and stood aside to let Lasse enter first. Lasse considered accepting the man’s suggestion—anything to throw Otto off his trail would be fine—but decided to stick a bit closer to the truth.

  “Only sort of. I’m from Norway.” Lasse wasn’t, but his grandmother had been, and had left just ahead of a witch-trial. It was the silver that the old harridan had earned from her herbal remedies and abortifacients that had enabled Lasse to buy an apprenticeship with the cook at the Oxenstierna manor house. The cooking she taught him had let him rise to junior cook in the household of Princess Kristina. But it was the poisons she taught him that let him escape from Otto’s house here in Mecklenburg.

  Lasse sat down on the bench by the rough trestle table near the fireplace and wondered how to suggest something to eat as well. The landlord, happily, made that suggestion when the thin man ordered a bottle of Rhenish wine. Lasse knew how dangerous it could be to display any kind of weakness, in case the thin man turned out to have more in common with Otto than a taste for pretty young men. The last of the money he had stolen from the corpse of Otto’s comrade had run out yesterday, so he accepted an offer of a few slices of meat pie.

  “My name is Friedrich Messer, silversmith,” said the thin man pouring the sweet, white wine into the clay mugs, “I’ve just arrived from Copenhagen and must continue on to Magdeburg tomorrow. Prince Ulrik of Denmark commissioned a set of silver goblets from me as a betrothal present for Princess Kristina. They are of course being guarded by my man in my room, so I find myself eating quite alone tonight. A state that I really dislike.” He looked at Lasse with what was probably supposed to be a knowing smile, but which actually made him look like a leering skull.

  The mere mention of the princess made Lasse want to scream in pain and anger, but Otto had trained him well, so he made sure to smile back, while looking Herr Messer deep in the eyes. Two years ago Lasse had been so proud of his promotion into the royal Swedish household. It had been no secret among the servants that the queen didn’t like her daughter. She had even tried to do her harm before the king had given the princess her own household and ordered the queen to stay away. Lasse still had no idea whether accusing him of trying to poison the princess had been the queen’s attempt to get back into the king’s good graces, or Otto’s way to get Lasse into his power. What Otto had said during the months he had sent Lasse through Hell could certainly not be relied upon. Or perhaps it had been yet another skirmish in the ongoing power struggle between the queen and Axel Oxenstierna, who had recommended Lasse for the position as the princess’s junior cook. All Lasse really knew was that within minutes of the queen shouting poison, he had found himself being beaten senseless and thrown into a stinking hole of a cell beneath the castle. His attempts to protest that he really hadn’t noticed the hairline crack in the pewter had been ignored, and once he regained consciousness he had quickly become so terrified by the jailor’s talk of torture and execution for treason that he had barely felt the pain and humiliation of having the man rape him. This was repeated several times during the next days, alternating with new beating and threats of what the jailor would do to Lasse if he told of the rape during the process—even though no one would, of course, take the word of a traitorous servant over that of a respectable, church-going married man.

  “Do try the egg pie as well.” Herr Messer pushed the brass dish towards Lasse. “It really is outrageous the prices farmers demand for food these days, but the political situation does open many new opportunities for a master craftsman.”

  Lasse nodded in agreement, but in his mind he was seeing Otto coming to take him away from the cell in Stockholm. Otto had looked like the Savior himself in the flickering torch-light, with his handsome face and silver-embroidered white silk, taking Lasse away from the cell, promising that his hardships were over, and that Otto would keep him safe in his castle in Mecklenburg. Otto was the son of one of the queen’s ladies
-in-waiting from her youth in Germany. Immediately on his arrival in Stockholm, his beauty, wit and charm had made him the queen’s favorite. He had used his position quite ruthlessly to amass wealth and remove rivals, but that was business as usual for a courtier. Lasse had known nothing about the games Otto played for his pleasure.

  Looking back Lasse could see that Otto had deliberately set out to break his will by gaining his love and trust, and then breaking it, over and over again, in a devil’s circle of betrayal and hope, abuse and excuse. And something had broken. It just hadn’t been Lasse’s will. Lasse wasn’t sure exactly what it was that was gone, but three weeks ago when he had stood looking at what was now the corpse of the most recent “friend” Otto had told him to entertain, he finally realized that the bright, young Swedish boy who had made such beautiful pies and sauces was now gone forever. He still planned to go back to Sweden, but his vague idea of seeking out Oxenstierna, exposing Otto’s schemes and crimes, and getting his old job back, could never work. Even if Oxenstierna believed him, he would be like a gutter rat set in the place of one of those caged songbirds in the queen’s garden.

  On the other hand, there was now very little—if anything—Lasse would stop at doing to remain out of Otto’s power. Dragging his mind back to the present where Herr Messer droned on about his royal connections, how important he was, and how Lasse should really come to his room to see the goblets, Lasse laid his plans.

  * * *

  Shit! The bastard was a beater! Lasse twisted to break the silver chains binding him, as the whip hit him again. He hadn’t liked the chains, but Herr Messer’s explanation about liking to see a beautiful body wrapped in the work of his hands had seemed innocent enough, and it wasn’t until Herr Messer had suddenly tied a gag over his mouth that Lasse had realized his danger. Ignoring the pain from the whip, Lasse concentrated on twisting a kink in the chain. He had been tied before, both for real and with the purpose of letting him think he could escape, and knew that the chain would break easier at a kink than if he just pulled.

  At last the chain broke, and when the whip came down again Lasse rolled off the bed and got hold of his knife from his doublet on the chair. Herr Messer stood frozen for a moment before shouting and running for the door. Before he could reach it, Lasse grabbed the fleeing man and with a hand over his mouth, cut his throat with a single stroke. Only when the blood stopped spouting did Lasse let go of the corpse. He held the knife ready to strike again, when the door in front of him began to open. The intruder was a short, rather skinny, young woman that he vaguely remembered seeing in the taproom. Seeing that she was also holding a knife in her hand made him pause.

  The woman looked down at the corpse, then looked up at Lasse, smiled and leaned against the door-frame. “I thought I heard a noise I recognized, but you seem to have taken care of the problem yourself. He’s quite dead. They always are when they’ve bled like that. Why don’t you grab your pants and get out of here, before your customer’s valet comes to see what’s happened? He looks like he might like to listen at the door.”

  Lasse nodded, ripped the gag from his mouth, and dressed quickly, hissing as his shirt slid over the welts on his back. As he bent to take Herr Messer’s purse, he noticed the velvet bag containing the goblets and stuffed those inside his slightly too large doublet as well.

  “Quick,” said the woman turning towards the stairs.

  “What goes there? Help! Thieves!” Herr Messer’s valet shouted and blocked the narrow staircase. Lasse heard the sound of chairs turning over and heavy feet stamping in the taproom below.

  “Damn! They think I’m with you. This way.” The woman grabbed Lasse’s arm and pulled him toward the other end of the narrow corridor and down an even narrower staircase.

  “Stop them! They’re getting away! Go around to the stable!” Lasse recognized the voice of the tavern keeper as he hurried down the dark stairs. From his wanderings during the day he knew that a passage led from the stable yard to the maze of old, and twisted alleys between the harbor and the Maria Church. If he and the woman could get there, they could quickly rid themselves of their followers, but three people were running to cut them off. The stable boy, waving the pitchfork he had grabbed, probably wouldn’t use it unless he was directly attacked, but would the woman be able to take out one of the men, while Lasse fought the other? That question was quickly answered as she kicked one man in the balls—seemingly without breaking her stride—and shouted “Herauss!” at the boy so furiously that he dropped the pitchfork and stepped back in fear. That left only one man for Lasse to deal with, but more were coming down the stairs behind them, so he made a feint with his knife towards his opponent’s eyes before copying the woman’s kick, and following her out in the alley. He stopped only to cut the purse strings of both the groaning men.

  * * *

  “Let’s stop here.” The woman stopped and pulled Lasse into the shadow beneath a stairway. During his time with Otto, Lasse had developed a strong dislike of having anyone touch him, but for some reason having this young woman pull him around seemed natural, and didn’t bother him at all. Once out of the stable yard they had quickly slowed their run to a walk to avoid catching anyone’s attention, but after ambling around for a while, the woman started heading south along the hill, as if having a specific goal in mind.

  “Now, I don’t need to ask what was going on in that tavern, but what are—or were—your plans, boy?” The woman folded her arms, and leaned against the wall in the same position she had assumed in the tavern.

  “I was planning to go back to Sweden, but needed the money for the passage. I have that now.” Lasse shrugged. “I’ve sold the horse I arrived on, but I could walk to Warnemünde in the morning.”

  “You’d better disguise those pretty looks of yours before trying to leave town.” She pulled a small knife from somewhere in her skirts, and started using it to clean her fingernails. Lasse smiled. He had absolutely no doubt the woman could be dangerous, but seeing her imitate the ways of a bully boy was still kind of cute.

  “And you? How much did I damage your plans?” he asked.

  She shrugged but looked a little worried. “We’ll have to abandon our belongings, and Viktor will not be pleased.”

  “Your pimp?”

  “Oh no, we don’t have to sell our body these days.” She stopped seeming a little surprised at her own words, then nodded and went on. “Viktor is an arms dealer, and I work as his clerk. We don’t normally work out of Rostock, and didn’t use our real names in the tavern, so there’s no big problem.”

  “Good.” Lasse’s smile felt a lot more genuine than normal these days, but then he really didn’t need an angry pimp to deal with as well.

  The woman looked up and down Lasse with a speculative look on her face. “You’re rather good with that knife, boy.” She paused. “And you look completely harmless. Viktor wouldn’t have any use for you in bed, for himself or for others. He doesn’t work that way. But if you’d be willing to gather information, and perhaps be the unexpected guard to his back, he would look after you in return. Probably not hire you full time, but pay for any job you do. And he pays well.”

  Lasse lifted an eyebrow in surprise, but before he could answer, the young woman stepped away from the wall and walked toward two men who were crossing the square. Judging from her gestures she was telling them what had happened as she led the men back toward Lasse.

  “I am Viktor and I have no use for a useless pretty boy, especially not one that has cost me money.” The bigger of the two men grumbled with a strong accent while folding his arms and leaning against the wall in exactly the same pose and place that the small woman had just left.

  “I am deeply grateful for the lady’s help, and I apologize for costing you and your people the belongings left in the tavern. On the other hand, I don’t think anybody could reasonably expect you to pay your bill.” To his horror, Lasse could hear that he hadn’t quite managed to keep all his amusement out of his voice, but the big man d
idn’t seem offended, and just gave a grunt as response.

  “Viktor, I really think it would be worth it to take the boy along. I like the way he thought to snatch up the purses of the two men we kicked down.” The woman paused and seemed to relax and soften a little now her friends had arrived. “In fact, even Brigitte was impressed by his behavior tonight.”

  Lasse didn’t understand the last remark, but it seemed to make Viktor accept the woman’s recommendation.

  “As you wish, my dear Tat’yana. Boris, give the boy your hood, and let’s find Vladimir’s taproom. We can spend the night in his back room, and get some disguises tomorrow. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Lasse.” Lasse pulled the old-fashioned hood with the big collar over his head and followed the others across the square. He had no intention of finding himself in anybody’s power again, but then Otto would not be looking for Lasse in a group of travelers.

  “And do you have any other trade but your looks?”

  “I used to be a cook.” Lasse couldn’t hear any emotions in the big man’s voice, as if he not only didn’t judge Lasse for making a living as a catamite, but actually didn’t care very much.

  “Can you do poisons?”

  “Yes.”

  “And would you?” Viktor stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  Lasse was about to just answer yes, but stopped to think. Would he? Granny had taught him how to make portions for just about anything, including death, but poison was difficult to control. He would gladly have poisoned the wells at Otto’s estate, killing everybody in the household, but he could not imagine doing the same at Oxenstierna’s estate, or even at the royal castle.

  “Not for everyone or everywhere. Besides, strong sleeping draughts are usually just as useful, and much more forgiving of mistakes.”