by Eric Flint
By now, the sultan knew that the commander of the forces opposing him was the king of Sweden, Gustav Adolf—or Gustavus Adolphus, as he was sometimes called.
The kâfir king also claimed to be an emperor, but Murad paid no attention to that absurd pretension. There were only two real emperors in the world, himself and the ruler of the Mughal Empire in India. (The Chinese might also have a real emperor, from the rumors, but he had too little information to know one way or the other.)
Gustav Adolf’s imperial royal claims might be specious, but Murad did not underestimate his military ability. By all accounts, including those of the sultan’s own spies and agents, the Swedish king was the best general among the Europeans. Only a fool would behave carelessly by withdrawing an army from such a man. True, the Ottoman army was bigger than the forces Gustav Adolf commanded; much bigger. But a big army trying to withdraw from a siege is an ungainly and clumsy beast.
It took four days, but eventually it was done. Within two weeks—perhaps only a week, if all went well and the weather didn’t turn bad—the army would be safely back in Vienna.
Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia
The polyglot force that had no name beyond “Ulrik’s army” set out from Breslau two days after the mission to Vienna left the city.
This evolution was even more chaotic than the one in Brno had been. Australopithecine, at best. But its commander didn’t share Morris Roth’s anxieties. The Danish prince was a calm-headed and imperturbable man, as he’d demonstrated during the Baltic War when he led the attack on Simpson’s fearsome ironclads.
Perhaps more importantly, the officer he’d come to trust and look to for advice was even calmer and more imperturbable than he. The Dungeon Master, his men called him. Ulrik had looked up the reference. Would a good Dungeon Master allow his players to miss an engagement?
It didn’t seem likely. Colonel Jeff Higgins would see to it they got to Bytom in time.
Vienna, official capital of Austria-Hungary
Now under Ottoman occupation
“I’m telling you,” Judy insisted. “This time it’s for real. They said the rescue mission was underway.”
“‘Underway’ could mean anything,” countered Minnie. “They’re probably just trying to maintain our morale. The mission is ‘underway’ because they’re still planning.”
“You’re too much the skeptic,” said Cecilia Renata. “I think that comes from only being able to see the world through one eye.”
“That helps, yes. I’m not subject to optical illusions so much. But I’m a skeptic mostly because my first memory in life was of the wife of the farmer I was bound out to because I was an orphan assuring me the food was going to taste good and there would be plenty of it. The first claim shaded the truth and the second one eclipsed it altogether.”
“Enough,” said Leopold. “We need a new game.”
Judy decided to leave off the dispute over the message. What would be, would be. They’d know sooner or later.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, looking around the cellars. There wasn’t much to see, beyond the few yards around their circle. They only had one candle lit. Most of the cellar they were in was in darkness.
“And you came up with…?”
“I did an inventory of our candles. We’ve still got a ton of them—plenty to burn half a dozen at a time instead of the one or two we usually do.”
“And this is needed because…?”
“Hopscotch.” She explained the game. It didn’t take long.
“I’m against it,” Leopold said immediately. “The last time you came up with one of these overly energetic American games—‘Hide and Seek,’ wasn’t it?—when I was It and trying to find people I almost fell into the hole.”
He pointed toward the entrance to one of the adjoining cellars. You could barely see it because of the poor lighting, but any one of them could have found it if they’d been blindfolded. By now, they knew these cellars very, very, very, very well.
“The one in there.”
“Which shall not be named,” Cecilia Renata proclaimed immediately.
“The shit hole,” said Minnie. “I’ve got to say I’m with Leopold on this one, Judy. Hopscotch, in a dark cellar—five, six candles, it doesn’t matter; it’ll still be dark—you’re just asking for trouble. Especially in the vicinity of plumbing—ha ha ha—left over from the Dark Ages.”
Rome, Italy
“And you are certain this comes from the Sublime Porte?” asked Cardinal Borja.
“Certain? That is too strong a term, Your Eminence. We are dealing with intermediaries here. But I can think of no one else who would be interested in such an outcome. Not this interested, at least.”
The agent extended his hand, in a gesture that combined presentation with a certain amount of caution. So might a servant present a dish of food to his master whose taste he wasn’t sure would please the finicky fellow.
He wasn’t all that cautious, however. Borja had employed the agent on several occasions, so he’d come to know him rather well. The cardinal was not a man with highly discriminate tastes, especially when it involved his own political ambitions.
The cardinal gazed out the window of his palazzo, his lips pursed. After a few seconds, he said musingly, “We have nothing to lose, after all, if the attempt fails. Even if Tuscany suspects us, what could they do?”
The agent wanted the commission, because he was short of funds and had creditors who were…vigorous. But he’d learned that playing the devil’s advocate was usually the most effective tactic at this point.
“The payment they offer is not great, Your Eminence. You could almost say, disrespectfully low.”
Borja shook his head. “That does not particularly concern me. What’s important is that we will have opened a liaison that may prove fruitful in the future—and they will owe us a favor, not we them.”
Now he sat up straight. The agent recognized the motion. The cardinal had traits which made him a difficult employer. But indecision was not one of them.
“Set it underway,” Borja commanded. “Use an intermediary yourself, however.”
The agent kept from smiling. He’d had no intention of doing otherwise, since he was no fool. Assassinations failed more often than they succeeded, in his experience. And the repercussions could be severe.
He didn’t expect they would be this time, it was true. The target was in no position to launch a counterattack, even if he survived. Still, why take chances?
“It shall be done as you command, Your Eminence.”
Part Four
January 1637
The ancient tree groans and the giant is loose;
All are terrified on the roads to hell
“The Seeress’s Prophecy,” from The Poetic Edda
Chapter 16
Poznań
Poznań Voivodeship
Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth
Getting to Poznań proved to be harder than getting into the besieged city. They had to take shelter from the season’s first storm for three days—in a village so small they had to share a cottage with its owners. A cottage that was barely more than a hut to begin with.
The owners themselves were delighted at their good fortune. The payment they received from Jozef was more money than they’d see in a year; in currency, at least.
Most people, when they heard the word “siege,” thought of a city completely surrounded by enemy troops, with all entry and exit barred. In many sieges, though, there was a part of the city that was not being invested at all by the enemy or, if it was, not by very many soldiers.
In the case of the siege of Poznań, the USE was no longer trying to seize the city, although for public consumption they kept referring to it as a “siege.” Torstensson and his two divisions were really there to keep the main Polish army fixed in the north. That was partly so that Gustav Adolf could concentrate on fighting the Turks. Partly also—this was a more recent development—it was because he was begin
ning to think that the USE might be able to gut the PLC’s underbelly. Between seizing Lower Silesia, and supporting the Bohemians and the Galicians…
It was a gamble, of course, but one that he thought had good odds. “Worth a try,” as his up-time allies would say. But in order for the revolt brewing in southern Poland to have any chance of success, the USE had to keep most of the PLC’s armed forces in the north. For the moment, at least, the rebels weren’t strong enough to face those forces if they were assembled into one army.
So, orders had been sent to Torstensson to shorten the siege lines and make them as strong as possible. By the time that was done, no more than two-thirds of the city’s circumference was really being invested any longer. The USE Army was just squatting down for the winter, strengthening and improving its fortifications and keeping its soldiers warm, well fed and healthy. Those fortifications were now designed more to fend off a Polish sortie than to serve as a base to assault the city.
Torstensson did send out cavalry units to intercept any large supply trains that the Poles tried to get into the city—and he had the airplanes to spot them long before they got near to Poznań. But he didn’t bother with any supply attempts that weren’t too ambitious. As long as it avoided enemy patrols, which rarely went out after nightfall, it was possible for a small party to make its way to one of the city’s entrances. And in the case of Jozef and Christin, they had an extra advantage: Gretchen had sent word to Torstensson over the radio that they were coming, and the general of the USE troops besieging Poznań had passed that on to the officers in charge of the troops guarding the northern gate.
That gate was so lightly guarded to begin with that it was possible Jozef and Christin could have slipped past them anyway. But they had no need to make the effort. The evening before they planned to enter the city, they got in touch with Torstensson again and code signals were established. Early on the morning of the following day, before the sun had even risen, they made their way to the entrance.
They did encounter one of the USE cavalry patrols, but there was no difficulty getting past them.
“The grasshopper has no food.”
“It should have prepared for the winter.”
“Who comes up with this stuff?” Christin demanded quietly, once the patrol was out of sight.
“A student of the classics, I assume.”
“‘The Ant and the Grasshopper’ is a classic? It’s a kid’s story.”
“A very, very old one. That makes it a classic.”
“No, it just makes it very, very old. Like my great-aunt Ava. She’s very, very old—was, anyway; I haven’t seen her since the Ring of Fire—but if anybody thought she was a classic it’s news to me.”
* * *
Once at the city gate, of course, they had to persuade the Polish guards to let them in.
But that proved to be no great task, either. For a start, just as Christin had foreseen, the presence of the two children served to allay suspicions. Would evildoers bring children along on a mission to commit evil? It didn’t seem very likely.
In addition, Jozef had the three necessary attributes for the task.
A goodly-sized bribe.
An indefinable air of szlachta arrogance.
A loud voice.
“Open the gates, you stupid bastards! Or I’ll have my uncle skin you alive!”
One of the soldiers tried to take a stand.
“The grand hetman’s dead, you dolt!”
“Then I’ll have his ghost skin you alive! Open the fucking gates!”
At that point, the sergeant in charge intervened. It is unlikely that he was intimidated by the threat of Koniecpolski’s ghost. He was a devout man whose priest had once explained to him that the common belief in ghosts was a sin, being as how it called into question the divinely proclaimed fates of eternal salvation or eternal damnation.
But the priest hadn’t said anything about bribes, one way or the other, and the most devout commoner in Poland was also going to be practical. If his wife found out he’d spurned a good bribe, he’d never hear the end of it.
“Let them in,” he commanded. “And that’ll be enough from you, Mateusz, or you’ll forfeit your share.”
Two soldiers standing not far from Mateusz indicated their support of the sergeant’s position, one by growling and the other by raising his musket. He didn’t exactly aim it at Mateusz, but the barrel was in the vicinity. Mateusz was suitably cowed and the business could proceed.
Once they were through the gates and far enough from the guards not to be overheard, Christin said: “Now what? I’m warning you, Jozef, if you don’t find us a place to sleep soon with a half-decent bed—that means no bugs, most of all—I’m not going to be happy with you.”
“Fear not. That was my very thought.” He reined in his horse and looked around. The street they were in was not all that wide and the buildings on either side were crowded together. To make things worse, at least half of the space available was taken up with jury-rigged dwellings and ramshackle vendors’ shops. The street now had the functional width of an alley. By now, the sun had come up so there was plenty of light, but Jozef couldn’t see anything beyond the street itself. He headed toward an intersection ten yards further on. Christin followed, with their pack horses trailing behind her.
Their progress was slow, because even this early in the day the street was jammed with people. Jammed with carts, too, most of them drawn by hand. Between the soldiers sheltered in the city and the civilian population that had remained, Poznań reminded Jozef of a bee hive.
By the time Christin forced her horse through the mob and got to the intersection, Jozef had a pleased expression on his face. “I was disoriented at first, because I’ve never used that gate before. But now, look.”
Christin followed his pointing finger and saw a big structure that seemed to rise above the city.
“That’s the royal castle,” he said. “They built it on top of Castle Mountain—it’s really just a hill—so it’s easy to find if you can get into an open area. Now all I need…”
He rose in his stirrups and swiveled his head, looking. The motion woke Tekla, sitting in front of him, but only for a few seconds. Not finding what he was looking for, Jozef made his horse turn further around to give him a wider range of vision. Almost immediately, he had his finger pointed again. “Yes, there it is. Those are the spires of the famous cathedral, the Archcathedral Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul.”
Christin had never heard of it. Seeing the expression on her face, Jozef smiled. “Well, it’s famous to us Poles, anyway. It’s the oldest cathedral in Poland. Goes back…I can’t remember when it was started. More than half a millennium.”
If Christin had been a tourist who hadn’t spent almost two weeks traveling on horseback in winter, with two no-longer-delighted young children complaining most of the way, she might have been interested.
Maybe. On her bucket list of things I’d like to see before I die—which she’d left up-time, anyway—cathedrals had ranked pretty low. Below Universal Studios; way below the Daytona 500. And then they started with Notre Dame in Paris, not a cathedral she’d never heard of in a city she’d never heard of either, before the Ring of Fire.
“Bed,” she said.
“I haven’t forgotten. The thing is, if you can find both the royal castle and the cathedral, you’re immediately oriented. The royal castle is on the western side of the city, right next to the wall, and the cathedral is to the northeast, on Ostrów Tumski. That means ‘cathedral island.’” He frowned. “It’s outside the walls so the damn Swedes probably hold it now.”
She’d thought she’d recognized the word for island, “ostrów.” Someday, if she decided to stick around with Jozef and he reciprocated the desire, she’d have to learn Polish, not just a few words and phrases in the language.
That day was not today, however. “Bed,” she repeated.
He smiled. “Not long, now that I know where I am.”
* * *
<
br /> Jozef proved true to his word. True enough, anyway, that Christin didn’t complain at any point. Or issue any threats or warnings. Less than fifteen minutes after he set off from the intersection, they were pulling up before an inn that looked…
Pretty good, actually. Better than Christin had expected.
It turned out that Jozef was known by the proprietor, a man named Niestor. No surname was given, but he might not have had one. Many commoners in Poland still followed the medieval custom of using patronymics only.
Niestor’s wife and son were there as well. Her name was Helzbieta and his was not provided. Clearly, they too were familiar with Jozef.
Jozef waved Christin forward. By then, the two children were awake and she had them by the hand.
“This is my new wife, Cristina.” That was the closest they’d been able to come to Christin in German. “I met her in Nürnberg.”
With a smile, he added: “They’re her children. She was a widow. But I’m going to adopt them.”
Niestor and his wife and son stared at Jozef; then, at Christin; then, down at Pawel and Tekla; then, back at Jozef. You could have hung a sign around their necks that read: Dumbfounded.
Very familiar with Jozef, obviously. If Christin weren’t so tired, she would have laughed.
* * *
The tavern was as full of customers as you’d expect, in a city with this population density, but Jozef was able to get them a small room. It cost him a lot, but they had a sizeable purse.
The room was not actually a guest room but one of the proprietor’s own. The four children who inhabited it were summarily ousted. They didn’t even complain. Clearly, well-trained offspring of a tavern-keeping family.
The bed was softer than Christin would have preferred, but she was used to that by now. All down-time beds were soft and squishy, by her standards. The important things were that the room was warm enough and there were no bugs. Of course, she was using their own bedding, taken from one of their packs. Only a dimwit would use the bedding provided by an inn. You might as well get a tattoo that read Free food in Bugese.
