by Eric Flint
He looked through the binoculars at the confluence. It seemed…
“Yes, she’s right. I can make out fieldworks.”
“They might not be Ottoman,” cautioned Jakub.
Lukasz lowered the eyeglasses and shook his head. “That’s not likely.” He used the binoculars as a rough wand to point to the much closer fieldworks just west of Pressburg. “Why would the Austrians—excuse me, Hungarians—put fieldworks that far out to fend off an attack, when they’ve got these? They can’t afford to take chances like that; not when the main Austrian-Hungarian forces are more than one hundred and fifty miles away.”
“I’m not arguing the point,” Jakub said mildly. “Just raising it.”
“You’d damn well better not argue it,” interjected Denise. “Maybe all the mighty but myopic hussar can see are fieldworks, but I saw one of those horsetaily things. What do you call them? Tugs?” She used her hands to indicate a cylindrical shape. “Like Chinese lanterns, sorta, except they’re round instead of a square and the walls aren’t paper but cords of some kind. Horsetails, I guess.”
She dropped her hands. “They remind me of something hippies would use.”
Lukasz wondered why big-hipped American women would want a horsetail banner, but he didn’t bother to ask. Up-timers had a multitude of weird customs. However idiosyncratic, Denise had provided a good description of the most common style of tugh used by the Ottomans.
He didn’t even think of questioning her again. Denise was honest to a fault, in addition to being prickly when she was challenged. If she said the Ottoman standard was there and that was its design, he’d take her word for it.
“Good enough,” he said. “Now all we have to figure out is how we get from here to there hauling this greatly ungainly so-called carriage of ours.” He gave the countryside a study that was dubious and wary. “Not going to be easy, that.”
* * *
It wasn’t. They required almost two days to get there and at least twice the eight-mile distance Lukasz had estimated in terms of crow’s-flight miles. But, finally, they got the carriage onto the narrow road that paralleled the Danube’s left bank and from there reached the Ottoman fieldworks.
Those were quite impressive, due mostly to the fact that the Turks had seized Devin Castle, which dated back for centuries. The castle had been erected on a cliff overlooking the confluence of the Danube and the Morava.
It was pretty spectacular, especially the small watchtower perched on a rock spire that was separated from the main castle.
“Boy, that looks awfully shaky,” Denise commented, peering up at the tower from inside the carriage. She’d moved the heavy curtains aside with a finger to see outside.
Noelle, sitting across from her, had done the same. “Well, that tower’s been there since at least the thirteenth century, so it can’t be all that flimsy.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“I heard about it from people while we were still in Breslau,” Noelle explained. “That tower is quite famous in the area. They call it the ‘Maiden Tower,’ on account of there being legends that it was used to imprison girls from noble families who got enamored of the wrong man. Some of them leapt to their death in despair, if you believe the legends.”
Denise curled her lip. “You wouldn’t ever catch me doing something that stupid. Getting hung up on the wrong guy, maybe. But jumping to my death over him? Not hardly.”
She let the curtain drop back into place. “Of course, with me it’d be a moot point anyway, seeing as how I’m not a maiden.”
“Stop bragging, Denise.”
The girl’s lip curled still further. “Just ’cause you took forever to get your cherry popped. I did it when I was still—”
“I said, stop bragging.”
* * *
As Lukasz had expected, the Ottoman officials charged with keeping an eye on these outlying Austrian-Hungarian forces were indeed officious. And Ottoman standards of “officiousness” started with accusations of malevolent wrongdoing and only slowly eased themselves into mere suspicion. The process could be sped by bribes, of course, which Lukasz readily provided. He’d been given a large purse for that purpose by Gretchen Richter. For a woman who insisted she was a mere agitator for the low folk, she had coffers that most noblewomen would have greatly envied. That was one of the advantages of being a troublemaking malcontent who sported the title of “Lady Protector” and was in the good graces (using the term loosely) of Europe’s most powerful ruler.
So, after three days of sometimes nerve-wracking but mostly tedious dickering with Ottoman officialdom, they were allowed to proceed on to Vienna. Still better, they were given permission to hire water transport, so they made the last stretch of their journey aboard a barge on the Danube.
Beç, formerly known as Vienna
Capital of the new Ottoman province (eyalet) of Austria
“It doesn’t look as badly damaged as I would have thought,” said Noelle, again peering out of the carriage through a narrow opening in the curtains she’d created with her forefinger.
“They might have rebuilt stuff,” suggested Denise. “They’ve had Vienna for six months already.”
Lukasz shook his head. “But for most that time Murad had his army camped outside Linz. He wouldn’t have left more men here than he needed to, and given that most of the population had already fled that would have been a skeleton garrison. Even if he’d told them to start rebuilding, they wouldn’t have gotten very far.”
He moved the curtain on his side of the carriage, and looked out. “No, I think it just never got damaged all that much. This was a city taken by surprise, not one that saw days of fighting inside its walls.”
He let the curtain slide back into place. “Whatever the explanation, it’s good news for us.”
“Why’s that?” asked Denise. She was simply curious, not challenging.
“Because a little damaged and mostly unpopulated city has plenty of billets for the occupying troops. That means there’ll be some room for our mission to be given lodgings without us having to trip over Turkish soldiers every hour of the day and night. Leaving aside the headaches that would involve, it’ll make our mission a lot easier. Well, easier, at any rate. Maybe not a lot. That depends on what quarters they give us.”
“If they give us any at all,” said Denise. “I’m skeptical about that, myself. Maybe they’ll just give us the heave-ho right off.”
Noelle frowned. “Why’d you agree to come, then?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I really want to get Minnie out of here.”
“They’ll provide us with quarters,” Lukasz said, confidently. “It won’t be what you’d call a welcome, exactly. But Ottoman prestige is involved. Being hospitable to diplomatic envoys, no matter where they come from, emphasizes how mighty they are. It’s not an act, either. They are mighty.”
Denise nodded. “Okay, that makes sense. Would a lion begrudge a kitty-cat somewhere to sleep in his presence?”
Lukasz smiled. “A lion would, actually. That kitty-cat would make a nice snack. I take it you’re not familiar with the creatures.”
“Outside a zoo? Hell, no. Do I look crazy? And how would you know about them, anyway?”
“I’ve hunted them, of course.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “I keep forgetting. Seventeenth fricking century, Denise.”
* * *
A unit of sipahis guided them to the royal palace, and served them as an escort at the same time. Of course, everyone involved understood perfectly well that, under the circumstances, “escort” was synonymous with “guards.” But the officer in charge was perfectly courteous to them throughout.
Once they pulled up in front of the Hofburg—or whatever the sultan was calling the former Habsburg palace these days—Lukasz clambered out of the carriage. He made sure to open the door wide enough so that some of the escorting sipahis could get a glimpse of Noelle and, especially, Denise. For her part, the young woman wa
s dressed in what she called her “premier prostie” outfit, which consisted of a minimum of clothing and most of that gauze. She did, however, wear a veil.
After Lukasz closed the carriage door, she leaned back in her seat.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said Noelle. “You didn’t need to be that flamboyant about it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Denise said cheerfully. “You think the Prick-Teaser League would let me join?”
“It’d have to be as an honorary member. Like the Nazis made the Japanese ‘honorary Aryans.’ On account of you’ve never to the best of my knowledge teased any pricks at all.”
“Not one,” Denise agreed. “Most of them I told to take a hike and the few I didn’t had no complaint afterward. Of course, that’s all behind me now that I’ve got Eddie.”
She looked down at the gauze contraption that humorists would have called “clothing.” The apparel displayed her midriff, along with the tattoo that Noelle thought must have scandalized two-thirds of the heavenly host when they found out about it. The image was that of a seductress wearing clothes that were fuller than the ones she had on but made up for it by being so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on. The caption above the image read You can land here and the one below If you don’t crash.
“Eddie’s going to love this outfit. I didn’t have a chance to show it to him before we left Breslau.”
Before Denise finished the sentence Noelle had her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear you,” she said, in a singsong voice. “La la la la—”
Lukasz came back into the carriage, and Noelle broke off her little ditty. “All right,” he said. “Jakub’s gone into the palace to start negotiating with the Turk officials. For today, of course, he’ll just be haggling over our lodgings. That’ll probably take hours.”
But it didn’t. Jakub was back in twenty minutes. Lukasz climbed out of the carriage again, closing the door behind him.
On each opposite bench in the carriage, Noelle and Denise slid over immediately so they could listen to the two men outside. Both opened their respective curtains to get a view, as well. Not much of a view, though, since they were using a finger to hold the curtains aside just enough to see through.
The first thing Denise noticed was that Jakub had a peculiar expression on his face—a heavy frown that she’d swear was holding back a grin.
“You won’t believe this,” he said.
Chapter 28
Beç, formerly known as Vienna
Capital of the new Ottoman province (eyalet) of Austria
It didn’t take more than two minutes for the carriage to get around a portion of the palace grounds so they could look at their assigned quarters.
“That’s it, all right,” said Noelle. “Fits the description to a T.” She let the curtain slide back into place.
Denise still had her curtain open a bit. “Wow. Talk about luck. This is like winning the lottery.”
“Not really. It just proves how far down the pecking order we are in the Ottoman scheme of things.”
Lukasz had been peering over Denise’s shoulder, with an intent look on his face.
“Wait here,” he said. Commanded, rather. He flung open the carriage door and practically leapt out of it. Then, charged toward the doorway leading into the detached section of the palace. Apparently, he was so agitated he forgot to close the door and provide his women with their needed privacy.
Hastily, Noelle reached out, seized the door handle, and drew the door shut. She caught a glimpse of one of the sipahis staring at her.
Well, no. Staring past her. Once the door was closed, Noelle turned her head and saw that Denise was resuming her seat on the padded bench on her side of the carriage. The girl would have been quite visible—spectacularly visible—to the sipahi.
She was looking smug. “This Mata Hari stuff is fun,” she said.
Noelle resumed her own seat and shook her hand. “You do know that Mata Hari came to a bad end, right? Executed by a firing squad for espionage.”
Denise’s smile didn’t fade in the least. “That’s not a bad end, Noelle. A bad end is dying of old age in a rest home after you’ve lost all your marbles and your family never visits you on account of you don’t remember any of them anyway. Getting shot by a firing squad is way better. Of course, you want to postpone it as long as you can. How old was she when they shot her?”
“Mata Hari? I’m not sure, exactly. Somewhere around forty.”
“Oh, hell.” Denise flipped her hand as if she were batting away a fly. “That’s so far in the future it’s not worth worrying about.”
Outside, they heard a sudden commotion. Peering through the curtains again, they saw that Lukasz had emerged from the palace annex and was gesticulating almost wildly. He was half-shouting, too. They couldn’t make out any of the words, since they were Polish and being rattled off to Zaborowsky like machine-gun fire.
For his part, Zaborowsky had his head hunched down and his hands spread in a pleading gesture. He appeared to be almost groveling—which was utterly unlike the man.
Lukasz broke off his harangue and charged toward the main palace. Zaborowsky trailed after him.
“What’s he doing?” asked Denise.
Noelle had her lips pursed. “I imagine he’s going to protest to the Turks about the cruddy quarters we got assigned.”
“What? Is he crazy? We couldn’t have asked for a better place to stay.” Now agitated, Denise jabbed her finger in the direction of the annex. “That’s where Minnie is!”
Noelle still had her lips pursed. “Yes, I know—but we can’t be seen to know that. If we were what we claimed to be, this is exactly what Lukasz would be doing. Raising bloody hell.”
She leaned back and took a deep breath. “He’s a lot smarter than he looks, you know. I just hope…”
Denise slumped back in her own seat. “Oh, hell. What if he pisses the Turks off so much they just order us out of here altogether?”
“That’s the risk he’s taking, yes.” Noelle ran fingers through her hair, which she’d been letting grow ever since they decided to send her along on the mission. She preferred it rather short, but the style had been too exotic-looking—for a down-timer, not an American. By up-time standards, she’d had the haircut you’d expect from a female government official.
“I think it’s a pretty safe gamble, though. From everything I’ve heard from Janos, Ottoman officials have rhinoceros hides when it comes to the protests of people they consider beneath them. Which is just about everybody except the sultan and their own superiors. They’re quite competent, he says, as a rule. But they’re hardly what we Americans would call receptive. If you told them the customer was always right, they’d think you were a moron.”
“Well, sure. You would be a moron. I’ve worked in retail—as little as I could. A lot of the times, the customer is a jerk.”
She slumped still further in her seat. “I just hope he doesn’t screw it all up.”
* * *
Eventually, Lukasz came back. When he stuck his head through the curtains he had a ferocious scowl on his face—which instantly transformed into a grin once he couldn’t be seen by anyone outside the carriage.
“In like Flynn,” he said.
“Where and when did you see those movies?”
“Wojtowicz told me about them. One of his favorite actors.”
“Yeah, he would be.” Denise rolled her eyes. “God forbid he should be a fan of somebody classy like Sean Connery playing James Bond.”
Noelle was getting impatient with the badinage. “So what’s the situation? Are we staying in the annex?”
“Yes, indeed. It was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that we could consider ourselves privileged to get any quarters connected to the royal palace. The imperial palace, now.”
“I really, really want out of this damn carriage,” said Denise.
“Please. A bit of patience. Propriety must be maintained. You have to stay out of sight.”
“Now there’s a lost cause…” muttered Noelle.
But she didn’t argue the point, despite her own great desire to get out of the carriage. After weeks inside the thing, she thought she might have developed a permanent case of claustrophobia.
* * *
It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes, though. All they had to do was bring the carriage alongside the now open door to the palace annex, so Noelle and Denise could quickly pass from the one to the other.
Needless to say, the sipahis were watching keenly while pretending not to be. Denise stumbled getting out of the carriage—oh, sure; the girl was normally as agile as a gymnast—and gave everyone a quick look at her legs. Which, for good reason, were prominently displayed in the nose art on Eddie Junker’s airplane.
Noelle was simultaneously annoyed and approving. Annoyed, because Denise took such obvious glee in shenanigans like this; approving, because in terms of their mission her antics were perfectly designed to lay any suspicions to rest. Mata Hari, eat your heart out.
Once they were inside the annex, they looked around.
“What a dump,” said Denise. “Are those saddles, for Chrissake?” She used her chin to point to a wall on which dozens of saddles were suspended. Old, used saddles—and they hadn’t been fancy ones even in their prime.
The whole place was like that, as far as she could see in the dim lighting provided by a few windows, all of which had glass too cloudy to see through. On this ground floor, anyway. But she had no great hopes the two floors above would be much better. It was clear that the annex had been used entirely for storage for quite some time.
But she didn’t dwell on the matter. They’d come here for a reason, after all.
Denise was the one who found the stairs leading up to the tower that had been described over the radio. She started up without asking anyone’s permission, practically racing.
Noelle hurried after her, followed by Lukasz. Behind them, she could hear Jakub positioning their Slovene escort to impede any Ottoman who tried to get into the annex—without, of course, starting an open clash with them.
