1637 The Polish Maelstrom

by Eric Flint

  Mike’s laugh was a lot louder than hers had been. “I get a real kick out of that. Since the Ring of Fire, everything the Stone family touches turns into gold. Buncha hippies!”

  Rebecca smiled. “So it would seem. I think the seventeenth century now has its own—what do you call it—runaway blockbuster bestseller? Something like that.”

  “You mean to tell me that a trashy tell-all scandal book is outselling my wife’s brilliantly reasoned treatise on the proper conduct of government and state affairs?”

  “Outselling it by what Harry would call a country mile.”

  “Well, thank God. The world is back to normal.”

  Chapter 31

  Beç, formerly known as Vienna

  Capital of the new Ottoman province (eyalet) of Austria

  “I hope they don’t get suspicious,” Denise said, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. After another couple of seconds, she removed her forefinger and let the curtain on her side of the carriage fall back into place. They were nearing the gates they’d be using to leave the city.

  “They won’t,” said Lukasz confidently. He and Noelle were sitting on the padded bench on the opposite side of the carriage. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed, as if he were meditating. Which…he probably was, in his own hussar sort of way. Like a martial artist, Denise thought, rather than a monk.

  “We’ve only been here a few weeks,” she said. “They might think it’s strange we’re leaving so soon.”

  He shrugged, still without uncrossing his arms or opening his eyes. “They’re Ottomans and we’re supposed to be the envoys from a distant, unimportant—and probably soon-to-vanish—principality they’d never heard of until we arrived. That means they’re full of sublime—and not unreasonable—arrogance, and we’re presumably as scatterbrained as you’d expect such envoys to be. They don’t care what we do. By the time we pass through the gates, no one except minor officials will even remember we were here.”

  “He’s right,” said Noelle, although she didn’t sound as confident as Lukasz did. “I’m sure he’s right.”

  “The longer we stayed, the greater became the risk someone would get suspicious,” Lukasz added.

  “Of what?” Denise’s question was more curious than demanding.

  Lukasz shrugged again. “It could be anything. ‘Suspicious’ and ‘Ottoman official’ are practically synonyms.”

  The carriage lurched, throwing Denise against Judy Wendell, who was sitting next to her.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Judy helped Denise sit back up and smiled. “S’okay. The streets of Vienna sucked even before the Turks came marching in. No harm done.”

  She used her hands to rub her bare shoulders. “I wish we had a heater in here, though. Damn, it’s cold—and I gotta tell you, Denise, this outfit of yours really sucks when it comes to providing any insulation.”

  “Don’t it, though? If it makes you feel any better, the one I’m wearing is just as sucky, warmth-wise.”

  Judy glanced at the apparel Denise was wearing and then glanced down at her own. Allowing for minor variations, they shared the common themes of being gauzy and scant. “Whore outfits, indeed,” she muttered. “Denise, you oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Yeah, people have been telling me that as far back as I can remember. Well, not my parents so much. Mom only gave me a hard time once in a while and Dad almost never did. Not even when I got this tattoo.” Grinning, she slapped the image on her belly.

  Judy gave the tattoo a look that fluctuated between disapproval and envy. She really did think the image was in poor taste—questionable, for sure. On the other hand, she’d always secretly wanted to get a flashy tattoo herself.

  “Look on the bright side,” Denise said. With the palm of her hand, she patted the cushion they were both sitting on, which covered the bare wood of the bench. “I betcha Minnie and the Habsburgers are plenty warm, wrapped up the way they are in blankets so they don’t get jolted to death. Would you rather be down there with them?”

  “God, no,” said Judy.

  A muffled voice came from beneath them. “I heard that,” said Minnie. “You’re both going to rot in eternal hell.”

  “Indeed you will,” chimed in the voice of Archduke Leopold, which was equally muffled from having to pass through the bench and the cushion on top of it. “On one of the lower hells, which according to Dante are freezing cold. So you won’t actually rot, you’ll just wish you could.”

  Before they set out, the decision had been made that Judy could risk riding in the cabin of the carriage, instead of being crammed in with Cecilia Renata in one of the spaces beneath the benches—as long as she wore one of Denise’s “whore outfits.” Ottoman soldiers had caught glimpses of Denise, true. But she and Judy had similar physiques, were about the same size, and Denise had always been wearing a veil when she was spotted. Even if they were stopped and soldiers insisted on looking into the carriage, they’d simply discover that the Polish grandee had brought two concubines with him instead of one. That was hardly something they’d find surprising.

  Minnie and Leopold were crammed together in one of the spaces, but they were accustomed to that. At least Cecilia Renata would have a bit of space in her hiding place beneath Lukasz and Noelle.

  Once they got out of Ottoman territory, they’d be able to relax a bit, at which point the three people hidden under the benches could come out and ride in the carriage proper. At that point, Leopold could join Lukasz in riding on horseback along with Jakub and the Slovene cavalrymen, leaving the carriage to the five women.

  But that wouldn’t be possible for days. In the meantime…

  “Are we there yet?” asked Minnie.

  Poznań

  Poznań Voivodeship

  Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth

  Jozef traced his finger across the map, indicating the escape route he was proposing. “Through the north gate—that’s the only one we can be sure the APC can pass through—and then we loop around the walls to the east. Once we reach this bridge”—he tapped his finger on a marker—“we can get over the Warta and we’ll be on Ostrów Tumski. We’ll pass across the island, staying south of the Basilica, until we reach this bridge”—again, he tapped his finger on a marker—“which will put us back on the mainland. Then we follow the Cybina River until we get to this new bridge the USE engineers built while they were still investing the whole city. That will allow us to cross over to the south bank of the Cybina, after which…”

  He leaned back from the table and stood straight again. “From there we can choose any number of routes that will take us down to Kraków.”

  “Which is what?” asked one of the hussars gathered around the table. “Four hundred miles?”

  “Not that far,” replied Jozef, shaking his head. “More like three hundred.”

  “Still a long journey, especially given the pursuit we’ll be facing.” The hussar smiled thinly. “Excuse me. Facing away from, I should have said.”

  Another hussar spoke up. “I’m not very worried about the pursuit. I don’t think they’ll press it, once we get well out of the city. What I am worried about are those bridges, especially this one.” He reached over and placed his finger on the marker indicating the bridge that would allow them to leave Ostrów Tumski. “I’ve been on that bridge. I wasn’t concerned about it at the time, but I was just one of a party of four hussars. Even on horseback and wearing our armor, we didn’t weigh nearly as much as that APC does.”

  He turned his head to look at Mark Ellis. “How much does it weigh?”

  “Somewhere between five and seven tons.”

  Several of the hussars made a face.

  “It’d be a lot more than that if it was loaded up with coal, of course,” said Ellis. “But all we’ll be carrying are people and their guns, and some equipment, food, water. Two barrels of fuel. Figure…” His eyes got a little unfocused as he quickly did the math involved. “Add another ton and a half
. Two tons, at the most. No matter what, it’ll be less than ten tons.”

  “Less than ten tons…” muttered the hussar who’d asked the question. “That’s a lot, to cross that bridge.”

  “Not really,” said Ellis. “Timber is stronger than people realize. I grant you that bridge is the least sturdy of them all, but I don’t think we’ll have trouble getting across. By the time the APC reaches the bridge we should have a good lead over any pursuit. So we’ll have the time to stop, let everybody except the driver get out, and then drive slowly across. I’m not worried about it—and I’ll be the driver, don’t forget. If anybody goes into the water, it’ll be me.”

  The seven hussars in the room stared at him for a moment. Then Mieczysław Czarny nodded and said: “That’s good enough for me.” A moment later, two of the others were nodding as well. Czarny commanded a lot of respect from his fellows, even if not outright obedience.

  The hussar named Jarosz Grabarczyk leaned over and made a circular motion with his forefinger just above the island labeled Ostrów Tumski. “What if the Germans move their troops back?”

  Torstensson’s two divisions had held Ostrów Tumski since they began their siege of Poznań, more than a year ago. They’d only withdrawn their forces from the island a few weeks earlier.

  “I don’t think that’s likely,” said Jozef. “Why would they withdraw them just to move them back a short while later?”

  He was tempted to add I have it on good authority…but that would be unwise. The hussars in the room detested the USE just as much as they did King Władysław and the Sejm. They knew that Jozef hadn’t been able to reach Poznań without the connivance of some elements among the Germans, but they were willing to overlook that. If they realized just how closely he was coordinating his actions with those of their longstanding enemy, they’d feel otherwise.

  Besides, it wouldn’t be true anyway. He didn’t understand what he did because he’d met privately with General Torstensson or anyone else in the USE government except Gretchen Richter and the people around her in Breslau. But he had no trouble following the logic of what they had to be thinking.

  Let the Polish revolutionaries gut the Polish regime down south, while the USE troops in the north pinned down their shoulders. There might have been a time when Gustav Adolf had intended to conquer Poland outright, but Jozef was quite sure he’d given up any such ambition—if for no other reason than that he didn’t want to add that many Catholics to his realm. No, he’d settle for ousting his despised Vasa cousin from the throne of the PLC and replacing him with a less hostile regime.

  The truth was that the “siege” of Poznań was no longer a siege in anything but name. The “siege lines” and fortifications that Torstensson now had in place were designed to protect his own army, not invest Poznań. So long as he maintained that army where it was—if anything, his forces were being enlarged—he could force the Polish king to keep most of the royal army in the north.

  Jozef doubted very much if Torstensson had withdrawn his forces from Ostrów Tumski for the specific purpose of providing Jozef with an escape route from the city. He probably didn’t even know Jozef was in the area, much less that he was planning to break out of Poznań with a captured APC.

  But the Swedish commander did have radios—lots of them, in fact—and when the time came Jozef would see to it through his contact with Gretchen that Torstensson knew what was about to happen. He might even help them with a sortie. Not likely, no. But he certainly wouldn’t get in their way.

  “We’re all agreed, then?” he said, looking around the room.

  * * *

  When he got back to the rooms he shared with Christin, she was studying herself with a mirror.

  Studying her cuirass, more precisely.

  “I wish you heathens knew what a full-length mirror was,” she complained, shifting the angle of the small mirror in her hand. That was her own possession; one of the many things she’d brought with her in her luggage.

  “We are not heathens,” Jozef protested. “We are Catholics. Adherents to the true faith.”

  “What’s religion got to do with it? You don’t have full-length mirrors. You don’t have walk-in closets. The less said about the plumbing, the better. You’re heathens.”

  She shifted the mirror’s angle again. “How does it look?”

  “On you? Better than on any hussar, that’s for sure. The—ah—additions are especially noteworthy, even if they’d be insane in an actual battle.” He pointed to the additions in question. “I’m not sure what to call them, though.”

  “Neither am I. Breast plates, I guess. Except no woman who ever lived had tits this pointed, not even the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Like I said. Heathens.”

  Linz, provisional capital of Austria-Hungary

  “He’ll live,” said James Nichols, “but it was touch and go for a while. If I hadn’t flown out by plane to meet the airship in Venice, I don’t think he would have survived at all. Once I got him stabilized—that hospital the Venetians have been building is damn impressive, by the way; even has an operating room—we were able to fly him here where we have a bigger and better pharmacy. We might need it. Peritonitis is nasty stuff.”

  The doctor returned to the seat at his desk and sat down. “He’s still awfully weak, Mike. I wouldn’t visit him just yet.”

  Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s okay. We don’t have anything we really need to talk about until he recovers further. I just wanted to make sure he was on the mend. I’d hate to think we went to all that time and trouble just to have it go literally belly-up. Not to mention that I’ve come to like the guy.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re not just a heartless, conniving political schemer.”

  “Well…I am, actually.” Mike drew himself up a little. “But I’m not a damn heathen. I have finer sentiments. I went to concerts, you know, back when I lived in LA.”

  Nichols eyed him skeptically.

  “Okay, rock concerts. But they were still concerts. Had screaming girls waving their arms around, the whole high-culture nine yards.”

  Chapter 32

  Radom

  Sandomierz Voivodeship

  Poland

  Prince Stanisław Lubomirski looked around the interior of the hall he and his fellow magnates had entered just a few seconds earlier.

  “I hope you didn’t pay much for this,” he said disdainfully.

  Prince Zasławski’s young face got a bit flushed. “Well… Perhaps more than it’s actually worth.” Then, defensively: “But we needed something suitable as quickly as possible, and—”

  “You did well, Władisław,” said Mikołaj Potocki. “Very well. The location is splendid—sixty miles or so south of Warsaw, where we can readily assemble our forces; not more than one hundred and thirty miles north of Kraków. Once we’re ready to launch our offensive, we can be there in a week.”

  He avoided mentioning the dilapidated state of the castle in Radom that the young prince had recently acquired. Potocki had hopes that, over time, he could wean Zasławski from his attachment to Lubomirski.

  Judging from Lubomirski’s glare, he was making some progress in that endeavor. Not for the first time, Mikołaj wondered how a man as sullen and unpleasant as Lubomirski retained his status in the upper circles of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. His great wealth explained much of it, of course, but there were men in the PLC who were as wealthy as he was—two of whom were in this very room. Jeremi Wiśniowiecki lorded it over almost a quarter of a million people on his vast estates in Ruthenia, and the young prince whom Lubomirski had all but openly derided was the richest magnate of Volhynia.

  Lubomirski certainly didn’t have a distinguished military record. Nothing to compare to the now deceased Koniecpolski, of course, but that was true of everyone. Koniecpolski was—had been—one of the martial giants of Polish and Lithuanian history. But Lubomirski’s record was mediocre compar
ed to any of the PLC’s major military figures. His assumption of command over the Commonwealth’s forces at the Battle of Chocim after the death of Grand Hetman Chodkiewicz had produced nothing better than a stalemate.

  Still, the man continued to be given posts and positions: Krajczy of the Crown, Secretary of the King, Voivode of Ruthenia, and there was no sign that would change in the future.

  It was aggravating. But, life often was.

  “Will there be room for all of us in this palace?” asked Wiśniowiecki. The expression on his face as he looked around wasn’t much less derisory than Lubomirski’s. “Not just for ourselves but for our aides and adjutants. This building has to double as our military headquarters as well as our lodgings.”

  Zasławski was getting a beleaguered look on his face. “There’s no other good choice.” He gave Potocki a thankful glance. “As Mikołaj says, the location is very good. As for the state of the castle”—he shrugged—“you have to take into account that Radom was swept by an epidemic less than fifteen years ago and half the city burned down five years later. That’s the reason not only for the price of the castle but for obtaining billets throughout the city as quickly as we did.”

  “Enough of this,” said Janusz Łohojski. The voivode of Kiev placed a hand on Zasławski’s shoulder. “This will do fine, young man. Yes, the castle hardly deserves the name of ‘palace,’ but so what?”

  His lip didn’t quite curl up enough to be called a sneer, but it came close. “In a few weeks, these delicate fellows will have to cope with tents and fieldworks. They’ll be wishing they were still sleeping here, don’t think they won’t.”

  Lubomirski started to bridle, but Prince Wiśniowiecki just laughed. “You’ve got the right of that! I haven’t forgotten what the Smolensk campaign was like. But I don’t think it will take us a year and a half to defeat that pack of mongrels we’ll be facing in Kraków.”