Trout's hand waved in a quick gesture of acceptance. "Pretty much every scholar who comes here does. So we pay by the course. You tell us how much you can handle. All right?"
"That does seem fair enough. There is one other matter. I have heard that professors here, or instructors, or however they are styled, are not required to take holy orders?"
Trout sat back in his chair, wide-eyed for a moment. "Holy orders? Good grief, no, this is a public school. Government here doesn't stick its fingers into religion, not allowed to, except to defend everybody's right to practice it whatever way they want. Or not practice it. Whatever."
"So the freedom of religion clause in your constitution is seriously meant and upheld, not a theoretical formalism of law?"
"Oh, yeah, it is. Better believe it."
Murphy's Run
April 1632, near Easter
Tim Morton was playing hide-and-go-seek with his stepdaughter Sybil near the edge of their land. Every time he found her-or she him-she squealed, pealing with joy. Sybil was such a pretty, red-haired poppet, just like her mother! Today it was sunny but cold, with snowy patches still lingering here and there. Tim dearly wanted to get her something nice. She was going to be four years old on Sunday. One thing to be said for Grantville, neither of his Deborah's little ones had died or even taken sick since they'd decided to marry last December and settle here. Between his son Jack and Deborah's girls, their pretty little house was packed so full they sounded like a chattering monkey horde.
Sybil came running from her hiding place, calling, "Lookit, Papa! Lookit I found! It looks like purple fire! Come here, Papa!" She grabbed onto his hand and tugged him to the edge of a melting snowbank a few yards from the Ring Wall.
The rock she held up to him was so pretty . . . and there were a good many little stones just like it, lying all over the side of the road! Hmmm. He knew a barkeep in Jena who had a jeweler for a steady customer. Maybe these pretty things would bring a bit of money, enough for a little present or two, just when there was the need. It could do no harm to mention that he'd found them near to the Ring Wall, when he went there next week.
God worked in mysterious ways, right enough.
"Let's show Mama!"
Tim smiled to himself and let her pull him along. If the little whirlwind was done with the game just now, there was that next letter to His Lordship awaiting his hand. What Arundel paid him for snatches of tavern gossip, those bits of political mumblings, wasn't a king's ransom, or even a swayback donkey's ransom, but it all helped. Pretty stones found in the dirt by a Ring-hacked roadside were for another day. Master Oughtred might fancy one of these bright shards, though, the old man being so keen to know what-all the Ring was made of.
Lower Buffalo Creek
Early June
"Does this look all right, Mrs. Penzey?"
Christie went over to look at what Hans Brinker was doing. The label on the sample box he'd just closed looked all right; the boy's name, a sample number, and the date. She turned her eyes toward the field book he was holding up. "You want to be able to find the exact place again, if something looks interesting after you examine your samples in the lab. You have the distances and bearings from the witness trees, but how about the elevation?"
"Oh. Stretch the tape measure up from the ground?"
"That'll work, for now. In a regular geological survey we'd have at least a compass equipped to measure elevation angle, of course. But you've got the idea."
Hans nodded and reached in his bag. She looked around to see how her other students were doing. Will Oughtred and Douglas Jones were doing as much in the way of coaching the kids, as practicing the techniques themselves. The sooner Jones could teach this course, the better.
When she got to the other end of her flock, she had a good view downstream, and saw a familiar figure working at something in the bank. "Hey, Carlos, got a minute? There are a couple of guys I'd like you to meet."
Padua
April 18, 1634
James Rothrock arrived at the blue salon out of breath. The earl of Arundel was gripping a printed publication so hard that it half-crumpled. He thrust it forward, saying, "Look!"
James took it and examined it. It proved to be one of the new scientific journals, printed in Leiden barely two months before. It fell open to a description of the inner structure of the Thuringian mountains, revealed by the Ring of Fire's awesome slicing.
The authors were Rev. William Oughtred, M.A. and two associates in natural philosophy whose names he had not seen before, a Carlos Villareal and a fellow of GreshamCollege named Douglas Jones.
James looked up in astonishment. The earl's face was grim, as he pointed to the top of the page. "You see the date of publication? It must have gone out at the time of my last letter to Oughtred, or not long after. And since that letter left my hands, nothing more, nothing to us."
He began to pace before the window, with a look of furious concentration on his face. It was a minute or two before he spoke again, slowly at first. "That, you will recall, was the letter inquiring as to anything he might know of the nature of the Ring's Fire, this strange gem which has become such a craze among the great and mighty.
"James, I'd felt that I was coming to know and understand Grantville, from his many letters and the writings of others that he sent. But now? I wonder how well I understand anything. One thing that I am certain of-I do not believe William Oughtred would cease writing of his own accord. So. Was I foolishly indiscreet? Has someone been reading our letters, and been moved by its mention to interfere? Or acted for some other reason? To what purpose? And, what harm might they have visited upon him in the doing, to bring about this silence?"
"Sir, you correspond with others there, do you not? Might you ask?"
"Humph. I correspond with Tim Morton, who kept him safe along the journey. But Morton fell silent as well, after that letter left my hands. He would be a much tougher nut to crack, but still, this worries me. What have we all stepped into?" He paced, twice more, back and forth. "Are they safe? Do they need our aid? And what else may be coming our way?"
George Bennet, a recent addition to their circle, had been gazing with dreamy bemusement at a painting on the wall. Now he turned and spoke for the first time. "We cannot answer these questions sitting here in Padua, milord."
"No. No, we cannot. And that being so . . ."
"It is necessary to go see."
"So it is, James. And further, this is no task to entrust to strangers. I understand that all too well." The earl gave him a sharp look. "I know your thought; I see it on your face. But this is no simple light-hearted adventure. It requires, above all, circumspection. If you go there, can you keep your eyes open and your mouth shut while you discover whether William Oughtred lives? Whether he needs rescue, or funds, or some other thing? Can you?"
"Yes. Certainly. Am I some witless maiden, to babble whatever comes into my head?"
"Good. And I have seen you at practice with arms, often enough. You've a fair hand. Still, it would be foolish to go alone into uncertain circumstances."
Bennet was looking their way as he leaned casually against a heavy reading table. "You'd wish me to ride with young James? Well, perhaps it's time to see other parts of the world once more."
"If you would, George. All right, let us consider details. It should be possible to join an armed party traveling in that direction for strength against ordinary brigands; I will have inquiries made. Probably best to communicate through the ordinary postal service; it's regular enough. Your letters can be made to appear as family correspondence. And on no account ask prying questions about the Ring's Fire, lest you attract attention you cannot fend off. If you come across common knowledge of the jewel, well and good, but Oughtred and the Mortons before anything! Once safe, then find some way they can get their messages to us again. Perhaps through Hartlib in Leiden."
Rothrock gave him a half-bow. "Just as you say."
May 4
Rothrock was bewildered.
Like many of these hill towns, Chiusa was beautiful. Vineyards stretched up toward the castle. Ceccoletto’s inn was most comfortable, and it would have been pleasurable to stop a while, but this was not meant to be some leisurely tour. Bennet had been no stranger to drink and the gaming table while in Padua, even to opium, but this obsession was something new. For two infuriating days, it proved impossible to pry him away from a card game with others of the party. Was this change only because they were no longer under Arundel's eye? When Bennet did emerge, he was filthy, not only with the dirt from the road, but also with grease and wine stains, and had a wild look at times. About four miles out of town Bennet decided to bathe in a cold stream. Unclothed, he exhibited livid purple bruising all over his torso. And his breath smelt bloody, like rotten meat.
Innsbruck was worse. Bennet went prowling for companionship; no whore would touch him after seeing his bare flesh. His conversation became truly foul; he spoke words Rothrock would not have repeated to a sailor. Bennet's headaches, the invariable coughing-up of blood with any exertion, were distressing to the entire party.
The air of relief was palpable as they passed Kamsdorf, and the party began to scatter upon private business. Rothrock and Bennet crossed into Grantville's awe-inspiring circle with the last of their companions.
****
"This? Do you imagine we are paupers?"
"Have you looked at the cost of accommodations in the town, George? Aside from that, milord Arundel bade us strenuously avoid attention. What do we need for the time we are here, beyond a place to sleep and keep our possessions? Small it may be, but it's clean, and the other tenants do not seem given to riotous living. And as far from the center of things as this rooming house is, the 'tram' is close by and not expensive."
"No, it's merely a rabbit warren full of common laborers. Well, I suppose it will do. We took enough time tramping about to find it."
"So we did. Let us speak to the landlord, then, and set about our business."
****
"This is a fool's errand, James!" Bennet turned over the last page of the months-old newspaper before him and dropped it onto the pile at his left hand. He glanced at the twilight outside the library's window. "At least let us go find something to fill our bellies, before the last of the light goes." One of the graybeards scribbling notes at the next table cast them a black look, and pointed a finger at the "Quiet, Please" sign on the end of a bookcase.
Rothrock leaned forward and spoke in a much lower voice. "Supper, yes, and perhaps a short stroll to relieve the kinks in our bones. Then we resume." His chair scraped as he rose and turned toward the main door. It was fortunate that there were cheap places to eat nearby if one did not insist on exotic up-time cookery, but then, not all of the scholars flocking to this place were blessed with jingling pockets.
Bennet fastened a sneer on his face as they headed down the driveway. "Do you really expect that we will happen on the trail of you-know-who this way? He whose name must not be spoken? The reference librarians supposedly can find out anything; why not just ask them where he is?"
"I wish, George. I wish we could know what is safe and what is not. I wish this town had one main square, where we could watch and wait, and be sure that everyone would pass by sooner or later. Slow and laborious it may be to winnow through telephone directories, and business directories, and newspaper archives looking for a hint, a clue, but it has the great virtue of anonymity. Until we know what has happened and what forces are at work, that counts for a great deal."
"The man himself seems to be anonymous. Who's Who in Grantville was disappointment enough. Perhaps he's not considered somebody, regardless of his accomplishments."
"Hardly. The preface explained clearly enough that it's merely a first attempt to list and describe the up-timers, of whom there will be no more. We must cast a wider net, and persevere."
A few minutes' walk brought them to the modest eatery they had settled into the habit of patronizing. It felt distinctly odd to be in a foreign place, and be addressed in English by the counter man. Not any sort of English they were accustomed to, or even the Americans were accustomed to, but English nevertheless, and mostly understandable. It was just as well; the man spoke no Latin, and they could afford little time as yet to make a serious start on German. Equally odd was the complete lack of table service, but perhaps that helped to explain the reasonable prices.
"How very dull this is! Be sure to boast to His Lordship of how well we dined in Grantville."
"George, your complaints grow dull. Perhaps, if all goes well, there may be enough left in our purses to sample other fare before we leave, but for now, it's as well to keep far away from the places the notables frequent. Until matters become clearer. Finished?" Rothrock rose from the bench and deposited his empty bowl on the shelf outside the kitchen.
It was a warm, pleasant night, with tiny creatures chirping everywhere. People dressed in all styles of clothing were leisurely strolling along the street; though the sky was full dark by then, there was no difficulty seeing their way. Enough of the lights on the poles outside the high school and library were kept in operation, that it was impossible for anyone to approach unobserved at any hour of the day or night. Master Oughtred's letters had made it all too clear why that was.
Rothrock managed to keep Bennet at the work for another hour. After that, he simply wandered off-presumably to a gaming table somewhere. I wish milord Arundel had sent someone else. Almost anyone else. He must have muttered it aloud; the Dane at the far corner of the reading table glanced at him for a moment and went back to his page-turning. Rothrock kept on until he could no longer absorb the words in front of him. Then he brought everything to the returns desk and set off for their lodgings. The tram ran at all hours.
****
By the time Bennet staggered in, Rothrock was already dressing. The sky would soon grow light. Rothrock came to a sudden decision.
"George, I believe it's time to take thought, and see some of the strangeness of this place for ourselves."
"Better than burying ourselves in musty words all day. What do you propose?"
"The high Ring Wall first, perhaps. The tram runs as far as the coal mine; the cliffs there are supposed to be striking in the morning light."
"Good enough, James, good enough. I can sleep later; I've done it often enough before. Ha! Onward to the tram stop."
****
It was, indeed, a rare sight. Once past the mine works, the view of the cliffs opened up. The changing colors of the eastern sky reflected from the perfectly spherical inner surface, rising from the valley floor to an astonishing height and incongruously topped with a ragged edge of soil and trees. Small sprays of miniature waterfalls flickered in the changing light. Part of the wall was adorned with striking diagonal bands; in places, it glittered.
As the sunlight reached the ground, Rothrock began to look more at their surroundings. In places, there were lines of dirt and gravel, where loose stuff must have fallen from the cliff top. Some untutored artist had painted a slapdash depiction of an up-time car, emerging from the cliff face where the cataclysm had made an end of the road. That seemed to catch Bennet's eye; he started to move closer.
"Have a care, George, the pamphlet warned against coming too close under that overhanging wall. See how much has already fallen!"
Bennet seemed oblivious. Suddenly he went to one knee beside the road, and pointing to the ground, exclaimed, "Look, James!" His head moved from side to side. He waved to Rothrock to stand behind him and look over his shoulder.
And there it was. A tiny fragment, too small to make out its shape, and as Rothrock moved to get a better view, the morning sunlight glinting from it changed from amber to violet. Rothrock sucked in his breath. He had seen this once before, at a salon in the company of the earl, set into a golden ring on the hand of a French nobleman. The enigmatic Ring's Fire. Here! Mere yards from the foot of the Ring Wall itself!
Rothrock's thoughts flew into turmoil. This ch
ip itself was insignificant; it might bring a few shillings, conceivably a pound, nothing more. He looked more closely. The earth around it showed signs of considerable disturbance, and not recently. Someone had been thorough, and undoubtedly left nothing worth taking. But such things rarely are found atop the ground. Could it have fallen from above? While Bennet carefully lifted the little thing from its resting place with the tip of his dirk, Rothrock stepped back a hundred yards and looked again at the awesome wall. There was a man-high dark hole near the top, almost directly above the spot where George was rising to his feet. Perhaps . . .
****
Unlike some towns, Grantville didn't divide itself into different quarters where neighboring shops practiced related trades. On the contrary, this small shop dealing in an eclectic mix of unusual minerals, the tools and supplies for seeking them, and all manner of rugged outdoor equipment was tucked into a mechanical laundry. The building itself was a melange of construction styles.
Rothrock watched the girl behind the counter listing the climbing equipment in front of them on a printed rental contract form. She was a bit slow totaling the charges. Perhaps she was new to the abacus. Probably so; she worked the sum twice.
When she straightened up and separated the forms to hand him the "carbon copy," he was startled to see the signature at the bottom, Paola Villareal.
Villareal? Some relation? Do I dare try to make conversation, and see what we might learn from that?
Before he could carry the thought any further, she suddenly glared over his shoulder. When Rothrock followed her gaze, George Bennet was licking his lips lasciviously. He hurriedly concluded the business without another word, and directed a cold look at Bennet on the way out. "Have you lost all sense of where we are? It could be disastrous to attract the attention of those men in blue uniforms across the way. Our absent friend has written of them; they are expert at what they do. Merely because we see her flesh up to her knees does not make her a whore. Such is not the custom here."
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