by Eric Flint
"Well, when he realized there was no chance of getting away Captain Finck appealed for quarter. It was a close run thing. If we'd been Swedes, I don't know what would have happened. Anyway, they gave quarter. So we lost."
"So we're prisoners?"
Stephan shook his head. "No. Because, you see, the war was already over before we invaded, so really we won."
"You mean Matthias didn't have to die?"
Stephan shook his head. "Neither did Hans. And Bornholm is still Danish."
"What?" Johann shot up in his bed. Then the pain hit him, and he fell back.
"It's the peace settlement. As I understand it, in return for Denmark joining a new Union of Kalmar as the junior partner, the Danes get to keep everything they had when they entered the war."
"If they were going to let the Danes keep Bornholm anyway, why did we invade?"
Stephan shrugged. "I think whoever ordered the invasion thought King Gustav wanted the island. After all, he is supposed to have talked of making Sharon Nichols baroness of Bornholm."
"Fuck the bloody baroness of Bornholm."
And That's How the Money Rolls In
Written by Terry Howard
Hours later, after the poker game broke up, Janos was still waiting in the kitchen. Arch Pennock thought he'd gone on home after all the dumplings had been finished by the ravening horde that was his poker buddies.
"Mister Pennock," Janos said, "I don't mind cooking Sundays, I really don't. But going into catering, well, I do not know if it is a good idea. When would I do it? I've got a job." He'd been having second thoughts… lots of second thoughts.
"John Ose, how much is that skinflint paying you to pluck chickens?"
"I am well paid, Mister Pennock. I make two hundred dollars a week."
"Kid, if you were working forty hours that would be five dollars an hour. But I know better. You're putting in ten and twelve hour days. You give your boss a weeks' notice tomorrow."
"Beg pardon, Mister Pennock… what means 'give notice'?"
"Tell him you're quitting and he's got one week to find and train your replacement."
"I can't do that! I need a job to pay my rent. And eat. Besides, if I tell him that, he'll fire me on the spot."
"Good. Listen, you're getting half the profits. We'll put you on a two fifty a week draw."
Janos was a bit confused. Mr. Pennock often had that effect on him. "Two fifty a week draw?"
"It means that each and every week you collect two hundred and fifty dollars starting next week… or this week if the skunk gives you the boot. We deduct it from your half of the profits and if there aren't any profits, I'll eat it."
Janos wasn't sure he understood every thing Arch was saying. "You will pay me two hundred and fifty dollars a week to make dumplings?"
"Well, if you want to put it that way, yes."
"Mister Pennock, I will start tomorrow!"
"No, you will start next week. You will give your current employer a weeks' notice. Of course, you don't have to be overly polite about it and if the idiot cans you, then the draw starts this week. And another thing, how old are you?"
"I am twenty-three years of age, Mister Pennock."
"Well, kid, you're way too old to be calling me mister all the time, especially if we're going to be partners. Call me Arch." Arch stuck out his hand, thinking everything was settled and Janos understood and agreed to what was going on. He was soon to find out different.
***
Monday morning, not long after dawn, Arch stumbled to the kitchen door in his robe and slippers, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The knocking on the door was reasonably polite and entirely insistent.
"Good morning, Arch. I gave notice like you told me and now I am no longer employed as a chicken-plucker."
Arch looked at the horizon. About half of the sun was showing over the hill top. He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard. "Come on in, John. Have you had breakfast?"
"Yes. I ate a heel of bread while I walked to work this morning."
"Well. I haven't had my coffee yet. Do you know how to make coffee?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to take a shower and shave. Why don't you make us some coffee and maybe some breakfast.? Then when I'm awake we'll figure out what we're going to do."
When Arch was finally awake and dressed for the day and back in the kitchen, wondering just what he'd gotten himself into, he found Janos patiently stirring a pan of grits. As soon as Janos noticed Arch he pushed the lever and dropped the sliced bread into the toaster. The electric knife and the cutting frame were back on the shelf and the half-loaf of bread was back in the refrigerator. Grits and toast was not what Arch had in mind for breakfast, unless he added a couple of eggs and some bacon. But the grits were in a bowl and on the table before he could say a word and the young man was hovering over the toaster waiting for the toast to pop up.
Arch sat down and picked up the cup of coffee.
"Mister Pennock, we will need to go to the store to buy what we need to make dumplings."
"Not today, John. We don't have any orders to fill."
"But you are paying me to make dumplings."
Arch could hear the worry in the young man's voice. He had just quit his job. What if Arch backed out on the promised two fifty a week? What if he had misunderstood?
"John, slow down and take it easy. Don't get your dander up. If it will make you feel better, I can give you the first weeks draw today. But we can't be making dumplings unless we can sell them. I've got to figure out how to get the orders coming in. If I know the guys from poker last night, they're busy telling everyone just how good your dumplings are, and how you are willing to make them to order, but it will a few days before we've got any business."
"I can sell them down at the market," Janos said, putting the toast on a plate and setting it on the table.
"Grab me the butter out of the 'frig, will ya? You think you can sell the dumplings down at the market?"
"Sure. If I take a pot down there around noon and give a free bowl to Greta, she will tell everyone. And then everyone who works there will be coming to buy." Janos caught himself and pointed out the short fall. "As long as I am not charging too much."
"Humm," Arch said. "Sounds like a good advertising scheme to me." He pulled his wallet out and handed Janos some money, thanking his lucky stars that he had his retirement funds deposited in the local bank. "You go buy what you need. I'll see what I can do in the way of a push cart."
The money was barely in the boy's hands before he was heading for the door. "John, make sure you get a receipt," Arch called. "This is a business now, so we've got to keep track of expenses."
"I will get a receipt, Mister Pennock," Janos called over his shoulder as the door closed.
Arch wandered out to the garage where his new car and his 1932 model Ford Roadster were up on blocks to keep the tires from going flat and rotting where they touched the ground while he waited for the oil industry to get up and running so people could put their cars back on the road. He looked around and started talking out loud to himself. Years ago he'd realized it helped him think things through.
"The wheel barrow can hold the pot and if I line it with a sheet or a table cloth it can hold bowls and spoons, too. But, it could tip too easily and there would be no way to keep it warm. I could put a tub of hot water in the wheel barrow to keep the pot warm but then there wouldn't be room to hold the bowls. And it could still dump too easily. Naw, what I need is a two-wheeled cart, like the one Dave built for his niece for that flower show. Now, there's an idea."
He looked at his watch. It was still shy of eight o'clock. If he wanted to catch Dave, he'd better call right away.
***
Janos left the house in time to get set up at the farmer's market by noon. Arch figured that they'd give most of the dumplings away the first day, just to get demand up. If they could get demand up, that is.
"Let them know you'll be back tomorrow. And when the pot gets cold c
ome on back to the house," Arch called when Janos left with the loaded cart. The five-gallon canning pot, which was sitting in a tub of hot water, held about four gallons of dumplings.
At two o'clock Janos was back.
"Did the pot go cold that quickly?" Arch asked. He was gearing up to ream the lad out for not staying until the pot was cold. They had to stay the course if they were going to make a go of pushcart vending.
"The pot is empty, Mister Pennock."
"You gave away four gallons in two hours?"
"No, Mister Pennock. I gave away maybe one gallon. Then I was too busy selling dumplings to give any more away. I had to take the pot out to use the warm water to wash bowls and spoons. Greta sold me soap cheap since I gave her a bowl and I rinsed the bowls in the public water spigot."
Arch could feel his jaw about to hit the ground in surprise.
Janos continued, "I stopped at the store on the way home for what I couldn't get at the market. Please, Mister Pennock, give me a hand carrying things in. I have to have five gallons of dumplings back down to the market by the time it closes. What do you have to hold a gallon of dumplings in, so people can take them home?"
"You've got an order for five gallons?"
"No, I have five orders for a gallon each. And, please, we must hurry and you must help if we are to get done in time."
"Uh, John, how much are you getting for a gallon?"
"Well, you bet George three gallons for a hundred dollars. You paid twenty dollars for me to make it, so you had eighty dollars profit on the pot. I can make four gallons for twenty dollars so if we get twenty-five a gallon, you will have eighty dollars profit per pot. But twenty-five was high and they bargained me down to twenty. I hope that is enough, Mister Pennock."
"Let's get you into the kitchen and get started. What do you need me to do?"
***
When the three different meats were browned and the vegetables were boiling to make the stock, Janos was ready to start on the dough. "Mister Pennock, what are we putting them in to send them home with the customers?"
"If you don't need me, John, I'll run down to the tinker's shop and pick up five beer cans." Down-timers were used to buying milk or beer, tapped from a keg, into their own bucket. So even when the glass industry was turning out cork-able pint, quart, half gallon and gallon bottles, the tinker was still making and selling gallon cans which were often mistaken, at first glance, for paint cans by up-timers.
"But they cost a lot of money."
"John, at twenty a gallon we can afford it. Besides, you tell the customers to bring them back and, if we have to, we can think about charging a deposit later." The idea of getting twenty dollars a gallon for fast food seemed outrageous to Arch until he figured out how many bowls were in a gallon and what the per bowl cost was. Then it almost seemed reasonable.
Then too, inflation was eating people alive. There was always more demand than there was product and more work than workers. Grantville was still a boom town and if that wasn't a recipe for high prices and inflation then one didn't exist.
Arch stopped on his way out. "John? We need a sign. I'll stop and order one, but what should we call our business?"
Janos grinned. "It's my grandmother's recipe. In my language, grandmother is ' Nagyanya.' And dumpling is' Nokedlik.'"
***
By the end of the week Arch had purchased the cart from Dave. The first thing he added was an awning to keep the weather off. Then they added a small propane tank and heating element out of an old water heater to keep the water bath warm. Next Arch added a small pot for hot dogs and a box to keep bread and buns warm. He tracked down the paper maker who was making paper plates for Grantville's Fine Food and put in an order for paper bowls. It was there he heard about someone who was steaming and pressing horn spoons. Someone approached them about selling potato chips in paper bags. The first day they had potato chips someone asked if they would want to sell corn chips.
The next Monday, Janos started selling bottled beer at just above cost to keep his customers happy. And to keep them from buying from the other two food carts that had started selling bratwurst on buns and-incredibly, tacos.
In the middle of the third week Janos asked, "Arch, can you make a second cart? I think I can do even better down at the train station but I hate to give up the business we've got in the market. Adolf, my friend, took my old job plucking chickens. He needs a better job."
When he had the second cart built by a wheelwright, Arch quit worrying about inflation eating up his savings. He knew he wouldn't be forced to make an apartment in the garage and rent out the house just to survive. For a while, they were adding a cart every two or three weeks. After they added the third cart, Janos didn't have time to do anything but cook. Shortly after that, they hired a kitchen helper and Arch was thinking about opening a dumpling restaurant.
The cars came out of the garage to make room to store the push carts out of the snow. That was when Arch knew he was a rich old boy. After all, isn't that the definition of a rich old boy in West Virginia; a man with two cars up on blocks in his front yard?
SERIALS:
Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part Seven, The Bureaucrats are Revolting
Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett
July 17, 1634
"Oh!" Judy the Younger Wendell heaved a great sigh. "She's beautiful."
The bride was beautiful. Brandy Bates wore a flowing white angora/wool gown with a Chinese silk veil. The veil was attached to a wreath of white roses mixed with baby's breath and myrtle leaves. The leaves were said to bring good luck to the marriage. Brandy carried a bouquet of more white roses, baby's breath, ivy and pale pink carnations.
"She's probably melting in that wool," Vicky Emerson muttered. "God knows, I am."
The Barbie Consortium were bridesmaids at the wedding of the season. Wedding of the year, more like. And in spite of Vicky's every effort, the skirts were long and the dresses modest. Not her favorite look.
"Shh!" Millicent hissed. "She's almost here."
The wedding was being held in the formal garden of the Residentz, the home and offices of Vladimir Yaroslav's Russian delegation. Father Kotov had pushed for the wedding to be held at St. Vasili's Russian Orthodox Church, but there were just too many people who needed to be invited. And most of them had shown up.
***
"Brandy is just gorgeous," Tate Garrett said, then wiped her eyes.
"The groom isn't bad, either," Kseniya said. Vladimir had suffered the indignity of Grantville's eclectic fashion mix-with Russian tradition thrown in-but somehow, magically, it had all come together in a cohesive whole. He wore a Russian style fur hat and cape and trousers that were so tight they might almost have been hosiery. The ceremony was nice, too… if a bit long and convoluted with the greater part of it in Russian. The reception was more interesting.
The wedding cake Tate had worked on decorating for two days stood tall and gleaming in the center of a table, flanked by molded Russian Creams on each side. Every kitchen maid at the Residentz had learned to make mints whether she wanted to or not, because there were literally thousands of them. Tate blessed Vladimir several times for choosing an afternoon reception. She might have had a nervous breakdown if she'd had to do a formal dinner for all these dignitaries. Instead, they'd set up an informal buffet. People were circulating freely, murmuring to one another about various things.
Tate began to relax. It was going well.
***
"No, it's not that simple," Kseniya Kotova said. "The czar can't make laws, not without the consent of the Assembly of the Land or at least the Duma. It's not just that it would be unadvisable; he literally doesn't have the authority to change the law on his own."
"So if he wanted to end serfdom, for instance," Reverend Green asked, "the Duma would stop him?"
Kseniya gave him a look then glanced over at Colonel Leontii Shuvalov. She was by now fully aware of the up-timer's attitude toward serfdom but this was not the place. While she was st
ill trying to figure out how to guide the conversation to a safer topic, Colonel Shuvalov spoke up. "It probably wouldn't be the Duma, royal council, that stopped him but the Assembly of the Land. The ah, middle class I believe you call it. The great families have never been the ones pushing to limit the rights of departure."
"I would have thought they would want it most."
"Yes, I know you would. You up-timers tend to simplify things." Kseniya was a bit annoyed at Reverend Green. "It isn't a conflict between the evil lords and their suffering serfs. It's K-mart versus the mom-and-pop grocery on the corner. The great families can afford to… what is it you call it up-time… go head-hunting? Though in the case of serfs it's more back-hunting."
Reverend Green snorted.
"I'm not sure that Prince Sheremetev would agree with you," Colonel Shuvalov said.
"Of course not. He's K-mart." Kseniya regretted saying it as soon as it came out but the truth was she despised Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev though she had never met him. From all reports he was ill-tempered and not very good at dealing with the bureaus. Still, the news that the Smolensk war would have been a disaster had brought him back into politics. So she explained a bit more. "Russia lacks labor and the weather conditions that make it the next thing to impossible to work the land for half the year don't help. If the serfs were released from the land, the only people in Russia who could afford to hire the labor needed to run a farm would be the great families and the big monasteries.
"Don't forget the new innovations," Colonel Shuvalov pointed out. "While there is truth in what you're saying, there is less of that truth now than there was before the Ring of Fire."
Kseniya hesitated. What she wanted to say was unsafe, more for her family than for her. But spending time in Grantville had made it harder to keep her mouth shut. "It takes time to put those innovations into production, Colonel. Can you afford to lower your-" A quick glance at Reverend Green. "-tenants' rent?"
