Ring of fire II (assiti shards)

by Eric Flint

  Drugeth drew out a handkerchief and cleaned off the blade, then slid the sword back into the scabbard. Throughout, he did not take his eyes once off the defectors clustered around the two wagons in the clearing.

  "I told Ms. Stull and her companions that they would be released unharmed once we were far enough from pursuit. So I spoke, and so it will be. And I am no longer inclined to tolerate any obstruction or dispute. I am in command, not you. You will obey me in all things, until we reach Vienna."

  He waited a few seconds, to see if any protest would be made.

  None was. What a shocker.

  "And now, we must dig two graves. Mr. O'Connor, perhaps there is some tool in the wagon that might serve."

  "We didn't bring any shovels," said Allen O'Connor uncertainly. His voice was a little shaky, maybe, but not much. He certainly didn't seem stricken by grief. Leaving aside the shock of the sudden blood-letting, Denise didn't think many of the defectors-leaving aside the cretin Billie Jean and Caryn Barlow-had any serious personal attachment to the two dead men. Simmons' wife was a down-timer, a widow he'd married the year before. But she wasn't in the group. Mickey must have decided to abandon her when he defected.

  And the baby they'd had a few months ago. And his two step-children by his wife's first marriage.

  The shithead.

  Qualifying that, the now-dead shithead. And good riddance.

  O'Connor's son Neil started digging amongst the goods piled in the wagon. "I'll find something."

  Marina Barclay swallowed. "Are you sure, Mr. Drugeth? I mean, you were saying we needed to move as soon as…"

  Her voice trailed off, as it must have dawned on her that she was perilously close to "obstruction and dispute." Nervously, she eyed the sword.

  But either Drugeth was inclined to be lenient toward women-Billie Jean, still gasping for breath, supported that theory-or he was simply not given to bloodshed for the sake of it. That theory was supported by everything else Denise had seen.

  Including his next words.

  "They are not animals, to be left to scavengers. Time presses, yes, but God created time also. Everything we do is watched by Him."

  Noelle got off her horse, holding a small spade that she'd retrieved from her saddlebag. "Let's get started," she said. "Officer Drugeth is right." She seemed quite calm, although with Noelle you never knew. She was the kind of person who clamped down her emotions under stress. She didn't so much as glance at Drugeth.

  Less than half a minute later, having found a good spot, she started digging. Drugeth came up and offered to replace her. But, still without looking at him, she shook her head.

  "You can spell me when I get tired. This'll take a while."

  Denise started digging alongside her-more like just breaking up the ground-with a heavy stick she found in the woods. Meanwhile, the two male O'Connors and Tim Kennedy dug the other grave, with some tools they'd found in the wagon and a spade that Gardiner had in his own saddlebags.

  When Noelle did relinquish the shovel to Drugeth, maybe half an hour later, she finally looked at him.

  "What is your rank?"

  He was back to that sad-eyed sorrowful-look business. "It is quite complicated, and depends mostly on the situation. For now, 'captain' will do."

  She nodded, still with no expression. "Why did you kill him, Captain Drugeth? You'd already disarmed him."

  "Literally," muttered Denise; again, having to fight off a semi-hysterical giggle.

  "I am not certain," was the soft reply. "I fear some of it was simply ingrained reflex, although I strove to contain it. First, because it would have been a struggle to keep him alive on the journey, with such a wound, and would inevitably have slowed us down. Second, because I decided if I didn't kill one of them now, I would have to kill one of them later. Perhaps more. They are undisciplined people, prone to emotional outbursts. That was bad enough before you appeared to make it worse. Clearly, they have an animus against you."

  He took a long breath. "And, finally, because he was not essential to my mission. Not even important, really. Neither was Simmons."

  The two of them stared at each other.

  "Just like that?" she asked abruptly.

  "At the time, yes. Just like that. In the time to come, of course, it will be different. I will spend many hours of my life thinking about the deed. And praying that I did not transgress His boundaries."

  Noelle looked away, for a few seconds. "Yes," she said. "I understand."

  She handed him the shovel and climbed out of the shallow pit. "I will give you my parole, Captain Drugeth."

  "The others?"

  "Eddie will too. So will Lannie and Keenan, probably, but I wouldn't believe Lannie or Keenan if they told me the sun rose in the east. It's not that they're dishonest. Just… forgetful."

  He smiled. "Much like several of my cousins."

  Now, he looked at Denise.

  "You can take her word for anything," said Noelle. "If you don't mind it coming with vulgar qualifiers."

  Denise scowled. "Well, thank you very much."

  Drugeth just looked at her, saying nothing.

  After a while, Denise shrugged. "Sure, why not? You've got my fucking word I'll be a good little girl."

  He stroked his mustache. "Qualifiers, indeed," he said mildly. "Do I need to insist on qualifying the terms? No attempt to escape. No attempt to overwhelm us by force."

  He even said that last with a straight face. "That sort of thing?"

  Denise thought about it. "Nah," she said. "I hate all that legal dotting-the-I's and crossing-the-T's bullshit. But I'm okay with the spirit of stuff."

  He studied her for a bit longer. Denise was primed to strip his hide if he started nattering about her potty mouth. Or asked her if her father knew the sort of language she used, when who the hell did he think she'd learned it from in the first place?

  But all he said was, "I believe that will do quite nicely."

  By nightfall, they were well into the Fichtelgebirge. They made camp just before nightfall.

  Three camps, really, separated by a few yards from each other. One for the defectors, one for Drugeth and his two cohorts, one for Denise, Noelle, Eddie, Lannie and Keenan.

  After they ate, Lannie and Eddie fell asleep. Between their injuries and the rigors of walking or riding a wagon along mountain trails for several hours, they were exhausted.

  Denise and Noelle and Keenan stayed awake a while longer, mostly just staring into the little fire they'd made. All three of the camps had fires going. Drugeth had given permission to make them. He didn't seem too concerned they'd be spotted, given the thick woods around them.

  And who'd spot them anyway? The ever-vigilant and non-existing USE park rangers? Overflying aircraft, when they'd already crashed the only one in Grantville that could get off the ground, and Jesse Wood only let even the air force guys fly at night in extreme emergencies?

  But Denise's sarcastic thoughts were just her way of coming to a decision.

  "I've decided," she finally pronounced. "Drugeth's okay."

  "Scary son-of-a-bitch," Keenan grunted. "But. Yeah. He's okay, I guess. What do you think, Noelle?"

  But Noelle said nothing. Denise wasn't even sure she'd heard them talking. She seemed completely preoccupied by the sight of the flames.

  Chapter 11. The Prayer

  Two days later, after they'd made camp for the evening, Janos was approached by the Barclay couple and Allen O'Connor. They were the leaders of the up-time defectors, insofar as such a group could be said to have leaders.

  The day before, Janos had heard Denise Beasley refer to them sarcastically as a "motley crew." The term being new to him, he'd asked for a translation. He'd found her explanation quite charming, especially the qualifiers that seemed to be inseparable from the girl's vocabulary. Even more amusing had been her pugnacious attitude. Clearly, she seemed to be expecting him at any moment to begin chastising her for her language.

  Indeed, he was sometimes tempted to
do so, when she lapsed into blasphemy. But he'd already learned from his weeks in Grantville that Americans had a casual attitude toward blasphemy, just as the rumors said they did. And despite his piety, Janos was skeptical-had been since he was a boy-that the way so many priests lumped all sins into unvarying categories was actually a reflection of God's will. Janos did not presume to understand the Lord's purpose in all things, and blasphemy was certainly listed as a transgression in the Ten Commandments. Still, he doubted that the Creator who had forged the sun and the moon made no distinction at all between blasphemy and murder.

  As for the girl's profanity, he simply found it artful. Growing up as the scion of a Hungarian noble family in the countryside, he'd learned profanity from high-born father and low-born milkmaid alike. His were not a prissy folk. Janos himself avoided profanity, as a rule, but that was simply an expression of his austere personality. He didn't paint or write poetry, either. But he could still appreciate the skill and talent involved in all three of the arts.

  Had Janos' father still been alive and been there, he might have had caustic remarks to say about the girl's language. But the old man would have criticized her for the sloppiness of the form, not the nature of the content. When it came to profanity, Janos' father had been a devotee of formal structure; Denise Beasley, of what the up-timers called free verse.

  Jarring stuff, free verse, at first glance. But in the hands of a skilled poet, it could be effective. Janos had read some poems by an up-timer named e. e. cummings-he'd refused to capitalize even his name-and found them quite good. He'd even had a copy made of some of them to give to his uncle, Pal Nadasdy.

  "We just wanted to tell you that Billie Jean's settling down," said Barclay. "We were a little worried there, for a while."

  Janos nodded. He'd been somewhat concerned himself. Caryn Barlow seemed almost indifferent to the death of her father, but that wasn't particularly surprising. Their relationship had obviously not been close. In fact, it had seemed to verge on outright hostility. She'd joined the group because of her friendship with Suzi Barclay, not because of her father's involvement.

  The Mase woman, on the other hand, was an odd one. Clearly intelligent, in most things, even quite intelligent. But it had been hard to analyze her attachment to such a man as Jay Barlow as being anything other than sheer stupidity. It was not simply that the man had been unpleasant, since that was true of many husbands and paramours. He'd been feckless and improvident as well.

  Marina Barclay shook her head. "There's a history of abuse, there. I think it's got her all twisted up."

  Janos couldn't quite follow the idiom. "Excuse me?"

  "Billie Jean's father… Well. It was pretty bad. God knows why that got transferred over to an asshole like Barlow, but I think that's what happened."

  "Ah." That was somewhat clearer. It was certainly as clear as Janos wanted it to be. Up-timers set great store by what they called "psychology." They claimed it was almost a science. Janos was dubious, but supposed it couldn't be any worse than the astrology which so many down-timers used to guide their way through life.

  "The point is," said O'Connor, "we don't think she'll be a problem anymore. Now that she's cried herself out, we think she's actually kind of relieved. That was a bad situation."

  Marina's expression darkened. "He beat her, sometimes, when he got drunk."

  Janos looked from her, to her husband, to O'Connor. "Does she have possession of a weapon? A gun, I mean." He was not concerned, of course, that she might have a knife.

  "No," said Peter Barclay firmly. "We took that away from her right away. We didn't… uh…"

  Janos was tempted to scowl, but didn't. We didn't want her taking a shot at you because you'd slaughter all of us.

  As if he himself couldn't make distinctions! They were truly annoying, sometimes, in the way they insulted without even realizing they did so.

  Barclay's wife immediately demonstrated the talent anew. "And, uh, thanks for not killing her at the time."

  Janos kept his face expressionless, since he knew there was no intentional insult involved. True, there might come a time in his old age-assuming he lived that long, which was unlikely-when he would be forced to kill an unarmed woman who attacked him. But to do such a thing now, when he was twenty-five, an experienced cavalry officer, and one of the best swordsmen in the Austrian empire? She might as well have thanked him for not being a coward.

  There was such a difference between them, and the ones he had captured. Eddie Junker he understood almost immediately. A few exchanges over the past two days had been enough for the purpose. A sturdy young fellow, from a good down-time family. Lutheran, true, not Catholic. But Janos did not particularly hold that against him, since Junker retained the other virtues of the station he'd been born into. Loyal, quietly courageous, dependable, solicitous of his mistress' well-being.

  In their own manner, the same was true of Lannie Yost and Keenan Murphy. A bit hapless in some ways, those two, as their actions with the plane demonstrated. But Janos had learned while still in his teens that some retainers could fumble at things, and one overlooked their failings for their virtues. The position of a nobleman was simply a transient charge given by God; gone in an instant, measured against eternity. In that, as in so many things, Father Drexel's School of Patience was a superb guide.

  Young Denise had seemed a bit outside Janos' experience, at first. But eventually he'd realized that was because the fluid class relations of Americans always blurred one's view of them until you understood where to look. Ignore class, and she was not so strange at all. Neither was the Suzi Barclay creature, for that matter. Wild young noblewomen were not common in Hungary, and even less so in Austria. But they were hardly unheard of. What mattered was the way they shaped themselves as time went by. Some wound up quite well, as Janos thought Denise was likely to manage. Others were… hopeless. A nuisance to their families at all times, perhaps never more so than when they reached old age and the obnoxious wretches had to be cared for.

  Mostly, he was intrigued by Noelle Stull. Such a perceptive one, she was. He was quite sure that it would never occur to the Barclays or O'Connor to ask him the question she had. Where they would thank him for not killing a woman, when the reason was obvious, she'd wondered why he had decided to kill a man. Even more, what he thought the cost would be.

  She was attractive, too, in a way that some young Hungarian noblewomen were and a few Austrian ones. Pretty in a subdued sort of way; slender; far more athletic than most such. He wondered what she'd look like in formal court costume.

  He was a little jarred when he realized the direction his thoughts were heading. Just so, a few times in the past, had he gauged a possible marital prospect. In one instance, an assessment that led to his marriage to his now-deceased wife Anna Jakusith de Orbova.

  Anna had died a year and a half earlier. This was the first instance since that horrible time when he'd even thought of another woman in those terms.

  The thought was preposterous on the face of it, of course.

  He realized his silence was making the Barclays and O'Connor uncomfortable. They'd assume he was thinking about them; possibly, even contemplating harsh measures.

  "I am pleased to hear she is settling her nerves. Please see to it, though, that she remains unarmed. Just in case."

  They nodded.

  "Are there any other problems I should know about?"

  "Uh, no," said O'Connor. "Everybody else is fine."

  Janos wasn't surprised. Barlow and Simmons had wound up attached to the group through happenstance. They were not and never had been part of the inner circles. Nor liked, for that matter.

  Truth be told, the episode's outcome had been much as Janos hoped it would. The rest of the up-timers had been far easier to handle since the killings. That would improve their chances of reaching Austria safely.

  Marina Barclay looked uncertain. "I guess I should tell you that Billie Jean's threatening to complain to the authorities-the Austrian autho
rities, I mean-once we get to Vienna. She says she'll press charges against you. Take it all the way up to the emperor, if need be."

  "She will certainly have the right to do so, under Austrian law. Even the right to appeal to the emperor, although he rarely takes such appeals under consideration."

  Now, all of them looked uncertain. After a few seconds, Marina's husband finally got around to asking.

  "Do you, uh… know the emperor? Personally, I mean?"

  "Oh, yes. We have been close friends since we were boys."

  They stared at him, then started to turn away. Moved by a sudden impulse, Janos cleared his throat.

  "Excuse me. If you would satisfy my curiosity? Noelle Stull. What is her family background?"

  The three of them looked at each other. By whatever silent communication passed, Peter Barclay assumed the role of spokesman.

  "Her family is, uh… Well. Strange. There are several families involved, actually. The Murphys and the Stulls and the Fitzpatricks."

  The tale that followed was intricate; complex; even tortuous at points. More than it needed to be, really. It was clear that the up-timers assumed he would find almost all of it incomprehensible.

  When they finished, he nodded. "I believe I understand the gist of it. Noelle's true father, Dennis Stull, was betrothed to her mother, Pat Fitzgerald-in their own eyes, at least. Then her family, largely for religious reasons, forced her into a marriage with Francis Murphy. By whom"-he glanced over at the five USE loyalists, readying their camp-"she gave birth to Keenan, over there. During the years that passed, meanwhile, her once-betrothed remained unmarried. Eventually, Pat-Murphy, now, not Fitzgerald, as is your American custom-abandoned her legal husband and went to live with Dennis Stull for many years. By whom she had her daughter Noelle, although the fiction was publicly maintained for over two decades that Noelle was Francis Murphy's daughter. Until it all-'blew up,' was the term you used?-because Francis Murphy was outraged that his long-estranged wife attended the funeral of her lover's mother when she had refused to attend the funeral of his father. So, in a drunken fury, he attempted to murder her at the funeral."