by Eric Flint
" Merde!" Ancelin exclaimed. "Guillaume, that's… damned brilliant."
The others agreed.
"So," Ancelin said. "Is there anything else we can do to give Michel the right impression?"
"Analysis of alternate possibilities," Ouvrard suggested. "That usually works well in causing a discussion to veer off course. Send Michel a listing of every 'soft underbelly' in the USE that we can think of."
"Why limit it to the USE?" Deneau asked.
"Because that's where we are?" was Ancelin's practical answer.
"We're creating smoke and mirrors anyway," Ouvrard pointed out. "So, we say: The USE is worried, so security is tight and the targets are hard. But-let's think. Princess Kristina is unreachable, but what about the Danish prince to whom she is now betrothed? Or the up-time lady-in-waiting to whom she is said to be so attached? That one's betrothed, the ridiculous Imperial Count of Narnia? If we can't reach Gustavus, then what about his queen in Stockholm? If not Stearns, then his ally Piazza? Ableidinger? If not the Abrabanel woman, then her father? If not Wettin, then one of his brothers? The possibilities are endless."
"Don't become too fond of your brainstorming, Robert. If we list too many options, he will realize that we are just creating excuses." Locquifier paused. "Choose three of these possibilities you have suggested and write up an analysis of each. As if we were seriously offering them for his consideration."
"It's a pity to abandon the rest."
"Then just give them a passing mention at the end, as if you were blowing them off as unrealistic and unlikely."
"In fact, Mathurin, nothing will placate Michel and Antoine but an assassination. Not in the long run, though this ploy will probably work for the time being." Locquifier looked up. "Hold yourself ready. As the time draws nearer, I will provide you with a target. Only one, since I am a reasonable man. Under cover of the demonstrations."
Brillard nodded.
Soubise picked up his wine and looked at the latest letter from his brother Henri again. Meditatively. Besancon. An interesting choice. He had rather anticipated that he would be off to Geneva for negotiations with the good Calvinist city fathers. But… Henri de Rohan and Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar were old friends, of course.
Richelieu would not be pleased at all. This move would also make it somewhat more difficult for Henri to present his continuing protestations that he was unquestionably a loyal subject of Louis XIII in a plausible manner. A lot more difficult, even, considering that the cardinal had not approved a change of venue. Important men could not just wander around the map of Europe without the permission of their monarchs. Not even if the council of the Most Serene Republic of Venice had finally decided not to renew a particular man's contract with its army, which meant that, as an exile, most of his estates confiscated by the French monarchy, Henri was once more looking for a job.
And would love to get back into the field. A general could only write so many books before the activity palled.
Not that Soubise wouldn't like to be commanding a few ships again, himself. Or many ships.
Garrison commander in Geneva would have been good, Soubise thought. Not that Henri had asked him. His older brother was well into his fifties, not as young as he used to be. A comfortable municipal post from which he could face down the dukes of Savoy would have been-not bad, in Soubise's humble opinion. Which it was now too late to express.
He opened the second letter in the stack.
Cavriani's son was off to Naples. Leopold himself had discovered that he had urgent business matters in Strassburg.
Very few really urgent business matters, Soubise thought, involved conferring with history professors. Not that Matthias Bernegger at the University of Strassburg didn't have an interesting network of his own, but it rarely involved exalted financial transactions.
After Strassburg, Leopold anticipated that he would be passing through Freiburg im Breisgau. Then Basel. One might almost think that he had seen enough of Basel when he was there with the Austrian archduchess, but perhaps not. Basel, Buxtorf, and Wettstein. Then back to Strassburg. Then… Besancon.
Oh.
No particular reason for Henri to go to Geneva right now, if Cavriani wasn't there.
But. As a response to Henri's ploy, Richelieu would certainly start making life more difficult for the duchess and for Anne. For the girl-his niece Marguerite.
If Rohan was to continue as Rohan, they could not let Henri's daughter be forced into marriage with any Catholic peer.
Roi, je ne puis,
Duc, je ne daigne,
Rohan je suis.
No, they lacked the lineage to be kings. But they must remain themselves. "I am Rohan."
What they needed for Marguerite, as a husband for the Rohan family's only heiress, was, obviously, a Protestant.
Soubise frowned. He was not sure that Henri was wise to be considering a match with Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar so seriously. If the lineage was to continue, they shouldn't choose a man who would absorb Rohan into his own career and use its assets to further his own ambitions. They needed a man who would become Rohan for her. With her.
Soubise prayed that Marguerite would mature to have the same spirit as her grandmother, Catherine de Parthenay-Larcheveque, who had written to Henri from La Rochelle during the great siege, insisting that they must achieve "secure peace, complete victory, or honorable death." The old motto of Jeanne d'Albret, Henri IV's mother-never to be forgotten by the Huguenots.
Not if they hoped to survive in this world, at least.
Not for nothing did the Rohan descend from Isabelle d'Albret, aunt of that very queen of Navarre.
Grantville
Noelle threw the newspaper on the table.
"Would you like me to say 'damn' for you?" Eddie Junker inquired politely.
"I am so sick of how the Crown Loyalists are insulting Ed Piazza because of Barclay and that bunch." She looked across the table. "And you, too, Mr. Jenkins. I'm sorry about the whole thing. If we only could have stopped them."
Chad Jenkins put his toast down. "At least they aren't using it much in the campaign on the national level."
"I suppose that's better than nothing. But it still isn't what anyone could call good." She looked at her uncle. Who was married to the sister of Chad Jenkins' wife. She was still sorting out all the dozens of new relatives and relatives-by-marriage she had acquired when she officially became a Stull instead of a Murphy. Consanguinity and affinity, the church called it. "What do you think, Joe?"
She still hadn't managed to talk herself into calling any of them "aunt" or "uncle." Not when she called her father by his first name.
"You should have shot the Hungarian when you had the chance. Or at least shot into the barge instead of into the river. With any luck, it would have sunk in the Danube, right there at Regensburg. The garrison could have fished them out and sent them home, we could have tried them the same way we did Bolender's bunch, and we'd be done with it by now."
His wife Aura Lee looked at him, reproachfully. "Don't be mean to Noelle."
"It would have taken really a lot of luck," Eddie pointed out. "Considering Noelle's marksmanship. She was lucky to hit the river."
Chad Jenkins laughed. "No point in crying about spilled milk. Duke Albrecht and Kay Kelly are going to make the most of it in the campaign, and that's all there is to it." He leaned back. "I hear she's actually gotten Gustavus to order delivery of ten of those 'Dauntless' planes, just as fast as Bob can build them."
Joe, who was also the SoTF Secretary of Transportation, was on solid ground, now. He leaned back and began to summarize resources, warehouse space, how far the various companies that were starting to manufacture aviation engines had gotten, delivery schedules for parts and components, availability of skilled personnel, and testing procedures.
It didn't seem like Gustavus was likely to get those planes any time soon. He should thank his lucky stars if he got a couple of them in time for next spring's campaign.
"I don't
think that Mom's really designed to hit the campaign trail," Missy told Ron. "Honestly, she hates it. She tries to hide it, but she just hates it."
"Well, your dad keeps her out of it, as much as he can," Ron said. "And you've got to admit that Willie Ray is in his glory. Your grandfather's having a wonderful time."
"Oh, yeah." Missy giggled. "Just like the old days, back when he was in the state legislature. He's having a ball."
"He and Dreeson make quite a pair."
Chapter 38
Frankfurt am Main
"The Vignelli machine is broken." Deneau looked up in annoyance.
"What did you expect?" Brillard put down the stylus with which he was making a stencil. Another stencil. One of the many deliberately amateurish stencils that Locqufier's group had spent their time making this winter. They offended Brillard's pride. He had been a properly apprenticed type maker, once upon a time. Before the lead type had been taken by de Rohan's soldiers, to make bullets. Before the dysentery that the soldiers brought to his home town carried off his master and fellow apprentices. Before he had been caught up in the first of de Rohan's Huguenot revolts and become a soldier himself, nearly fifteen years ago.
He started to count on his fingers. "First, the unfortunate machine has been asked to make hundreds of pamphlets opposing the practice of vaccination. For many reasons. Not only those set forth in the up-time materials that the man in Grantville sent to de Ron, but also for new reasons that we invented, such as that getting a vaccination indicates that a person is not meekly submitting to the will of God.
"Then, from the encyclopedia, Gui found out that the up-timers-not the ones now in Grantville, but their ancestors a century and a half before the time they came from-had opposed these new 'lightning rods' for much the same reason. So we requested of the poor machine that it be so kind as to produce hundreds of pamphlets opposing lightning rods.
"Plus Antoine's ordinary diatribes against Richelieu.
"Plus manifestoes for Weitz.
"Followed by the need for Guillaume's 'rumors of assassinations' pamphlets by the thousand. What did we expect? The poor machine is overstrained. 'Stress' that up-time reporter, Waters is his name, calls it in his 'American' newspaper."
Ancelin walked over and gave the roller a disgusted poke. "Whether it is stressed or broken, it will not produce any more pamphlets. We can still make the stencils ourselves, of course. But until Fortunat can find someone to fix it, we're out of the pamphlet business."
Locquifier shook his head. "We cannot fall behind now. There are printers in Frankfurt who have Vignellis. We must hire the use of one. Not give our stencils to him, of course. He might read them. We can't risk having the authorities discover the source of so many of the pamphlets in circulation. Just hire the use of the machine after the man's normal working day. We can demonstrate to him that you know how to work it, Fortunat. And find someone to fix ours."
Brillard shook his head. "No. One of us, at least, would have to go to the print shop. The man would know that we, the Frenchmen living Zum Weissen Schwan, are producing masses of pamphlets. Just get the machine fixed."
"We can't have a repairman come here, either," Deneau protested.
Locquifier pulled on his mustache. "No, no, of course not. Find out if one of the printers knows someone who can fix it. We will take it to the shop."
"Mathurin is right. None of us should take it to the shop, either," Ouvrard said. "The printer will learn that the Frenchmen living Zum Weissen Schwan have a Vignelli. None of should ask about repairs, either. It might bring the attention of the authorities to us. We can't be too cautious."
Locquifier jumped up. "Have Isaac de Ron send one of his porters around to ask who can repair the machine. Put the machine in a box. Seal the box. Have the porter deliver the sealed box to the print shop and then bring it back again. But…" He banged his fist on the table. "Fix the machine!"
***
The printer Crispin Neumann told de Ron's porter that he had a duplicating machine of his own and his apprentice was quite skilled in its maintenance.
So Locquifier told de Ron to have the porter remove the boxed machine from the back parlor and take it to Neumann.
Which made Emrich Menig very happy. He loved to fiddle with Vignellis.
Martin Wackernagel lounged lazily in the back room of the shop, watching Menig disassemble and then reassemble the machine.
"Stupid klutz," Menig muttered.
"What?"
"He's managed to get the silk from one of his stencils bunched up here." He jerked it out and threw it at his honorary uncle.
Who spread it out and read it. Not having anything better to do at the moment.
"Where'd this machine come from, Emrich?" Martin managed to keep his voice idle and bored.
"One of de Ron's porters brought it in. Over Zum Weissen Schwan.
The bells tolled nine. Wackernagel stood up. "Appel should have the things he wanted me to pick up ready by now." He picked up the sheet of crumpled silk. "I guess I should be getting on the road again."
Which he did. After detouring to speak with David Kronberg's uncle in the ghetto.
Hanau
The rabbi sighed. Oh, the complications. Just because he helped arrange Kronberg's job in the Fulda post office and subsequent happy marriage to Rivka zur Sichel. Whose parents were now the sutlers in Barracktown bei Fulda. Where the redoubtable Sergeant Hartke and his now-famous wife Dagmar held sway.
"Give it to Utt," the Hanauer rabbi told Wackernagel. "He can not only radio the gist of the information you have collected about de Ron's connection to the pamphlets, but also give the silk itself to someone who can deliver it directly to Nasi. Not only directly, but quickly. After all, King Christian and Princess Kristina are coming to Fulda this week to deliver the medals to Dagmar Nilsdotter. There will be a plane as close as Erfurt."
The rabbi sighed.
"As it happens, I have a priority code. Nasi casts a very wide web."
Nathan Prickett picked up his pen.
Dear Don Francisco,
Jason Waters, the reporter who's here in Frankfurt, was in Crispin Neumann's print shop the other day. He met one of Neumann's clients, a man named Heinrich Hirtzwig. He's the rector of the gymnasium here in Frankfurt. That's not a sports place, but the most important high school for boys. The kind that sends a really high percentage of its graduates to the university.
Anyway, this Hirtzwig was born in Hesse and he also writes plays. In Latin, that is, because he's a kind of professor.
Anyway, the Crown Loyalists, especially the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel, have hired him to write some plays saying that Wilhelm Wettin is right and Mike Stearns is wrong. In a lot more words, of course. I just thought you might want to know.
Neumann, the printer, said to Waters that it's too bad that the up-timers with all their maps hadn't managed to arrive with all their maps fifty years earlier, because someone named de Bry would have been delighted. I have no idea what that's all about.
There was still half a page. And these steel-nib pens, even if a guy had to dip them, really were a lot handier than the quills had been.
There's a kid named Emrich Menig who works for Neumann. He was mixed up with those anti-Semitic pamphlets that came out in Fulda when my father-in-law Wes Jenkins was there. But he was just a kid and innocent, so Wackernagel brought him down to Frankfurt.
He's come out to Sachsenhausen a couple of Sunday afternoons to watch the militia drill. I've been showing him how the guns work. He's not particularly hot on shooting, but he has a real knack for mechanical stuff. If he wasn't working for a printer, Blumroder would love to have him.
Anyway, he was fixing a duplicating machine here in Frankfurt the other day and pulled a stuck stencil out of it that said a lot of the same things. But he lost the stencil, so I don't have it.
But being a kid, he was curious, so he went to talk to de Ron's porter. The porter says that there's a bunch of Frenchmen, five or six, who have been sta
ying at de Ron's inn since last summer-July or so. That means they can't be hurting for money, given what de Ron charges. It's not some kind of a dive.
It looked like this was going to run over to another page of paper.
They don't just have this duplicating machine. They use paper by the bale. The porter has to carry the bales in and out, so he knows.
But it isn't delivered to them as bales of paper. It comes into the cellars of the inn labeled as shipments of wine from a company called Mauger's up in the Netherlands.
The guy guesses that they have some other way to get rid of the paper after they've printed things up, because they never ask him to carry it out.
Do you remember Ernie Haggerty, the guy Jason Waters brought to Frankfurt with him? He's made a lot of friends in low places. Sometimes he just sits in taverns, not looking like an up-timer. He can do that, because he's a scrawny little fellow who's going bald and his teeth aren't so good. His folks never got him braces-couldn't afford to-and he's a smoker. Of course, he broke the front one when he was a kid. His brother hit him with a softball. But the cap he has pops on and off pretty easy, so he can be snaggletoothed whenever he wants to.
Anyway, Ernie schmoozed up to the porter from de Ron's.
Vincenz Weitz, that guy who a lot of people thought up was mixed up in planning the attack on the ghetto back when Henry Dreeson was here-remember him?
He's been visiting these Frenchmen at de Ron's and taking piles of paper under his arm when he leaves again.
The guy named Curtius left Soubise's house. He's not gone back to England. Somebody told Wayne Higgenbottom that he was going to meet Soubise's brother in a town called Besancon, which I never heard of, but it's not around here.
