by Eric Flint
"Oh, thank heavens," said Donovan, very visibly relieved. "I would never be able to replace it."
"How many men did we lose?"
"Fourteen."
"Some of them left families, I assume. Did we take care of them like we planned?"
"More than we planned. I established the Thomas North Memorial Scholarship Fund, which someday might even be used. But since you were so damn discourteous as to show up alive I am changing the name to the J.A.A. Joyce Foundation for the Arts. I better not get any argument."
"Wouldn't dream of it." North drank again from his Venetian glass.
Donovan pulled a chair from the opposite side of the desk to sit next to his friend facing the window. The two had a view of some of the holiday revelry outside.
"So where did you go?"
"You know where," said North, looking away and putting his boots on the desk.
"How was the city?"
"Same as always."
"And the apothecary, what exactly did you pick up from him before you left again?"
"Heard about that, did you?"
"He was initially reluctant to talk, but I bartered away some of your trinkets."
"Powder of diamonds, if you must know."
"White arsenic." Donovan cocked his head appraisingly. "That is a very painful death."
"Yes it was."
"Did he deserve that?"
North shrugged. "'Deserve' is irrelevant. It was business."
"Was it?"
"Yes, did you not find it odd? How a book so carefully crafted to engineer Mughal animosity to the English-speaking peoples would find its way to Baram Khan?"
"I did, actually. The entire trip home."
"It was not part of some citizen's private library, nor was it part of some nation's stockpile of stolen up-time books. It was from the Grantville public library. When I flipped open the cover I saw the checkout date. One week before Salim arrived. I assure you, my disheveled appearance has less to do with the road and more to do with the severe scolding I received from the librarian when I returned that overdue book."
"Someone is running an operation right in Grantville, then," Donovan mused. "The cardinal?"
"Not personally; he's not a superman. As much as we like to blame him for everything, he could not have done this. But that does not mean it wasn't one of his agents here."
"Someone with enough initiative and flexibility to get that book and get it translated."
"Not even most of it translated, the pictures would have been enough. The Union Jack flying on flagstaffs and mastheads from the Indus to the Ganges."
"Mother of God. Trade. That is what this has all been about."
North nodded, taking another heavy drink from the arrack. "We stole it from the Portuguese, who stole it from the Arabs. And the French tried to steal it from us back in the other world. This time they mean to succeed. The Mughal expedition had to make its way to Grantville through Ottoman territory. The French are the only power in Europe that has any real dealings with the Turks; the resident French agent must have heard. And the Ottomans would have been worried, don't doubt it for a minute. The Mughals have recently been more powerful, with the fabulous wealth their region produces. A Mughal empire with a few new technologies and tricks... and advance warning of what's to come. Particularly with mad Aurangzeb coming to the throne in a few years.
"The French heard, or a Frenchman heard, at any rate. And he halted Baram Khan enough so that the proper propaganda could be produced. The French are not in India at all right now, you know. Not yet. Their company has not been chartered, Dupleix has not even been born. Imagine it with me, Liam. You are Mughal, from a noble family, from an illustrious and powerful nation. And some slimy frog comes up to you. 'Listen, my friend,'" said North in a bad French accent. "'Look at what these bad Englishman will do, hey. I will not lie to you, have my people ever lied to you? No. But have theirs? Think about what I have said, we mean you no harm, you are not a prisoner, come and go as you please.'
"It was an effective little operation, I have to admit. Soon enough, John Company would not be allowed to trade any more. Only French ships and factories. No India trade of textiles, no East India trade of spices, no China trade of silk and tea."
"Unless a tainted Baram Khan was prevented from returning home," concluded Donovan, understanding what his friend had done.
"Indeed. It is remarkable, really—they put all their eggs in one basket. There really was no true second in command. Salim eventually convinced the man who took over to return home with what they had and come what may. I don't know what the results will be, but at least we have some time."
"Salim convinced him? I would think he would be displeased with your treatment of his master."
"Not as much as you might think. Some bad blood between them, apparently, and he particularly did not mind after I delivered a few choice books to him on Indo-China. Heaven help me when that she-daemon at the library finds out."
"Vietnam?"
"The early years, with the French. No need to confuse the issue with that later idiot American enterprise. I then sent a rather long missive off to one of my uncles in London who is on the board of the company. Informing him of the situation and giving my advice. With any luck his response will reach India before any possible French response. Things might be different this time. Quiet trade, that's really all we should be after. From all the books I have ever read, military occupation of India was never a paying prospect.
"I wish I had not had to. I tried, but the Mughal made up his mind before even arriving in Grantville and the few days he spent here only let him find what he wanted to find. The men who did this were very, very good. He just couldn't get it through his head that he was being manipulated. A fault not uncommon to the Mughal ruling class, I imagine."
Donovan cleared his throat. "Yes, well, that might have been partly my fault. There was a sort of, ah, problem with our bill. He was possibly... annoyed at us."
"Hastings handled the manner in his usual subtle way, I suppose?"
"Poisoning a man for international trade?" said Donovan, shaking his head. "It does not seem right."
"We did a guy in Antwerp for twenty guilders. When we catch that bastard Lynch, we'll do him for free. This one died for hundreds of millions and the future of Britain."
"Your country," said Donovan harshly.
"Yes. My country, as often as I try to ignore it." North looked at the arrack in his hands. "This bottle seems to have died a much honored, though deserved death. Do you have something with more alcohol content?"
"Moonshine," said Donovan, lifting up another bottle from the shelf. "I have no idea why they call it that except if you drink it in the morning you won't wake up till the light of the moon. A letter came for you while you were away."
"From my lord father?" North asked, taking the bottle.
"Yes."
"He sent me one before we left also."
"He wants you to return home, I imagine."
"Things are happening in England, things are changing, and men of my skill and temperament are needed. It's probably for the best."
"You really believe that?"
"Yes, I do." North stared off into space. "These Americans are all going to get themselves killed anyway. How much cash do we have in the coffers?"
"Most of our wealth is invested," said Donovan mildly. "Steel, bricks, glass, even sewing machine companies. Most of the rest is in the bank."
"Sterling?"
"Seven thousand pounds."
"I'll take six thousand of it. You keep the rest, Liam, along with the company. You can even change the name if you like."
"Have a nice life, then, Tom."
"I thought, for a moment, that you might come with me. But..."
North was interrupted by the opening of the study door. Then entered a Spanish beauty substantially less pregnant than the last time North had seen her. He turned to Donovan with a raised eyebrow.
"Meals are now ser
ved promptly seven times a day. Join me for one last."
North looked for a moment like he would refuse, but it had been a very long time in-between filling hot meals and once the smell hit him he could not refuse. He reached for the tray.
"What is her name, by the way? I don't usually ask, but I am trying to change, near death experience and all that."
"She never told us her real name. Too ashamed I suppose, probably some don's daughter. I started calling her Dulcinea and she usually answers to it now."
"You must be joking." North lifted the first mouthful to his lips.
"Sadly, no. What is also sad is that I did not know your intentions, so I could not lace the food with a sedative."
"What are you talki—oh, shit."
Slam!
* * *
What...
Who...
Fucking Irish.
North woke up, facedown on a cold concrete slab. With an effort, not helped by a minor hangover, he sat up to examine his surroundings. Though North had always somehow managed to avoid this place, he had little doubt that he was secure behind the bars of the Grantville city jail.
"Wakie wakie," said an American-accented voice.
And god damn all arrogant Americans, which includes the whole bloody lot!
"You are enjoying every minute of this, aren't you?" said North, when his vision cleared enough to see who it was.
"You betcha," replied Dan Frost with a sardonic grin. "Ever since that time."
"I have told you again and again, Chief Frost, I have no idea how that manure got on your squad car seat. But you should never have tried cutting off the drinks anyway. Closing time, ha! What an absurd notion!"
North massaged his throbbing head. Then, raised his voice. "Illegal search and seizure, unlawful incarceration! I demand my constitutional rights!"
"That is funny on too many levels to describe right now. But all your rights have been respected, Englishman. You have been arrested and sentenced to six months imprisonment for drunk and disorderly conduct."
"Shouldn't I have been conscious for my trial? And what about legal representation?"
"Yes, well. It's the war, you know. We all have to tighten our belts and cut corners on frivolities. And there really was no question about your generally drunk and disorderly habits."
"Generally drunk and dis... which was I specifically charged, tried, and sentenced for?"
"A fight that resulted over a card table one Friday night. With one Liam Donovan."
"He started it," North said, like a petulant child.
"But you threw the first punch."
"Did not!"
"Mr. Donovan is a very prominent local businessman, and he filled out all the proper forms for a complaint. We also have witnesses. Would you call our very own mayor a liar? Shame on you." Frost was unable to contain his amusement. "He and his lovely, mild-mannered wife were very upset at you."
"She won the bet! And since when has D and D been a six month crime?"
"Normally it's not, but you engaged in a flight from prosecution. We can't have that."
"Oh, kiss my arse. Liam probably filled out the complaint an hour ago. I want to speak to the mayor; I want to speak to the President!"
"Both of them are too busy. Besides, I value their health too much to risk them dying of laughter. Certain folks around here—several thousand, I imagine—have been waiting ages for this to happen to you. There is someone here, though, who will speak to you."
* * *
"Liam Aloysius Donovan!" shouted North, wringing the bars of his cage when his friend came into view along with John Hastings. "This wasn't funny in Rotterdam and it's not funny now! Get me out of here!"
"I am afraid I can't do that," said Donovan, after taking a moment to ascertain that the bars were sturdy enough to hold North's temper.
"Do you have any idea what I am going to do to you when I get out of here? And I will get out of here. Just like I escaped from Rotterdam, Preston and half the stockades in Germany!"
"I have a fairly good idea. I still remember... parts of Rotterdam."
"Why?"
Donovan frowned. "That's a silly question. It was payday and the merchants from the West Indies had just arrived with a shipment of rum."
"I mean why put me in here?"
"I believe the term is called 'reeducation,' although in your case it is probably misapplied. I am not certain there is enough education in your background to be re-ed. But I left some reading material under your bunk, anyway."
North took the time to lean over and extract the books from their place and examine the titles. "The Isles: A History. The Oxford Illustrated History of Britain. The English Civil War and Restoration." Scowling, he tossed the books onto the bunk. "I've read them all and a dozen more like."
"Then read them again. You will have plenty of time. We are building something here, Tom. Leaving aside that we are one of the fastest growing new companies of a new nation, this country is something worthy of loyalty. Not one populated by ignorant half naked savages too busy warring on each other to prevent another people of ignorant clothed savages from invading them."
"My home needs me. My father has sent for me."
"Fuck you, Lord North. Your father sent for you because you have money and skills at war. Two things you were considerably lacking when you left home. I am not content for you to destroy what we have worked for and go back to being the unknown and unwanted third son of an insignificant country baron."
"Don't you get it, you dumb bog Irish idiot? I want out! I am tired of this. I killed a man, not in battle but in a fucking garden! He was an arrogant git who probably deserved death, yes, but one who was just trying to serve his country. And for what, for money! I was raised to be better than that. Chivalry, charity, good queen Bess. For England, Saint George, and Harry! Reading Le morte bloody d'Arthur!"
"Damn strange stage in your life for a crisis of conscience."
"I was dying. Never quite went...all the way to dead, but I was very much dying in that river. It made me examine things, and I did not like what I saw."
"For what it is worth," said Donovan, stepping closer to the bars. "I think you're a good man. An Irishman almost, plenty of Norman Anglos who were changed under the right tutelage, you are no different. Behind all the bluster and bravado is a good man. In this whole, long, stinking war you were always one of the best of us. Never raped a woman. Never took more than the peasants could bear when you needed it, and paid when you had it. Yes, you killed a man, you have killed many men. So have I. That one, though, was a tool of the French and would have made them much more powerful than they already are. On the whole they are not a bad people; you and I have known quite a few good ones. Not even a bad government, certainly nothing like what this land would know in a few hundred years. But they have made themselves the enemy of this little principality we have made our home in. And in a Europe populated by nations motivated by greed, land lust, and rational self-interest, these people are trying for something better. And are worthy of defense."
"Lord God! An Irishman named Quixote." North held his head in his hands.
"It is not an impossible dream," said Donovan sympathetically.
"I am going to get out of here. In a damn sight short of six months!" screamed North, regaining his resolve.
"Oh, of that I have little doubt." Donovan smiled. "We have a new contract and I expect to be away for several weeks. Hopefully, by that time your temper will have improved. I have made a suitable arrangement with your jailer, and he will allow one of our secretaries to bring you all the papers you will need to manage the business while I'm away. The secretary will probably be Dulcinea, though I do not think I have to worry about her virtue." Donovan dinged the iron bars with his knuckle. "This cell should present enough difficulty even for you."
"Papers?"
"Forms, books, payroll, resource allocations, and cost benefit analyses. It occurs to me that we have been going about this the wrong way. In your m
ovies it's always the Irishman that is the reckless, feckless, happy-go-lucky fellow. And the prim and proper Englishman that keeps him in check. I want to go out and have some fun for a change."
"I will need to write to my father; he will be expecting it."
"I took the liberty of doing it for you. I fancy my forgery of your signature is well-nigh perfect, as much practice as I've had." Donovan extracted a handwritten piece of paper. "Ha hum... To, Dudley North, third Baron North, Commissioner of the Admiralty, Ely Manor, Kirtling... Dear father... Fuck off... Signed, Captain Thomas Xenophon North of the Hibernian Mercenary Company. Wayne Manor, Grantville."
"Of the Hibernian Mercenary Company?" North demanded icily.
"You said I could change the name." Donovan folded the note and put it back in his pocket.
"He will never believe I sent that."
"Is it not how you responded to him the last time he wrote you?"
"No!" said North hotly. "I was eloquent. You poxy bastard."
"I'm sure."
"De Valera was an American, and probably a Frenchman before that!"
"A hollow and transparent attempt to anger me. Read the books; think about what I have said. Talk to a few of the Americans on a subject other than cinema or high stakes poker. Try politics for once, though a word of advice... not while drinking. And Edmund Burke was an Irishman."
"Sod off!"
"And so was the duke of Wellington. See you in a few weeks." Donovan bowed to his partner and left him to his incarceration.
"Hastings!" North pleaded, before the other man could leave as well. "You are an Englishman. Do not leave me here, man! Please, I beg of you."
"I am sorry; I can not."
"Hastings! I am your captain and I order you to have me released!"
"Sorry, boss." Hastings pointed with a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "He is the one who hands out the gold now."
"What gold? You are months behind in your pay!"
"Not anymore. I have been promoted. I am Lieutenant Hastings now. Goodbye, boss."
"Hastings... Hastings!"
North was left alone. He spent a brief moment examining his cell and was impressed. It was not the shoddy affair he had been interned in before, but a professional and near escape-proof prison. All bluster to the contrary, he would be here a while.
