1637 The Polish Maelstrom Read online

  “I should have listened to you, Michael,” said the emir. He even managed a little smile. “But now, I am afraid, it is all too late.” He winced. Looking down, Mike saw that Fakhr-al-Din had his hand tightly pressed against the wound in his abdomen.

  “Men don’t survive a wound like this,” said the emir. His tone was calm and matter-of-fact. “Almost never.”

  His wife cried out an inchoate little protest. Fakhr-al-Din reached up and gently stroked her head.

  “It’s called peritonitis,” said Mike. “Yes, it’s deadly—but it doesn’t have to be. Let me see… Wait here.”

  He hurried out of the room, realizing as he left that his last two words were fairly silly. Wait here. As if a man in his mid-sixties who’d been stabbed in the stomach and hip was likely to get up and go anywhere.

  Once he got back into his room he checked the man he’d struck down first. He was still unconscious and there was no sign he’d be recovering soon. As savagely as Mike had slammed his head into the bedpost, he might never recover.

  He’d deal with that later. For the moment, he had more pressing issues to deal with. He opened the trunk and drew out the radio.

  “Don’t fail me now, Estuban,” he muttered.

  * * *

  After he finished the transmission, Mike had to spend a few minutes just sitting on the bed next to the still-unconscious assassin—would-be assassin—in order to settle his nerves and restore his normal breathing. In his days in the ring, Mike had never had much of a problem dealing with the after effects of adrenalin. But fighting a professional boxing match and killing several men in a gunfight were not the same thing.

  At all. In the real world he was not Dirty Harry—and from the perspective of a forty-year-old man instead of a six-year-old boy he didn’t think anyone was, except for maybe the members of elite commando units. Whether or not he’d develop full-blown PTSD from the events this morning remained to be seen. But he didn’t have any doubt at all that he’d be waking up more than once in the future from nightmares.

  * * *

  When he returned to the emir’s chambers, he saw that Khasikiya was pressing down on her husband’s abdomen and hip with a folded-up bedsheet. That would prevent too much blood loss, which could potentially kill Fakhr-al-Din long before infection would. She’d always seemed like a quiet, reserved and very pampered person to Mike, but he’d clearly underestimated her.

  “Okay,” he said. “We might be able to still save your life, Emir. But the only way to do it is to take you to Linz.”

  Fakhr-al-Din’s eyes widened. “Linz? Michael, that’s halfway across Europe. And why go there?”

  “It’s somewhere around six hundred miles away,” said Mike. “As for ‘why,’ it’s because the world’s best doctor is there along with one of the world’s two or three finest pharmacies.”

  “But—”

  “The airship I was planning to use is already in Venice—and luckily for us, it’s already fueled. By now, it’s off the ground and heading our way. Unless the weather turns sour—which it might, but it doesn’t look bad at the moment—it’ll probably get here by midafternoon. By the end of the day, for sure. We can leave tomorrow morning—you and Khasikiya can, at any rate. There probably won’t be enough room—enough lift, rather—for me to come with you. You’ll fly to Venice so the airship can refuel. You should get to Linz within a few days. You’ll probably be quite ill by then, but at least you’ll have a chance.”

  Fakhr-al-Din stared up at him. “You expect me to fly?”

  “Be quiet, husband! For once, just do as you’re told.”

  Bless the woman.

  Part Six

  March 1637

  And they remember there the great events

  And the ancient runes of the Mighty One

  “The Seeress’s Prophecy,” The Poetic Edda

  Chapter 30

  Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia

  “I’m staying up there,” Kristina pronounced, pointing up to the tower rising from the city’s impressive town hall. “As high as possible.”

  Riding to her left, Thorsten Engler looked up at the prospective residence in question. The expression on his face was dubious. “I don’t think—”

  Caroline Platzer interrupted him. She was riding on the other side of the princess. “Of course, dear. Whatever you want. You’re the future empress, after all.”

  “That’s right!” Kristina proclaimed. The expression on the ten-year-old girl’s face was simultaneously proud and disgruntled. “Even though some people”—here she cast a sidelong glance at Thorsten—“often don’t treat me like they’re supposed to.”

  For his part, Thorsten was looking at Caroline, who was giving him a meaningful look. The gist of which he had no difficulty interpreting: Butt out, amateur. If you tell Kristina she can’t do something, you’ll spend the rest of the day squabbling about it. Let her find out for herself and you’ll have some peace and quiet.

  By the time they reached the town hall, a small crowd of notables had come out of the building and were gathered at the entrance to welcome them.

  Kristina was pleased as well as excited. The girl’s character had many sharp angles which were not well aligned with each other. One of those angles was that she cared deeply if people liked her. Another was that she considered herself better and smarter than most people—which was in fact true, at least as far as smarter went. Yet a third angle was that for all her egotism she wasn’t mean-spirited and she took as much pride in her good conscience as she did in her intelligence. The conscience wasn’t always engaged whereas the intelligence was—but you could always appeal to that conscience, and she would listen. Grudgingly, sometimes, but she’d still listen.

  Over time—yes, it had taken a while—Thorsten had come to like and respect the princess, all things considered. His betrothed Caroline Platzer had come to love her deeply. Which was a good thing, given that by now Caroline was the closest thing Kristina had ever had to a real mother.

  Once the formalities were over, Kristina insisted on going immediately to her future chambers in the tower. Up the stairs she raced, passing floor after floor. Not counting the uppermost spire, the tower was close to two hundred feet tall. By the time Thorsten and Caroline got there, they were both somewhat exhausted while Kristina had already had time to explore her new residence.

  Sadly, the exploration left her displeased. The first thing she said when Thorsten and Caroline reached the top floor was:

  “This is terrible! There’s no toilet!”

  Manfully, Thorsten refrained from uttering his immediate response: I could have told you that two hundred feet down, you silly child. Of course there’s no toilet this far up. The building dates back to the fourteenth century.

  Caroline put the matter more diplomatically: “Kristina, this isn’t a modern palace like the one your father had built in Magdeburg. It’s very old. They didn’t have what you think of as ‘toilets’ back them. Just—”

  “I know what they had,” Kristina said crossly. “I’m not ignorant, you know. They had”—here she made a quick and exceedingly improper squatting motion—“stupid and disgusting holes in the floor.”

  She looked up at the two adults, now with a pleading expression. “Could we have one put in, maybe?”

  Caroline, exhibiting the treachery of a true governess, elbowed Thorsten and let him explain the facts of life.

  It’s not practical, Your Highness. To have a toilet here you’d have to be able to pump water all the way up.

  “There are steam engines! I’ve seen them!”

  Yes, Your Highness. But there still aren’t all that many steam-powered pumps—I don’t believe there are any at all in Breslau—and there will be other problems as well. Think of the difficulty of getting waterproof pipes this far—

  “They have those new pipes! The Americans can make them! They’re called Pee Vee…something.”

  “PVC. It stands for polyvinyl chloride and it’s not
easy to make. There hasn’t been much of it made yet and none of it is very good so far. We’d have to use old-fashioned clay pipes and stacking those this high wouldn’t be very—”

  “It’s not fair! This has a great view!”

  * * *

  Kristina often found reality disrespectful, but she’d eventually accept that it existed. And she couldn’t figure out any way to send reality to the headsman. So—in this instance it took perhaps fifteen minutes—she eventually agreed to look for quarters elsewhere in the town hall.

  They found suitable rooms for her in what amounted—would amount—to a royal suite once the silly clerks and their stupid papers got summarily moved somewhere else. The view wasn’t that good—they were only on the third floor—but there was a sort of primitive toilet that Thorsten assured her could be modernized fairly quickly. Best of all, the suite was near the stables, so the princess would be able to ride any time she wanted to, at least in daylight. Kristina was a genuinely superb equestrienne.

  After she was settled in, Thorsten and Caroline went in search of quarters for themselves. They found them not far away and on the same floor. Once again, clerks and their papers had to be evicted. But Thorsten wasn’t given to worrying over the plight of bureaucrats. If they objected to the travails of life, let them join the army and discover what real travails were like.

  Caroline was more sympathetic, but not much—and that little was just the professional courtesy of a social worker. If the clerks were discomforted, let them see how well they liked dealing with troubled people instead of papers day after day after day and for lower pay.

  “So now what?” she asked, once they finished unpacking.

  “I believe the town council is preparing a feast for us. Well, for Kristina.”

  Caroline ran fingers through her hair. “Tonight? Damn, I was hoping to rest for a day or two. You know how excited the girl’s going to be. She loves being feasted. She’ll be bouncing all over.”

  “Look on the bright side. At least she’s not a princess who’s fussy over what she’s fed.”

  “Kristina? I think the only thing she’d refuse to eat is horse meat—and that’s just because she likes to ride the critters.”

  Florence, capital of the Duchy of Tuscany

  Italy

  Once he got back to Florence, it took Mike more than a week to finish all the business he needed to take care of before he could return to the USE. About half of that time was spent making sure Fakhr-al-Din’s household would be taken care of until—whenever—the emir could return. That was not especially difficult, since Grand Duke Ferdinando was cooperative, but the affairs involved were somewhat complex and Mike had to remain out of sight while he handled them.

  The other half of the time was due to a simple problem—it would take that long before Estuban Miro could get an airship to Florence. There still weren’t very many of the new hydrogen airships and the distance from Venice to Florence was too great for a hot air ship given that there were no refueling stations available between the two cities. Push came to shove, Miro was running a business, not a charity for wayward adventurers. If it had been an emergency, he would have diverted one of the airships anyway. But Mike assured him there was no need for him to get back at once.

  Mike considered taking a land route to Venice. The distance wasn’t more than two hundred miles, across terrain that was not especially difficult and had good roads all the way. But he didn’t spend much time considering the idea. The problem was that there was no way to get from Florence to Venice overland except by passing through the Papal States or the Duchy of Modena, which was allied with the Spanish Habsburgs. That was very unfriendly territory, to put it delicately. If Mike got stopped and arrested…

  Best not to risk it. So, he’d just have to wait until an airship arrived.

  * * *

  The airship arrived early in the afternoon. It would have left Venice at daybreak in order to be sure it could make the round trip during the day. It was possible to fly an airship at night but doing so was riskier.

  The airship came to earth in the same Boboli Gardens adjacent to the Palazzo Pitti where Rebecca had met with the grand duke and his wife, Vittoria della Rovere. The gardens were so big that Mike had little fear he could be recognized at whatever distance a spy could manage, but he was in disguise anyway, just to be on the safe side. The “disguise” didn’t amount to much, just a voluminous cloak that would obscure his figure and a very wide-brimmed and floppy hat that would put his face in shadows.

  What he hadn’t expected, once he climbed into the gondola, was to find his wife waiting for him.

  Rebecca had a strained expression on her face.

  “Hey, hon, I wasn’t expecting—”

  “Michael, it’s your mother.”

  Grantville, West Virginia County

  Former capital of the State of Thuringia-Franconia

  By the time Mike got to the house where his mother had lived most of her life—his father also, but he’d died many years ago—she was no longer conscious. His sister Rita was there, thankfully, and had gotten there while their mother was still awake. Very weak, but awake.

  “She asked for you and I told her you were on your way,” Rita said. “Then she smiled and fell asleep. She hasn’t woken up since, and Kunigunda”—Rita nodded toward a youngish woman sitting in a chair in a corner of the bedroom—“she’s the nurse—she was trained at the high school—she doesn’t—” Rita stifled a little sob. “Kunigunda doesn’t think Mom’s going to wake up again. Not ever. I hope she’s wrong, but…” Again, his sister stifled a sob. “She’s been out for almost sixteen hours now, Mike.”

  Mike was stifling his own grief, as best he could. A part of his mind knew that his mother had lived longer than anyone—including herself—had thought she would. She’d been born Jean Lawler, in 1939 by up-time reckoning, and had married Jack Stearns in 1964, at the age of twenty-five. She’d given birth to Michael on January 12, 1966. His sister was quite a bit younger than Mike; she’d been born twelve years later, in 1978.

  Their mother wasn’t very old, by normal up-time standards—she was still in her sixties. But she’d been an invalid for more than a decade and had been unable to replace many of the medicines that had helped her before the Ring of Fire. Still, year after year had gone by. She’d never gotten any better, but she’d never seemed to get any worse, either.

  There was a famous saying: No one expects the Spanish Inquisition. That wasn’t actually true, as Mike had come to know since he’d arrived in the Inquisition’s heyday. As a rule, people did expect the Inquisition, since by Spanish law they had to provide people with a month’s notice they’d be coming.

  But one thing he knew wasn’t a myth. He’d discovered it on the day his father had died, and he was pretty sure he was about to learn it again.

  No one expects the death of a parent.

  * * *

  For the next four hours, with Rebecca hovering nearby, Mike and his sister sat across from each other at their mother’s bed. At any given time, one or the other would be holding her hand, and usually both.

  The time came when Kunigunda gently moved Mike aside so she could monitor their mother’s pulse. After perhaps twenty minutes, she said: “She’s gone.”

  She never had woken up again. But at least Mike had been there when she passed.

  He and Rita hugged each other for a while. Mike found himself wondering, as he had on the day his father died—he’d been there, and had gotten home while his father was still conscious—on the mystery that sometimes accompanied death. He’d seen plenty of death since the Ring of Fire, most of it due to violence and most of the rest due to clearly evident illness. There’s no mystery when a man dies because his skull has been shattered by a cannon ball, and not much mystery when a child dies of typhus or dysentery. But both of his parents had died quietly, both while they were peacefully sleeping. One moment they were still part of the world; the next, they were gone.

  What happe
ned in that instant, exactly? He did not know and knew he never would. Not even when his own death arrived, whenever that might be.

  Of course, in his case, it was likely there would be no mystery at all. Here lies what’s left of Mike Stearns. He shoulda ducked.

  That finally broke the spell. He had to stifle a laugh.

  * * *

  The funeral was held two days later. As they were walking away from the grave, Mike said to Rebecca: “You know, we’ll have to cover the cost of that airship ride ourselves. I’m sure Estuban won’t raise the issue, but we can’t let something like that slide. Most people in the here and now wouldn’t think of it as public corruption if officials and military officers used government transport for something like this, but we’re trying to put a stop—”

  “Michael, relax. I already took care of it,” said Rebecca.

  Michael looked at her. “That quickly? I thought our finances were pretty tight.”

  “They were. They are no longer. Two weeks ago, the publisher gave me the first royalty payment for my book.”

  “That soon? How much—”

  She told him. He was silent for a while. Then he whistled and said: “Damn. I wish Mom was still here. She always told me to marry up.”

  Rebecca gave him a sideways look. “In that case, you blundered badly. You should have married Eva Katherine von Anhalt-Dessau instead of me.”

  “Harry Lefferts’ new girlfriend? I’ve never even met the woman. Is her family that rich?”

  His wife laughed softly. “It is irrelevant. Neither she nor Harry will ever have to worry about whether she has her family’s approval or not. Dowry be damned. She wrote a book too, you know—The Adventures of Captain Lefferts, as told to Eva Katherine von Anhalt-Dessau. The publisher barely noticed me when he handed me my check, he was so morose about having refused to publish the book about Harry. Instead, Harry and Eva sold it to Ron Stone—he created a new publishing house in Hesse-Kassel, if you didn’t know—and the book wound up filling his coffers instead.”