his master the king of Spain less inclined still.
'You're saying we can't do anything?'
Olivares kept his eyes from meeting the king's gaze directly. Philip IV's tone of voice had a shrill quality that indicated his temper was badly frayed. He was normally not a bad master to serve-indeed, he could often be quite a pleasant one. But he was also a devotee of bull-fighting, and in times like this was prone to act as if he was a torero in the arena himself. With, alas, one or another of his ministers designated as the bull.
'Well…'
'Nothing?' Angrily, the king slammed his palm down on the table that served him for a desk in his private audience chamber, on those occasions when he felt like dealing with affairs of state directly. Infrequent occasions, fortunately.
'Your Majesty…'
'Why am I paying for my tercios, then?'
Olivares decided this was not the time to point out that the king's payment of his soldiers was erratic. That was traditionally true for Spanish armies, but the situation had gotten even worse than usual of late.
'Answer me!'
There'd be no way to divert the king, obviously. Not today, after he'd just finished reading the latest reports on the turmoil that had enveloped the United States of Europe.
'We simply can't do anything, Your Majesty. Between the unrest in Portugal and Catalonia-'
'Why were those seditious books not banned?'
'They were banned, Your Majesty, but…'
It was hard to explain such things to a man who'd been born, raised and spent his entire life in the cloistered surroundings of Spanish royalty. Banning unpleasant items from the Real Alcazar was one thing; banning them from Spain, quite another. Spain was one of Europe's largest countries and more than nine-tenths of its borders were seacoast-more than three thousand miles of seacoast. Not all the tercios in the world could police it effectively, assuming Spain could afford the payroll-which it certainly couldn't.
Smuggling was even more of a national pastime for Spaniards than bull-fighting. How did the king imagine that it would be possible to keep out copies of Grantville's texts on Spanish and Portuguese history, when smugglers routinely handled livestock? All the more so because there weren't that many of those texts, and most of them were just a few pages excerpted from encyclopedias.
A few pages, alas, were more than enough to encourage Portuguese and Catalan rebels to persist in their nefarious activity. In that cursed world the Americans came from, Portugal and Catalonia had rebelled in 1640-not more than five years from now. And while the Catalan revolt failed in its purpose, it had been a very close thing. As it was, Spain lost much of the province to France.
Not surprisingly, the Catalan malcontents in this universe were simply being encouraged to try harder.
Fortunately, the king was distracted by other thoughts. Blessedly, by angry thoughts toward someone other than his chief minister. 'It's because of that fucking Borja, isn't it?'
This was not safe terrain, certainly, but it was safer than the terrain they'd been treading on. 'Yes, Your Majesty, I'm afraid so. Cardinal Borja's…ah, papal adventure-'
'His adventure? Say better, his lunacy-no, his rampant vanity-better still, his plunge into Satanic pride!'
'Yes, Your Majesty. Well said! Whatever we call it, though, his actions have stirred up a great deal of unrest through Italy, including in our own possessions.'
'Indeed.' The king's glare was still ferocious, but at least it now had a different focus. 'Explain to me again, Gaspar, why I can't have the bastard assassinated?'
'Ah, well… That would just compound the damage, I'm afraid. As I said before, Your Majesty, Borja's precipitate action has simply left us with few options, and none of them very good. If we kill him-if anyone kills him-then there's little doubt that Urban will take back the papacy. And he's…ah…'
'Now bitterly hostile to us on the picayune grounds that we overthrew him and murdered several dozen of his bishops and cardinals, including his nephew Francesco.'
'Well. Yes.'
The king spent the next minute or so calling down a variety of divine ills and misfortunes on the person of Cardinal Gaspare de Borja y de Velasco. The tirade spilled over into outright blasphemy-not that even the boldest of Spain's inquisitors would have said a word on the subject, with the king in his current mood. It was notable also that at no time did Philip IV refer to Borja by any title other than profane and profoundly vulgar ones. He certainly never used the man's newly-minted title of 'pope.'
When he finally wound down, most of his fury seemed to have been spent. It was replaced by a sort of sullen resignation that was not pleasant to deal with, but no longer really dangerous.
'The essence of the matter is that we have no resources to do anything significant about the heretics. The USE crumbles-the same swine who-ah! Never mind! It's too aggravating to even think about! We just have to sit here, on our hands, and do nothing.'
Olivares decided to interpret that as the king's summation rather than a question. That way he could avoid, once again, having to say 'Yes, we can't' where the king wanted to hear 'No, we can.' Brussels, capital of the Netherlands The king in the Netherlands-Fernando I, as he now titled himself, being the founder of his new dynasty-looked around the conference table at his closest advisers.
'We're all agreed, then? We will take no advantage of the current civil conflict in the USE. Beyond, of course, using it to apply more leverage in existing negotiations over trade matters and minor border disputes.'
They'd decided on that term toward the beginning of the conference. 'Civil conflict,' as opposed to 'civil war.' There were important connotations involved.
The advisers, in turn, all looked around the table, gauging each other's expressions.
Rubens provided the summary. 'Yes, Your Majesty, we're agreed. The benefits involved simply aren't worth the risks.'
'Small benefits,' said Alessandro Scaglia, 'with very great risks.'
One of the advisers wiggled his fingers. 'I don't disagree with the decision, but I don't honestly think the risks are that great.'
'No?' said Miguel de Manrique. The soldier's expression was grim. 'Stearns might come back to power, you know. He's bad enough, but what's worse is that he'd only do so if Richter holds Dresden. How would you like it if she came back here, with a grudge to settle?'
Archduchess Isabella's hand flew to her throat. 'Oh, dear God. Nephew, listen to Manrique! None of your headstrong ways, you hear? King or not, I won't have it. I want some peace and quiet in these last few months before I slip into the grave.' Poznan, Poland 'The king is adamant, and the Sejm still more so. That's just the way it is, young Opalinski. They'll have no talk of a peace settlement.'
Stanislaw Koniecpolski shifted his shoulders under the heavy bearskin coat. Even for January, the day was cold, but the grand hetman wouldn't be seen shivering in public. It was hard not to, though.
Lukasz Opalinski wasn't even trying. He had his hands tucked into his armpits and was making a veritable stage drama out of shivering.
'Dear God, it's cold!' he hissed. Then, tight-faced: 'And I suppose they insisted once again that we had to sally from the gates and smite the invaders. Applying the brilliant tactic of a hussar charge through deep snow against rifled muskets firing from well-built fieldworks.'
Koniecpolski chuckled. 'They did indeed. But there, I'm afraid, they are trespassing onto my rightful territory, and I am not legally obliged to listen to the silly beggars. No, rest easy, young man. There'll be no idiotic sallies out of the gates of Poznan. We'll stay behind these walls in comfort-using the term loosely, I admit-while the German shits freeze out there.'
He did another shift of his shoulders. A rapid succession of shifts, actually. Not an outright shiver, but certainly a close cousin. 'Besides, there's a bright side to continuing the war.'
Koniecpolski had his own hands tucked into opposing sleeves of his coat. Not wanting to expose them to the elements, he used a gesture of his head to point to the compound behind them. From their height atop one of the bastions, they had a good view of the now-largely-dismantled APC that Lukasz had captured from the enemy.
'You can be damn sure that one of Gustav Adolf's demands-he'll be inflexible about it too-will be the return of that APC. I'd much rather keep it for a while. Walenty tells me they're making great progress.'
Opalinski smiled. 'He's not bragging, either. I'd say he was, except every day that goes by, Ellis gets more
