imaginable. Dresden had defied him and held out against Baner. And now Stearns had come out in open rebellion and marched his troops back into Saxony. By all reports, there would be a battle soon between his Third Division and Baner's mercenaries. Only a new storm was delaying it.
As each setback and misadventure came, the chancellor's mood darkened. No, not just his mood, his very soul. Always a hard man, Oxenstierna was now becoming a savage man, something he'd never been in the past.
So what would he do, if the final blow fell and he learned his king was returning?
Submit-knowing full well that Gustav II Adolf would not approve of his actions?
Maybe. And then…maybe not. The chancellor had men who were loyal to him, first and foremost. By now, he probably had entire regiments who were mainly loyal to him. He'd certainly have enough such men to overwhelm Hand and Erling Ljungberg and the king's Scot bodyguards.
A few blows to the head-no need, even, for outright murder-and it would be done. Those who knew the truth silenced, some absurd concoction presented to the world in public-another treason plot, the details left vague-and the king condemned to everlasting madness, his brains turned to pulp.
So. Cyanide or arsenic? Those were the only viable alternatives. Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe Restlessly, Rebecca moved through the empty rooms of the town house, looking out of the windows to watch the snow fall. She had already made two complete circuits of all the rooms on the top floor except those of her children, whom she didn't want to awaken.
She didn't go down to the lower floors. Now that the crisis was reaching its peak, there were people there at all times. Her house had become the operating command center for the Fourth of July Party. Couriers raced back and forth from here to the Freedom Arches, where the city's CoC had its center, every hour of the day and night. They were needed because the telephone lines were often overwhelmed.
The people in Magdeburg had good intelligence coming from Berlin. As always, servants were the weak link in the aristocracy's armor, when it came to espionage. You'd think they'd learn not to talk in front of their servants, but some habits were just too deeply ingrained. That was especially true of the sort of cast-iron diehards who'd gathered in Berlin.
So they knew Oxenstierna was coming, and bringing his whole army with him. And while their intelligence didn't extend so far as to know his precise intentions-Oxenstierna himself was far too shrewd to speak in front of servants-no one had any trouble guessing what they were.
Tonight, though, Rebecca wasn't concerned about her own possible fate a few weeks or months from now. Not even that of her children. Tonight the snow was falling, and she knew what that meant.
Thought she did, at least. She'd gotten no messages from Michael. He wouldn't have divulged his tactical plans to her anyway. But she knew her husband very well.
Mike Stearns was a charming man. Even his enemies would allow as much. Gracious, pleasant, courteous, rarely given to expressing a temper.
All of it was even true. But what the qualities disguised from those who didn't know him as well as she did, was that he was also utterly pugnacious. Not belligerent, as such. He did not go looking for fights. But when a fight did come he would throw himself into it with a pure fury. Rebecca had never seen him fight with his fists, but she knew from Melissa Mailey what his record had been. All but one of his professional fights he'd won by knockout before the end of the fourth round.
So how would such a man fight as a general?
Snow was falling. Not only here but all across the Germanies. She'd checked the weather reports.
It would be falling in Saxony too. White, cold-and gentle, as snowfalls were. But tomorrow it would be bathed in blood. She could only hope Michael's blood would not be part of that gruesome, incongruous mix.
Or not too much of it, at least. She was a Jewess. Her people had learned long ago that you had to be practical about these things.
Chapter 46
The Saxon plain, near Dresden Johan Baner was awakened by the sound of gunfire. He came awake instantly.
'Fucking bastards! I warned them!'
He began pulling on his pants, calling for his orderly and his adjutant. The orderly arrived first, piling into the little room on the upper floor of the house. He'd have been sleeping just outside, in the hallway. The hallway was small and narrow, too, as you'd expect from a village home that wasn't quite a hovel but came close.
Without speaking, the orderly helped the general put on the rest of his clothes. The adjutant arrived seconds later.
'I warned them, Sinclair! I warned the fucks! Which one of them started it?'
The Scot officer's face was pale. 'Sir, I'm not-'
'If you don't know, find out! I intend have whoever started this brawl shot dead! No, I'll-'
'Sir, I really don't-'
'-have them hanged! Hanged, you hear me? If need be, a whole fucking company!'
'Sir, I think it's the enemy!' Sinclair shouted desperately.
Baner stared at him, as if he'd gone mad.
Sinclair pointed to the window. 'Listen, sir! That's too much gunfire to be coming from a brawl between companies.'
Still wide-eyed with disbelief, Baner stared at the window. An instant later, he rushed over, fumbled at the latch, and threw the window open.
The sky was lightening with the sunrise but he still couldn't see very far because of the snowfall. The sound of gunfire was growing, though, and Sinclair was right. That wasn't a brawl between drunken soldiers.
But-
'No sane man launches an attack in the middle of a snowstorm!'
He and Sinclair looked at each other. Sinclair shrugged. 'He's a rank amateur, sir. You know the old saying.'
Baner had always thought that saying was inane, actually. The opponent a great swordsman fears the most is the worst swordsman. Blithering nonsense. Still…
Stearns might be mad, but this could get dangerous. He had to get out there. His soldiers would be muzzy with sleep and confused. They'd no more been expecting this than he had, and the snowfall would make it difficult for his officers to get the men into proper formations. Everyone would be half-blind.
So would the enemy, though-and, just as Sinclair had said, they were rank amateurs.
Choose to fight real soldiers in a snowstorm, would they? He'd show them where children's games left off and real war began.
You couldn't see a thing beyond thirty yards or so and volley gun batteries didn't blast away at nothing. Not batteries under Thorsten Engler's command, anyway. And he wasn't nervous, either. They'd trained with the sled arrangements, and had actually come to prefer them over wheels, in some ways. They were easier to bring to bear, for one thing. Their biggest drawback was the recoil, which could be a little unpredictable, but that wasn't a factor in the first round. And it was usually the first round fired by volley guns that was the decisive one.
Finally, he could see shapes ahead. Those were the shapes of men, too, he was sure of it.
But they weren't coming forward, they seemed to be just milling around. And now he spotted horses among them.
They'd caught a cavalry unit off guard then. Still trying to mount up.
Splendid. Ten more yards and they'd fire.
The sleds moved fast, too. It was just a matter of a few seconds before the entire battery started coming around.
By now they were only fifteen yards from their nearest enemy soldiers and they'd been spotted themselves. One of the Swedes who'd managed to get up onto his horse fired a wheel-lock pistol at them. In their direction, rather. Thorsten was pretty sure the shot had sailed at least ten feet over their heads. Confusion, surprise and a
