1633

Again, Simpson was caught off-balance. 'Mary? Why? Sharon and Veronica I can understand, sure-Hans Richter's betrothed and grandmother. But Mary-'

The admiral groped for words. 'Mike, please. She'd be like a fish out of a water at something like that. Not to mention scared out of her wits. Ask Mary to give a speech to a crowd of-well, you know. Rich people sitting at fancy tables in a fancy banquet room while she tries to squeeze money from them for her latest project. But-'

'John, be quiet.' Mike's voice was low, but almost steely. 'What you-or Mary-understand about this stuff could be written on the head of a pin. You're not in that universe, any longer. You're in this one. And in this one…'

He groped for words himself. As he did so, his eyes ranged across the area, coming to rest on the small crowd of Germans gathered just beyond the gate to the naval yard. Except it was no longer a small crowd, he saw. Several hundred people, he estimated. Not hostile. Simply…

Watching. Waiting. Wondering.

Most of all, sitting in judgment.

He recognized one of the men standing at the front of the crowd. Gunther Achterhof, that was, one of the CoC's militants. Shortly after Mike had arrived in Magdeburg, he had noticed Gunther and several other men following him everywhere. A self-appointed bodyguard, he suspected. Which Gunther had immediately confirmed when Mike went up to him and asked. He'd then spent some time in conversation with the man. Idle conversation, in one sense; a probe, in another.

The sight of Achterhof brought everything into full and final focus. In that one man, Mike knew, could be found the soul of the mob now rising throughout reborn Magdeburg. And soon enough, he knew, pouring into the city from the nearby area.

All of it. Beginning with the rage which could kill and mutilate a soldier, but not… necessarily ending there. Perhaps no longer even needing to start there, or even go to that dark place at all. Because there was also hope, and yearning. Most of all, the dawning half-recognition that perhaps victory was within his grasp, not simply vengeance. The beginning of it, at least.

'I'll bet on Gunther,' Mike murmured, more to himself than anyone else. 'I'll always bet on the world's Gunthers.'

He turned back to Simpson. 'Do you know what they call Mary? The people who live around here, I mean. The most ferocious of the CoC's militants. The same ones, by the way, who watch your house-her house-day and night, to make sure no enemy strikes.'

He didn't wait for Simpson's answer.

'They simply call her 'the American Lady.' That's 'Lady' with a capital L, John. You can hear it in the way they say the word. And do you know why they call her that? It's not because of her table manners, I can assure you of that. They wouldn't know whether she was using the right fork or not themselves. No, the reason's simple. It's because your servant Hilde is one of them, and they know how she treats her servant. She says 'please' and 'thank you,' and- most important of all-she looks at Hilde when she says it.'

Torstensson grunted. This grunt had more than a trace of surprise in it. But, again, also contained the sense of an observer acknowledging an expert's point.

Simpson didn't really understand. It was obvious in the blank look on his face.

'You just don't get it, John. You still think-you and Mary both-that these noblemen are just this world's version of your old familiar upper crust. Well, they're not. They've got all the vices, oh, yeah, in spades-but damn few of the virtues.'

His smile was very thin, now. 'Virtues, mind you, which you only have because we beat them into you, over the centuries. Often enough with blood and iron. Usually our blood and your iron, but blood always wins out. If nothing else, it'll rust iron.'

Still, incomprehension. Mike almost sighed. Give it up, will you? The man is what he is, and you can live with that. Just explain it to him.

He thought of demanding that Torstensson explain. But Mike wasn't actually sure of Swedish custom. He suspected the Swedish nobility, given their own history, lacked some of the sheer unthinking arrogance of Germany's princes.

'When a German nobleman or noblewoman addresses a servant, John, they do not say 'please' or 'thank you.' In fact, they don't even address them at all. They summon the servant and never look at them. Simply gaze at the wall, as if the servant does not exist, and give their orders in the third person. 'He will bring us tea.' 'She will clean the bedroom.' '

Simpson's eyes almost crossed. 'You're kidding!'

'No, he is not,' said Torstensson. 'Such is indeed the custom.'

The general swiveled his head. The crowd's murmur was swelling ever more powerfully. 'Best we be off, now. These servants will not be satisfied until, at the very least, we look at them. Straight in the face, as you say.' He gave Mike a glance. 'And maybe not then. Let us hope you can teach them-'

He broke off abruptly. Mike was grinning at the general, and the grin was purely feral. A wolf, daring a nobleman lost in the forest to finish the sentence. Before the wolf tears his entrails out.

'I do not propose to teach them manners, General Torstensson. I propose to teach manners to Germany's aristocracy. Who are badly in need of the lesson.'

The nobleman flinched from the wolf. The general remained. Mike gave him his instructions for the day, as surely and firmly as might Gustav Adolf himself. 'You, Torstensson-come with me. Your job is to keep those fucking Saxons away. Far away. And most of your own troops, for that matter. Just enough for a bodyguard for Princess Kristina. That's it.'

'Yes, Mr. President.'

Mike turned back to Simpson. 'Send Mary,' he commanded. 'If she can't bring herself to speak, so be it. But I want her standing there with Sharon and Gramma Richter right next to me, facing our folks. And beginning the nobility's instruction. They'll either learn to use a fork, Mary's way-and be damn quick about it-or they'll learn what a pitchfork feels like. My way, if it comes down to that.'

He began to turn toward the gate. But paused long enough to address some final words, both to the admiral from another world and the general from this one. 'And it will come down to that, gentlemen, if I can't be satisfied at the negotiating table. Never doubt it, not for a minute. I'll compromise, if I can, but don't ever think I don't know whose side I'm on.'

He pointed a finger at Gunther Achterhof. 'His. So you can deal with me, or deal with him. Your choice.'

Chapter 50

By the time Mike and Torstensson got to the big square before the palace, the area was already packed with the crowd. Fortunately, Achterhof and his militants were able to clear a path for them. The task became easier as they passed through the mob, and word of Mike's arrival began to spread. Toward the end, nearing the steps of the palace itself, the biggest problem was clearing aside people who were pressing in to cheer them.

Well… cheer Mike, at least. There were precious few cheers coming Torstensson's way, which Mike was quite sure the general had noticed.

Good. Get the picture, Lennart? Make sure you pass it along to Gustav.

Still, Mike was relieved not to hear any calls for Swedish blood, either. Fury and rage were obviously roiling through the thousands of people gathered there. But, so far at least, it seemed aimed at Germany's princes and not the Swedish prince who-in theory-ruled them all.

By now, partly under Becky and Melissa's tutelage and partly from his own disciplined reading program, Mike knew enough history to recognize the phenomenon. It was a common pattern, repeated many times. The crowd was still-just barely-willing to give the emperor a pass. If he did the right thing and got rid of his evil and wicked advisers.

The emperor seemed a goodly enough fellow, after all. He'd beaten down the Habsburgs, hadn't he-something no German prince could claim. And he slept with his own troops in the field, didn't he-lying on the cold ground right next to them. And, perhaps most important of all, he had greeted the United States with…

Well. 'Open arms' was a bit much. Still, he had greeted them. Which no one could say for German princes.

Except one, who had chosen to give up his princedom.

When Mike saw Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar already standing on the steps of the palace, not far from Spartacus and-like the young German leader of the CoC-trying desperately to calm down the mob, he gave him a silent nod of respect. And, simultaneously, felt a deep sense of relief and satisfaction.

If I can head off this civil war-contain it, rather-maybe we won't have to fight the next one at all.

When Wilhelm and Spartacus caught sight of Mike striding up the steps, the look of relief which crossed their own faces was almost comical.

'Thank God you're here!' hissed Spartacus. 'What do we do? I've been trying to reason with them, but…'

Mike clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. Then, as Wilhelm scurried up, did the same for him. Both gestures were purely histrionic. Mike Stearns was on stage now, and the common folk of his new times did not appreciate method acting. They wanted dramatic gestures. On this day, they would demand them.

Now with one arm around the shoulders of each man, half-dragging them forward with him, Mike stepped up to meet the crowd. To greet the crowd.

No, to greet the people.

His people, always. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.

'Welcome, people of Germany! Rejoice in this day of triumph! Victory is ours! Today-and tomorrow!'

By the time Simpson's men arrived with the equipment to set up the loudspeakers, Mike was almost hoarse with shouting. But he'd settled things down enough to avert any immediate clash. Torstensson had indeed withdrawn all Swedish troops from the area, except a bodyguard remaining inside the palace for Princess Kristina. Who was herself leaning out of a window, smiling and waving cheerfully at the crowd. Many people in the crowd were now waving back.

God bless smart little girls. And I think that one's a genius.

The Saxon troops John George had summoned to the city were also nowhere in evidence. Torstensson had taken most of his Swedish troops out to meet them beyond the city's limits, and explain the facts of life. Given Torstensson, Mike could just imagine the terse manner in which he'd do it.

Fact one. We whipped Emperor Ferdinand at Breitenfeld.

Fact two. You ran like dogs.

Fact three. You've got ten minutes to get out of here. Five, if I don't see your tails between your legs. Now.

When the loudspeakers went into operation, Mike shoved Wilhelm toward the microphone.

'I need a break. You're on, buddy.'

Wilhelm stared at the microphone much like a rabbit staring at a serpent. 'What do I say? I don't know-I've never-'

'Piece of cake, Wilhelm. Just give a campaign speech. But, ah, one word of advice.'

'Yes.' Wilhelm stared at him. Mike grinned.

'Don't run against me. Not today. You can save that for the election. Today, you're campaigning against the princes.'