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work.

'You heard?' grunted Richelieu. Servien nodded.

Richelieu threw up his hands, as much with humor as exasperation.

'What a formidable woman!' Feeling a little tug on his robes, the cardinal gazed down at the kitten playing with the hem. The serene smile returned. He bent over, picked up the small creature, and deposited it in his lap. Then, as he petted the kitten, continued to speak.

'I never would have thought it possible, Etienne. A Sephardic Jewess-Doctor Balthazar Abrabanel's daughter, no less! That breed can talk for hours on end, ignoring hunger all the while. Philosophers and theologians, the lot. I'd expected to simply smile and let her fill my ears with information. Instead-'

He chuckled ruefully. 'Not often that happens to me. I trust I didn't give away anything critical?'

Servien shrugged. 'The Sephardic Jews also provide Europe and the Ottoman Empire with most of its bankers, Your Eminence-not a profession known for being loose-lipped. Moreover, while he may be a doctor and a philosopher, Balthazar Abrabanel, as well as his brother Uriel, are both experienced spies. Also not a trade which favors blabbermouths. Then, to make things still worse, Abrabanel's daughter Rebecca-by all accounts, including those of her enemies-is extremely intelligent in her own right. She would certainly have deduced, in any event, that France has not laid down its arms. So… best to do as you did, I think. Beyond that, she learned nothing. There was certainly no hint in your words of our grand strategy.'

' 'Grand strategy,' ' echoed Richelieu. 'Which grand strategy are you referring to, Etienne? The greater, or the lesser?'

'Either of them, or both. I assure you, not even Satan himself could have deduced our plans from anything you spoke. The woman is intelligent, yes. But, as you said, not a witch.'

The cardinal pondered silently for a moment, his lean face growing leaner still.

'Still, she is too intelligent,' he pronounced at length. 'I hope she will accept my offer to provide her with an escort for a journey overland to the Spanish Low Countries. That would enable us-in a dozen different ways-to delay her travel long enough for our purposes. But…'

He shook his head. 'I doubt it. She will almost certainly deduce as much, and choose to make her own arrangements for traveling by sea to Holland. And we simply cannot allow her such a close examination of the ports. Not now, of all times!'

Servien pursed his lips. 'I could certainly keep her away from Le Havre, Your Eminence. Not every port on the Channel, of course-that would be too obvious. But if she were forced to take ship from one of the smaller ports, she might not notice enough-'

Richelieu interrupted him with a gesture which was almost angry. 'Desist, Etienne! I realize that you are trying to spare me the necessity of making this decision. Which, the Lord knows, I find distasteful in the extreme. But reasons of state have never been forgiving of the kindlier sentiments.' He sighed heavily. 'Necessity remains what it is. Do keep her from Le Havre, of course. One of the smaller ports would be far better anyway, for… what is needed.'

The cardinal looked down at the kitten, still playing with his long forefinger. 'And, who knows? Perhaps fortune will smile on us-and her-and she will make a bad decision.'

The gentle smile returned. 'There are few enough of God's marvelous creatures in this world. Let us hope we will not have to destroy yet another one. On your way out, Etienne, be so kind as to summon my servant.'

The dismissal was polite, but firm. Servien nodded and left the room.

A moment later, Desbournais entered the room. Desbournais was the cardinal's valet de chambre, and had entered Richelieu's service at the age of seventeen. Richelieu was popular with his servants, as he was with all of his allies and associates. However ruthless he might be in the service of France, the cardinal was invariably considerate and polite to those around him, no matter what their station. Very generous to them, as well. Richelieu repaid loyalty with loyalty of his own. That was as true of his kitchen help as Louis XIII, king of France.

The cardinal lifted the kitten and held it out to Desbournais. 'Isn't he gorgeous? See to providing for him, Desbournais-and well, mind you.'

After Desbournais left, Richelieu rose from the chair and went to the window in his chamber. The residence the cardinal used whenever he was in Paris-a palace in all but name-was a former hotel which he had purchased on the Rue St. Honorй near the Louvre. He'd also purchased the adjoining hotel in order, after having it razed, to provide him with a better view of the city.

As he stared out the window, all the kindliness and gentleness left his face. The cold, stern-even haughty-visage which stared down at the great city of Paris was the one that his enemies knew. For all his charm and grace, Richelieu could also be intimidating in the extreme. He was a tall man, whose slenderness was offset by the heavy and rich robes of office he always wore. His long face, with its high forehead, arched brows, and large brown eyes, was that of an intellectual, yes. But there was also the slightly curved nose and the strong chin, set off by the pointed and neatly barbered beard-those, the features of a very different sort of man.

Hernan Cortez would have understood that face. So would the duke of Alba. Any of the world's conquerors would have understood a face which had been shaped, for years, by iron resolve.

'So be it,' murmured the cardinal. 'God, in his mercy, creates enough marvelous creatures that we can afford to destroy those we must. Necessity remains.'

***

'Well, how'd it go?' asked Jeff Higgins cheerfully. Then, seeing the tight look on Rebecca's face, his smile thinned. 'That bad? I thought the guy had a reputation for being-'

Rebecca shook her head. 'He was gracious and polite. Which didn't stop him-not for a second-from issuing what amounted to a declaration of total war.'

Sighing, she removed the scarf she had been wearing to fend off a typical Paris drizzle. Seeing it was merely a bit damp, she spread it out to dry over the back of one of the chairs in the sitting room of the house which the delegation from the United States had rented in Paris. Then, seeing Heinrich Schmidt entering the room from the kitchen, Rebecca smiled ruefully.

Major Heinrich Schmidt, as it happened. The officer who commanded the small detachment of U.S. Army soldiers who had accompanied Rebecca in her voyage, along with Jeff and Gretchen Higgins and Jimmy Andersen.

'I'm afraid-very much afraid-that you gentlemen may soon be earning your pay.'

Heinrich shrugged. So did Jeff, who, although he had a special assignment on this mission, was-along with his friend Jimmy-also a soldier in the U.S. Army.

The next person to enter the room was Jeff's wife. 'So what's happening?' she demanded, her German accent still there beneath the fluent and colloquial English.

Rebecca's smile widened. She always found the contrast between Jeff and Gretchen somewhat amusing, in an affectionate sort of way. What the Americans called an 'odd couple,' based on one of those electronic dramas which Rebecca still found fascinating, for all the hours she'd spent watching television-even hosting a TV show of her own.

Jeff Higgins, though he had been toughened considerably in the two years since his small American town had been deposited into the middle of war-torn central Europe in the year 1631, still exuded a certain air of what the Americans called a 'geek' or a 'nerd.' He was tall, yes; but also overweight-still, for all the exercise he now got. Although Jeff had recently celebrated his twentieth birthday, his pudgy face looked like that of a teenager. A pug nose between an intellectual's eyes, peering near- sightedly through thick glasses. About as unromantic a figure as one could imagine.

His wife, on the other hand…

Gretchen, nee Richter, was two years older than Jeff. She was not precisely 'beautiful,' not with that strong nose and that firm jaw, even leaving aside her tall stature and shoulders broader than those of most women. But, still, so good-looking that men's eyes invariably followed her wherever she went. The fact that Gretchen was, as the Americans put it, 'well built,' only added to the effect-as did the long blond hair which cascaded over those square shoulders.

Gretchen, unlike Jeff, was native-born. Like Rebecca herself, she was one of the many 17 th -century Europeans who had been swept up by the Ring of Fire and cast their lot with the newly arrived Americans. Including, as was true of Rebecca herself, marriage to an American husband.

Regardless of her native origins, Gretchen had adopted the attitudes and ideology of the Americans with the fervor and zeal of a new convert. If almost all the Americans were devoted to their concepts of democracy and social equality, Gretchen's devotion-not surprisingly, given the horrors of her own life-tended to frighten even them.

Rebecca was reminded of that again, as Gretchen idly played with the edge of her vest. The blond woman's impressive bosom disguised the thing perfectly, but Rebecca knew full well that Gretchen was carrying her beloved 9mm automatic in a shoulder holster. She had sometimes been tempted to ask Jeff if his wife slept with the thing.

For the most part, however, Rebecca's smile was simply due to the fact that she both liked and-very deeply-approved of Jeff and Gretchen Higgins. In Jeff's case, if for no other reason, because the young man had once saved Rebecca from certain murder at the hands of Croat cavalrymen in the service of the Austrian Habsburgs. In Gretchen's case, leaving aside their personal friendship, because Rebecca knew full well that Gretchen's near-fanaticism was every bit as essential to the survival of the new society Rebecca and her husband Mike were creating as anything else.

Gretchen might frighten others, but she never frightened Mike Stearns. He did not always agree with her, true enough-and, even when he did, often found her tactics deplorably crude. But, no matter how high he had risen in this new world, Rebecca's husband was still the same man he had always been-the leader of a trade union of Appalachian coal miners, a folk which had its own long and bitter memories of the abuses of the powerful and mighty.

'Don't kid yourself,' Mike had once growled to Rebecca, on the one occasion where she had expressed some exasperation with Gretchen's zeal and disregard for the complexities of the political situation. They had just finished breakfast, and Mike was helping Rebecca with the dishes. For all that she had grown accustomed to it, Rebecca still thought there was something charming about having such a very masculine sort of husband working alongside her in kitchen chores.

'When push comes to shove, the only people I can really depend on-outside of my coal miners and the new trade unions, and probably Willie Ray's new farmers' granges-are Gretchen and her wild-ass kids.' Mike finished wiping the last plate and put it in the cupboard. 'Yeah, sure, right now we're in the good graces of the Swedes. Gustavus Adolphus is a friend of ours-so is even his chancellor Oxenstierna. But don't ever forget that he's a king, or that the nobleman Axel Oxenstierna is every bit as devoted to the aristocracy as Gretchen hates the bastards. If the tide turns…'

Staring out the kitchen window of their house in Grantville, he shook his head firmly. 'As regretful as he might find the necessity, Gustav II Adolf will cut our throats in a heartbeat, under the right circumstances. Whereas without us, Gretchen and her radical democratic Committees of Correspondence are so much dog food-and she knows it perfectly well, don't think she doesn't. However often I may piss her off by my 'compromises with principle,' she knows she needs me as much as I need her.'

When he turned away from the window, his blue eyes had been dancing with humor. 'Besides, she's so handy to have around. You've read