1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [6]
Kuefer spoke up. "But, Georg . . . the Americans . . ."
"What about them? Be realistic, Wilhelm. Even if they're inclined themselves toward a republic, it's not an issue over which they'd risk a rupture with Gustav Adolf." Kresse shook his head. "‘Prince of Germany,' the damn fools call Stearns. But I notice that's never stopped him from making compromises with royalty and nobility every time he turns around."
"That's not fair, Georg," Piesel said mildly.
"Maybe not. But I'm still not relying on the good graces of the up-timers. No, we need to get the Committees of Correspondence involved. And that's why I'm sending you to Magdeburg. I want Richter, Anna. Tell her we want her to come to Dresden after the elector's gone."
Anna's eyes got a little wider. "Gretchen Richter herself? Do you think she'd really come?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. But if nothing else, we'll test her reputation. We'll see if she's as inclined toward half-measures as the Americans are."
Part One
June 1635
The fever of the world
Chapter 1
Magdeburg, central Germany
Capital of the United States of Europe
After they'd completed the grand tour—Michael's phrase; and a disturbingly appropriate one—of their new home, and had returned to the entrance foyer, Rebecca looked around. Her gaze was simultaneously uncertain, dubious, apprehensive, wary, skittish . . .
She tried to avoid the term "covetous." Not . . . entirely successfully. Compared to the modest working-class house owned by the Stearns family in Grantville, much less the cramped apartments Rebecca and Michael had been occupying since they moved to Magdeburg, this house was both immense and luxurious. In truth, it was more in the way of a mansion than a house, if not a manor as such. The building was immediately adjacent to its neighbors and had almost no yard; what the up-timers called a townhouse. But by the inner city standards of Magdeburg it was as close to a mansion as you could get, short of an outright palace.
The very foyer she was standing in exemplified her mixed feelings. The "foyer" in Mike's house in Grantville had been a simple entry vestibule, just large enough to provide the house with a heat trap in winter and space to hang some coats. The foyer in this house bore a closer resemblance to the hall of an auditorium. You could hold a fairly large party in this space.
Andrew Short came into the foyer from a side door that led to the rooms in the back of the house. "Splendid field of fire," he announced, giving the area a sweeping gaze that had none of Rebecca's doubts and anxieties. He was actually rubbing his hands!
"There's no way in except through that door"—he jabbed a forefinger at the main entrance—"and the service entrance in the rear. And anyone who tries to come through here, we'll slaughter the bastards. Assuming they get in at all."
Rebecca studied the entrance in question. For all its ornate decorations, the "door" looked like it belonged in a castle. It was a double door, huge, made of solid oak further braced with iron, and seemed to have enough in the way of locks and latches to sink a rowboat—not to mention the heavy crossbar resting nearby that could be added in a pinch. The "service entrance" in the back was similar in design and construction, if smaller and completely utilitarian.
There were no other entrances on the ground floor of the mansion. Rebecca had been struck by that: not so much as a single window. Not even a barred one, or an old-style arrow slit. Anyone attempting to assault the house would either have to smash down the heavy doors, blow a hole in the thick stonework of the walls, or scale the second floor using ladders. And those windows were barred. True, the bars were tastefully designed. They were also thick and too closely spaced for a human body to pass through.