1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [86]
"I don't quite understand your point."
The Ragusan smiled. "That's because you have become more accustomed than you realize to this new world created by the Ring of Fire. I mean no offense, Graf. But try to imagine how you would have reacted five years ago—had you seen mysterious flying machines wreaking havoc in Vienna?"
Janos set down his wine and leaned back in his chair. "Now I see your point. Yes . . . The Persians might well panic."
"They don't even need to panic. Confusion alone will probably be enough to let Murad take Baghdad this year."
There was silence, for a minute or so. Then Janos rose to his feet. "I must be off now, Doctor. My thanks for your assistance."
For all the graciousness of his demeanor, it was all Janos could do not to curse aloud.
The Turks attacking Persia. That meant the Austrian emperor would conclude he had no restrictions on his ability to intervene in the war to the north. Which Janos still thought was foolish, whether or not the Ottomans posed an immediate threat.
Besides, who could say what Murad might do the next year—if he was triumphant in this one?
Stockholm
"That was a truly miserable experience," said Baldur Norddahl, once they were far enough away from the queen of Sweden's audience chamber not to be overheard.
Prince Ulrik made a sour little noise. "Exhausting, too."
"At least now we know why the princess is sometimes given to moods."
Ulrik made another sour noise, this one not so little. "‘Is sometimes given to moods.' Is that Norwegian berserk-speak for ‘is sometimes a miniature harridan and others a very short lunatic'?"
"Your words, not mine," Baldur replied serenely. "And that's a terrible way to refer to your future bride. ‘Harridan!' ‘Lunatic!'"
They reached one of the great doors that led to Slottsbacken, the street that provided the main entrance to the palace. It was more in the way of a plaza than a street, really. Stockholm's great church sat on its western edge.
As soon as they stepped through into the sunlight, Ulrik squared his shoulders. The gesture was half a shrug, half an expression of relief at getting outside. Under the cheeriest of monarchs, the Swedish royal palace would have been on the somber side. Under the influence of Queen Maria Eleonora, it was downright gloomy.
"Kristina is a very intelligent harridan and lunatic," Ulrik said philosophically. "I could do worse. As long as she takes after her father instead of her mother, the marriage should at least be tolerable."
"I certainly hope she doesn't inherit her mother's taste in entertainment."
Ulrik grimaced. The Swedish queen doted on dwarfs and buffoons. The wretched creatures had half-filled the audience chamber.
"Dear God. Yes, let's hope so."
They headed for one of the other wings of the palace, where Ulrik and his entourage had their quarters.
"Look on the bright side, Prince. For at least six more years—no, probably seven or eight or possibly even nine or ten—you won't have to be sharing a bed with the little lunatic harridan. And by the time you do, she won't be so little. Which means—"
"And to think it was you, Baldur, who showed Danish royalty how to execute a man by crushing him in a diving suit."
Baldur smiled, but did not pursue the train of thought further.
Mademann, Locquifier and Brillard watched the prince and his companion from a distance of slightly more than a hundred yards. They were partially hidden in the shade cast by a nearby elm tree.
"Can you do it?" asked Mademann. "I can probably get you one of the new French rifles. I can certainly get you an SRG."
Brillard made a little dismissive gesture. "At this range, Charles, I could do it with any sort of rifled musket. But I think that would be a mistake."
"Why?" asked Locquifier. He and Mademann shared, a bit awkwardly, the joint leadership of the project.
"Because the problem is not the prince. Nor the princess, for that matter. Ulrik is quite active