1636_ The Saxon Uprising - Eric Flint [102]
“He’s the one I was telling you about, Gretchen,” said Waclaw.
Stabbed in the back. Ever the story of poor Poland. Who needed enemies when Poles had themselves?
“You’re szlachta, yes?” That came from Richter. It was more of a statement than a question.
Jozef made one last desperate attempt to weasel out of his fate. “Yes, but so what? Two of the other Poles here in Dresden are szlachta also.”
One stab in the back deserved another. He pointed at Walczak. “He’s one of them.”
Richter shook her head. “Yes, I know. But Waclaw doesn’t have any military experience. Like most szlachta, his family has four pigs where his lowly commoner neighbors have only three. We Germans would say they’re putting on airs, but what do we know?”
Waclaw was grinning. Jozef was tempted to grin himself. Richter’s sarcastic depiction of the state of affairs for most of Poland’s so-called nobility was accurate enough. Where most countries had a small aristocracy—that of the Germanies was no more than five percent of the population; that of England, an even smaller three percent—no fewer than one Pole in ten counted themselves part of the szlachta. Inevitably, that formal claim fell afoul of economic reality. Most szlachta families really weren’t much if any wealthier than the peasants among whom they lived.
But he resisted the temptation, easily enough. There was peril lurking here somewhere, like a leviathan beneath the waves.
“Neither does the other szlachta, Radzimierz Zawadski,” Richter continued. “But he and Waclaw both think you probably do. They say you’re from a better class, associated with one of the magnates.”
That was always the problem with running into fellow Poles. From subtleties of dress, carriage, speech—who knew, exactly?—they could deduce things about another Pole that a foreigner would miss entirely.
There was no point trying to deny it. Jozef decided he’d skirt as close to the truth as he possibly could.
“Yes, that’s true. The Koniecpolskis, as it happens. But I’m from one of the bastard offshoots of the family.” He shook his head. “I’m no hussar, I can tell you that.”
Richter continued to study him. Her eyes were a naturally warm color, a sort of light brown that wasn’t quite hazel. But they didn’t seem the least bit warm, at the moment.
Not cold, either. Just…dispassionate, the way a student of natural history might examine a curious-looking and possibly interesting new insect.
“I didn’t expect you to be,” she said. “We wouldn’t have any use for a hussar anyway.”
For the first time, she smiled. It was thin affair, with no more in the way of warmth than her gaze. “We’re likely to have a better use for horses before winter is over than putting a hussar on top of one. And to do what, anyway? Sally out of the gates and smite the foe? All one of him against fifteen thousand? No, better to keep the horses for food, if we need them.”
She went back to studying him again. “Tell me the truth,” she said abruptly. “Don’t exaggerate anything—but don’t minimize anything, either. How much military training and experience do you have?”
He hesitated. Then, decided that lying to this woman was likely to be a risky proposition. “Training, quite a bit. Actual combat experience, none at all. Well, leaving aside two duels. Assuming the term ‘duel’ can be applied to affairs that were impromptu, unstructured, and…ah…”
“Drunken brawls where you could barely stand up and neither of you could see straight.”
“Well. Yes.”
“The training should be enough. Come here.” She motioned him toward her with a little wave of the hand. Her eyes were already back on the maps, though, not watching to see if he’d obey. She took that for granted, in the way people will who are accustomed to command.
When Jozef came around the table and stood next to her, he saw that she was studying a map of Dresden. More in the way of a diagram, actually, that concentrated entirely on the city’s fortifications.
She placed a finger on one of the bastions that anchored the defenses along the river.