She ran slim fingers down her dress. It was a seventeenth century garment, although more severely cut than the norm. “So. The way I see it, our responsibility-for the moment, at least-is to forestall an explosion. Hopefully, down the road, we can persuade Blumroder and the others to cease and desist. But, in the short term, what we have to see to it is that his rights are respected.”
She barked a little laugh. “It might be better to say, establish that he has rights to begin with.”
Now, and for the first time, she seemed uncertain. “I admit, I’m not sure where to start or what to do.”
But Anse had already figured it out. Most of it, at least. He rose from his own chair and turned to Hennel.
“Do you know how to get to Grantville, Jorg?”
Uncertainly, young Hennel shook his head. “Not really.”
Anse nodded, and turned to Rau. “Jochen, tell Wili to guide him. I want them on the road as soon as possible. I wish we had a radio, but we don’t- and under the circumstances, we sure as hell can’t ask Horton to borrow his.”
“And they are to . . . ?”
“Wili is to report-personally, and tell him not to take any crap-to Mike Stearns. Not Jackson, not Piazza-Stearns himself.” He turned back at Hennel. “As soon as you arrive, I want you to meet with Gretchen Richter. Tell her everything you know.”
“Very well. And what do you want her to do?”
Anse smiled, very thinly. “Plain to see, you’ve never met the woman. First, it doesn’t matter what I want, since-as she’d be the first to tell you-she doesn’t take orders from me. She doesn’t take orders from anybody. Second, it doesn’t matter. She’ll figure out what to do, all on our own. Unless I miss my guess, she’ll come right down here herself, like . . .”
His smile widened. “You may as well get acquainted with another American expression. ‘Bat out of Hell’.”
He turned back to Rau. “Jochen, do you have any idea if we’d have any influence on the garrison?”
Jochen shook his head. “Not a bit, Mr. Hatfield. They’re bought and paid for, and they work for Captain Bruno Felder.”
Anse wasn’t surprised. Most mercenaries in the seventeenth century didn’t hire on as individuals, paid directly by their ultimate employer-who, in this case, was the king of Sweden. They hired on as companies or regiments, and they got their money directly from their own commanders.
“That means they won’t pay much attention to Ivarsson, either. If they pay any at all.”
“You think . . . ?”
Anse spread his hands. “Who knows? But I’m going to find out. Ivarsson struck me as a level-headed fellow. I’m hoping he’ll see it our way. Whether he does or not, though . . . “
He made for the door. “First thing we do, we make clear to all parties involved that if anyone wants a fight, they’ll have it. Follow me, everybody – except you, Jochen and Jorg. Round up Wili, right off, and get on the road. When you’re done with that, Jochen, meet me at Blumroder’s shop. Or I might be at Pat’s, next door.”
About halfway down the corridor, he heard Noelle snicker.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, a bit crossly.
“You are,” came the reply. Her tone thickened, mimicking that of a man. “Follow me, all three of you-except two of you.” She snickered again. “That leaves me, the sole follower. Or should I say, fig leaf trailing in the wind?”
Anse couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re okay, Ms. Murphy. My strength is as the strength of ten, because my fig leaf is pure.”
That brought an actual, down-home laugh. The first one he’d ever heard coming from her.
* * *
Anse found Ivarsson in a tavern on the next street. Oddly enough, given the reputation of Swedish soldiers in the area, having what seemed to be a convivial – even jovial-conversation with several other patrons of the place.
All of them, in fact, including the tavern-keeper: some dozen men, all told.
When the Swedish lieutenant spotted Anse entering the tavern, his tough-looking middle-aged face was split by a grin that belonged to a teenager.
“You see?” Ivarsson demanded, lifting his tankard. “Did I not tell you all?”
Everyone else in the tavern swiveled to study Anse, as he approached the big table in the center.
“We still don’t know . . .” murmured one of the patrons.
“Skeptic! For shame!” Ivarsson bellowed. He took a slug from his tankard, plunked it down on the table, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “Does anyone care to make another wager?”
No one did, apparently. Whatever the bet involved.
Anse drew Ivarsson away from the table, toward the doorway where Noelle waited, so they could talk privately.
“Lieutenant Ivarsson, it has come to my attention that certain persons, it seems, plan to attack Herr Blumroder. I believe Captain von Dantz is involved in the business, along with the military liaison from the NUS, Lieutenant Johnny Horton. Probably Captain Felder and his garrison, also. Some other persons.”
Ivarsson belched. “To be precise, six out of the seven members of the local Committee of Correspondence.”
Ivarsson, clearly enough, had his own sources of inside information in Suhl. Anse wondered who they were, but decided this was not the time to try to find out. Most likely, members of the garrison who had their doubts about the whole thing.
“Uh, yes. I need to know what you propose-“
“I propose?” Ivarsson’s expression was a comically exaggerated version of surprise and indignation. “Warrant Officer Hatfield, I am simply here as a representative of the staff of General Kagg. It has been clearly established-your President Stearns was most insistent-that you are the people in charge, here in Suhl. Not us.”
He waved his hand airily. “So I have nothing to do with it. Other than to wish you the best, of course. Whatever you decide to do.”
Anse studied him. Beneath the jovial, almost buffoonish exterior, he didn’t miss the keen gaze Ivarsson was giving him. The Swede was perhaps not completely sober, but he was very far from being drunk.
So.
Anse fought off a strong wish that he had been able to down a couple of tankards of beer, himself.
So.
He cleared his throat. “May I assume, then, that neither General Kagg- nor the king of Sweden-have in any way authorized these activities?”
“You may.”
“And will stand aside, whatever is done.”
Ivarsson smiled. “Oh, yes.”
“Will not criticize after the fact?”