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The Dreeson Incident(162)

By:Eric Flint & Virginia DeMarce




Wes' trouble-making Kraut bitch. Clara.



She laid a piece of paper on the table. It had Maurice Tito's signature. Some kind of namby-pamby protective order, at a guess.



"I told Judge Tito about your two priors over in Fairmont," Lola said. "After that, he didn't have any qualms about putting his name on the bottom line."



"How sisterly of you."



"If you hadn't arranged the whole thing while the two of you were over in Rudolstadt, I'd have damned well told Lenore about them, too. Before she ever married you."



"Neither one was my fault."



"Two beaten-up ex-girlfriends?" Lola snorted. "Not your fault? Tell me another fairy tale, little brother."



"They provoked me. Tried to ditch me before I was through with them."



"And Kiki's little boy provoked you?"



"He tried to get in between us."



"One more word." Lola said. "You won't hit Weshelle, any more than you will hit Lenore. You won't threaten to hit Weshelle to make Lenore do what you want. You won't touch Weshelle. You will not lay a finger on Weshelle. Do you understand us, Bryant? Your boss Steve Matheny knows about those two priors. So does the police chief, Preston Richards. Whoever we figured needs to know, does know. Touch either of them and you get thrown out of this house. Out of this town, if we can manage it."



"I still think," Clara said, "that she should come with me. Now."



After they left, he looked at Lenore.



"I'm sleeping in the nursery," she said. "I've moved all my things."



He went into the bedroom and slammed the door.



Damn those women. Damn all of them. If Faye Andersen had been involved, then probably every other one down where Lenore worked. Which was one more reason why married women shouldn't work. It gave them a chance to form alliances against their husbands.



Willard Carson didn't need to find Commies to have a conspiracy. All he needed to do was look around every day. Women. Sneaking, plotting, conspiring to get their own way. Not doing what they were told.





Vincenz Weitz arrived in Grantville from Halle scarcely a week after the shootings. He was directed to Jacques-Pierre Dumais by Bryant Holloway.



Business, he said, had unavoidably detained him from participating in the events of March fourth.



By this time, Jacques-Pierre had heard from Soubise, via de Ron, with a lot more information about what had been going on Zum Weissen Schwan. Weitz confirmed, inadvertently perhaps, that Locquifier had never meant the hospital demonstration to be more than a distraction.



In Weitz's opinion, although he was certainly displeased that the hoped-for effects of the attacks on both the hospital and the synagogue seemed to be backfiring, he said that he thought that Locquifier might be able to pull something worthwhile out of it yet.



Dumais found Weitz a little startling. The man was really, genuinely, indignant.



Right now, Weitz was pointing out at great length that, except for the little problem of the anti-Semitic riots, Fettmilch's 1612–1614 revolt in Frankfurt had really stood for a lot of things that Mike Stearns was trying to introduce to the USE now. A greater voice for the average citizen in the deliberations of the council, so that the old patricians who had adopted a near-noble lifestyle wouldn't have it all their way any more. Citizenship for the Calvinist refugees. An end to financial corruption. The riots against the Jews had been the least of it, and didn't happen for a couple of years after the revolt started. A man could sort of understand why Matthias, the Holy Roman Emperor at the time, had declared the actions of Fettmilch and his followers to be treasonous. Why he'd had them executed. Thirty-eight people of them tried; seven of them executed. But you'd think that if the Grantvillers meant all the stuff they went around saying about the will of the people, they ought to appreciate their pioneering efforts of Fettmilch's followers to bring democracy to one of the great imperial cities rather than heaping their heads with scorn.



"Their heads. Literally. Not one of the up-timers who passed through Frankfurt—as far as he knew, at least—had ever said a word about taking the heads down from the bridge tower.



"What heads?" Dumais asked. "What bridge?"



"The head of Vincenz Fettmilch, of course. Konrad Gerngroß, Konrad Schopp, and Georg Ebel. A gingerbread baker, a carpenter, a tailor, and a dyer from the suburb of Sachsenhausen. Just the kind of people that these up-timers claim ought to get involved in politics instead of leaving them to the great merchants and patricians. But they leave their heads up on the bridge."



Dumais let him rant.