The Dreeson Incident(210)

Amalie's hand went to her throat. "Oh, my God. Surely you don't think . . . William, he can't be that rash."



"Stearns?" Her husband shook his head. "It won't be anything as reckless as an assault upon the palace. No, certainly. Those imbeciles will be able to celebrate as long as they want, quite unmolested. If nothing else, Stearns won't want to risk bringing Torstensson and his regular army units into the city."



He barked a grim little laugh. "Assuming that Torstensson would even do so—given that no one really knows how the army would react in such a situation."



"Do you really think the CoCs take their orders from Stearns?"



The landgrave cocked his head, considering the question. "It's . . . not that simple. Take orders from him? No. He is not their commander, nor even part of the central leadership the way Gretchen Richter or Gunther Achterhof or Spartacus are. In some ways, in fact, I sense that there is considerable distrust on both sides. Stearns, that the CoCs will behave foolishly; the CoCs, that Stearns is too much the politician, too much the compromiser. But they listen to him, Amalie, you can be sure of that."



"Yes, I suppose." The hand at her throat began to massage it gently. Then, much more softly, she laughed herself. "And can you blame them? Whatever else, he's a canny bastard."



She leaned forward, drew aside the curtain on her side with a finger, and peered into the darkness. "What do you think he's told them?"



"I have no idea," replied her husband gloomily. "But, as you say, whatever it is, it will be canny."





When he wanted to be, Gunther Achterhof could be as ferocious as any man alive. No trace of his usual sardonic humor was in evidence here and now. The hard face that gazed upon the subordinate commanders gathered for their final instructions was that of the refugee who, years earlier, had fled from his destroyed town to Magdeburg across half of Germany—and left a trail of dead and mutilated mercenaries behind him. He'd come into the city holding a bag full of their severed noses, ears and genitals.



"Remember, the known anti-Semites and witch-hunters only—and the line has been clearly drawn. All of you have your lists and you must stick to the names on those lists. Any column which violates that directive will be severely punished."



Gretchen Richter spoke then. For a wonder, this time she was a mollifying voice.



"Look, fellows, we know you'll find it hard to resist striking all of the reactionaries." She threw a disgusted glance at one of the windows in the building. Even at the distance—they were about a mile from the palace—the sounds of the Crown Loyalist celebration could be faintly heard. "And it's not that the swine don't deserve it. But they won this victory playing by the rules, so if we go after them we'll just make ourselves look like criminals or would-be tyrants. Neither of which we are."



She paused, scanning the faces to see if anyone seemed doubtful or questioning.



But no one did, so she continued. "So you don't touch them—well, at least not unless they attack you first and it's clearly a matter of self-defense. But so long as a nobleman keeps his armed retainers quiet and the city patricians and guildmasters do the same with their militias, we will leave them alone. We will not even so much as snarl in their direction. Just tip your hats politely and go about your business. Instead, we will destroy the illegitimate arm of reaction, that no one tries to defend openly, but which all the reactionaries lean upon, even if only as a veiled threat. Within a week—well, two or three, in some of the provinces—that arm will have been amputated."



One of the column commanders grinned. "By the day after tomorrow, in this province."



That drew a chuckle from a number of the men. Of course, in some ways it was an empty boast. Magdeburg province hadn't had much in the way of organized anti-Semitic groups or witch-hunts in quite some time. The city, none at all.



Gretchen smiled. "You'd best leave, then. Some of you have a long way to go."





After they were gone, a side door opened and Francisco Nasi emerged from one of the small rooms adjoining the big central one. He hadn't been hiding, exactly. Given the nature of the lists that every one of those commanders had been given, only a very dim-witted one would have failed to understand that Richter and Achterhof had the quiet support of Stearns and his spymaster. True, the Committees of Correspondence had their own lists of known anti-Semitic organizations and prominent activists. But those lists were nothing compared to the meticulously detailed records that Nasi had compiled over the past year and a half.