The Eastern Front(113)

The sixth day, catastrophe.



"Hey, Mateusz,"—so was he known here; Mateusz Zielinski—"there's somebody you have to meet."

He had no desire to meet anyone, particularly, especially when he was eating a late breakfast. But since the person doing the introduction was the young woman who'd just provided him with another very enjoyable twelve hours, he felt obliged to do as she wished.

The person to whom he was introduced was a young fellow named Karsten Eichel. It took him no more than three minutes to get to the purpose of the introduction.

"You're for the overthrow of serfdom in Poland, I'm sure. I heard your poem about the people rising. Well, I'm in the CoC here and I can introduce you to somebody who knows"—here, a brief intake of breath—"Krzysztof Opalinski. The Krzysztof Opalinski, I mean."

Eichel sat there at the table across from Jozef, looking very pleased with himself. Jozef had had a cat once who had almost the same expression on its face when it plopped a freshly caught rodent at Jozef's feet.

The Krzysztof Opalinski. That would be the same Krzysztof Opalinski whom Jozef had known since he was six and the Opalinski was three. His good friend Lukasz Opalinski was Krzysztof's older brother. Lukasz had set off to become a hussar for Poland's king and Sejm, and with equal vigor and enthusiasm Krzysztof had set off to overthrow that selfsame king and Sejm. Such was the nature of the Opalinski family.

"He's in Poland now, of course, doing his righteous work," continued Eichel. "But my friend can get you across the border so you can rejoin the struggle." He rose and leaned over the table, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'll bring my friend here tonight."

And off he went.

During his stay in Grantville, Jozef had been introduced to the work of the English playwright Shakespeare—who was almost a contemporary, oddly enough—and become quite taken by it. So the appropriate thought came to him instantly:

Hoist with his own petard.

Indeed. He had to flee Schwerin, at once. To where? He had no idea, as yet, but surely a destination would come to him.

He rose from the table, gave his companion a most friendly smile—she really had been splendid company if you excluded her final demonic impulse—and said, "I'm afraid I have to leave."

She looked distressed. "Now? But . . . Where are you going?"

He was already walking away. "The seacoast of Bohemia," he said over his shoulder.


Stockholm

Ulrik dumped the documents onto the bed next to him. Had his physical condition allowed, he'd have used a much more dramatic gesture. Hurling them into the fireplace would have been his own preference, albeit counterproductive. Still, even being able to pitch them onto the floor would have been nice.

The problem was that he might want to pick them up later, in order to illustrate a point from some part of the text. He was completely incapable of such a motion and would be for some time to come. Baldur would pick them up for him, if he insisted, but the Norwegian's ensuing sarcasm would be tedious. So would Caroline Platzer, but her ensuing lecture on psychological self-control and the need thereof especially for a prince in line of succession would be even more tedious. Kristina might or might not, depending on her mood of the moment.

It wasn't worth it. Thankfully, his wounds had not impaired his most necessary skills for the task at hand. The bullet that had broken two of his ribs—thank God for good Danish buff coats, or he'd probably be dead—had also left that whole side of his torso aching and immobile. The bullet that had creased his skull—thank God also for good Norwegian bearskin hats, which had probably kept the bullet from piercing his skull—had stunned him for a moment and left a wound that bled badly, as head wounds always did.

But neither of the injuries had affected his brain. He could safely ignore Caroline's warning that he might have suffered a mild concussion. Americans were notorious for seeing perilous injuries everywhere. Many of them even went so far as to oppose corporal punishment for errant children. Speaking of insane.

Nor, best of all, had the injuries affected his tongue.

"Colonel Forsberg, I repeat: Your theory makes no sense."

The colonel stood by the bed, his head bend slightly downward but his back straight as a ramrod. An instrument which, in Ulrik's considered opinion after dealing with the man, had been inserted into his rectum at the age of two and never been removed since.

Forsberg pointed a finger at the papers. The finger was rigid too. Everything about the colonel was rigid. How did he manage to bathe?

"The evidence is in the documents themselves, Your Highness. It says right there, in black and white, that Richelieu was behind it all."