Meyfarth understood, all right. He also summarized every conversation with Krausold and, with Steve's approval, sent the summaries on to Arnold Bellamy and ultimately, he presumed, to Don Francisco Nasi or to Michael Stearns. His proper duke had been Johann Casimir of Saxe-Coburg, who had assigned him to these uptimers. The old duke had died just recently, in July. Meyfarth had regretted not being able to attend the funeral. Childless in his body, Johann Casimir had been a true father to his subjects.
Childless. Meyfarth's mind wandered. His own wife and children had died in Coburg the previous year—the summer before the NUS administrators came to Franconia. Plague. Because of that, he had been free to come. No hostages that he had given to fortune. No one, any longer, on whose behalf conscience could make a coward of him. It had been good to have a demanding new task. More than a year now, his family had been gone. To a better place, he reminded himself firmly. More than a year . . .
Since the duke's death, however, Meyfarth served no master. He worked for the government of the New United States. It was a strange feeling, in some ways. Naked and unprotected. Liberating.
The two wagons that the Special Commission was using pulled out of Würzburg. There were guards up in front, and a hired driver for the first wagon. The Special Commission's personnel were in the second wagon, which had considerably better springs, with Reece Ellis driving. He let the others ride in peace for a couple of miles. Comparative peace, anyway, since Paul and Lynelle's two-year-old was squalling her little head off. The two older kids were playing a game in the back. Finally, Reece decided that he couldn't put it off any more. Shifting the reins to his left hand, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, brought out an envelope, and said, "Guys, I've got news for us. Sealed orders, but I know what's in them, pretty much. We're not going back to Grantville."
Phil Longhi said, "What the hell?"
"Matz Meyfarth brought the idea up. I took it to Steve and he took it to Arnold Bellamy. Whence the orders. It's too good a chance to miss. We're spending the winter in Coburg."
Phil reached out to take the envelope.
"Why?" Paul Calagna sounded only mildly curious.
"Because Matz's duke died." Reece was the only one of them who had gotten on first-name terms with the German clergyman. "He didn't have any children. The heir to the property will be his brother. That's Duke Johann Ernst, the Saxe-Eisenach one. But he's sixty-six years old and doesn't have any children either. When he goes, both little duchies will be up for grabs among the other Wettins. If we let them be."
"What do you mean, `if we let them be'?" Phil asked.
"Matz was explaining about oaths. These German states being what they are, there isn't any of that business about, `The king is dead; long live the king.' When even the emperor dies, for goodness sake, if they haven't already elected an heir, it's up for grabs. Even when the duke or count who died does have a son to inherit, it's not absolutely automatic. The new guy makes a tour all around the county or duchy and his subjects come in and take something called a Huldigungseid. I guess the closest thing would be an oath of allegiance. It doesn't have anything to do with knights or fealty or stuff like that. A Huldigungseid goes right down to your ordinary farmers and artisans. They come in to a big meeting and promise to obey him; he promises to protect and shield them; then they all have dinner. Usually, it's a big outdoor picnic, really. Then he goes on to the next Amt and does it again."
"So?" Lynelle asked.
"So, at the moment, old Johann Ernst has been too tired and sick to come over and collect oaths. The people in Saxe-Coburg aren't oathbound to anyone, right now. We're not going to be messing around with the Wettins' properties. They keep their money and their estates. But we're stepping in and taking a Huldigungseid from everybody in Saxe-Coburg, directly to the Constitution of the New United States. And if it works—okay, I know that's quite a bit of an `if,' but if it does—we'll do it again in Saxe-Eisenach when Johann Ernst dies. And, gradually, beyond. Just like we did for the folks who got themselves annexed to Grantville because the count of Gleichen had died without heirs. Remember Birdie Newhouse and the people in the village where he's farming now? If we keep at it, slow but sure, eventually the NUS won't be this loose confederacy with lords and things. We'll have something like a country, with every single person owing allegiance to the Constitution, not to some lordship."
Paul Calagna reached for the squalling kid and said, "Smooth."