The Viennese Waltz(114)

She looked over at Judy, who seemed to think the whole situation funny, and for just a moment she hated her long-time friend for the way she was always so comfortable in social situations. Judy was never at a loss for how to behave.

“Well, on the up side, there are going to be enough men to go around,” said Millicent. “We may even have a couple of spares.”

Vienna docks

Saturday morning dawned bright and crisp, but with not a cloud in the sky. It looked to be a hot day by afternoon and Moses Abrabanel was wondering what he was doing. He wasn’t working on a Saturday and the Jewish community in Vienna was fairly cosmopolitan anyway. But he was going on a social engagement with a gentile and he wasn’t Rebecca, to marry a gentile. Not that that had stopped his father, his mother, and his sister from teasing him over the matter. Teasing gently, because he had only lost his bride a year ago. Still, his mother had commented that the mourning period was more than over, and his little daughter needed a mother, not just a hired wet nurse.

Those were the thoughts running through his mind as he walked up the gangplank to the royal steamboat that would take them to Race Track City. Amadeus and a couple of his young friends were already there, as was Jakusch Pfeifer, looking pretty uncomfortable in the august company.

Márton was fiddling with a rifle that he had bought from a gun maker in Suhl. It was a copy of a Cardinal and fairly expensive. Márton was an avid hunter when he had the time, but he had bought that rifle right after he heard about Polyxena, and Moses didn’t doubt that it was royal—or at least ducal—game that Márton wanted to hunt. He had loved the silly girl. It hadn’t just been a social marriage.

On the other hand, Márton had always liked guns. They were his hobby.

Archduke Leo waved to Moses as he rode up and left the horse with a retainer to return to the stables. Then he bounced up the gangplank, all youthful energy. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Dr. Faust is out at Race Track City,” Amadeus offered.

And they were off. Jakusch Pfeifer stayed diffident during the trip, not speaking unless spoken to. Amadeus and his friends were boisterous, but somewhat restrained by the duke, who wasn’t restrained much at all.

Márton tried to bring out Jakusch with some success, talking about the businesses out in Race Track City and the Liechtenstein Tower, which was in the preconstruction “dig up the lot” phase. The value of the Tower, and the number of tenants. The tower would be expensive, but Jakusch was convinced it would pay for itself in ten years, and in the meantime it would be a major status symbol for the Liechtensteins . . . and for the Barbies, of course. Clear evidence of the value of their shares.

Moses tried to stay out of that conversation. It was Saturday, after all. And he did try to avoid doing business on a Saturday.

* * *

Carla Ann Barclay had lied to her parents to come here this morning. They knew she was coming to Race Track City, but not that she was going on a picnic with the Barbie Consortium and a bevy of local nobles. For some unfathomable reason, Mom seemed convinced that every down-timer with a title—any title—was just waiting to get her alone to practice droit du seigneur. Well, she was going to be with the Barbies and no one was going to mess with them. She hoped.

The barge pulled up to the docks and everyone piled on, carrying baskets. There were thermoses of coffee and coolers with chilled wine and cold meats, bread and fruits. It was to be a well-stocked picnic and everyone was apparently in a good mood, even the guards.

Judy Wendell was busily introducing everyone to everyone, even the people she didn’t know. Carla wished she knew how Judy did it.

Then Vicky Emerson saw the rifle. “Is that a Cardinal?”

One of the older down-timers—He must be over thirty, Carla thought—said, “Yes. I bought it from the gunsmiths of Suhl last year.”

“I bet it’s from U.S. Waffen Fabrik.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Oh, Vicky’s a gun nut,” said Judy. “Knows all about guns and who makes them. She brought her own arsenal. Won’t leave home without it.”

“Is she like that other up-timer?” The old guy paused, like he was trying to remember a name.

“I’m not the markswoman that Julie Sims is,” Vicky said, “but I’m better with pistols.” She opened her purse and pulled out a six-shot handgun that would have made Dirty Harry proud.

“I recognize that. It’s also made by U.S. Waffen Fabrik.”

“Not this one. I had it specially machined in Grantville. It’s match quality. But, yes, they make one much like it. I like mine. It has more stopping power.”