The Viennese Waltz(137)
Gundaker felt dirty as he left the squalid tavern, but in a strange way also invigorated. He was committed now. There was no turning back . . . but then, there never really had been.
* * *
Leopold sat in his townhouse in Vienna and brooded. His brother had effectively endorsed Judy Wendell’s position. She and all her Barbies were to be ennobled. Even Trudi von Bachmerin, the daughter of a minor imperial knight from the back of nowhere, would become Her Serene Highness Trudi von Bachmerin. Granted, a Fürstenstand was a considerably lower rank than Erzherzog, the rank Leo held. Leo felt his lips twitch. Gundaker must be having a fit. Damn it, even their expressions are creeping in. But it was true. The Barbies and, importantly, Sarah Wendell now held exactly the same rank that Gundaker, Maximilian and Karl Eusebius held. So all Gundaker’s plans had crashed on the reef of Sarah’s sudden elevation. He could at least take comfort in the fact that the Wendell girls were publicly humiliating more than just him.
He looked over at one wall where hung centerfolds and images from the up-time magazines Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler. They were carefully framed and had cost a pretty pfennig. He found himself wondering how Her Serene Highness Judy Wendell von Up-time would look posed as the April 1994 playboy centerfold was. Judy didn’t look anything like the model, but something about the pose brought Judy to mind.
He called for more wine and Marco brought it.
Fortney House, Race Track City
“Why,” Bob Sanderlin asked Brandon, “is a serene highness ‘serene’?”
Hayley rolled her eyes and waited for the punch line.
Grinning, Brandon said, “I don’t know, Uncle Bob. Why is a serene highness serene?”
“’Cause they ain’t got nothing to do.”
Brandon snickered. Ron shook his head in amusement and Gayleen Sanderlin gave her uncle by marriage a look. And Mom, the traitor, hid her smile behind a napkin.
Hayley groaned and, though it didn’t sound it, the groan was complicated by the fact that it was starting to look like she wasn’t going to be a serene highness after all. Just a highness. What Bob said was true. A serene highness didn’t rule a principality. It was a court title, and most of the Barbies were going to be serene highness. But the way it was shaking out, Race Track City was going to become a postage-stamp-size principality, and one with Imperial Immediacy, meaning that the ruling prince—or in this case—princess, would have a vote in the imperial diet.
Since she was going to be the ruling princess, and she wasn’t at all sure how her mom and dad and the Sanderlins were going to take the news—much less the citizens of Race Track City—serene was probably not the right word to describe her mood. “About that . . . you remember how the Barbies bought up our debt and traded it for a twenty percent share in SFIC?”
“Yes?” Gayleen said.
“What’s wrong, Hayley?” Dana Fortney asked.
“Well, they didn’t really want part ownership in Race Track City, and the emperor wants our status regularized. I tried for burgrave, but Judy’s gone all political on us and wouldn’t hear of it. So, for a whole bunch of barbies switched from my account in the reich bank to the accounts of other girls and the emperor . . . well . . . you see . . .” Then in a rush she blurted out, “Race Track City is going to be a principality and I am going to be the ruling princess. Or at least the reigning princess. We can work up a constitution so that the rights of the people here are protected, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, the right to bear arms, the whole works.”
There was silence for a bit and they could hear the people out on the street. It was a busy street.
Then Ron Sanderlin asked, “Isn’t Race Track City a little small to be a principality?”
“Yes. According to Amadeus’s dad, it’s going to be the smallest principality in Austria-Hungary.”
Suddenly Gayleen Sanderlin was laughing. Everyone looked at her and she said “Downtown Dallas,” then went back to laughing.
Hayley was totally confused. She knew that Dallas was a city back up-time. She was even pretty sure it was in Texas and she knew it had had a really good football team, but that was about it.
“Gayleen,” Ron Sanderlin said, “if you don’t tell us what’s so funny . . .” Mr. Sanderlin stuttered to a stop, apparently unable to come up with an adequate threat.
“It’s an old joke,” Gayleen said. “It seems that these three Texas ranchers were taking a jet back to Texas from somewhere. Well, being Texans, they were bragging about their spreads. ‘I own the Circle W, fifteen thousand acres up near Brownsville.’