The Austro-Hungarian Connection: Section Fifteen

The Motto

High Street Mansion, Seat of Government for the State of Thuringia-Franconia
President’s Office
Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia
December, 1634

    “As long as the Regensburg authorities drop the serious charges,” said Ed Piazza, “we won’t contest the rest. We don’t actually want to let people get the notion that officials of the SoTF can fire a gun anytime and anywhere they please.”

    Josua Mai, one of the down-timers who served the SoTF as legal advisers, seemed hesitant. “Ah… Mr. President. I’m afraid that the charge of fishing without license and with equipment not approved by the fisherman’s guild is a serious charge, in Regensburg. The fine is quite heavy.”

    “Is there any jail time, too?”

    “Not if the fine is paid. Otherwise….” He grimaced.

    Ed nodded. “So we’ll pay the fine. It’s not as if we’re actually broke. Not even close, in fact.”

    The lawyer looked as if he might argue the matter. Despite his good humor, Ed was not in the mood for legal quibbling. “We’ll pay it,” he said firmly. “Noelle’s gone way past her pay grade plenty of times, what she’s been willing to tackle. The least we can do is return the favor. End of discussion.”

    He sat up straight, just to emphasize the point. “Any spin-off problems I need to deal with?”

    Mai looked at his notes. “Well, Grantville will need a new garrison commander, but that’s not something you need to deal with, Mr. President.”

    “I thought it was decided not to fire Knefler. Not that I’d mind it if he quit. Sure, he screwed up, but you can’t fire officers just for making one mistake.”

    “Ah… the problem is of a different nature. It seems that shortly after he returned to Grantville he assaulted Denise Beasley with a quirt. Tried to, at least. According to the report I received from Chief Richards, the girl was actually doing a fair job of defending herself with—ah—” He rummaged in the notes and drew forth another sheet. “Seemingly, every loose object you might find in a roadside tavern, short of a full-size table.”

    Ed chuckled. “Boy, can I picture that. Girl’s got a hell of an arm. Star pitcher for the girl’s baseball team until she lost interest.” Then, he scowled ferociously. “But what I want to know is why we didn’t fire Knefler for that.”

    The lawyer was still examining the report. “He will be discharged for it, Mr. President. After he gets out of the hospital. His injuries were quite severe. A number of bruises and a split lip inflicted by the girl—Chief Richards says she gave as good as she got—and then…” He cleared his throat. “Well. The father arrived. And was apparently in a very foul temper even before Knefler drew his sword. Tried to draw his sword, rather.”

    Both Ed and Carol winced. “Oh, Lord,” she said.

    After the lawyer left, Carol Unruh shook her head. “What was Noelle thinking? She’s usually such a responsible person.”

    Ed leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. After the news came of Noelle’s arrest, he finally took the time to visit Denise Beasley and get her version of the whole Noelle vs. Captain Drugeth Affair.

            The full, complete, unabridged—nay, annotated and footnoted—Denise Beasley version.

    “Domestic violence can be a terrible thing,” he intoned solemnly.

    Carol frowned at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “I don’t know, actually. But it’ll sure be interesting to find out.”

    The day after she got back to Grantville, Noelle did get a tattoo. She’d always secretly harbored a desire for one, she just hadn’t see any way she could pull it off. But she figured three days in the squalid jail Regensburg maintained for women—God only knew what the men’s jail was like—gave her the needed credentials.

    Denise guided her to the tattoo parlor. Offered tons of advice, too, but Noelle ignored almost all of it.

    The design was entirely her own. A death’s head—much more refined than Denise’s, of course; lady-like, topped by a jaunty little feathered cap—with crossed pistols below and the logo above: I Shot The Danube.

            The one and only piece of advice she took from Denise concerned the placement of the tattoo.

    “Me, I put it on my shoulder, where all the pimply twits in high school could see it. You, on the other hand, got a lot more focused target. So put it way down on your hip, over toward the ass, when nobody will ever see it—”

    The grin was as an impudent as ever. “Except.”

Vienna, Austria

    “Interesting idea,” said Emperor Ferdinand III. He got up and went to the window in his palace, looking over the gardens. “Yes, I think so.”

    “Many suppositions, first,” Janos cautioned.

    “Oh, yes. And probably as many problems afterward, assuming it unfolds. But many opportunities also. And you sometimes forget—even you, Janos—who I am.”

    “Your Majesty?”

    The emperor turned away from the window. “Majesty, now, yes. Go back five hundred years and I would have been a mere count in Switzerland or Swabia. Five hundred years before that, who knows? Certainly not a ‘majesty.’ The most ancient figure known in my line is a Carolinian. A nobleman, family tradition insists—but I can’t help think that his cognomen of ‘Guntram the Rich’ casts some doubt on the matter.”

    He resumed his seat. “What I am ultimately, Janos, is a Habsburg. Something which I never forget. And what is our unofficial motto?”

    Understanding, finally, Janos nodded. “Bella gerunt alii, tu, felix Austria, nubes. ‘Let others wage war; you, happy Austria, marry.’”

    “Precisely so. A guiding principle which has stood us in good stead for centuries. So why should we abandon it now?” Ferdinand made a small waving gesture. “At worst, you already have an heir. But I do not think it would come to that. The distinction between noble and morganatic marriages is already fraying. I have no objections to fraying it still more. In fact, I’m inclined in that direction.”

    So, that was that. Simply a problem, now.

    “It wouldn’t be anything quick, anyway,” Janos mused.

    The emperor chuckled again. “Not given the political situation.”

    Janos smiled. “I was actually thinking of the lady in question. The last time I saw her, she was shooting at me.”

    Ferdinand just gazed at him, looking very placid. He’d gotten the entire story by now.

    “Well, not exactly that,” Janos allowed. “Still, it was a dramatic gesture, you have to admit.”

    “When are you going to stop—what is that American expression—ah, yes, ‘beating around the bush’—and ask my advice as well as my permission?” The emperor of Austria-Hungary spread his arms. “Here you are, alone, in the very seat of wisdom when it comes to such matters. If it weren’t beneath my dignity, I could double the Habsburg fortune—count the Spanish bullion fleets in it, too—by starting one of those American businesses… what are they called?”

    “Marriage counseling.”

    “Yes, that one.”

    Janos hesitated. Despite the jocularity, the fact the emperor made the offer meant he took the matter very seriously indeed.

    “I would deeply appreciate it, Your Majesty.”

    “For this—we’re in private, after all—you’d best call me Ferdinand. Very well, my old friend. Start with a rose.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “A rose, Janos. Always start with a rose. Then add something with just that perfect personal touch. And keep the accompanying note brief. Very brief. Lest, by your silly long-windedness, you make the recipient feel like someone hunted, instead of a weary traveler seeing an open door, spilling light to invite them in.”

Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia
January, 1635

    Denise studied the three items spread out on Noelle’s table, which had arrived that morning in a package.

    There had been no return address, but that was hardly necessary.

    “Gorgeous,” she pronounced, after completing her examination of the first item. “Of course, you gotta subtract a few points since he probably got it from the imperial gardens. Still, that is one hell of a rose.”

    Next, she passed judgment on the note. All it said was: Should we happen to meet again.

    “Way cool. Way, way, cool.”

    Finally, the third item, which she picked up and admired. “And this is just fucking perfect. Wonder where he got it?”

    Noelle peered at the thing, not sure whether she should smile or frown or… what.

    “By now, I’d imagine those could be found in lots of places in Europe. Certainly Vienna.”

    “Still. He even got the right caliber. And 32. caliber rounds are scarcer than you think. Most people want a heftier handgun.”

    Denise folded her hands on the table. “So. No point packing yet, of course, since we’ll probably be at war again in a few months. Still, it’s never too early to start putting together some nice luggage.”

    Noelle scowled at her. “I can’t for the life of me remember why I asked you to come here and give me your opinion.”

    “’Cause it’s the wisest opinion you can get. I got the advantage of the perspective of my years.”

    “All sixteen of them!”

    “And barely sixteen at that,” agreed Denise. “Exactly my point. When you figure what we got here are two people from about as two different places as you can imagine—we’re talking centuries, girl, not just piddly geography—then what you got amounts to a couple of teenagers. D’you wonder why they call it ‘sweet sixteen’?”

    Noelle tried to remember how she’d looked at the world at the age of sixteen. “Well. No.”

    Denise smiled jeeringly, as only she could. “Never knew, I bet. Being a pious Catholic girl instead of a biker’s kid. The reason’s simple. It’s because by the time you reach sixteen—at least, if you aren’t dumb as a rock, which I ain’t—you’ve figured out the basics and you’re pretty much free and clear.”

    Her forefinger pointed to the rose. “That means he’s got the hots, simple as that—but nicely expressed. Not a spot of drool on it.”

    The finger moved to the note: “That the invitation. No, call it the ball’s now in your court. Very classy guy. Understands that you play a game with somebody, not against them. Won’t never be no backseat groping with this cool dude. Not ever.”

    She plucked the cartridge from the table and stood it upright. Then, planted her forefinger on the tip. “And just to make sure you understand, that’s your insurance policy.”

    “Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Noelle. “I didn’t even try to hit him when I had the chance.”

    “Remedial Romance class, come to order. He knows that, you dummy. But he also knows you could have.” She squinted at Noelle. “Well. Could have tried, anyway. The point is, he knew you had a choice.”

    With a little clipping motion, the forefinger knocked over the cartridge and sent it rolling over to the rose, where it nestled against the stem.  “So the reason the cartridge came with it is so you’d know he knows you still have a choice. Like I said. Very classy guy. Best opening moves I ever seen in my life.”

    “All of sixteen,” Noelle tried again. Even to her, it sounded feeble.

    Denise looked serious, for a change. “The last three of which—no, closer to four—have been a very concentrated educational experience. I’ve been good-looking since I was twelve, and every kid in school knew my dad was a biker. Sure, he scared ‘em some, but they’d also heard all the rumors about biker chicks. You figure it out. I had to learn real quick and learn my lessons well.”

    Noelle looked from the rose to the note to the cartridge. Then back again.

    The truth was, the girl’s opinion did look shrewd.

    “So what do you think I should do?” A bit crossly. “Now, I mean. Not in the maybe-never time after the maybe-war.”

    Denise got up and grabbed the tote bag she used instead of a purse. The one with the severed serpent and the Don’t Tread On Me logo that Noelle would have assumed she’d picked up at a patriotic souvenir shop before the Ring of Fire except for what was on the other side. A dragon eating a knight, with the logo I Love Hard Metal.

    “Come on. We’re hitting the malls.”

    Noelle got her purse. “There aren’t any malls in Grantville.”

    “That’s the first thing. You gotta stretch your poetic license.”

    Noelle flatly refused to buy the specific item Denise recommended. No way in God’s green earth was she going to send that book to Janos Drugeth. But she did allow that the general category was suitable. Even if the postage would be a little steep.

    And she decided the girl’s final advice was probably good, too.

    “Of course you put on a return address.” Denise slapped her forehead. “Jeez, Louise. You don’t know anything. He didn’t, because he was serving. Ball might have gone out of bounds, so he left you a graceful way to just pretend you didn’t know where it came from.”

    She started more-or-less dragging Noelle toward the postal service. “But you decided to hit it back. So now we got a volley going. Can’t do that without return addresses. Face it, girl. The game is afoot!”

Vienna, Austria
February, 1635

    “Oh, splendid,” said Ferdinand, positively beaming. He turned another page of the beautifully bound volume. “I’ve always been very fond of Father Drexel’s writings, myself. So is my sister, Maria Anna.”

    So was Janos himself, for that matter. But he was still puzzled by the gift.

    Seeing the slight frown on his face, the emperor clucked his tongue. “Amazing, really. You’re so shrewd on the fields of politics and battle.”

    He held up the book. “First, it reminds you of your piety. Whatever else, you are both devout Catholics. The most solid foundation there is, no?”

    Well, that was certainly true.

    The emperor turned the book, so Janos could see the title. “But there’s the woman’s subtle touch. I will even say, her wisdom. The School of Patience. Which you both will surely need.”

    Janos nodded. “Yes, now I see. The war, most likely. Then, even afterward, a difficult political situation.”

    Ferdinand set the book down on the table next to his chair and threw up his hands. “I have allowed a dolt into my chambers! No, Janos. You will need patience for a lifetime.” He slapped the book. “And that offer, my friend, that is the gift.”

    “Oh.” After a moment, finally understanding, he smiled. “It’s going well, then?”

    Ferdinand was actually rubbing his hands. “Yes, indeed. Happy Austria. Again.”