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The Company Men

Written by Christopher James Weber

1

"I do not like dank dark forests, you arrogant English ass." Liam Donovan cursed as he ducked low on his horse to avoid being hit by a low branch.

"I suppose you would be happier strolling down some gentle, sloping, Irish hill, heather in the air and all that?" Thomas North ducked the same branch. The two had been riding in the German forest for the better part of an hour and were beginning to look much the worse for wear.

"Just so," the bulky red-haired Irishman agreed appreciatively. "A civilized geography, that."

"No cover for miles in any direction, conducting secret business for all to see, and practically begging for some government busybody to interrupt with soldiers. No wonder your people lost every war."

"July, 1921," Donovan said coldly.

"Yes . . . Well, plenty of time to worry about that one later," the tall pale Englishman replied in a huff.

"I do not care for this, Tom," Donovan said. They had finally arrived at the designated meeting point, a quiet bank of the river Saale just south of Jena and hopefully out of sight of prying eyes.

"I do not care for it either. Lynch is your friend, I remind you."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Donovan asked.

"The last time we had less than legal dealings with one of your close personal friends from back in Eire, we had half the Imperial army chasing us with the other half wagering on our method of execution."

"What was the good money on?"

"Shot while trying to escape."

Donovan smiled. "Ah. I love the classics."

"Here he comes," said North, when he sighted the small boat by its lamp. "Just like an Irishman to be late."

"He's from Kerry; it's to be expected. Sean Lynch! You demon-spawned son of a whore! Over here!"

"Liam Donovan, you great building-sized bastard. And the right bastard North! Milordship." Lynch bowed with a generous wave as the boat eased gently onto the shore.

"Men have been killed for speaking less," said North dryly.

"Many men in my home have been killed for much less," replied Lynch, shrugging. "Oddly enough, by men who spoke very much like you. But that is a separate issue. Let's to business."

The wiry Lynch disembarked and once on solid ground pulled the boat until it was securely ashore. He then reached into the boat to remove a canvas sheet from several boxes.

"Explain to me again how you acquired these goods, Lynch?" North asked suspiciously.

"The usual way—I stole them. And don't give me that sour look, North. I know you're not above such things."

"True. I'll still need a better explanation that that."

"Ha!" Lynch puffed out his chest in annoyance. "But of course he does! He's an Englishman. He steals by native right; others must justify themselves. Well, North, these goods were once the proud property of one of the wizard Americans. A `survivalist,' as they call them, by the name of Newman. Sadly, the good survivalist did not live up to his name. My associates encountered him while he was trying to make a supply run to Jena for food. He even spoke German fluently, but, alas, his boots were a giveaway. A dead giveaway, you might put it."

"Why do all Irishmen insist upon bad puns?"

"We are a literary people, North, for which you should be grateful. The Irish saved civilization, you know. The Americans even have a book about it in their town library."

Irishman himself or not, Donovan was as suspicious as his partner. "I had thought all the survivalists were brought in. Certainly a ruckus would have erupted with this Newman's disappearance?"

"I doubt it," Lynch replied, rubbing his heavy beard. "This one had been in hiding a long while. His lair was a thing of beauty. When we looted it we found a number of items that I would be more than happy to sell to my good, close, friends. Have you the money?"

"Aye." Donovan patted the purse at his side, which emitted a distinctly metallic sound.

"Let me see it then."

"Of course." North nodded gracefully. "After we see the guns and ammo."

"All we have seen so far is a few crates," added Donovan, with a very false grin.

"O boyo. I can feel the trust in the forest." Lynch removed the top of the first crate to reveal dozens of cardboard boxes and tossed one of them to North. North opened up the small box and pulled out a nicely ordered collection of up-time bullets in the .308 caliber. Satisfied, he sealed the box and tossed it back to Lynch, who quickly reinserted the cartridge box in its crate.

"The rifles?" North asked with a little more trust.

"Let me at least see the money. There are two of you, after all, and only one of poor me." In the lamplight, Lynch's face bore a passing resemblance to that of a pleading beggar. It was all North could do not to laugh out loud.

Donovan waited for the signal from his partner. When North nodded, he removed his purse and loosened the leather strap until the pouch revealed numerous gold coins.

"The equivalent of two thousand dollars gold, don't mind the coinage," said North with a wry grin.

"I usually try not to. Ten rifles, all in good working order. Examine one yourself." Lynch opened the second crate and removed a single rifle from the company of its fellows and handed it over.

While North was not as expert on up-time weaponry as he was in seventeenth-century sword and pistol, he knew enough to verify it as an example of the quite ferocious and lethal weapons the Americans had brought back in time with them. He loaded the second bullet taken from the cartridge box with a smooth, fluid motion and aimed it toward the opposite river bank. A squeeze of the trigger yielded a single loud shot, with a corresponding splash of mud and water.

"Now that you have alerted every man within ten miles, may we hurry about this?" His face sour, Lynch took the rifle away and resealed the crate.

"The third box? Your description back in the Thuringen Gardens was rather vague."

"Ah, but this is the interesting one, laddie. This Newman fellow he had his own little alchemist operation. Making something called nitroglycerin. Fantastic stuff! But be careful and I suggest you don't test this one out, it is . . ."

"Rather temperamental, yes. I have read about nitroglycerin."

"Then you will forgive me if I don't pry this one open and ask that you wait to do so until I have rowed myself downstream. I believe we have established trust, aye? I have to think about my children."

"You don't have any children, Sean." Donovan handed over the pouch of gold.

"I might someday." Lynch winked as he took the gold and hefted its contents for the most cursory of examinations before placing it in his clothing.

"The nitro is in twenty glass jars, with as much padding as I could insert. Remember to take it slow and easy, lads. If you hear the glass rattling, I suggest you start praying for your one day of heaven, before the devil finds you dead." Lynch stepped back in his boat and removed the lamp from its stand, leaning down so that he could get a closer look at what he was moving. Just then a rifle shot rang out in the not-too-great distance.

North, instincts screaming "trap," immediately pulled out saber and pistol and turned to Lynch. But Lynch was searching just as furiously for the source of the noise and making no threatening moves. The Englishman told his partner to remain watching Lynch and then moved off into the forest. Stalking quietly through the woods, North searched for several minutes and listened carefully for any approaching interlopers. When none were immediately forthcoming he returned to the waiting boat, with Donovan's pistol drawn in Lynch's direction. Paranoia was a survival trait both admired and respected in the other.

"Bit of a busy secluded forest we have here, lads, do we not?" said Lynch nervously.

"Some hunter or kinder playing at being a soldier," said North curtly, not wishing to remain any longer. "Let us finish this."

"Then come and help me, lads. The crates are heavy and I don't have the leverage inside the boat."

Donovan holstered his weapons and walked to the rim of the beached boat, grabbed one side of the box he knew contained the bullets, and helped heave it out, handing it to a waiting North. The second crate of rifles was handled in like manner and North carried it stoically over to the waiting packhorses. Then, with careful and meticulous effort, the three of them lifted the crate of nitro out of the boat. Waiting until the other was ready, the two mercenaries slowly carried the crate away from the boat and gently settled it onto the soft ground.

"A little help pushing off would be appreciated," said Lynch, as he sat down and manned his small boat's oars.

The two complied, heaving the boat off the mud and into the river with a placid ripple. Lynch began paddling away and then gave an enthusiastic wave. "A pleasure doing business with you!"

North watched the pucklike man float downstream and then turned to the three crates, and one crate in particular.

"You realize that we are both completely daft."

"Utterly and totally," Donovan agreed. "How are we going to get that devil's brew back to our camp?"

"One excruciatingly cautious step at a time. Come on then."

The two lifted the crate carefully onto the packhorse. While Donovan held it secure, North went to retrieve the ropes necessary for lashing.

"Keep it steady," said North.

"I am."

"No, you're not. It almost slipped!" snapped North.

"Well, if you would hurry up. . . ."

"I am not the one who has to have two hours just to wake up in the morning."

"Not all of us are sons of Satan with iron constitutions."

"You can not blame me for who my parents were."

"Oh, yes, I can."

"Piss off."

"Go fornicate a sheep, you—watch out!" Donovan screamed. The nitroglycerin crate slipped out of the lashings and fell to the ground.

Thud.

Crash.

Thud?

No boom?

"Liam . . . why are we not blown into little pieces scattered across half the continent of Europe?"

"Two possible explanations for that, old friend. Either we were blown into little pieces and scattered across half of Europe and this is hell, which we are destined to share together—which would most certainly fit my preconception of that place. Or the second explanation . . ."

Donovan leaned down to examine one of the shattered glass jars emitting a distinctive noninflammable odor. "The second possibility is that we are very much alive and you are never going to let me forget about this one."

North leaned down next to his partner and picked up one of the intact glass jars. No, it most certainly wasn't nitroglycerin.

"Newman's Own, Fra Diavlo: Hot and spicy," the Englishman read, before tossing the glass jar hard across some nearby rocks. He quickly rushed over to the two other crates, ripping open the covers. Inside the first was sand and rocks, which North was sure was the same weight as a crate full of ammunition. The second crate yielded something slightly different. Rocks and sand.

"But . . . but we saw the rifles. You fired one of them!" Donovan said angrily.

"Did we see the entirety of those crates, Liam? No, we saw what he wanted us to see . . . in the dark. He must have switched them while we were distracted by that rifle shot. One of his accomplices . . . Signaled by the lamp being lowered . . . In our hurry to get out of here we simply grabbed the boxes he indicated and didn't think to look any further. I thought it was too good to be true. Lynch had one rifle and box of ammo and that's all we needed to see. There was never any survivalist, no weapons cache, never was any nitro, just a crate full of glass bottles meant to keep our minds on the consequences if we dropped it."

"Probably for the best then . . . if it had been nitro we would be . . . That damned Kerryman! I am going to kill him slow, going to rip his balls off with my bare hands!"

"No doubt."

"How can you be so sodding calm about this?"

"I was just admiring the irony of the situation," said North, shaking his head.

"What irony?"

"We got conned."

"Aye. So?"

"We got conned . . . by Paul Newman's own."

"Aye?" Donovan nodded, still waiting for elaboration.

North sighed, rolling his eyes. "You cultural barbarian. We are making a trip to the video library when we get back. Bog Irishman probably wasn't even aware of the reference when he planned this. But one has to appreciate the skill and intelligence it required to pull it off."

Donovan glowered, first at North, and then in the direction Lynch had disappeared in.

"Oh, we're still going to kill him," said North, merrily nodding his head. "Slowly, painfully, and any other way we can think up. Still, the irony!"

2

"Are you kidding?" Mike Stearns' eyes scanned the members of his cabinet sitting around the table before coming back to his secretary of state.

"I'm afraid not, Mike," replied Ed Piazza. "In hindsight we shouldn't be so surprised. This would be right about the time we should have expected them. Time enough for the news to get there and them to get here. The world's a big damn place here in the seventeenth century."

"The Mughals," Stearns mused. "The freaking Mughal Empire."

"We don't know that for sure, it's just one guy and a wild story," cautioned Piazza.

"I don't believe that and neither do you, and even if . . ." Stearns shook his head. "We can't take the risk. If this guy is an official representative of the Mughal Empire, the opportunity is too great—potentially, at least—for us to ignore."

"Ignore, okay," agreed Frank Jackson, "but what can we do? Mike, Innsbruck is hundreds of miles away deep into Hapsburg territory. For us to do it would require a massive military undertaking, and we don't have the forces. Nor is Gustavus Adolphus going to give us anybody, not with war breaking out with the League of Ostend."

"And if our little rescue mission comes a cropper, we will have a whole heap of trouble with the southern principalities," commented Piazza. "We're just starting to be on speaking terms with some of them. Our army traipsing through will kill that pretty effectively."

"We have to do something," said Quentin Underwood. "The merest possibility of establishing favorable trade relations with them is something we have to pursue. Christ! Forget France. Except for maybe the Ottoman Turks and the Chinese, the Mughal Empire is the greatest power in the world right now."

"So we have to do something, but we can't do what he asks," said Stearns. "Not directly, anyway."

Harry Lefferts cleared his throat. He was not normally a part of cabinet meetings but Mike had asked him to sit in, since he'd had a feeling Harry's expertise might be called for. "I know a guy. Well, two guys."

That afternoon North and his partner sat in the converted office to discuss the week's business. The farmhouse that served as the Albernian Mercenary Company's corporate headquarters was not an illustrious affair. It was, however, located near enough to Grantville that the town's amenities were always at hand. But also far enough away for several hundred armed men to drill without upsetting the neighbors' delicate sensibilities too much. The former owners originally had no inclination to sell. But there are very few of life's problems that couldn't be solved with an influx of cash, which the two expatriates had sufficient in supply.

The houses and barns were only enough to keep a few extended families, really a miniature village. Since acquiring the property, the company had been building outlying barracks to house the men. But a shortage of bricks had halted construction three quarters of the way to completion and it was a good thing much of the company was away on assignment. As it was, some would probably have to make do with tents when the heavy snows began.

"What do you have to report?" asked North.

"The merchant caravan from Prague came back safe and sound, despite the recent unpleasantness. It appears `state of war' is a rather flexible viewpoint for them. Two minor fights with Bohemian highwaymen, but nothing Hastings couldn't handle." Donovan glanced at the barely legible account Hastings had turned in. "There was a spot of trouble collecting our pay but Hastings handled that manner in his usual subtle way."

"I told you hiring him was the right decision. There is no reason for you to dislike him so much."

"The man is a drunk. After he collected the gold, his men had to carry him back to the farm from the Thuringen gardens. Five of his men."

"So he is a drunk. As opposed to which other of our sergeants, I might ask? Besides, he does his best fighting when he is drunk. You should know that."

"Don't remind me," said Donovan, rubbing his chin and wincing at the memory.

"You know how to handle Hastings," said North quietly as he worked out the kink in his neck.

"Of course. I fine him two weeks pay, as usual. He is now seven weeks behind in his pay . . . as usual. At this rate he will be in servitude to us for his entire lifetime and never collect a coin aside from what he can pilfer from our contracts."

"Huh," North grunted. "Don't let the Americans hear, they are rather touchy about slavery."

"Speaking of which, I finished talking with the gunsmith and we can take possession of seventy-five more flintlocks along with forty thousand rounds of ammunition. We still have a sufficient supply of gunpowder and our own mill should be running in a few weeks. Schroeder says he can begin production by November."

"You are still not happy about that, are you, Liam?"

"It seems to me a frivolous expense."

"I cower in fear of the Irish hordes and their double-entry bookkeeping." North sat up from his desk and tossed the valuable up-time composition notebook into his partner's lap.

"I was being serious, Tom," said Donovan, carefully returning the company's ledger books to the desk.

"So was I." North shuddered appropriately at the memory. "We have been through this time and again. The cost is great but I deemed it necessary. We are in the middle of a war. And we need an independent supply. If we don't have a bottleneck on saltpeter, probably we will end up selling it to the government at three times profit."

"What is more likely is that once production is up and running, Stearns will seize the mill as a `vital military asset,' under their law of eminent domain. And we will be out the huge expense."

"You, sir, are a pessimist. By that time we will have secured all the up-time weapons we need. And we won't need raw gunpowder any longer."

"At which time you will ask me to build a cartridge factory."

"Liam, you are not exactly the paragon of capitalism yourself."

"I do not know what you mean."

"You recruited another fifteen men today," North responded coldly.

"So I did. And?"

"Are any of them between the age of fifteen and fifty?" With a booming economy, and those not involved in a trade enlisting in the regular army, their private mercenary company did not exactly have first choice on who it hired.

"Some," Donovan stalled, suddenly very interested in the cleanliness of his fingernails.

"And I see they had about forty camp followers between them."

"The lasses can be cooks and washerwomen," said Donovan stoutly. "The lads will help in the fields. We need them, Tom. The farm was supposed to be a secondary income but it is turning out to be quite a secondary expense."

"My shirts are washed so often the stitching is coming loose. Oh, I know, they can sew it back up again too. My meals are served promptly. Six times a day. And I can even take a ride in my own fields with Ariner a whole ten feet before tripping over some brat."

"Winter is coming," said Donovan, halting his friend's rant cold.

"We haven't the space," complained North.

"We will. We have plenty of timber about. The newcomers will build their own barracks. It won't be a proper residence but it will do. It is probably what we should have done from the beginning, instead of trying for brick."

"Most of them will desert come spring."

"Probably, but we will still have the buildings they constructed when they leave, and think of the good this charity will do your soul. Which is badly in need of it, let me tell you. I believe the up-timers call it good karma."

"Karma? Where the hell did that come from?"

"India, I believe."

"North and Donovan have been together several years now," said Harry Lefferts. "They met originally in Amsterdam, when the Dutch sent out the call for any mercenaries in defense of their independence from Spain."

Piazza grunted. "That would have been after the truce between 1609 and 1621 broke down, I assume? They must be old-timers."

"No, they're both in their late twenties. Once the truce was over and Spain attacked again—just another part of the mess we call the `Thirty Years War'—the Dutch needed as many mercenaries as they could get. As young as they were, both were intelligent and rose pretty quickly within their mercenary company. And somewhere in the course of it, they got to be good friends."

"An Englishman and an Irishman?" asked Quentin skeptically.

Harry shrugged. "For being from different countries, fighting a war to defend yet another, they had a lot in common. Liam had been tossed out of the College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Queen Elizabeth near Dublin when it was found out his family was Catholic. The authorities were so pissed off by his false application that he had to get out of Ireland altogether. He landed on the Continent with an extensive knowledge of languages, the classics, and histories, but with barely a penny to his name."

"And North?" asked Mike.

"North left England for less, ah, austere reasons. He's nobility of a sort, being the third son and seventh child of the minor baron of Kirtling. The first son inherited the title and lands. The second son was expected to enter either the army or navy, to defend the glory of England. The third son, if a lord was so fortunate, was usually sent off to the clergy."

Something in Harry's expression caused a little chuckle to ripple around the cabinet room. Harry smiled. "Yeah, that's about right. The Anglican Church doesn't expect chastity. They allow clergy to marry, after all. But they still weren't willing to elevate somebody like Tom North to the holy orders. I guess he had quite a reputation. If he'd been the son of a duke or a more powerful lord, special arrangements might have been made, but . . . he wasn't. And while he was a bit better funded than Donovan, I guess his father made it clear to him not to return home for a good long time. So, Thomas North was alone in a foreign land before finding Liam."

Harry shifted in his seat, trying to marshal his words. "Normally, you'd think, an Irish Catholic intellectual and an English Anglican nobleman would not have much to do with each other. But after discovering each other in a Dutch gaming parlor they found out they did share one fundamental characteristic that surpassed all borders and religions. They like money, and plenty of it, and between the two of them they're pretty good at figuring out how to get it. Since then, their noble quest took them here and there, to whoever was the best paymaster at the time. Eventually they wound up in the Clancy mercenary company loosely connected with Tilly's army back when it was rampaging across Germany. By then, Thomas had risen to command one of the detachments of fifty men used to scout about the flanks of the army." Harry cleared his throat. "This fortunate assignment enabled them to make their unofficial transfer an easy business."

The President of the United States rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Don't tell me."

"Yup," said Harry, now grinning. "After they heard reports of the newcomer Americans and our effectiveness in the field—not to mention the usual fabulous tales of our wealth—the two of them packed their bags, decamped in the middle of the night, and set out for the, ah, promised land."

Still staring at the ceiling, Mike closed his eyes. "Promised land," he murmured. "Out of idle curiosity, when did we decide to pave the streets of Grantville with gold? And how come I haven't noticed any special abundance of milk and honey around here lately?"

Judging that the question was rhetorical, Harry pressed on. "So, the two of them headed directly toward what most in their situation were taking their distance from. Look, Mike, whatever else, these two guys aren't stupid."

Mike opened his eyes again, still keeping them on the ceiling. "No, apparently not. And, of course, once they got here they wouldn't have had any trouble getting work. In fact, if they're as literate and multilingual as it sounds, they probably did pretty well."

"They loved the place," said Harry. "Believe it or not, what really charmed them the most was our libraries. They both love to read. And, in North's case, I think he loves movies even more."

Quentin Underwood grunted. "They still sound like scoundrels to me."

Harry made a little wiggling gesture with his hands. "Yes and no. I sure wouldn't nominate either of them for the Mr. Morality contest, but they're really not that bad, Quentin. Sure as hell not compared to most longtime mercenary soldiers. The Croat raid last year even instilled in them a mild sort of patriotism, I guess you could call it. Mind you, I think they were mostly determined to keep the libraries intact."

Again, he shifted in his seat. "After the attack, they also decided to go back to the mercenary business. That was because—"

Mike brought his eyes down from the ceiling. "Yeah, I understand. After the Croat raid we relaxed our earlier restrictions on letting mercenary companies operate in our area, as long as they had our seal of approval. Did they ever consider just joining the regular army?"

Harry glanced over at Jackson. "Mike, joining the army was never really an option. And it's just as well, frankly. Either one of them, much less both together, would have sent even Frank into orbit."

"They have a good reputation, professionally speaking," said General Jackson. "I agree with Harry that I wouldn't have wanted to touch them in the regular army. But we've used them for a few courier runs and, mostly, for providing protection for supply trains when our own people were stretched too thin. They always did the job, no complaints or problems, and at reasonable rates. I also hear they do guard duty on local properties and run protection for a few merchant caravans in and out of CPE territory as well. They haven't lost a single one far as I know, and we have a few less highwaymen and bandits to deal with thanks to them." He grimaced slightly. "Of course, they're one step removed from bandits themselves, but all experience shows them to be loyal—as long as they get paid."

"All right," said Stearns, massaging his head. "Harry, do you think they can hack it?"

"Well, Mike, they've been fighting wars since they were in their teens and have more practical experience than everyone in this room combined. In their own way, they're pretty good." He hesitated a moment. "Maybe a bit rambunctious."

"Damn good cardplayers, if nothing else," said Frank.

Mike looked him, surprised. "When did you start playing cards?"

Jackson shrugged. "I don't. But Henry Dreeson says they're damn good. He's played cards with them several times at the Gardens."

"Where?" asked Underwood, coming alert. "In the main rooms or—"

Jackson grinned. "Quentin, when does Henry ever play cards in the front rooms?"

There was a moment of silence. To everyone's surprise, once Grantville eventually bowed to reality after the Ring of Fire and the enormous influx of immigrants and lifted its up-time restrictions on gambling, the town's elderly mayor had been revealed as a card shark. He'd become something of a legend in the area's gambling circles. If North and Donovan were able to keep up with him in the back rooms of the Gardens devoted to serious card playing . . .

Stearns came to a decision. "All right, Harry, bring 'em in. If I remember right, Donovan handles most of the business side of things, so I'll talk to him about the contract. In the meantime, I want you to take our guest out to their place and see if he approves. And I want you to personally oversee as much as you can."

Harry nodded, got up, and left. "Now," said Mike, "let's move on to the next item on the agenda."

The cabinet meeting eventually broke up. Mike stayed at his chair, frowning a little.

"Becky's situation bothering you again, Mike?" asked Ed Piazza, when they were alone in the room. He knew Stearns was worried about his wife, trapped in the siege of Amsterdam.

Mike shrugged. "Yeah, sure, it always does these days. At the moment, though, that's not what I'm fretting about. It's what Harry said, at the end there."

"What? His recommendation of North and Donovan?"

"Not that so much. I agree they're probably the best fit we have for this peculiar problem, much as I hate to admit it. But it's how he described them at the end. `Maybe a bit rambunctious.' "

Piazza smiled ruefully. "Coming from Harry, that's a little rich."

"Still that's not what's eating at me. It's that he hesitated before he said it."

Piazza's smile went away. "Oh, Christ."

The Friday night game was perennially held at nine p.m. every Friday in a backroom of the Thuringen Gardens. The game could very well go on all weekend, with small fortunes being won and lost. Of course the same players wouldn't necessarily keep at it all weekend. Busting out or cashing out, they would quickly be replaced by another eager sheep waiting to be fleeced.

"One card," said North as he discarded onto the felt. "And I still say he was and will be a lunatic."

"Two cards," said Donovan when the deal came to him. "He is one of the finest Irish writers that ever lived or will live."

The other players received their cards, sharing knowing looks with their fellows on what was to commence, almost as much a tradition as the game itself.

"James Augustine Aloysius Joyce," said North, annunciating the first syllables like he was giving orders on the battlefield. "The only reason you like him is because you share a name."

"That is not true."

"At age twenty-four he renounced his Roman Catholicism and left Ireland forever. Yet `history' considers him a champion of those two groups. Bet twenty dollars."

"Call," said Henry Sims, tossing a few chips into the center. "I have to agree with Mr. North here. I had to read Ulysses in college, a terrible experience."

"See? Our shire's senior dentist and a man of learning agrees."

"Call," said Donovan, biting his tongue.

"And his punctuation was atrocious," continued North. "Raise twenty."

"Fold," said Sims.

"Fold," said Henry Dreeson.

"He was an artist," said Donovan.

North sniffed. "He was a lazy little git who could not be bothered to learn the English language, raise fifteen."

"I know what you are trying to do." Donovan tossed more chips into the center. "Call."

"Do you now?"

"You are trying to anger me, to involve emotion in the game, to get me to bet heavily so that you can `clean me out.'"

"When I read Finnegan's Wake, I wanted to put a bullet in my brain and have one of my own. `Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the'—with no period at the end of the novel, I might add."

"He was making a point."

"No, the point is, he did not make a point. Raise twenty."

"That is a fine way to end a masterpiece, and if you did not have the intellect of a flea you would understand. Call. It will not work this time because I know you're bluffing."

"Am I now?" asked North condescendingly.

"Yes." Donovan smirked. "You are shuffling your cards back and forth. It is your tell. Call and raise twenty. We have reached the table limit, I believe."

"I leave aside that you have just proved how amateur a player you are by telling me that. There is one thing that you forgot, old friend." North pushed most of his remaining chips into the center. "I knew you recognized that tell three hands back. The one I lost for a whole five dollars. I used it this time to draw you in. The rant on James Joyce just came from the heart. Full house, ladies over threes."

"Damn!" Donovan threw his three jacks down on the table in disgust.

North laughed as he reached out to scoop up his winnings.

"Ahem!" A female voice intruded. North turned to Veronica Dreeson, who had constantly, and without saying a word, kept in the game, pushing forward chips to the end. North had disregarded her as a nonentity since she was very new to the game.

"I am not sure about four fives," said Veronica sweetly, "but ace is high card, yes?"

"Well . . ." North sat back in his chair and took out a cigar. "That's embarrassing."

"You won, honey, you can pick up the chips now," said the mayor of Grantville to his wife.

The German matron grabbed the chips just a shade too quickly for her naiveté to be anything but an act.

"Ha!" exclaimed Donovan. "The great and powerful Thomas North of Kirtling. Fleeced by a tough old German biddy!"

"Quiet," growled North, as he counted up his few remaining chips, a pile significantly shorter than when he walked in this night.

"Nobleman, warrior and son of warriors, captain of mercenaries, captain of industry. What do you have to say now?" sneered Donovan.

"Saint Patrick was an Englishman," replied North.

"Oh, burn in hell, heretic scum!" screamed Donovan in disgust at the disgustingly true statement. He jumped up from his chair and slapped the cigar out of North's mouth.

"Kiss my arse, papist dog! Those are fifty florins a box!"

North threw the first punch. Within seconds, he and Donovan were on the floor doing their best to knock each other senseless. Good friends though they were, poker was as cantankerous a subject between them as literature.

"Should we, um . . . try to halt the counter-reformation?" asked Dr. Nichols, as he stepped uncertainly into the room and around the combatants to buy in for the game.

"Probably," mused Henry Dreeson. "I'm sure it's listed in my civic duties as mayor somewhere. On the other hand . . . Watch the elbow, Liam!"

Smack!

"That one looked like it hurt a bit," said Henry Dreeson, wincing and turning to his wife. "Dear, maybe you shouldn't be here. Ruffians."

"Why not? Is good fight," replied Veronica. "Twenty dollars on heretic scum."

"Done," said Nichols. "Liam's got fifty pounds on him."

Thud!

Smack!

"You suck!" shouted North.

"It occurs to me that we should ask them to take it outside," said Dreeson. "No need to deprive the rest of the town of this show." Like most of the up-timers in the new booming Grantville, the town's mayor had developed a blasé attitude toward tavern brawls as long as weapons weren't used.

"Very civic-minded of you," commented Sims approvingly.

At this point Donovan got far enough disentangled to give his partner a good right hook. North was dazed from the blow, and Donovan, not really intending to do serious damage in what was basically a nice bar fight between friends, let him clear his head. North was going about it in a funny way, though. He was moving his tongue around inside his mouth and making all sorts of strange faces. Donovan was about to ask what was going on when North spit out a small object in the general direction of the card table. It landed next to Henry G. Sims, D.D.S.

"Is that my incisor?" North asked the dentist curiously.

"Um." Sims gave the object in question a quick, expert examination. "Yes, it is, Tom."

"Do you . . ." North turned ominously toward Donovan. ". . . have any idea what I had to go through to have that put in the last time? At the very least you should know what it cost!"

"Now, please, Tom, it was just a bit of sport. No need to get angry. Keep your temper."

"My temper . . ." North belted Donovan with a powerful uppercut, knocking the man unconscious to the floor. ". . . is kept right where it belongs."

"That's the one good thing about being dentists and doctors in a boomtown," said Nichols, as he handed over his lost twenty dollars.

"It's a growth industry," Sims agreed.

Driving took on an entirely different meaning when it was a horse that had to be driven instead of an automobile. A horse in many cases is smarter than a man and it required little steering to find its way back to the stable. The difficulty arose however when the passenger kept falling off the horse, seatbelts being impractical additions. North, not one to let his good mood be dampened, picked up his friend, dragged him back on top of his horse, remounted his own and began leading them both back to the farm.

"Soldier, oh soldier!" North began his song.

A-coming from the plain
He courted a lady for honor and for fame
Her beauty shone so bright
That it never could be told
She always loved the soldier
Because he was so bold.
Fa la la la, fa la la la

Soldier, oh soldier,
It's I would be your bride,
But I fear of my father
Some danger might betide.
Then he pulled out sword and pistol
And hung them by his side
Swore he would be married,
No matter what betide.
Fa la la la, fa la la la

Then he took her to the parson,
And, of course, home again
There they met her father
And seven armed men.
Let us fly, said the lady,
I fear we shall be slain
Take my hand, said the soldier,
And never fear again.
Fa la la la, fa la la la

Then he pulled out sword and pistol,
And caused them to rattle,
The lady held the horse
While the soldier fought in battle.
Hold your hand, said the old man,
Do not be so bold.
You shall have my daughter
And a thousand pounds of gold.
Fa la la la, fa la la la

Fight on! said the lady,
The portion is too small!
Hold your hand, said the old man,
And you shall have it all.
Then he took them right straight home
And he called them son and dear
Not because he loved them,
But only through fear.
Fa la la la, fa la la la!"

The "Bold Soldier" had carried North to his corporate headquarters and the sound of his approach drew little attention. It being Friday night in Grantville, one or both of the proprietors of the Albernian Mercenary Company usually arrived half in the bag. North gave his horse to the night groom. Then he walked over to unceremoniously push his colleague off his horse before giving the reins of Donovan's mare to the groom as well.

Still tonguing the gap in his only recently repaired teeth, North had no inclination to drag Donovan into his bed and was quite content to let him sleep in the stable. He was halfway to the house, passing the scattered campfires of his men, when he noticed an unusual sight in the doorway.

North considered himself a man of the world. He had traveled extensively, and seen many things and many peoples. Never before, though, had he laid eyes on the manner of man in front of him. Even in the poorly lit evening it was apparent he wasn't European. Nor was he dark enough to be a Numidian.

His apparel was also extremely foreign. It was in stark contrast to the heavy northern European clothes. It provided scant protection from the chills of autumn, though the man didn't seem to mind. Judging from the stern look on his face and the easy manner in which he rested his hand on his sword, North doubted the man would mind taking on all the armies of hell and all the angels of heaven besides. Immediately North placed the stranger in his carefully selected group of people he had no intention of aggravating. Despite his occasional brawling, he was really quite conservative when mortal peril was evident.

That peril was even more evident by the presence of Captain Harry Lefferts. Not so much the man himself. North knew him well enough not to be afraid of the good captain on general principles, like a number of other down-timers were. What did worry him was the presence of a very wicked grin on Harry's face.

"I am Salim," said the stranger in exotically accented English, when North approached. "Personal servant and sowar to the Subadar, Baram Khan, ambassador-at-large from Shah Jahan."

"But of course you are," said North, taking in the long title along with the exotic guest.

"I would speak with Donovan. This one told he is one I arrange mercenary contacts with. Men here told us he would come soon."

"Mr. Donovan is . . . unavailable at the moment. My name is Captain Thomas North. I am his partner and I lead the company's operations. Please—step into my office." North waved graciously toward the door.

3

It began long ago and far away. But the story was not really that strange to North for its beginning. A little under two years ago the town of Grantville flashed upon the world stage, literally. It took months for this news to filter to the major population centers of Europe, but filter it did. And soon enough, representatives, diplomats, scientists, theologians, and—especially—adventurers of every kind came rushing to the future town of Americans. But while Europe might have considered itself the center of the world, it was not the world. Indeed no empire in Europe could claim the title of greatest, not even Spain or France.

It was the Muslim Mughal Empire of northern India that probably held that title, although the Ottoman Turks and Ming Chinese might have disputed the point. At times the Mughal emperor in Agra had more cavalrymen under arms than the entire population of some European principalities. India's culture was illustrious and ancient. The Mughal military was a mighty force, possessing gunpowder in most cases much before Europeans. Indeed, at times, most of Europe's supply of saltpeter needed to be imported from Mughal territory.

There was great wealth there, also, in specie and jewelry—but much more importantly, there was trade. The Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs, they all came. India had always known traders from the west, and paid them little mind. And then the Portuguese arrived in 1498, and this time it was different. India now became a much more integral part of the world economy and entire regions depended upon the export and import of goods to Europe for their survival. For a hundred years the Portuguese held a monopoly on Indian trade and fabulous wealth flooded into the coffers of Lisbon. Soon enough, though, the other powers of Europe were not content to let Portugal enjoy her monopoly. The Dutch and English, among others, began sending trading missions to treat with Mughal ports.

To maintain their trading monopoly, the Portuguese fought the other Europeans wherever encountered. And, in typical Portuguese fashion, attacked Mughal shipping and installations as well, in a blundering attempt to force the Mughals to expel the other European trading companies. The Mughal emperors were understandably displeased with the Portuguese arrogance, and they flung open their ports to their enemy's enemies. Soon enough, the Portuguese were outcompeted by the shifty northern European merchants and facing unfriendly Mughals in India, Portuguese trade subsequently dwindled to a pittance.

This by no means precluded further infighting between the English and Dutch merchants, coreligionists though they may have been. Whole fleets were lost to "privateers" or even flagged vessels in combat with each other. Trade was money and money was power, a commodity that all wished to hold a monopoly on. And they tried any and all means to curry favor with the Mughal rulers.

One of those means was to tell tales of the astounding new occurrence in central Germany and to provide a thumbnail sketch of its wonders.

Shah Jahan was no fool. Already wary of the European interlopers' maritime superiority, he was not content to allow them unilateral access to sciences from the future. And especially not to allow them to feed his people that information on their terms, and to their benefit. So, eight months earlier, he had dispatched one of his myriad relations on an expedition west in order to establish contact with Grantville on his own terms. Salim had been posted to the expedition as he had had dealings with the English factory at Surat and was one of the few Mughals who spoke their language. Under the guise of the hajj, Baram Khan and his throng of servants had ventured to Mecca. But instead of returning home, he had gone forward to Cairo. A Venetian galley had then been hired to carry them across the Mediterranean to the European mainland.

All through the expedition, the emperor's gold and reputation had smoothed the way. Hiring local interpreters, guides, and transportation was easy. Gold was always a universal language and there were local potentates aplenty willing to show the emperor's representative hospitality.

Shortly after entering the Alps, however, the hospitality had turned excessive. In an isolated manor near the city of Innsbruck, every attempt to leave the hospitality of their Austrian hosts had been shuffled aside. There was always another social event they insisted Baram Khan needed to attend. Then the horses went lame, the provisions sour.

Soon enough, Baram Khan attempted to force the issue and found that he was under virtual house arrest. The eighty men in the expedition made too large a force to slip away during the night—but one man might, and Salim was chosen. A veteran of several wars in the Deccan, he knew how to take care of himself.

His German was nonexistent, and his English practically useless in that region. After a week of effort all he had accomplished was to send a message to a Mughal agent in Cairo informing him of the situation, which had a slim chance of actually arriving and slimmer still of traveling all the way to the emperor. His only option was to continue on with his master's assignment as best as possible, and bring whatever he could back home. He attached himself to a merchant's caravan and after many days of travel arrived in Grantville.

His arrival in Grantville was a surprising situation, to say the least. He was welcomed, of course, but his problem was not something that could be solved with a flick of up-time technology like others could. No . . . this was something that required old fashioned down-time skullduggery, which had led him to the Albernian Mercenary Company.

"So. Let me sum up the situation, if I may," said North, sipping some imported Ottoman coffee in his office. "You want me to take my company, an extremely small one by the measure of our day, across more than two hundred miles of war-torn Europe. Some of it torn up by a side who doesn't like my side very much, nor apparently yours either. To rescue an Indiaman from forces unknown. You do not know how many soldiers the enemy has, what type of incarceration your master is held by—indeed, you do not even know if he is held at all by this point. He might well be rotting in a grave. And if this rescue is done, I have no more assurance that I will be paid my quite substantial payment, aside from the word of a servant."

"Yes," Salim replied blandly.

"That's not strictly true," Lefferts interjected. "In the interests of diplomacy, Mike has agreed to underwrite this expedition at cost. So anything you get out of the Mughals at the end, Tom, will be pure gravy. He wants to talk to you guys about it in the morning."

"Well, that's a little bit better. Still . . . basically, the mission is: storm the castle; save the king."

"He is not king," said Salim. "But the rest, yes."

"Riiight . . ." North hesitated for a moment while he contemplated. He contemplated only long enough to appraise the cash value of the expensive adornments the Mughal wore like so many glass beads.

"I like this one," he said cheerfully, thumping his hand on the desk. "We are going to have so much fun."

"Ten thousand—all in advance," said North the next morning, in Stearns' office. Ed Piazza and Frank Jackson were present in the room also.

"Did you expect me to say, `Ten thousand! We can almost buy our own ship for that!' " The President grinned, fully understanding the reference.

"Well, I had to try. Fine then, make me an offer I can't refuse."

"Spend whatever you need on whatever you need—within reason—to provision yourselves. Supply receipts to the department of state along with appropriate wage slips. It should be recouped if this is successful. Salim told me the Mughal expedition was more than adequately financed. As far as profit goes, you can present a separate bill to the ambassador once he is safely in Grantville."

"More paperwork." North shook his head, sighing.

Stearns chuckled. "I didn't peg you as the corporate , , , executive type. More of a hands-on kind of guy."

"Which reminds me, I shall require guns. Up-time ones, and as much ammunition as you can spare. We, ah, have had a bit of trouble acquiring enough on our own. This bold endeavor has a much better chance of success if we have a few force multipliers."

Stearns turned to Jackson. "Frank?"

"Do your guys know how to use them?" asked General Jackson.

"I said we had difficulty obtaining enough, not any. I have seen to it that enough of my men are fully cross-trained on all the ones we have acquired. And many served in your army at one time."

"I can probably scrounge up enough for a platoon. Presupposing, of course, that we get them back."

"Of course you will!" replied North indignantly. "Do I look like a scoundrel?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Tom, have I mentioned today that you seem to be dafter than usual," said Donovan, as the two made preparations later that day.

"Once or twice a minute since you woke up this morning."

"I—"

"Time enough for ranting later, old friend," North interrupted. "Now we need to be about preparations, we need to leave as soon as possible. Winter is coming, as you constantly remind me. How many men do we have for assignment, leaving aside those new `recruits'?"

"We still have most of the fool Von Fellenburg's finest," Liam replied, not happy at the thought.

When the two had established their mercenary company, they had ample funds but that alone was not enough to draw enough men to their flag. They had something of a name in the mercenary community, and a few came to the service of the Albernian Mercenary Company. But the bulk of the initial forces were from the fool Von Fellenburg's Finest, a rather pretentious nickname the two had given a Swiss mercenary company whose captain was killed several weeks after the two began recruitment. Whether his death was due to malice or a "training accident" had yet to be proven conclusively. He had not been an officer who was well liked by his men. Regardless of that, though, the stout Swiss mercenaries had reorganized themselves and required a new one, likeable or not. But they were soldiers all, not officers, and were quite willing to let others make key decisions for them so long as the pay came on time. So North had folded about seventy of them into the company, much to Donovan's derision at the inclusion of so many Calvinists.

"We have fully cross trained them on the new weapons haven't we?" asked North trying vainly to find the appropriate file in his cabinet.

"Yes," said Donovan, handing it over.

"Fine, then." North grabbed it. "We will take the first five squads. If fifty men cannot handle this, the entire company couldn't. Do we have enough horses?"

"Barely. They are rather scarce lately."

"Well, it's the war, you know. Ammunition?"

"Powder and two-hundred shot for each musket. The special ammunition is what presents difficulty."

"We'll take all they gave us. We'll need all the firepower we can acquire. But you are right, it doesn't seem to be enough. What about alternative supplies?"

"I am working on that, the usual channels along with all the usual unusual ones. But it doesn't look good, certainly not before we leave."

"Well it can't be helped . . . or can it? Ha! Look what is coming our way." North pointed out the office window into the courtyard.

"Mother Mary, not him again," said Donovan in disgust as he turned to see out the window.

"Him" was the duo's watcher, the "military liaison" who had been saddled upon them when their operations began, as the necessary prerequisite of operating in the CPE. Private armed forces were something the government was concerned about. Lieutenant Lawrence Quinn, veteran of the West Virginia National Guard, was a nice enough human being when he wasn't on the job. But judging from his face, he was not here on a social call.

The American curtly nodded to them both as he came in the door. "Hello, North, Donovan."

"Lieutenant Larry! Just the man we have been waiting to see." North got up to shake the American's hand furiously before directing him to a comfortable leather chair across the desk from him.

"Another two solders have reported their up-time weapons and ammunition stolen," said Quinn, cutting right to business.

"Those German brutes will sell their soul for another mug of beer." North shook his head sadly. "It's terrible."

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about those black-market guns, would you, Tom? General Jackson mentioned to me today that you had acquired some."

"Not a thing, sorry to say. But it's fortunate that you came here. It turns out we need a significant supply of .308 caliber bullets."

"Would those bullets be for the rifles I see that pair of troopers are practicing with over there?" said the American, with a wave toward the firing range. "Oddly enough, the same make of rifles reported stolen."

"Of course not!"

"Do we look like black marketers to you?" asked Donovan, scowling.

"I won't tell you what you look like to me, officers and gentlemen and all that." Quinn got up from his chair. "Don't go anywhere."

"Where would we go? We love it here!" protested North, as he watched the lieutenant leave the room. "You filed off the serial numbers I hope?" North asked quietly, leaning close to Donovan.

"I cannot recall. My memory has been rather spotty today . . . for some reason."

"That's a pity."

The bulk of the company's gunpowder weaponry were newly manufactured flintlock muskets, which was already a significant jump ahead of any other contemporary weaponry the mercenaries might face. But North and Donovan had also engaged, through a variety of means, to acquire some up-time weaponry.

Quinn shouldn't have been on their case quite so much, since the sum total of up-time weaponry the pair had pilfered wouldn't have filled a Grantville native's gun cabinet. But ever since losing half a month's pay to North one Friday night, the lieutenant had been not too figuratively grinding his teeth at the two.

Keeping in character after several minutes' inspection, the American returned with an unpleasant look on his face. "You know, I can probably dig up the original up-timer owners to identify the stolen merchandise," Quinn announced.

"And what if you could? We did not know we were dealing in stolen goods. We purchased them from a reputable dealer. What was his name, Liam?"

"Um . . . Hans."

"A reputable dealer named Umhans. Sadly, I believe he has since left for Magdeburg."

"If you run quickly you can catch him," Donovan offered.

"I'm not going anywhere," said Quinn firmly. "I see you're loading up the wagons. It looks to be a big deployment."

"We are going to Innsbruck, rescue mission."

"Hapsburg territory, behind enemy lines," Quinn elaborated.

"Which is why we need those bullets so badly, my friend," said North. "You are our military liaison, so liaise."

"The Mughal thing? Every reputable mercenary company in the area would have turned that contract down. I'm not at all surprised you took it. Oh, hell, I'll see if I can dig up a case here or there."

"Bless you, lad," said Donovan.

Quinn shrugged. "I have to go with you on this one. Lefferts and later Jackson both had me under the grill most of the morning. Ordered me to liaise a little more personally. You two could get into all sorts of messes without supervision. And we do not need an international incident right now."

North leaned back and eyed his partner. "Does not his concern for us lowly down-timers give you a warm feeling in the chest, Liam?"

"Deep down in the cockles, Tom," Donovan agreed. "We should be leaving in two days, so make whatever preparations you need."

"I'll be here," said the American, and then he exited the building once more.

"I do believe that boy thinks this is going to be pleasant," said Donovan.

"He scolded and scowled too much," North agreed. "He wanted to come along. Shocking, really. An officer and gentlemen by act of Congress abusing his own position just so that he can go out and have some fun."

"The youth today," said Donovan, shaking his head at a man who couldn't have been two years younger than him.

"Well. Weapons, ammunition, food and water, tents and horses, and myriad other munitions."

"All we need now is a plan."

"Don't worry, I have a plan."

"Oh, a plan has he?" asked Donovan, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, it's a good plan. But first, I need money, so hand over the key."

Donovan gave over the key to the gun safe the Irishman had acquired to act as the company's vault. Once he had it open, North sifted through the dollars, guilders, pounds, livres, and florins, but hesitated over a package on the second shelf.

"Feminine hygiene product? What the bloody hell is this doing in there?"

"It's a currency," said Donovan defensively. "Worth more than its weight in gold. And what do you need the money for, anyway?"

"Well, when we get there we will need to improvise. But I imagine we will need a distraction, and or a large hole put in a large wall. So I am going out to obtain some explosives."

"We are not talking about a few guns, Tom. You can not just steal explosives."

North took a handful of gold coins, weighed them in his hands, thought better of it, and added a few more. "Of course not. That's why I need the money." North grinned as he shut the safe's door.

"You have a very nasty look on your face, Liam."

"I don't like this one, Tom, for all the risks." Donovan shook his head. "Why are we doing this?"

"Money."

"We have money."

"Lots of money," North clarified.

Donovan sighed loudly. "Sometimes I wonder about Englishmen."

"Ha! Liam, do you know why Englishmen exclaim `Mother of God' during moments of particular awe?"

"I assume it's out of respect for the virgin."

"Ridiculous. Are we wretched papists? No, no. The Madre de Deus was a Portuguese carrack captured off the Azores one fine summer day in 1592, by a six-ship squadron under the command of Sir John Burrough. When she was brought into Dartmouth harbor she was three times the size of anything an Englishman had ever known. Sixteen hundred tons. In her belly were wonders beyond description but I will try to enumerate them for you. Gold, silver, pearls, amber, jewelry, diamonds, tapestries, bolts of calico, four hundred and twenty-five tons of pepper, forty-five tons of cloves, thirty-five tons of cinnamon, cochineal, mace, nutmeg, benjamin, ebony. Every merchant, thief, jeweler, fisherman, and man jack within fifty miles ran for Dartmouth harbor to help out in the looting. The queen of course wanted her share and many of those adventurous looters lost their heads for their impertinence. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds was eventually garnered for the crown but the entire ship was conservatively estimated to be worth one million pounds. Near enough the sum of the exchequer for 1592. One ship . . . and it equaled all the treasury could spend in that year.

"Very shortly thereafter, English merchants began expeditions to the source of this wealth. India, and the spice islands further afield. And in 1600 Elizabeth chartered the East India Company, and every year those bastards lucky enough to have bought stock get richer off trade beyond even our wildest dreams. Regardless of whether we get paid or not after this, I believe having a favor owed by the Mughal emperor's representative is a very valuable thing."

"One million pounds," Donovan said in awe.

"One ship."

"I suddenly feel much better about this, Tom."

"I thought you might."

After an hour's ride, the two entered a small farm on the other side of Grantville. It was nowhere as extensive as their own, merely an isolated ramshackle residence away from the city. But the purpose of that isolation was remarkably similar. The owner didn't want to upset the delicate sensibilities of the neighbors. Because the former postal worker was now in the business of making bombs.

While the place seemed busy enough, with many minions scurrying about, a man in authority was not readily apparent. North dismounted from his horse and took out a cigar for the wait. Tobacco had been readily available to Englishmen since Raleigh; most, however, smoked it in pipes or used it as snuff. During his sojourn on the Continent, North had acquired a taste for rolled cigars in the Spanish fashion.

"That," said an American voice, "is a very bad idea."

North turned around to see a tall and girthy silver-haired American with a stolid, unpleasant look on his face.

"So said King James, my dear Garland Alcom. But he is dead and I am not. So I will enjoy my good cigar."

"I meant that's a bad idea because we're dealing with items that get temperamental around flame. So put that out, you stupid limey. Before you blow us to the moon."

"Those things will kill you, you know," said Donovan with a smirk.

A bit hastily, North extinguished his vice. "This dynamite of yours. We require some."

"And we'll need someone to help us," Donovan added.

"What are you doing for the next few months?" asked North.

"I'm busy. And you have to pay for the dynamite."

"Well, of course we will pay you. We are not thieves, after all." North tossed a substantial bag of gold into Alcom's hands.

"Lately," muttered Donovan under his voice, remembering the source of the gold. "That still leaves the other matter."

"I've got a few Germans I trust."

"No up-timers?" North asked with some alarm.

"It's the war, you know." Alcom led the two toward the shack.

"I don't have near enough to mass produce," said Alcom, "but I get enough to put out a steady supply for a few people I trust. Which begs the question: how did you find out?"

"For a people that enjoy usquebaugh so much there are some of you who cannot handle alcohol well. How many sticks have you?" asked Donovan.

"All told, about four cases of twenty, carefully wrapped and settled in sawdust."

"And the explosives expert?" North asked.

"I wouldn't call any of these guys experts. But they know how to transport it, and how to insert a blasting cap."

"Very well then, let's see them," said North.

Only five men were assembled for inspection, and like most private industries in and around a Grantville at war, were made up of the very young and very old. Two boys in their apprenticeships, two gnarled old men, and a lone strongman in his midthirties. At first, North was going to chose him automatically as the man most fit, but then he took a long look at the fair-haired man. While he was a fine specimen of strength, North had to wonder for what reason he was not grabbed up by the army or some other group. And what was most telling was the lack of any sort of mark or wound on him. A man that had never made mistakes or fought in battle does not have anything to learn from. In the end North turned to a gray-haired Teutonic fellow in his midfifties standing with his hands behind his back.

"Do you speak English?"

"Ja," the man replied.

"Why do you work with dynamite?"

"To feed mein kinder."

"You can feed them just as well doing something considerably safer. Why do you really work with dynamite?"

"God create world, someday God destroy world. I help. Very devout."

North smiled crookedly. "How many fingers do you have?"

"Nine." The German held up his hands to prove it.

"Oh, I like him," said North, turning to his partner.

"What ever happened to the idea of buying American?" asked Donovan derisively. "Quality craftsmanship and all that?"

"Don't be prejudiced, Liam."

"Fine." Donovan sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "I like him too."

4

The contingent of the Albernian Mercenary Company left soon enough for Innsbruck with little fanfare and less notice. The company made good way until reaching the Alps, but then it was a slog before they were able to reach the outlying regions of Innsbruck. Slipping the company through hostile territory was not unduly difficult. It was an age before nation-states and protected borders with major internal policing. The only thing that could have threatened them was a significant concentration of troops, and such armies were blundering affairs that were easy to avoid.

Unfortunately, that did not mean they could be avoided entirely. Fifty horsemen with only four wagons drew attention. The number of troops could mean one of two things. First, that it was a small but extremely valuable merchant shipment. Or, second, that it was the supply train of a military expedition. Either likelihood meant that scouts were dispatched to ascertain the group's identity ...