"Indeed." Lars quipped. "For starters she looked at you and not at Karl."
"There is that, too," Per allowed, "but mainly she didn't act like the women I met in Germany." He was about to say something else when the door opened and a turnkey followed by two guards motioned the brothers to step outside.
"I'd rather see you hung," the turnkey said sourly, "But some foreign woman conned the boss into letting you out."
"Told you so," Per said. "That's no ordinary girl."
Gods, but they are big, Ginny thought. She had seen larger men, but taken together in a good light the Lennartson brothers loomed like trees and boulders on a steep slope . . . right before the avalanche. They all looked expectantly at her, too. Ginny hesitated for a moment, and then she turned towards the oldest one.
Please translate for your brothers," Ginny said. "I came to thank you."
"You got us free," Karl blurted. "Just like that."
"Well," Ginny answered, "I had to talk for a while and part with some silver, but you are free to go."
"Then we're in your debt." Per said something in Swedish, and as one, the brothers bowed.
"Of course not," Ginny said. "You helped me. Paying your fine was the least I could do for you."
"You paid it for us?" Per's face was a study in wonderment, and Ginny found herself nodding. The brothers went into a huddle and then Per spoke again.
"We thank you, lady." For a moment, Per looked uncertain, but then he went on. "We fought those who attacked you because that's our way. For that, you owe us nothing. We fought the guards because of a misunderstanding. Again, you owe us nothing. Now you've paid for our freedom with both your word and your silver. We're in your debt today and for all future." The other brothers nodded, at once crossing their hearts like Catholics.
Like something out of the Dark Ages, Ginny thought. Then she checked herself. I guess these boys never heard about the Renaissance. There was no mistaking their heartfelt sincerity however, and Ginny swallowed a lump in her throat.
"Well, you could do something for me."
"Surely."
"When it is light tomorrow, go and look from the dockside at the masts of the Vasa sticking out of the water. Then we'll talk. Where can I find you?"
Per grimaced. "We will send a message. The place we will be sleeping is not for well-bred ladies. It is not safe."
"Not unless they are lady rats," said Karl, grinning.
Things were going well indeed, Fermin Mazalet reflected as he sat waiting in Admiral Fleming's opulent antechamber. Although there was no one else in the room, the Frenchman hid his smile. His bronze-into-gold-scheme had succeeded beyond his wildest imagination. The suckers, silly aristocrats all of them, hadn't even realized they'd been duped, and most of them would be ready to back his claims of scientific and engineering expertise. Mazalet snorted. Useful fools the lot of them. Swedish aristocrats were more hidebound than those of his country were, and they really believed that knowledge of anything save war would stain their precious honor. A nobleman neither traded nor tilled the earth, and that created enormous possibilities for a man like Fermin Mazalet. Being a foreigner was the key of course; a Swedish go-between would never be anything but a servant. Being seen as outside the system, but with exquisite manners and commercial shrewdness, was a real door-opener with the more hypocritical among the nobility.
"Can't swindle an honest man, Fermin," he thought. "Let's find out what kind of man Admiral Fleming really is." He leaned back on the marble bench about to make himself comfortable for a long wait when a young officer opened the door. Mazalet rose and bowed floridly. The officer just stared.
"The admiral will listen to your proposal, Monsieur Mazalet," he said coldly. "Please follow me."
Arrogant. Mazalet hid his disdain behind a friendly smile. I would keep an armed unknown in front of me if I were he. Treville would have him drubbed out of service in the wink of an eye.
The reason for the officer's seeming nonchalance became evident soon enough. As Mazalet crossed the threshold into the admiral's office, a huge wolfhound rose from the floor and padded towards across the flagstones. The beast pinned Mazalet with its stare as it sniffed loudly. Suddenly it growled, a deep thrumming sound emanating from the large chest. Mazalet stood still, looking intently at the admiral who remained behind his desk. Mazalet did not bow. The admiral was in control of the situation, and he would get to the point eventually. Mazalet just waited.
Finally, Admiral Fleming rose from his chair. "It seems that my dog has taken a dislike to you, Monsieur Mazalet," he said and whistled softly. Immediately the big dog walked backwards to his master's side, all the time pinning Mazalet with a baleful gaze.
"Can't imagine why," Mazalet said lightly. "I'm most grateful for this opportunity to present my suggestion to the admiralty, and I'm quite certain that Your Grace will find that my plan has no inconsiderable merit."
"Get to the point." The admiral sat down behind his desk. "My time is short, and even if I enjoyed your company, I would not have the time to procrastinate over every flowery phrase you strew about you. Besides, your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Mazalet. A nephew of mine invested in your alchemical shenanigan. He's an idiot, granted, but outside warfare a gentleman does not take advantage of idiocy."
Not counting your peasants and servants, of course. Mazalet bowed again. "I was not aware that someone of your peerage could engage in any industrial endeavour," he said blandly. "But if Your Grace prefers to question my honor. I'd be more than willing to give satisfaction." He glanced at the prone dog. "No animals in the salle, of course."
"Heh! You don't lack for guts." The admiral smiled suddenly. "I don't trust you of course, but my nephew probably had it coming, anyway." He waved for Mazalet to proceed.
"Is the salvage contract for Vasa still open?" Mazalet asked. "If so, I want to take a crack at it."
The admiral started. "You want the reward for the salvage?" he asked incredulously. "What makes you think you can succeed where Ian Bulmer failed?"
"I've just returned from a trip to Thuringia," Mazalet said. "And yes, the knowledge and expertise residing with those newcomers is nothing less than miraculous. I didn't spend nearly enough time there, but with the knowledge I've acquired, I'm convinced that the salvage is possible."
"The contract is open." Admiral Fleming leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. "I suppose it doesn't cost me anything to let you try." He turned toward the short officer. "Sparre, please go outside and call for a drop of wine. I'm afraid the discussion will take longer than I expected." He gestured with his hand. "Don't stand there man. I doubt Herr Mazalet will try to hurt the hand that might feed him."
"It's a matter of vast embarrassment to us," said Lothar Boelcke, sipping his wine. "I mean, with the masts sticking out of the water for every trading vessel to see and laugh at. If it could be raised . . . well it would do the prestige of those involved a great deal of good—besides the monetary value of the salvage, that is. But this Monsieur Fermin Mazalet d'Angouleme . . . well, his reputation is a little stained. I would be very careful doing business with him. I think, perhaps, Fleming is being clever with him. If he fails . . . well he had better leave the country fast and forever or he will end up rotting in a jail—which would please Fleming and a number of other highly placed people. If—as seems unlikely—he succeeds . . . Fleming will get the credit."
"There is the third scenario. He tricks a fair number of people into investing in it . . . and leaves with the money," said Ginny, thoughtfully. "My father is a good, solid man. But he invested a part of his savings into some scheme to pump water out of very profitable coal mines. It was a scam."
"A what?"
She explained.
Boelcke nodded. "He has a glib tongue. And he deals well with aristocrats. Not . . ." He smiled. ". . . with business people like me."
Anna smothered a laugh. "Yes, dear. Because you told me about his last scheme, and I said if it sounded too good to be true,
it probably was. So tell us, Ginny. Just what is your plan?"
"I'm not very glib or good at raising money. I couldn't do that in a million years. But I have read and researched enough to know how the Vasa really could be salvaged, if not brought to the surface. I'd like Mazalet to raise the money . . . and trick him into setting things up so we can actually do it. As long as we get to the stage of bringing up the first salvage, he probably won't cut and run."
"It sounds very good," said Boelcke. "But how do you plan to do this?"
Ginny's eyes were narrowed. "Because I have read the same books from the Grantville library—and a few more—that Mazalet has, I know what he needs and what I think he intends to do. He came here by way of Finland. But he came alone. I've made a friend among the ferry women . . ."
"You have a happy knack of making friends here in Sweden. Maybe you can raise money easier than you think," said Anna. "So what did the ferry woman tell you, dear? They hear all the gossip of Stockholm sooner or later."
"He had hired some Karelians. Just like Bulmer. But there was fight over money and the equipment he wished to use. They went back."
"Karelians?"
"Divers," said Anna briskly.
"Really, my dear," the consul began, but his wife cut him short.
"Divers," she repeated. "Men that walk under water. There were quite a few Karelians in Bulmer's crew."
"I was just about to say that," Boelcke said evenly. "Bulmer kept a savage bunch that swaggered around town raising all kinds of hell. Not our kind of people by any means, and I don't suppose they did a lot for Bulmer either, since he lost his contract. Diving like that is not something I can say I ever heard of Swedes doing."
"That means," said Ginny slowly, "that manpower is his real bottle neck." She nodded. "With the books he stole, Mazalet might be able to build the equipment, but he will struggle to find divers who will trust him. And I have four of those at my call."
"Those two-fisted northerners?" Boelcke smiled. "They'd certainly be hard to stop if you managed to line them up in the right direction. The question is if they're glib enough to approach Mazalet on their own? He'd be suspicious if you were there."
Ginny nodded. "I think we can arrange it, with me in the background. Then all we need is to catch him."
"And keep him," said Anna. "He is not an honest man."
"I have an idea there, too. I don't think he'd worry about breaking an agreement with ordinary yeoman farmers. He'll expect to run off with the money from the investors and leave the peasants swinging in the wind. I am not too sure of Swedish law, Consul . . ."
Boelcke rubbed his hands in pleasure. "Just leave it to me, fraulein. He'll be happy to agree to a deal with them—not realizing that they have the right to sell their shares to a third party. You."
Ginny nodded. "Part of them, anyway."
Stockholm: Three days later
He was being watched. Fermin Mazalet had the native instincts of both predator and prey, and he had never found reason to distrust those instincts. Although he stopped at the quay and looked back up the street, he saw no discernible threat. Still, it was with relief he clambered down into a cockleshell boat held flush against the water stairs.
"The naval wharf," Mazalet told the old woman who sat at the oars. "No hurry though." He paused and smiled. "As a matter of fact, I could enjoy a round trip along the quays. The weather is good and I'll pay double."
The woman grinned. "For money like that, I can wait until you're done out there." She nodded towards the wharf. "It's a slow day anyway, my lord."
"Never tell that to the customer," Mazalet said lightly. "and I'm no lord. I just dress that way so that noblemen will take me seriously."
The crone chuckled as she rowed her small craft. "Your secret's safe with me." She chuckled again. "As long as you pay like a lord."
"Get up, dear." Toke-Karin looked after Mazalet's departing form and tapped the pile of tarps. Instantly a tow-headed urchin sat up and jumped onto the wharf. The boy made fast and dropped back into the boat, nimble as a shrew. "Go to the end of the quay and wave to our lady. You know the signal."
"The boy is waving," Ginny lowered her binoculars, "That means Mazalet will return by boat."
"Good," said Per. "With a little luck your Frenchman will see our little show. Lars will complain if he swims for nothing in this water. Even if we have some side bets for a small profit."
"He isn't my Frenchman." Ginny muttered. "But I think he'll bite."
"Sacre Bleu." Mazalet almost fell out of the little boat. "Look at that man."
"Where?" The old woman swivelled her head around vaguely.
"There!" Mazalet pointed. "Up on that bow sprit. It looks like he's going to jump."
"Crossed love!" The old woman cackled. "It happens, it happens. Ah, there he goes."
"Turn that way!" Mazalet shouted as the body plunged headfirst into the water. "We must pick him up."
"I don't want a madman in my boat," the woman said stolidly. She had turned toward the scene anyway.
"We need to help him, by God." Mazalet grasped his rapier. "Don't worry, madam. I can handle a half-drowned fool."
She snorted and bent to her oars.
"Is he coming up?" she asked a little later.
"No." Mazalet scanned the surface. "Yes. There he is. A little bit to port, if you please. No! Pardonnez-moi. Make that starboard and hurry now!"
The old crone muttered darkly, but steered the boat as if by magic, without a backwards glance. Within seconds, however, Mazalet could see that the man in the water had no trouble staying afloat. His arms moved in lazy circles and he smiled and shouted something in accented Swedish. Several young men on the quay shouted encouragement while a bunch of sailors on the ship looked sulkily on.
"Can I be of assistance?" Mazalet asked with a faint smile, as they drew close. This fellow might be exactly what he was looking for. A madman. And one who could swim.
"No," the man turned in the water revealing a young face under a mop of wet brown hair. "Begging my lord's pardon," he said with a strange slow accent, "but we're so close to land that I could walk on the bottom and still get there." The swimmer leaned backwards and began to paddle with his feet as he used his arms to keep the face above water. To Mazalet it looked as the lad was merely resting in the water.
"Crazy boy." The rowing madam spat in the water. "You gave us quite a fright."
"I'm sorry, Grandmother," the boy said. "But winning that bet means I won't starve tonight."
"Do you know this fellow?" Mazalet asked her politely.
"Never seen him before." The old woman spat again. "I know his type. Crazy northerner, nothing but trouble. They trounce our boys and make free with the maidens."
Mazalet ignored her. "You swim well, boy."
"Not as well as my brothers, my lord." The lad rose from the water, standing on the submerged stairs. "It was nice talking to you," he said as casually as if they had met walking along a street, "But I have to go collect my wagers."
"Wait," Mazalet shouted. The Frenchman pulled out a large coin and flipped it towards the crone. "Thanks for the service, madam. I'll be sure to recommend you to my friends." Then he jumped onto the sea-stairs looking wildly for the departing northerner.
"Hey you! You there!" called the Frenchman from behind him.
Lars Lennartson grinned like a fox. It seemed as if their target had swallowed the bait. He ignored the call and stalked towards the group of scowling sailors. "All right, friends," he said. "I braved your bow sprit and I made it ashore. You better cough up the money."
"Why?" A rough-looking sailor said, bunching his shoulders.
"Because I have you outnumbered." Lars pointed with his chin, signalling to Karl, Per and Olof to move in, crowding the sailors from all directions. "There four of us to your six. We're a peaceful bunch," Lars continued, "but you put your money on the line just as we did." His grin would have sent a wolf scurrying for shelter. "Now, will you hand over our winnings or shou
ld we pry it from your mangled fingers?"
Slowly, sullenly, with studied nonchalance the sailor handed over a small purse. Lars stuck it inside his belt without bothering to count.
"We trust you." He grinned. "And we know where to find you. Now scoot." Then he turned and bowed clumsily before the speechless Mazalet.
"Did you want to speak to me, milord?"
"Yes." Mazalet smiled winningly. "If you can spare the time."
"Yes, milord," Lars answered. "We have nothing to do anyway. I've some dry clothes to put on, but then we'd be free."