Velma answered, a little doubtfully, "I think the emperor is a Swede. I saw that on TV. And Mike hasn't done anything to me. He and Becky invited me to their wedding. It's Dad. And the Logsdens. And those ungrateful kids of mine. Otherwise, you know, it could all have been Meant."
Veda Mae felt vaguely betrayed that Velma didn't share all of her own grudges. But what could you expect? A lot of the time, she was probably too drunk to notice what was going on. Or in bed with some man. If not with two, if a person could believe some of the stories that went around. Which a person probably could. According to Joyce Burke, she'd actually had a boob job, up-time, before the Ring of Fire. Wonder who paid for that? Probably some guy who got to play with the boobs!
At least Velma didn't sleep around with the Krauts, not like some people Veda Mae could name. Naida Carpenter, for one. Ardis's daughter. She was married to one, and Big Dog and Duck hadn't done a thing about it. Well, Ardis's other girl had been living with one of them until she and the kids burned to death in April. The gossip columnist in the paper, the one who went by "Roger Rude," had hinted that it was arson and the Kraut had done it. Veda Mae wouldn't be surprised. Served Mandy Sue right. And her kids were probably better off dead. Veda Mae had gone to the funeral, though, wearing black, since after all it was the sister of Gary's partners being buried.
But Jacques-Pierre had said that it was her religious duty to offer Spiritual Comfort to Velma—that she should talk more about the things that were bothering Velma. Not so much about the things that were bothering herself. She listened patiently as Velma returned to her favorite subject: Velma. And the injustices that Velma suffered. And how misunderstood Velma was. And how very, very much Velma resented the fact that her daughter Susan was ungratefully depriving her of a decent standard of living, which she could easily provide with all that money she had made on those investments through the Barbie Consortium.
Veda Mae listened for quite a while, throwing in comments, occasionally, about Delia Higgins' Kraut son-in-law, Kraut lawyers who drew up miserly financial contracts when you rented out your upstairs rooms, and Mike Stearns' Kraut wife.
Velma frowned. "Becky is Jewish. I think. I'm sure. I went to the wedding."
"Becky," said Veda Mae, "has to be a Kraut. No matter what she claims to be. Mike met her right here in Krautland, didn't he? She talks the language, doesn't she?"
Velma looked vaguely puzzled, but it wasn't something that was really worth arguing about. She went back to talking about Velma. And money. And Velma.
When it came to money, at least, Veda and Velma were in harmony. Someone had done them out of their rightful share of something. They had a lovely chat about corruption in the Grantville court system. Finally Veda Mae said, "You ought to meet Jacques-Pierre. He can tell you how it all connects together. He understands the problems that we're having. He really does."
As she finished up her carrots, she cast around for some words that Velma would understand. "He can offer you Spiritual Comfort. It was probably Meant that he's come here to Grantville."
* * *
Jacques-Pierre Dumais flinched inwardly at the company he was keeping. However, Madame Haggerty had a grandson—well, a step-grandson, to be precise—on Jackson's staff. Madame Hardesty, to whom she had just introduced him, had a son on the personal staff of Colonel Jackson, assigned to the office of Don Francisco Nasi. The two young men were said to be friends.
In this summer of 1634, discontent among the up-timers might be the best advantage France had. Possibly even the only one. Mesdames Hardesty and Haggerty were not pleasant company, but people had survived worse.
Reminding himself of the tribulations undergone by Job, he smiled and shook hands.
* * *
Sunday dinner at Grandpa Ben's. Which would have been okay, Susan thought, if only Aunt Betty wasn't here again.
"Mom's collected herself some new guy," Susan said a little sulkily. "Younger, with good abs. I saw them on the street outside the Willard just yesterday. Talking to Glenna Sue's grandmother."
Ben frowned. "Susan, you shouldn't . . ."
". . .'speak about my mother like that.' I know the rigamarole."
"Susan, please," Pam said.
"Who is he?" Grandma Gloria asked.
"Don't know. Never saw him before."
Betty Wilson drew in a breath, reminding herself that sometimes it was harder than others to put the best construction on everything. Especially when it came to the activities of her sister Velma.
"Then you don't know that he is one of Velma's 'guys,' Susan."
Betty bowed her head briefly. Most of the time it was impossible for her to put the best construction on Velma's activities, no matter what the Bible and the Book of Mormon admonished her to do. Well, all of the time. Nevertheless, at a minimum, she could make herself act like she put the best construction on everything. The least she could do for Velma's girls was to be a good role model. Heaven only knew, they needed one. So.
"You don't even know who he is. You just said so yourself. And if you can't say something nice about a person, don't say anything at all."
Susan and Pam just looked at one another. Aunt Betty was being very Aunt Betty-ish. Again.
"Why don't you just say what you think? You know that you're thinking the same thing we are."
"You can't know what I'm thinking."
"I sure can. Even when you're acting all pious and righteous, and don't pretend that's not what you're doing." Susan looked at the others. "Mom's up to something again, and we're all going to end up being sorry we know her. Again."
She looked at Pam. "I don't know about you, but I am so sick and tired of being Velma Hardesty's daughter that I could spit."
A Pirate's Ken
Written by Iver P. Cooper
The lookout squinted. In the east, a horizon-hugging bank of clouds glowed red, heralding the imminent sunrise. In the west, the sky was a deep azure, with only a few stars still glimmering. Below his perch was a dark skeleton of masts and spars.
He turned to the north. He saw naught but water and air, but he knew that somewhere beyond the horizon lay the shimmering sands of the Costa de la Luz, the Coast of Light.
At the periphery of his vision, a flash of white caught his eye. It was gone before he could snap his head around. A phantasm? A wave breaking? He wasn't sure. There it was again!
"A sail, a sail!" he cried. "East northeast. Hull down." Whether the sighting meant profit, or peril, or a measure of each, he knew not.
By now, the lookout had a sense of its movement. "Heading west north west."
On the deck far below, Captain Jan Janszoon smiled. "It appears that this cruise won't be boring, after all." He pulled out a spyglass—it had been taken off a Venetian prize, and was worth its weight in gold—and made his own observations.
The mystery ship was maintaining its westward course, edging closer to Janszoon. It didn't turn, either to flee, or to reach Janszoon more quickly. Clearly, it hadn't detected their presence. No surprise, that; Janszoon's vessel had furled its sails at the first hint of dawn.
Janszoon studied the visitor. "Merchanter," he announced at last. "A big one." The men whooped.
"Set sail, just the lower courses for the nonce." That would make it harder for the prey to spot them, but they would also make less speed. "Vargas, we head north." The helmsman nodded. That would give them fast legs, and, given their windward position, it would be difficult for their prey to escape to the west. "Oh, and Pieter, raise the Spanish flag. Who knows? They might be idiots and come ask us for news."
Time passed; the ships converged. The merchanter seemed to sail well, close-hauled, which implied she had a full load. More good news.
At last, with the range down to perhaps ten miles, Janszoon saw a reaction. The trader put on every scrap of canvas it had, even its studding sails. Plainly, it didn't think he was a countryman, come for a friendly chat. What a pity.
Putting on that much sail was dangerous, too. The stron
g southwesterly wind of the Gulf of Cadiz, the
vendavale, could knock down a crowded mast.
Clearly, the merchant hoped he could escape to the open sea. Janszoon would not allow it. "Make fighting sail," he commanded. "And lay us four points to starboard." That wasn't the quite the shortest interception course, but it would make it more difficult for the prey to clap on the wind and get on Janszoon's weather side, where it might more readily give him the slip.
Soon they were close enough to hail it. "From whence came ye, and where are you bound?"
"From Venice, bound for Cadiz. And you?"
Janszoon was delighted by the answer. The target was clearly a Spaniard. "From the Sea, and bound for Hell!" he shouted. "Pieter, show them who we are."
Pieter grinned. He knew the drill. The false flag came down, and two new ones went up. The first was the standard of the Prince of Orange, the leader of the Dutch people in the fight against the Spanish. The second would give them even greater pause.
The feared emblem of the Sallee Rovers, a gold man-in-the-moon on a red background, soon fluttered above the head of Jan Janszoon . . . Murad Reis, the infamous Renegado. On the deck of his xebec, his corsairs ran out their cannon and raised their muskets, ready to do battle if the merchant refused to yield.
Janszoon was Haarlem born and, like many of his fellows, had taken to the sea at an early age. He disdained the merchant life from the beginning, choosing to serve on one privateer or another, and thus mixing patriotism with profit. In 1618, while enjoying some R&R at Lanzarote, in the Canaries, he was snagged by Algerian raiders. Learning of his experience, the captain, Suleyman Reis, gave him the choice of being sold on the slave block or turning pirate and serving as one of his officers. To Janszoon, it wasn't a hard choice at all.
Shortly thereafter, Janszoon converted to Islam. Whether the conversion was genuine or merely to improve his employment prospects, only he knew. Janszoon also married a Mudejar, that is, one whose family was one of those evicted from Moorish Spain. From Cartagena, to be precise. She had good connections, not only in Algeria, but also in Morocco. Janszoon was a conscientious man, in his own way, and despite the new marriage continued to send money to his first wife, back in Haarlem.
The premier Moroccan pirate base was Sallee, on the Atlantic coast, only fifty miles from the Straits of Gibraltar. It wasn't long before Janszoon decided that his job opportunities were better there. They were. Soon after his arrival, the Sallentines declared independence, and established a council of corsair captains to govern themselves. Janszoon had the traits most valued by the corsairs—intelligence, daring, and luck—and found himself elected their first Admiral. The sultan of Morocco laid siege to Sallee, was repulsed, and then "confirmed" Janszoon's appointment. Janszoon shuttled back and forth between Sallee and Algiers, navigating the treacherous politics of both cities. He had returned to Sallee fairly recently, and had decided to lead a corsair sweep—as much to maintain his reputation as for the actual revenue involved.
The warships of the Sallee Rovers were small, because a bar in the harbor forced deep draft vessels to unload if they wanted to enter. However, size wasn't everything. A rover was packed with cannons and experienced fighters, and its hull was carefully maintained to maximize its speed. The Spanish ship had cannon, true, but it was debatable whether its crew even knew how to fire them. And most of its hull space was taken up by cargo.
Would the Spaniard flee, fight, or simply surrender? Further flight to the northwest was clearly hopeless; he would have to swing wide to avoid the Taraf al-Gharb, the Cape of the West. What the English called "Trafalgar."
The bow of the Spanish merchantman started to swing away. Ah, they meant to head north, beach themselves on the coast, and hide in the pine forests beyond. Janszoon gave a hand signal. Shots rang out, and the Spanish helmsman crumpled. A few moments later, the merchantman struck. The battle was over.
* * *
The pile of loot on the main deck grew as the corsairs emptied barrels and chests from the hapless merchant ship and stripped valuables off its crew and passengers. This public collection was necessary, for every pirate risked life and liberty, not for a mere wage, but for a share of the spoils. The corsairs had to be sure that they were each getting a fair share. Ten percent of the loot went to the government, to support the maintenance of the defenses; forty-five percent to the outfitter, as reimbursement; and the remainder to the officers and crew. Each officer received three shares, each cannoneer two, and common seamen one apiece.
Of course, the real loot were the crew and passengers of the Spanish ship. They would be sold on the slave market, and the proceeds divided according to the pirate rule. The rich or well-connected captives would be ransomed, and the poor ones would spend the rest of their miserable lives in servitude.
Janszoon's eyes were drawn to one of the treasures, a figurine which had been carefully packed in a padlocked chest. Clearly, it was considered to be of great value. It puzzled Janszoon greatly. It reminded him a little of some of the statuettes of the African tribes, because of the exaggerated feminine endowments. But it was clearly a depiction of a Caucasian, and the workmanship was much finer than that of any African artifact he had ever come across. Was it Dutch? Venetian? Or something even more exotic. Perhaps it was from the Mughals, or the Cathayans?
And what material was it made out of? Janszoon and his officers debated the issue. It certainly wasn't a metal. But neither was it glass, or wood, or horn, or ceramic. Janszoon finally decided to simply ask its erstwhile owner to provide a full explanation. The owner had an arm around the shoulders of a lad with similar features. A son or nephew, no doubt, who, but for this disastrous misfortune, would have joined the family business.
He pointed to the man. "Come here. We found you holding this chest, did we not?"
"Yes, sir. I meant no disrespect, sir."
"What is your name, and how and where did you get this little fancy?"
"My name is Sergio Antonelli, and I am a citizen of Venice. I bought the figurine there, but it comes from a town in Germany called Grantville."
Janszoon frowned. "Grantville? I have heard of it. Another fabled land, like the kingdom of Prester John."
"Oh, there is no doubt of its existence. There is a delegation in Venice right now. They have been explaining their alchemical and medical arts to our own professore, and trading for zinc, and glassware, and alcohol. They aren't magicians, but the Council of Ten is convinced that they are, as they claim, visitors from the America of the future. And you surely know how good the council's spies are."
"And this figurine? What is it made of?"
"The material is called plastic, and the Americans made it alchemically. It will be years before they can make more of it, however. They don't have the right equipment anymore."
"How did this artifact come into your hands?"
"I bought it from a fellow Venetian, Federico Vespucci. He actually went to Grantville two or three years ago. He is my second cousin. He sold most of the figurines, but we kept a few as an investment. Most of the buyers were collectors, and they will take their purchases off the market. Which meant that the price of the few resalable ones would go up. Way up."
"So why were you carrying it on a boat to Cadiz?"
Sergio sighed. "I had a new business idea—one that needed a license from the king of Spain. I needed an extraordinary present to ingratiate myself with the royal family, and this plastic statue seemed perfect."
"So, these men of the future. Do their arts include the arts of war?"
"I have heard that they have muskets which can fire very quickly, and that they used them to destroy a Spanish army. I have heard that they have supplied cannon to the king of Sweden, with which he defeated an Austrian force. And I have even heard, although I only half believe it myself, that they have used a flying fort of some kind to turn back the Danish fleet from the coast of Germany."
A sailor cuffed him. "Don't speak nonsense to the admiral or I'll cut
out your tongue."
Janszoon held up his hand. "It may not be a nonsense. I heard something about a flying machine from a fellow Dutchman who sailed with the Algerines. I thought he was just having a joke at my expense, but perhaps I misjudged him . . . May Allah have mercy on his soul.
"So I would like to know more about Grantville. Have you been there? Or met any Americans?"
The merchant hesitated.
"If you lie to me, I will know it," Murad Reis declared. "And I will make you wish that you were in the hands of the Spanish Inquisition."
The merchant shuddered. "No, I haven't, but I have met those who have, and have questioned them closely. And I have been in the part of Germany, it is called Thuringia, where Grantville now lies."
"And do you know their language?"
The merchant chose his words most carefully. "I speak the English of our own time. I have heard that visitors from England have been able to speak to them, but that the 'up-timers' have many words which we do not, and that some familiar words have strangely altered meanings.
"Also, it appears that many of them have now learned German, or Latin, and so we can converse with them in those languages as well."
He waited for another question. The wait was a long and nerve-wracking one, because Murad Reis had been given much to think about.
"When I take my ships upon the sea, there is both danger and opportunity. The same is true of dealings with this Grantville, but the risks and rewards are a hundredfold greater. But if don't act, I—and the Republic of Sallee—will ultimately lose to those who make the gamble.