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Chapter 12


“What’s the likelihood of finding someone inside the Collegium who would cooperate with a removal?” That was the up-timer again.

“Inside the Ingolstadt Collegium? Does it tell you anything that both Ferdinand II, the late unlamented Holy Roman Emperor, and Duke Maximilian of Bavaria, still distressingly alive, were both educated there?” Jurgen Lux was not a diplomatic man.

Paolo forgot that he was not supposed to speak until spoken to. “Who is the garrison commander? And do you want to tell him about any of this?”

“Georg von Dewitz, right now, but the general won’t waste him on a garrison command for long. He’d probably rather not know the details.” Lux turned around, moving restlessly. “I could let him know that there will be someone in town and that someone’s actions are directly authorized by the administrator.”

Since Paolo had spoken, Duke Ernst indicated that he should go ahead and outline his idea.

“Once you’re in the city, what? Go into the Collegium, spot the guy, and say, ‘Beam me up, Scotty’?” That was the up-timer. “The Jesuit Collegium in Ingolstadt is a fucking big building. It’s not as if you’ll be trying to flush someone out of a one-room cottage in the woods, somewhere.”

“Which is probably why the garrison hasn’t tried to dig Westerstetten out. Presuming that they know he is there.”

The discussion started to go around in circles.

Duke Ernst dismissed Paolo, who snaked his way through a spiderweb of back corridors and emerged into daylight from the provincial tax office—a place where a commercial agent might reasonably have business.

In the room, the inconclusive discussion continued for several minutes. Jacob Balde didn’t say anything more in the presence of Father Hell—who was, after all, the rector of the Collegium and his superior. After the meeting broke up, as proper junior members of the group, he and Böcler courteously allowed their superiors to precede them toward an inconspicuous side exit from the Schloss. The corridors in this part of the building were narrow; the procession was moving slowly.

Balde’s eyes drifted over the paintings along the corridor walls. He mentioned that he had visited the university in Ingolstadt several times in connection with those of his duties that involved imparting instruction in the art of writing modern Latin poetry. While, generally speaking, the order had success in forming the minds and hearts of young men into zealous adherents of the One True Church, which was certainly a divine blessing…nulla salus extra ecclesiam.

He looked at the other wall and then at the wooden tiles that made up the low ceiling. Yes. Generally speaking. Generally speaking was not, however, the same thing as universally successful. When it came to adolescent males, there were almost always a few who were…resistant to spiritual formation. Sometimes to the point of rebelliousness. They often manifested this (at least, if they were sufficiently academic types to have made it as far as university study) by reading forbidden literature. Not limited to books on the Index librorum prohibitorum, which some of them had a regrettable tendency to redefine as a recommended reading list—fortunately, almost everything it listed was a paralyzingly dull theological treatise—but also, for example, CoC broadsides, pamphlets by Spartacus…

Balde’s eyes came down from the ceiling, fixed briefly on the opposite wall, and then on something outside one of the windows that appeared to fascinate him through the watery, wavery, glass. “I have been convinced by Father Spee von Langenfeld’s arguments. If it would be of assistance in this matter for you to know how to contact a couple of these young reprobates… They are at heart fine young men, you must understand, simply…restless under the yoke of a perhaps too narrow definition of divine mercy.”

***

Duke Ernst did not confide what he decided to Werner von Dalberg. Or to Father Hell. Or to his up-timer liaison. He hoped that they would assume that he was simply letting the matter slide as long as no trouble broke out that brought his attention back to it. One eternal truth of a manager’s life was that not every infant initiative matured into a project.

“The beauty of the plan is,” Paolo pointed out, “that the whole thing depends on something that is absolutely true. It’s always a lot easier to work with truth than lies. Even if Westerstetten has tucked himself away, even if the widely-strewn districts of his former prince-bishopric have been incorporated into the SoTF as far as civil government is concerned, he’s still responsible for diocesan, specifically ecclesiastical, administration. For which he will have offices, and clerks, and, without the slightest doubt, an ongoing need for office supplies.

“Office supplies from a manufacturing firm already used by the bishop of Regensburg are surely more desirable than office supplies manufactured by up-time heretics.

“And I can tell you for sure: he does not have a duplicating machine. I wouldn’t want to enter Ingolstadt inconspicuously. I shouldn’t enter Ingolstadt inconspicuously. I’m a sales representative. I would want to have as many potential customers as possible know I’m coming as long in advance as possible. Preferably with an article in the newspaper about Vignelli Business Machines before I arrive and coverage of the demonstrations I give once I get there.”

***

“You were a soldier,” Hans Baumschlager said. The Grenzjaeger sergeant had a few years on Paolo—perhaps as much as a dozen. “We haven’t met before, but I eat at the Golden Lion every now and then. I know that I’ve heard you mention the Wartburg. Better that you go armed. Though I’ve never seen you carry even a dagger. Let’s drop by the armory on our way out.”

Paolo turned away and looked out the window. Supposedly, it was the mind that held one’s memories. Now his nose brought up the sharp odor of gun oil, the acrid scent of ignited black powder. His hands recalled the smooth wood of a rifle stock. “I may not carry arms.”

“What?”

“I am on parole, from Grantville. We ex-soldiers, after the up-timers examined our individual conduct, were given the option of joining their army. I could not accept, nor could Carlo. We were mercenaries, yes, in the sense that we were professional soldiers. That is how we earned our livings since we were little more than boys. However…”

He turned around again. “We are from the countryside around Naples, Carlo and I. We are natural born subjects of His Most Catholic Majesty, Philip IV of Spain. From your perspective, we are enemy aliens in your midst. I signed a parole that I would not again bear arms.”

“Surely they meant that you would not again bear arms against them…that you would not return to the Spanish army. Or the imperial army. Or, really, any army which they were likely to meet in battle. They can’t have meant to forbid you to carry a pistol in a dangerous neighborhood.”

“It is a matter of honor. I swore. First to the New United States. Then, after the events of 1633, a second oath to the SoTF and USE.”

The sergeant swore too—in utter frustration at concepts of honor that left no room for common sense. “Then I’m sending a couple of my men along with you.”

“Do you have any who can pretend to be business machine salesmen?”

“No.” Baumschlager grinned. “But I have a couple who are pretty good at manhandling crates in and out of carts.”

“That’s fine,” Paolo answered, “because it’s going to be a big crate.”

“Why? I’ve seen those duplicators. They aren’t very big.”

“I’m taking demos of several other things, too. They’ll be in their own smaller crates, all packed inside the big crate.”

“Why not just take the smaller crates? They’re a lot easier to handle.”

“First: Because after I have used the big crate, I can make noises about how Herr Pilcher insists in the ridiculously arrogant manner of the up-timers that ‘containerized shipping’ is so much more efficient than the way we poor ignorant down-timers do things, thus giving whatever Bavarian or episcopal or Jesuit spy is hanging around my showroom a clue that I might be disaffected or disillusioned or disjointed or something because up-timers don’t show me the proper respect. I can go all ‘pompous Spanish officer type’ if I need to—I served under enough of them.” Paolo grinned with pure mischief.

“Second: When I—or the assistants you are so kindly providing for me—empty the big crate, I will have an example of ‘containerized shipping’ that is large enough to transport a witch-hunting bishop. Well-padded on the inside, to prevent damage to my delicate and expensive wares. Most likely frustrating to any witch-hunting bishop who might wake up and start banging on the sides, hoping to attract the attention of possible rescuers.”



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