He shrugged. "No telling what Gustavus Adolphus will decide."
"No, not yet," agreed the cardinal-infante. "The great test of arms is still ahead of us, in the spring. But what about the other small principalities?"
"I've already raised the matter with De Geer, and I think Essen will certainly agree. Probably Duke Anton of Oldenburg, also. You'll have to deal with the archbishop of Cologne, of course. As for Cleves . . ."
He rolled his eyes, the Spanish commander almost immediately doing the same. Since the death of Duke Johann Wilhelm in 1609, and the passing of the inheritance to his sisters, Cleves had splintered badly.
"We'll manage something," said Fredrik Hendrik.
A week later, the end result began appearing. In Amsterdam first, of course.
"Marvelous," said the dye-maker, examining the sheets of paper with their many small portraits. "And you guarantee they will be accepted anywhere in the Low Countries? These in Brussels, for instance?"
The agent from the new postal service nodded. "And those from Brussels will be accepted here. As long as the blonde is portrayed, it doesn't matter which flag she's got wrapped around her. House of Orange colors, the cardinal-infante's colors, it doesn't matter. The stamps are all good anywhere that either Fredrik Hendrik or Don Fernando's authority reaches. That, for sure, right from the start. Soon enough, we expect other principalities to join in. Who knows? Within a year, perhaps even the USE and Denmark and France."
The dye-maker chuckled. "That'll depend a lot on who wins the war. Still . . ."
The dye-maker's wife intervened. She'd been silent up to now, standing next to her husband and squinting suspiciously at the sheets of paper. "We want some of the glue thrown in. And a brush to apply it. Brushes are expensive."
"Not a problem. A pot of glue and a small brush comes with every purchase of a sheet. One hundred stamps to a sheet."
The postal agent pointed to one of the sheets spread out across the dye-maker's table. "They're already creased, as you can see. Easy to cut them out. We're hoping, within possibly a year, to provide them with some gum already pasted to the back surface. Just wet them a little—a tongue-licking will do it—and the stamps will adhere to the parcel on their own. No glue needed at all."
The dye-maker pondered the matter, for a moment. But not for long. The established method for using postage worked, yes. But it was time-consuming, for a busy artisan, to have to go to a postal agent and have him manually stamp the parcel with a seal and sign it. Something of a nuisance. This way, with pre-paid postage, it would be much simpler.
And less costly, too. Not only were the new "stamps" slightly less expensive than the existing postal rates, simply in terms of money, but they were also much less expensive in terms of labor lost. If the postal agent could be believed, and the dye-maker thought he could, there would soon be special boxes in place all over the city where a pre-posted parcel could simply be dropped off for delivery. Fifteen minutes work for an artisan's wife or apprentice—perhaps only five or ten—instead of two hours or more.
"I'll buy a sheet, then."
"Splendid. Which one would you like?"
The dye-maker's eyes widened. "I have a choice?"
"Certainly," said the postal agent. "I told you. Any of the portraits is valid. All that matters is that it's the same blonde. She's the nurse, you know."
The dye-maker and his wife nodded. Anne Jefferson was quite well known in the city. Almost as well known as Gretchen Richter, in fact.
"Well . . ." The dye-maker stood up a bit straighter. "We should take the colors of Orange," he said stoutly.
"No," said his wife. "That portrait, she's showing too much skin. And who's Rembrandt, anyway? Never heard of him."
She pointed to the sheet with Rubens' version. "That one. He's famous and most of our trade is with the south, anyway. The cardinal-infante's colors are sure to be welcome in Brussels. Catholic or not, the linen-makers there are better business for us than these tight-fisted bastards in Amsterdam."
"Done," said the postal agent, reaching into his parcel and hauling out a pot of glue and a brush. "Oh, yes, I failed to mention that the pots and brushes all come with the initials of the artists. Whichever one you'd like."
"Rubens, of course," sniffed the dye-maker's wife. "The Hals brothers are drunkards and ne'er-do-wells. And nobody's ever heard of this Rembrandt fellow, whoever he is."
"Rubens it is, then."
"You're feeling better about the whole thing, I see," said Adam Olearius.
Anne smiled. "Well, yeah. From what I hear, the stamps are selling like crazy. Hands across the border, and all that." Then, quietly: "If it'll keep a few more people from getting killed, it was worth it."
"Might keep a lot of people from getting killed," her fiancé mused, sitting on the divan next to her. "Well, not by itself, of course. But along with all the rest . . ."
He lifted his shoulder in a little shrug. "Hard to know, of course, as it so often is with diplomacy. It's always a gamble."
"God damn," hissed Harry Lefferts. "Talk about a long shot paying off!"
He and Thorsten and Gerd stared at the pile of coins Donald Ohde has spilled onto the tavern table. Spanish silver, most of it, the best currency in Europe. But there were plenty of gold pieces mixed in with the lot. Some of them were probably adulterated, but with that big a pile it hardly mattered.
They did not bother casting glances around the tavern to make sure that no one was observing them. No doubt there was a footpad or two among the crowd in the tavern. But by now, weeks after their arrival in Amsterdam, no footpad or cutpurse in his right mind—no gang of them, either—would even think of crossing Harry Lefferts and his wrecking crew. The only difference between the way they gauged the matter and Mike Stearns did, was that professional cutthroats knew that Harry & Company were the most frightening pack of bandits on the continent. That they might be something else as well was irrelevant, from a criminal's standpoint.
"Time to get out of town, then," said Harry. "Before the storm hits."
Ohde frowned. "There will be no 'storm,' Harry. I can assure you that the Frenchman was most satisfied with the transaction."
"Who cares about him? Sooner or later, Anne Jefferson's going to wonder what happened to the originals. We don't want to be anywhere within miles when that happens. Trust me."
Paul Maczka looked skeptical. "Come on, Harry. She's just a nurse. Gretchen, yes, we'd be in real trouble."
" 'Just a nurse,' " Harry mimicked. "Yeah, fine—but she's a West Virginia nurse. She's Willie Ray Hudson's granddaughter, fer chrissake. Got cousins—first, second, third, you name it—all over the hills and hollers. At least two of them are serving in the Thuringian Rifles and another one is downright crazy. Marcus Acton, Jr. Got in a fight with him once. I won, but it was touch-and-go. Just as soon not do it again."
He started scooping coins and shoveling them into his money pouch. "Come on, guys, fill 'em up. I want to be halfway to the Channel ports before Anne figures it out, and we find ourselves in the middle of a down-time version of the Hatfield-McCoy feud."
"They did what?" shrieked Anne.
Mike Stearns flinched from the blast. "Just what I said. They finagled three out of the four originals and sold them to someone. For a small fortune, what I hear."
Anne's face was pale, her expression a combination of shock, outrage and fury. "How did they get them?"
Mike grimaced. "They just bought them outright from the Hals brothers. Those two are always strapped for cash. Rembrandt told me he let them have his for free, once they explained what they wanted it for."
"That stinking bastard!"
"It is a good cause, Anne. The one thing about Harry is that you can trust him to be honest. Well, okay, in a Robin Hood and Jesse James sort of way. He's not really what you could call an upstanding citizen. But he's not a thief, either. That money will go to spring our people out of the Tower."
The last sentence put something of a damper on A
nne's gathering fury. She knew all of the people imprisoned in the Tower of London herself, after all. Two of them were friends of hers.
"Well, yeah, fine. But. Still."
After a few seconds' silence, she hissed: "One of these days, I swear I will kill that son of a bitch."
Mike pursed his lips. "You'll have to take a number. By now, the line's probably up to a hundred or so."
After Mike left, Anne turned to Olearius and he gave her a comforting embrace.
"At least Rubens didn't sell his," she whispered. "I'm glad for that. He's always been my favorite."
Adam said nothing, judging it to be an unwise time to explain that Rubens had sold his original. He'd sold it to Olearius himself, and for a token sum, once Adam explained his purpose.
But now was not the time to get into that. The portrait was safely stowed away, in a place Anne would never think to look.
There was no hurry, after all, given his purpose. Adam would tell her in a few years, when the whole incident had faded into one of those more-in-humor-than-anger recollections for his soon-to-be-wife. By then, they'd have children; and, like any mother, Anne would be thinking about her children's prospects.
Which would almost certainly be splendid. The future was always unpredictable, of course. But Adam Olearius was quite confident that in any one of the possible futures he and his wife would find themselves in, being able to bestow onto their children an original portrait by Rubens would mollify his wife. Especially that portrait, as famous as it would soon be.
By then, it would be worth . . .
Who could say? A very great deal, certainly.
He wondered, for a moment, what would happen to the others.
Richelieu pondered the three portraits. They were magnificent, especially taken as an ensemble. Three portraits by three great artists, each of the same subject . . .
To the best of the cardinal's knowledge, nothing like it had ever happened in the long history of art.
For a moment, he was tempted to keep them for himself. But, as always, duty triumphed.
"In the Louvre, Servien," he said firmly to his aide. "For the moment, we'll keep them here in my chambers. But once the work in the Grande Galerie is finished, we'll move them there. They'll form the anchor of the collection."
In another world, the royal castle known as the Louvre wouldn't become a museum until 1793, during the French revolution. But Richelieu, determined to see to it that the revolution never happened at all, had concluded that launching a museum much earlier would add to the grandeur of royal France. It was just one of many adaptations he was making to the new world created by the Ring of Fire.
"And the other matter?"
Richelieu continued his study of the portraits, for perhaps a minute.
"A good idea," he finally concluded. "No matter how the war ends. I have come to the conclusion that the more civilized the contest, the more advantageous is the position of France. This"—he gestured at the portraits—"was a very shrewd maneuver by our opponent. Best to respond quickly and in kind, I think, lest we seem churlish."
Servien nodded. "It will certainly please the city's artisans and tradesmen. It can take up to three hours to get a parcel properly sealed and certified."
"Yes, it will." Richelieu did not usually concern himself much with the sentiments of the merchant classes, since in normal times they carried little weight in the political affairs of France. But the war was not going as well as he had thought it would, and the king's younger brother Monsieur Gaston—treacherous as ever—was using the fact to undermine Richelieu's support in the aristocracy. Should the worst come to pass and a real crisis erupt, having the support and allegiance of the Parisian mob could be important.
"We'll have Georges de la Tour do the painting. I'll want the same model, you understand. Given the situation, Servien, that's essential."
"I'll see to the matter, Your Eminence."
Anne Jefferson sat at the same table in the embassy, staring at Rebecca. Mike was long gone from Amsterdam, by now, since the war was heating up again.
"You've got to be kidding."
"Not at all," said Rebecca. "The French are offering to pay for your transport"—she glanced at Adam—"and your husband's, and they'll put you up in chambers in the Louvre itself. It's mostly a royal palace today, you know. They're certain to be very comfortable quarters."
She made a little face. "Allowing for seventeenth-century plumbing. But you've been dealing with that here in Amsterdam, anyway."
"This is a joke, right?"
THE HONOR HARRINGTON SERIES
Author's note:
This story introduces several characters who wound up becoming very important in David Weber's Honor Harrington series. In fact, over time, this story and its sequels began re-shaping the whole way Dave planned the series itself. Dave had always intended to make the struggle against Mesa and genetic slavery a major feature of the Harrington series—but he'd originally intended to have that happen after Honor Harrington died in the climactic battle that concludes At All Costs, the eleventh book in the Harrington series that was published in November 2005.
In Dave's original outline for the whole series, Honor's death would be followed by a break in the chronology of the series lasting a couple of decades, following which her son would emerge as the central figure in the emerging galactic struggle against genetic slavery.
But . . . that began to change, as a result of this story and the two that followed—"Fanatic," a novella I wrote for the fourth Harrington universe anthology (The Service of the Sword, published in April 2003), and Crown of Slaves, the novel I co-authored with Dave which came out in September 2003. As the storyline that began with "From the Highlands" unfolded, Dave decided that he could start weaving the fight against Mesa into the series much earlier than he'd originally planned.
So . . . Honor Harrington wound up surviving the battle that ends At All Costs. To some extent, those of you who are fans of the Harrington series can thank this story for that. Not, mind you, that that was my intention in writing it. I just wanted to produce a good story in its own terms, which I daresay this one is.
From the Highlands
The First Day
Helen
Helen used the effort of digging at the wall to control her terror. She thought of it as a variation of Master Tye's training: turn weakness into strength. Fear drove her, but she shaped it to steady her aching arms instead of letting it loosen her bowels.
Scrape, scrape. She didn't have the strength to make big gouges in the wall with a pitiful shard of broken rubble. The wall was not particularly hard, since it was not much more than rubble itself. But her slender arms and little hands, for all their well-honed training under Master Tye's regimen, were still those of a girl just turned fourteen.
So what? She couldn't afford to make much noise, anyway. Now and then, she could hear the low sound of her captors' voices, just beyond the heavy door which they had placed across the entrance to her "cell."
Scrape, scrape. Weakness into strength. The root breaks the rock. Wind and water triumph over stone.
So she had been trained. By her father, as much as by Master Tye. Decide what you want, and set to it like running water. Soft, slight, steady. Unstoppable.
Scrape, scrape. She had no idea how thick the wall was, or even whether it was a wall at all. For all she knew, Helen might simply be digging an endless little tunnel through the soil of Terra.
Her abductors had removed the hood after they got her into this strange and frightening place. She was still somewhere in the Solarian League's capital city of Chicago, that much she knew. But she had no idea where, except that she thought it was in the Old Quarter. Chicago was a gigantic city, and the Old Quarter was like an ancient Mesopotamian tel. Layer upon layer of half-rubbled ruins. They had descended deep underground, using twisted and convoluted passageways that she had not been able to store in her memory.
Scrape, scrape. Just do it. Running water conquers all.
Eventually.
While she scraped, she thought sometimes of her father, and sometimes of Master Tye. But, more often, she thought of her mother. She could not really remember her mother's face, of course, except from holocubes. Her mother had died when Helen was only four years old. But she had the memory—still as vivid as ever—of the day her mother died. Helen had been sitting on her father's lap, terrified, while her mother led a hopeless defense of a convoy against an overwhelming force of Havenite warships. But her mother had saved her, that day, along with her father.