1636: The Cardinal Virtues (7 page)

Chapter 8

Marseilles

Sherrilyn had come to Marseilles with an introduction arranged by Estuban Miro to a Jewish doctor, Bonnel de Lattès. She’d gotten some nasty looks from some of the men in the Jewish Quarter—
imagine, a single woman without escort!
—but Bonnel had received her very kindly, and sent her and a bundle of medicines to Pont de Garde. There the priory had welcomed her, quizzed her on up-time—everyone seemed to still do that, even four years after the Ring of Fire—and gave her personal space. Apparently the Jewish doctor was well-regarded among the religious, having practiced some real medicine there over time.

Bonnel had visited her twice there while she rehabbed in the only way she knew how: fresh air and exercise and patience. It had dulled the memories of the Wrecking Crew’s last campaign, and she might have stayed a while longer had Bonnel not introduced her to Cosme de Valbelle, who told her he might have a job for her.

De la Mothe’s offer was interesting. She was a little concerned about whether she was the right person for the job: not that she didn’t know her stuff—she did, that was for sure. And the offer paid well—his messenger later that afternoon had told her exactly how much Turenne was willing to spend to hire an up-timer gym teacher to work for him.

Truly, it came down to the idea of working for Turenne—and, by extension, Cardinal Richelieu. Since Grantville had been dropped into Thuringia more than four years ago, the enemy had consistently been France and the villain had always been Richelieu.

She’d been raised on adventure movies about the Three Musketeers. Richelieu was the fork-bearded red-cloaked devil who controlled the puppet king and manipulated everything and everybody to the advantage of church and country. The reality was different from that, of course. Not only was the cardinal a more complicated figure—Harry had told her that—but there really was a D’Artagnan, and he was supposed to be way different from the books and movies.

Richelieu had done a damn good job of trying to tear apart the USE from the get-go, so his villain status wasn’t exactly fiction either. Wietze . . . that was just part of it. There had been battles on sea and land and in the air, leading to the big fight at Ahrensbök a year and a half ago.

It really was above her pay grade. Treaties and the Union of Kalmar and all of the business of the little princess’s marriage . . . Sherrilyn knew that the world had changed from what it had been even in ’31 and ’32. But Harry would say what she was thinking: that she was a grunt, a regular soldier, not anyone significant. Decisions were made by bigger people on a bigger stage. People like Ed Piazza and Mike Stearns made decisions . . . a high school principal and a coal miner before the Ring of Fire gave them field promotions.

A little destiny, or luck, or freakin’ magic pixie dust, and it could be her instead of Ed or Mike.

All of this introspection led her back to the question: could she really think about working for Turenne and Richelieu?

If they really considered Spain as an enemy—which Sherrilyn certainly did, especially after the Crew’s rescue of Frank and Giovanna on Mallorca—then the answer actually could be
yes.
And since she really was likely to have to deal with this bum knee for life, and since Philippe de la Mothe wanted to give her a chance to teach—something she understood—and since the pay was damn good—then the answer was probably
hell yes
.

But she was
really
going to need a whistle.

◊ ◊ ◊

She took the job. It wasn’t a difficult choice: the pay was good and the opportunity to do something—anything—was compelling. She knew that she could have stayed as long as she liked, but time was marching on.

On the day she prepared to go it was cold and brisk. Her cell, only a few extra blankets more luxurious than the ones the sisters occupied, was filled with sunlight. She packed her gear, which didn’t amount to much. Before leaving the room she turned to look at it one last time. There was really no evidence that she’d been there at all.

“Sherrilyn?”

She turned to find a sister standing in the doorway: Sister Amelia, a tiny, middle-aged woman who had been exceptionally kind to her—she had arranged the extra blankets. Sherrilyn put down her pack and embraced the nun.

“I’m so glad you came by,” Sherrilyn said. “I didn’t see you in the refectory, and I would have been sad to leave without saying goodbye.”

Amelia smiled—her
secret smile
, Sherrilyn thought. “Oh, never fear, daughter. You’d not pass through the gate without my blessing.”

“I appreciate it.”

“And how is your knee?”

“It aches rhythmically, but Dr. Bonnel’s plaster seems to help. I’ll manage.”

“Good, good.” She folded her hands. “I’ve actually come to let you know that you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who—did the doctor come up?”

“No. It is a . . . member of his community, I think. He does not wear the hat, but I think . . . well. He is in the courtyard.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Only to speak with you. If you would prefer not to meet him, I can give your regrets—I can tell him that you have already departed. If you hurry, you can save me prayers at confession by making it true.”

“It doesn’t sound threatening. I’d be happy to meet him.”

“I will accompany you, of course.”

“Of course. But I can take care of myself.”

“I am certain. But I will accompany you. I am curious—so I will face extra prayers at confession after all.”

Now it was Sherrilyn’s turn to smile. She picked up her pack.

“Lead on.”

The priory had a large open courtyard, flanked by four passageways, with solid walls on one side and plain, solid pillars on the other, ending in doors leading to other parts of the complex. Inside was a square area forty or so feet across where the sisters had planted flowers and herbs. There was a single stone bench in the middle; as they approached, she saw a modestly dressed man patiently sitting and waiting. He was middle-aged, with a carefully trimmed beard and moustache. There was a gray skullcap on his head (as opposed to the pointed, peaked
Judenhut
that she’d sometimes seen in Marseilles). But from his looks he might have been Estuban Miro’s cousin.

Sister Amelia settled onto a bench and drew out her rosary. Sherrilyn set her pack beside her friend and walked out into the courtyard.

“Mademoiselle Maddox,” he said, standing up. “I am so pleased to meet you at last.”

“What can I do for you, Monsieur—Monsieur—”

“My name is Seth ben Adret,” he said. “I am a humble soap-maker by trade, but I come as a friend of Dr. Bonnel—and of another mutual friend.”

“I have a lot of friends.”

“The . . . principal,” ben Adret said. “Your former principal.”

Principal
, she thought. Did he mean Harry Lefferts? . . . Then she realized what he was trying to say, and practically slapped her forehead. He meant Ed Piazza—the former principal of Grantville High School, who was now president of the State of Thuringia-Franconia.

The Principal.
It was like the name of a Batman villain. “I haven’t talked to him for some time.”

“I understand. But please be informed that he is aware of your presence here in Marseilles, and the employment opportunity you have just accepted.”

“Huh. Is he trying to tell me not to take it? Because it’s none of his damn business whether I take a job or not. If this is some sort of loyalty test—”

“No, no, Mademoiselle Maddox,” he said, putting his hand up. “He is not telling you that at all. Indeed, he wishes you the best of luck in the position—there is no enmity between your new employer and . . . your previous one.”

“All right then. But
he
sent you to talk to me?”

“Yes. He wanted to let you know that he had not had a letter from you for some time and would welcome one. Or more.”

Sherrilyn thought about it for a moment, frowning. Before she could frame an answer, Seth ben Adret stepped forward and took her right hand in both of his. She was surprised enough not to react or pull away immediately.

Sister Amelia, who had seemed to drift off into a nap, was sitting forward, moving to get up. Out of her sight, though, ben Adret had slipped something into her palm: a small square object, perhaps two by three inches. He withdrew his hands, letting them fall to his sides, and fixed Sherrilyn with a steady gaze.

She didn’t know what to make of it, but tucked the gift—a small, leatherbound book—into her sleeve, and nodded.

“He is sure that you will do well in your new role,” the Jewish soap-maker said. “He knows that it is trite to say so, but wherever an up-timer goes, the United States of Europe goes with him. Or her.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And please thank the principal when you communicate with him. I’m glad to hear that he hasn’t forgotten me.”

“On that,” ben Adret answered, “you can be sure.”

◊ ◊ ◊

De la Mothe’s troopers went out of their way to respect her person and her privacy as they traveled. She wasn’t sure if they were genuinely intimidated by her, by the cachet of an up-timer, or if the comte had warned them of her statement to him regarding broken limbs . . . or if he’d simply told them to be polite. But she was allowed privacy whenever they stopped to rest.

Late in the afternoon, the first day out from Marseilles, they stopped near a creek to water the horses. She separated herself and went a few dozen yards away to attend to her personal needs, after which she reached into a pocket within her pack and drew out the book that ben Adret had given her.

It was sixteen pages in length and carefully and beautifully printed in tiny type. The first fourteen pages consisted of a long list of common words that she might use in a letter about her assignment, but which were . . . descriptive, possibly sensitive.
Rifle. Troop. Attack. March. Reinforce. Siege.
There were hundreds of other, nonmilitary terms, but those caught her eye. Next to each one was another reasonably common word:
Shovel. Chorus. Invite. Vacation. Draw. Broil.
It was a cipher—not an especially clever one, but something she could use to send sensitive information.

God damn it,
she thought.
Ed—the “Principal”—wants me to be a
spy
. De la Mothe says that Turenne has no designs on the USE, but Ed Piazza wants to make sure.

The last two pages contained a set of substitution codes, a dozen of them, each keyed to—of all things—TV shows, all seemingly from the 1990s. To indicate which code she used, she’d have to include a reference to a character on the show: Buffy, Mulder, Cooper (that one took her a minute, then she remembered
Twin Peaks
); Lois; Sipowicz; Munch; and so on. It was a long way from unbreakable, but without any real computing power it would be hard.

It could also get her killed. Even having this little book could get her killed. What the
hell
did Ed Piazza think he was doing?

But she knew the answer to that question, even as she stowed the little book back in the inner pocket of her pack. He was watching out for the interests of the USE. It was true in a way, what ben Adret had said: wherever an up-timer went, the USE went with it. There were about three thousand up-timers in the world, a tiny little drop in a fairly big ocean, and there weren’t going to be any more of them. In five years, in ten years, that number would be even smaller . . . and not all up-timers felt loyalty to the last vestige of the world where they’d grown up. Some, and she counted Harry Lefferts among them, had really gone native—this was their time not just by circumstance but by inclination.

God damn it.

One of de la Mothe’s troopers called out to her, walking slowly along the river bank, not seeming to want to get too close. Sherrilyn smiled to herself; the guy must be attached to his limbs.

“I’ll be right there,” she answered, stepping back into view with her pack slung over her shoulder.
The USE goes with me
, she thought.

Part Two

The Virtue Of Fortitude

A noble and steady purpose of mind