"There's a man here in Grantville, a Jew named Francisco Nasi. He has suggested accepting a few commissions from some of my old patrons. Keeping my options open, the Americans call it." Johannes looked into his beer and smiled.

"Well, I can think of a few other things to call that." Frank's smile turned into a scowl. "Can't you think of anything better to do with your life?"

"Oh yes. I haven't been excommunicated, so I'm still a priest. I've been helping Father Mazzare at Saint Mary's here in Grantville, but I never was a parish priest and don't plan to make a living from that.

Instead I'm becoming what the Americans call a middleman for a while."

"Anentremeteur ? Well, you did tell me some Americans called priests 'God-pimps.'" Frank laughed until he nearly fell off the chair.

"Don't be vulgar. It's perfectly respectable. And I better go find some food; it's not small beer we've been drinking." Johannes walked off in a huff.

Even with platters of bread, cheese, pickles and sausage in front of him, Frank kept chuckling, and, as the food reached his stomach, Johannes started smiling too.

"All right Frank, you won that one. But it's actually a very interesting project. And if it works, even the middleman's share is likely to be more money than either of us have ever seen."

"Sounds very interesting." Frank was suddenly very serious. "With two years of drought, the water in the Saale River is too low for even the rafts to float, and most of the profit from the estate is used to pay for transporting the goods overland. If it hadn't been for the American crops, there would have been nothing left for your brother's household in Jena. He's paid by the university, so it's not that big a problem for him, but two of my brothers-in-law are forced to look for paying work this winter. With grain yields as low as two to one, they'll be forced to eat the seed grain, and buy new come spring."

"That bad? Tell them to come here to Grantville. Especially people used to working with wood or metal are badly needed. And they could learn about the new farming methods from Herr Willie Ray Hudson in the evenings. I'll introduce you to Herr Hudson, and you can write letters of recommendation. And if any adult female can be spared from the households, they can come too; many of the things the Americans dodon't need large muscles."

"My sister Felicia is almost as strong as I am, but it's a very good idea. Thank you. But what is this project of yours?"

"You know porcelain, that beautiful white ceramic imported from China? My mother was so proud of the two porcelain figurines she used to decorate her table at formal dinners along with the more common figures modeled in that sugar paste calledtragant . But my first hostess here in Grantville, Frau Kindred, has two big cupboards full of porcelain, including an entire formal dinner set for twelve persons, and a less ornate set, which the family eats from every day. The children too."

"I don't believe that."

"It's true. What her grandchildren are not allowed to touch are those beautiful bowls, vases and figurines kept in a glass-fronted cabinet. The oldest, and very finest, are called Meissen."

"Meissen? In Saxony? On the river Elbe near Dresden?"

"Yes. There are people here in Grantville already working on producing porcelain from local clays. But Grantville is not a good place for a large scale production. It's just too far from the main routes of transportation. We would need to move the best clay here from Saxony, get the fuel for the big ovens, and then transport the finished products along the roads. That is just not practical." Johannes stopped to work his fingers and loosen the joints. "I want to work with painting the some of the items myself; Frau Kindred's figurines made my fingers itch to try something similar."

"Where do you plan to build the factory? Jena?"

"No. The Saale River is not really big enough for transportation above Halle. We need a place near a reliable river connection. We are financing the project by selling shares. And since every royal and noble household in Europe has been paying their weight in gold for the imports, we are having no problems getting all the money we want. The Grantville Council and the Swedish administration have already brought large shares, as have various people in Saxony. Most of the Saxon investors want the new factories in Dresden, while the Americans-and I-want Magdeburg."

"To help heal what happened there?"

"Yes. And if I go back to painting, the way Don Francisco suggests, I could sell shares where I went. I get percentage of each sale-in shares of course"

"You've certainly connected with the real world, Johannes."

"Yes. Did you ever hear the story about what the sailor said to the nun? And let us have another beer.

Remembering Magdeburg still makes me angry."

Early the following morning, Johannes and Frank walked through the sunny streets from their lodgings to the Grange. Despite the early hour, someone was repairing one of the American machines for working in the fields in the parking lot and several horses were tied to the wooden posts erected along one side. In the hall inside the building they found old Willie Ray talking to a delicately built, dark-haired young man whose outfit proclaimed him a cavalry officer, and a big tow-haired man, who was dressed like a servantbut had the hands and sunburn of a farmer.

"Good morning, Father Johannes." Willie Ray nodded to Johannes and turned back to his young visitor.

"You asked about the crops painted on the walls here, and here is the painter himself. Father Johannes please meet Prince Ulrik of Denmark. Officially, of course, he is a visiting Danish nobleman, but there's not much point in trying to pretend with you. You know too many people. Well, then. If the two of you will excuse me I'll go find our pamphlets about dairy farming."

The young man stepped forward and shook hands with Johannes, while Frank bowed and went to talk with the prince's big companion.

Prince Ulrik was the youngest of three sons King Christian IV of Denmark had sired on his queen.

Johannes knew that the Swedish king Gustavus Adolphus-whom the young prince had once served as a officer-considered Ulrik to be by far the best of the Danish king's many children. He was certainly the brightest and most virtuous. Johannes had read a short pamphlet,Castigation of the Vices , that Prince Ulrik had written a few years ago. He met the lively, dark eyes of the intellectual young prince with delight.

"Your Royal Highness." Johannes followed the young prince's handshake with a deep bow. "I am honored to meet you. Would you care for some refreshment? I know the contents of the jugs on the table are available to visitors."

"Yes, please. Wine if possible." Prince Ulrik smiled, and gestured for Johannes to take a seat on the other chair beside the open window.

"So, you do drink alcohol?" Faced with the friendly smile, Johannes relaxed and dropped most of his formality. Some nobles, even when they were officially traveling incognito, took offense if even the least title or obeisance were omitted, but clearly Prince Ulrik did not. Not to mention that his own stay in Grantville had made him rather impatient with such. "I took the greatest pleasure in reading your treatise on the vices last year." He handed the prince a rather coarse mug of red wine.

"Thank you." Prince Ulrik smiled wryly. "At the time I really had nothing to do except writing and doing a few paintings. But it is the lack of moderation in man, rather than the innocent wine I'm opposed to.

After all, even Our Lord Jesus created wine." He sipped the wine and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"An excellent quality. But your works are known to me too, Father Johannes. At least I do suppose that the JIGI, who draws those political satires in theSimplicissimus Magazine , is the same Father Johannes, whose paintings I admired at the Jesuit school in Wuerzburg?"

"It is, but I had no idea the similarity was that obvious."

"It's not. But I have seen your broadsheets too, and even copied your way of creating shades during my own meager attempts at the art." Prince Ulrik smile flashed in his narrow, sunburned face. "I have no intention of mentioning this to anyone, as your use of a pseudonym indicates a wish to be incognito. In fact, I have been pondering possible additional benefits of incognito myself."

"Oh?"

"His Swedish Majesty, King Gustavus Adolphus, has always shown me the greatest kindness," the prince said with a pensive frown. "Last year I had intended to take service in Saxony with relatives of my late mother, but His Majesty wrote to me in his own hand, warning me not to do so. Instead I was to come to him as soon as my duties to my royal father permitted this. The American books had warned,not only when and where King Gustavus would die, but also that I would be assassinated while in Saxon service this very year. His Majesty wanted me to enter his service again, but my royal father forbade that.

Instead I have been traveling on my father's behalf." Prince Ulrik shook his head. "Questioning farmers about breeding cows is not beneath my dignity-and Lars was sent with me to ensure I asked the right questions-but the increasing tension between King Gustavus and my royal father has given me a better appreciation of anonymity. Not to mention the problems between his Swedish majesty and my late mother's family in Brandenburg and Mecklenburg." Prince Ulrik smiled again. "Still, it's not yet bad enough to make me abandon my duties and renounce my family and title." He then turned serious. "I'd planned to stay in Grantville for a while, Father Johannes, to indulge myself in some studying before returning to Denmark. But Grantville is a republic, and I'm not certain a royal prince would be welcome here. You have lived here for years, Father Johannes, would you expect my royal connection to be a problem?"

"Your Highness, I have absolutely no idea." Johannes looked toward where Frank and Lars had been joined by Willie Ray, who was showing the two farmers something in the papers he was holding. "The Americans pay little attention to formal rank, and are very devoted to the idea of democracy. Calling them republicans is a bit like calling the pope a Catholic. On the other hand they have no problem-mostly-with accepting King Gustavus Adolphus as their Captain-General, and welcome him quite warmly. That your royal connections are Danish might in fact be more of a problem." Johannes frowned. "The American attitude towards enemies is different from what I would have expected, but I cannot quite pinpoint the nature of the difference. The propaganda against the Holy Roman Empire is almost absent here in Grantville, and the Catholic Church seems quite welcome, but if the recent tension became war?" Johannes shrugged. "I just don't know."

Grantville, September 1633 That the weather had suddenly changed to autumn. A cold gale roamed the streets but seemed to have no effect on the activities going on. Johannes kept close to the tall brick buildings to avoid getting jostled.

The smooth black surface beneath his boots was slippery with wet leaves as he walked towards his lodgings in the Heinzerlings' house next to St. Mary's Catholic Church. He was looking forward to a few quiet hours making drawings of the English king's latest antics.

"Father Johannes, come inside,bitte ." As he passed the neighbor's house, the door opened and Gertrude Wiegert waved at him. A pretty young girl from the poorest part of Jena she had been destined for a life of prostitution like the older women in her family until Gretchen and Jeff Higgins had brought her to study in Grantville.

In the cozy living room a young man sat with a mug of warm beer in his hands, but rose when Johannes entered. "Father Johannes please meet Oswald Weisshaus. He's a friend of my family from Jena, and also a friend of Gretchen and Herr Jeff Higgins. He would like to speak with you. Would you like a mulled beer?"

Johannes accepted and sat down.

"Good evening, Father," said Oswald Weisshaus resuming his seat, "I think Gretchen and Herr Jeff Higgins mentioned you during one of their visits. You are Professor Marcus Grunwald's younger brother, and don't share his dislike of Americans and new ideas, yes?" "That is right, Herr Weisshaus. I'm sure Gretchen also told you that I don't fully agree with her either."

"She did." The young man suddenly grinned, making Johannes wonder just what Gretchen had said about him. "Still," Oswald went on more seriously, "the man asking questions about the younger Grunwald brother was no friend of anyone."

"When was this, and who did he claim to be?" Johannes asked, suddenly alert.

"He didn't give a name, and it was a week ago tomorrow."

Gertrude interrupted, putting a warm mug on the table. "He was a real creep. He made himself so obnoxious that Oswald and the others threw him out of the new Freedom Arches."

"Yes," said Oswald. "But we've kept an eye on him, and he's staying in the Golden Star."

"That takes money. Any sign of soldiers with him?" If the Inquisition had send a single man to Protestant Jena, this might be the contact attempt Johannes had been waiting for. Though from what Gertrude had said, there wasn't much chance for an agreement with this man.

"None. Are you in trouble?"

"Probably," Johannes smiled, "but how much I just cannot figure out. Nor with whom. Thanks for the warning. Any other news from Jena?"

Jena, September 1633 The Grunwald house in Jena had been changed in the eight years since Johannes' previous visit. Not on the outside; that was still a big, sprawling construct built about a hundred years ago, shortly before the nearby Dominican monastery had been converted into the Jena University. The house had come into the family as a part of his grandmother's dower, and Johannes had lived there for several months of every year when he was a child. The small court behind the gates had been decorated with flowers in summer and small evergreen trees in winter when Marcus' wife, Catharina, had still been alive; now it was swept and clean but with no decorations. The main building was directly across the court, fronted by an imposing modern staircase built when Marcus had become professor of theology, but Johannes turned right to a door separated from the ground by only a single step. As the only son of the house, Martin had once had a spacious apartment on the second floor of the main house, but after the loss of one leg from the knee down at Magdeburg, he and his small family had moved to a place with fewer steps for him to climb.

"Uncle Johannes." Martin looked up and smiled. "Louisa told me you'd gone out very early this morning.

Weren't you tired after arriving so late last night?"

"Yes, but I slept like a log and woke early." Johannes sat down and stretched out his legs. "It's been a long day, though."

"Did you accomplish what you set out to do?"

"More or less. I had a few surprises," Johannes scowled. "Elector John George of Saxony has donatedthe Castle Albrechtsburg in Meissen to the porcelain project, on the condition that the porcelain produced is called Meissen also in this world. The vote among the holders of the porcelain shares are now in favor of Meissen over Magdeburg."

"Frankly, Uncle Johannes, it makes sense to me. Sure, gas ovens would make the production much easier, but you told me they cannot be built yet. In Meissen you'll have the materials nearby, and the wood from the Saxon forests can float down the river to almost outside the factory door. It worked in the American world."

"Actually the clay is not near Meissen. It's from a place near Aue on the river Mulde. If it could be transported on the rivers it actually would be easier getting it downriver to Magdeburg than upriver to Meissen. Unfortunately the Mulde is as unreliable for transportation as the Saale, and overland the easiest track to the river Elbe goes by Dresden and Meissen." Johannes looked up at the big map on the wall behind Martin with the postal routes drawn in red ink and the rivers in blue. "I would have preferred not to put the factory in an area controlled by John George of Saxony. What tipped the scale, however, had little to do with logic. The shareholders liked the notion that in the isolated Albrechtsburg the 'secret'

could be kept. Which in my opinion is pure nonsense, as the 'secret' is freely for sale in the books from Grantville. Sure, a lot of practical problems must be solved before anyone else can start production, but those solutions we must first discover too. With the work already going on in Grantville, we may have a head start on, for example, the French, but how to make porcelain is no longer a secret." Johannes sighed. "I finally got a consensus on the project starting in Meissen-presumably next summer, but with a second factory to open later in Magdeburg. Albrechtsburg Meissen will specialize in casting dinner sets and the simpler shapes and also do some stoneware. Magdeburg Meissen will experiment with glazing and do the finely detailed figures once the gas ovens are ready."

"A most Solomonic solution."

"Machiavellian too; porcelain glazes have all kinds of military uses. John George of Saxony doesn't know that." Johannes smiled at his nephew. It really didn't seem possible that the gentle and scholastic Martin had been a mercenary officer, and now wanted to become anovellante -well sort of. "But how about the magazine? Last night you just said it was going well."

"It is." Martin tried to look serious, but couldn't hold back a big grin. "The number of subscribers to Simplicissimus has now reached ten thousand, and we have direct deliveries to all major German towns, except in Bavaria, where we are on the edge of being banned."

"That's wonderful! But how did it grow so big so soon? I advised you to make a big first printing and spread them around for free to show people what you were making. That seems to be the way the Americans do it when they want to sell something new."

"Yes, but I also used every single connection we have: family, scholars, bankers, merchants. Every one.

Even the Committee of Correspondence, Mother's family andGrandmere's family in France. Asking for news, information, etc. And a quite surprising number send back money for a subscription; apparently everybody wants to keep track of what is going on around the Americans. It truly is wonderful. But what now for you? Are you going to Saxony?"

Johannes looked at Martin; aside from Frank Erbst, there really wasn't anyone he cared more about or trusted more. And besides, Martin might see something Johannes didn't. "About a week ago I met a man in Grantville, Herr Oswald Weisshaus, a student here in Jena. He told me of a man asking questions about me around Jena." "The Inquisition?"

"Sort of, only not quite. The man is staying at The Golden Star, and I went to see him today. Turned out he was working for Franz von Hatzfeldt, the prince-bishop of Wuerzburg, whose diocese is now, since the autumn of 1632, administered by Grantville under the Swedes' agreement with Herr Stearns. Bishop Hatzfeldt is in Bonn, and he wants his land back."

"I thought Bishop Hatzfeldt had gone to the family estate east of Cologne." Martin made a note on a piece of paper. "But never mind that. Just how do you-and the Inquisition-enter into that?"

"I met the bishop in 1627, while I was doing some paintings at thecollegiumin Bamberg, and he was the leader of their diplomatic corps. The bishop of Bamberg, Johann Georg Fuchs von Dornheim had just gifted Hatzfeldt with the administration of Vizedans in Carinthia, and Hatzfeldt wanted some decorations for his new house there. Now Hatzfeldt has offered to 'arrange' a total pardon for my behavior at Magdeburg. You know: high-strung artist, cracking under the strain, etc."

"And in return for what?"

"Just me telling him about the Americans, so he can approach them properly, and convince them-and King Gustavus Adolphus-to give him back his bishopric."

"Double agent. Don't go there, Johannes."

"Who knows? The Americansmight do for him what they have done for the abbot of Fulda. Give him back all of the work but none of the income, while they assign a 'liaison' to watch him closely." Father Johannes smiled grimly. "But I've changed a lot from that naive, little painter Hatzfeldt knew. The old Johannes would have taken that bait, while now I want to think about it. And talk with a man named Francisco Nasi in Grantville."

Martin took a round, dark bottle and two glasses from the cupboard behind him, filled the glasses with the thick, golden liquid, and pushed one towards Johannes. "Between the war and the Americans, I wonder either of us knows who he is or what he believes in any more. If there are many of us in the Germanies who know who we are or what we believe in any more."

Grantville, Early October 1633 The news about the Danish attack on Wismar had reached Jena just as Johannes was about to leave. As he rode through the misty drizzle into Grantville the following evening, the usual hustle and bustle of the town was subdued. People stood talking quietly in small groups instead of hurrying in all directions, and even the Thuringen Gardens was almost silent in the hazy twilight.

Johannes returned the borrowed horse to the stable behind the Heinzerlings' house and went to knock on the door to the main house. He was renting two rooms in one of the converted outbuildings, but although he was wet, sore and tired after the long ride, it seemed better to hear the news as soon as possible.

After telling Johannes about the battle, and the death of the young men, in his usual profane version of the German language, Father Heinzerling mentioned that Don Francisco had sent a message asking forJohannes to come visit at his earliest convenience, so-after sending a longing thought to his waiting bed-Johannes went off again.

"You asked to see me, Don Francisco?" Johannes had found the young Jew still in his office.

"Ah! Yes. Please sit down, Father Johannes. I understand you are acquainted with Prince Ulrik of Denmark?"

"Yes. Has there been trouble? I've heard about the battle."

"Denmark is now officially at war with the CPE-or the United States of Europe as I understand that it will soon be named. The town was most upset about the death of Hans Richter and the young American officers. Prince Ulrik's identity is not publicly known, of course, but he did not conceal that he was Danish. A visiting Danish nobleman. Some of the town's more unruly elements, although they did not dare to threaten an armed man who could be expected to have a fair amount of skill at close-in fighting, attacked his servants while they were working in the stables, unarmed. They beat one of them rather badly before the police arrived."

"And the prince?"

Don Francisco's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "The prince is safe, although he found the attack on Lars unexpectedly upsetting. He wishes to talk with you before making a decision. Prince Ulrik is a cavalry officer by profession. His primary loyalty must be expected to be to his royal father, King Christian of Denmark. Even so, King Gustavus Adolphus has sent a message asking for his young relative to give parole and travel to him with an escort of Swedish soldiers. But as I said, the prince wished to talk with you first."

Prince Ulrik was standing with his back to the room, gazing out the window at the lights from the town flickering in the darkness, when Johannes entered. After a brief glance over his shoulder, the young man returned to his view.

Johannes considered a formal greeting, but decided to just stand and wait.

"Do you remember who wrote that democracy was just another word for the rule of the mob?" Prince Ulrik's voice was devoid of emotion, as if he were inquiring about a minor philosophical point of no particular importance.

"No, but I think he was British."

"That . . . That sounds likely." Prince Ulrik took a deep breath. "Any ideas why they attacked my servants?"

"It could be because they consider a servant as important as a prince. Still, the attackers did not know that you were a prince and, thanks to the prudence of the Grantville police, still do not know it. They only knew that you are the subject of what they call an 'enemy nation.' So I consider it more likely that they simply were so cowardly that they preferred to attack the unarmed. The men attacking your servants would hardly be considered upstanding citizens. Surely you've seen soldiers run amok and turn into amob after a battle?"