"Yes." Prince Ulrik sighed and leaned his head against the window. "I suppose it was foolish of me to expect the Americans to be more civilized than that."

"People are people, and when they are hurt, they bite. I suppose being civilized is really just a question of having the self control to bite only those who hurt you, rather than whoever is near."

"I have read several pamphlets from a group called the Committee of Correspondence. Do you think they are behind this?"

"No. The committee might include the most radical and revolutionary of both Germans and Americans, but they are not stupid and they are not ruled by their emotions. This attack on you had to be based entirely on emotions."

"The American books do not tell why I was assassinated in the American world-or by whom."

"No." Johannes smiled. "But since you were in Saxon service, I'd say you should seek the reason in that court. Or rather that you should stay away from it."

"The corruption there makes me sick! All my mother's family . . . And the drunkenness in my father's . .

." Prince Ulrik fell silent for a moment. "I never said that, Father Johannes."

"Sub Rosa, Prince Ulrik. And that you are Protestant does not change that for me." Johannes smiled again as Prince Ulrik turned. "None of us get to choose our relatives, and the command to honor our parents does not mean we must approve of everything they do; only that we should take their best qualities and copy them in ourselves." Johannes filled the fine glass on the table with wine and pushed it towards the prince, who drank and sat down.

"The quality was actually better at the Grange." Prince Ulrik sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, the sparkle returning to his eyes. "My father takes his duties as king very seriously, and has done his best to see that my brothers and I do the same. But my father isn't Denmark, and while I could never go to war against him, I also no longer feel any obligation to fight in his service."

"If you could follow your heart, what would you do?"

"Go to Schwerin. My father saw to it that I was made the Lutheran prince-bishop of Schwerin, and while I only held the office briefly, that is where I feel I belong. It's been conquered by Gustavus Adolphus, and while His Majesty naturally takes care of all his subjects, I am deeply concerned about the people of Schwerin. They have suffered much, and really need the stability of a permanent leadership."

"And if you went to the king of Sweden and gave parole, as he has requested, would he entrust you with the administration of Schwerin?"

"Probably. Chancellor Oxenstierna has hinted at such a possibility." Prince Ulrik sat for a while sipping his wine and looking towards the dark window. "The problem really comes down to the fact that the person I admire the most and want to resemble is at war with all the rest of my family. And so it seems I must either choose one or the other. Betray my family or betray myself."

"Or turn your back-at least partly-upon both. A separate peace, I believe the Americans call it." AtJohannes' words, Prince Ulrik turned abruptly towards him.

"What are you talking about? Changing my name and setting myself up as an incognito mercenary captain?"

"Not unless you feel that is the right thing for you to do." Johannes smiled. "Schwerin, I suspect, would be adequately neutral. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about things like obligations and honor, faith and betrayal. I cannot claim to have found the absolute truth, but it seems to me that logic, reason, and the things you ought to do can only take you so far. Sooner or later you get to the point where all that can guide you is your heart and your faith." Johannes looked down on his hands, rubbing them to ease the stiffness caused by holding the reins all day. "I've felt caught between my church wanting me to do what I felt was wrong and the Americans wanting me to embrace ideas that I could only partly support. So, I'm partly turning my back upon both and refusing to work for either. I'll aid the Americans only as far as I feel comfortable with, while the church may hold my heart but not the use of my skills. I'll take my life into my own hands, work my painting as I choose, and try to right what I see as wrong."

"Are you advising me to do something similar?"

"Only mentioning the possibility of choosing a third option, when the two obvious ones leave you paralyzed and incapable of action. If Schwerin feels like the place you belong, for now at least, this might be God's way of telling you where he wants you to go. If your loyalty toward your father keeps you from giving King Gustavus Adolphus the oaths that would let you return there as prince-bishop?" Johannes shrugged. "It might still be the right place for you to be as a traveling Danish nobleman. And if your admiration for King Gustavus makes you reluctant to take action against him on your father's behalf?

Then place your faith in God, and trust your heart to guide you."

Prince Ulrik's lips quirked. "Perhaps, as was done so expediently in Rudolstadt last spring, I should adopt the words of a writer of times between now and then. 'Trust not in princes. They are but mortal.

Earth born they are and soon decay.' I'll think about this." He rose and went to stand by the window again. "My thanks for your time and counsel, Father Johannes."

Two weeks later Johannes once again looked up from a table filled with maps to see Don Francisco standing in the door to the school room.

"You left a message for me, Father Johannes?"

"Only to see you at your convenience, Don Francisco. There is no hurry."

"I wasn't doing anything that couldn't wait. I take it you are curious about Prince Ulrik?"

"If you have news, I am of course interested." Johannes smiled. "But I also expect the prince to find his own destiny without any help from me."

"I see. Well, the prince has reached Magdeburg without mishaps, and is presently negotiating with Chancellor Oxenstierna concerning Schwerin. Rumor has it that the prince and Prime Minister Stearns yelled at each other for a while. The prime minister felt that Prince Ulrik might be of more use as a diplomatic bridge-a negotiator-than as a bishop. But an agreement is expected." Don Francisco sat down at the table and looked inquiringly at Johannes. "But what did you want to see me about?" "I've been considering your suggestion, Don Francisco. I'll be leaving for Cologne at the end of April, to accept a commission from the Hatzfeldt family."

"I see. Any particular reason for you to accept this particular commission?" Don Francisco looked down on the map of Kronach.

"Several reasons; some personal, some artistic, and some I'm sure would interest you."

Francisco looked at Johannes. "Any connection with your visits to the Grantville Hotel these past few weeks?"

"Yes. I've been "playing cloak and dagger" as the Americans call it with a Herr Otto Tweimal from Wuerzburg. A greasy little creep working for Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt." Johannes smiled wryly. "He made me an offer I could not refuse."

"I've heard of him."

"Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne's cousin, Maria Maximilane von Wartenburg, is to take up residence in the Hatzfeldt's newly acquired house in Cologne, along with most of the distaff part of the Hatzfeldt family. The property is several old houses-all of which are worn and drab-so officially I'm hired to paint murals for the ladies and advise on the restoration and decorations. Nice job and well paid.

Unofficially, Hatzfeldt wants me to tell him about the Americans in return for a pardon-signed by Archbishop Ferdinand-for my behavior at Magdeburg. Herr Tweimal didn't actually mention negotiating with the Americans or King Gustavus, but also didn't hide that the bishop wants his bishopric back."

"Hmm! And Archbishop Ferdinand?"

"It was indicated that the archbishop was not to know that anything more than painting was going on."

"Bishop Hatzfeldt is an old patron of yours, Father Johannes. Do you believe he is planning a double deal behind the archbishop's back?"

Johannes shrugged. "Could be. When I met Franz von Hatzfeldt, he was a full member of the episcopal chapter administration of Bamberg as well as Wuerzburg. He had proved himself an excellent diplomat in negotiations with Tilly, and had slowly gained more and more influence until he was elected bishop of Wuerzburg just a few months before the Protestant conquest of that diocese. I'd say he is a most pragmatic man, ambitious, but very tolerant of other faiths. He definitely does care about his subjects-may actually be worrying about them-and takes his responsibilities very seriously. He'll be coming to Cologne from time to time, to see his family and to follow my progress with the house."

"And where are you planning to stay, Father Johannes?"

"I'm invited to live in the Hatzfeldt family's house there, but must of course leave it from time to time. I plan to buy materials from the merchant Beauville, but must also make arrangements with other traders and craftsmen."

"Herr Beauville is well known to me." Don Francisco smiled. "Before the collapse in the woad trade, my family dealt with him from time to time. This would be a good time to reestablish the connection. I expect this to make for a steady correspondence between Beauville and myself, and I would be most interested in any letters you'd care to send that way. But you mentioned a personal aspect to this offer?" "Yes, but it's just that-personal."

Don Francisco didn't seem offended by the rudeness, just smiled a little and said softly, "I might be able to help, Father Johannes."

Johannes sat for a while playing with his pen, "Does the name Paul Moreau mean anything to you?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"A fellow painter. His mother was a friend of my mother. He got into trouble with the church. Shortly before Magdeburg, I found out that not only had he been tortured by the Inquisition, but it was also absolutely certain that the charges were-or at least the evidence against him was-false. I didn't do anything at the time but this may offer me a chance to do something to help him. At least find out what happened."

"Father Johannes, you have been hiding from the Inquisition for almost two years, and now you plan to challenge them?"

"Hiding from the Inquisition or hiding from myself?"

Don Francisco shook his head. "Perhaps I should now ask you: do you fear God and do you fear the Devil?"

"I no longer have an answer, Don Francisco."

I Got My Buck

by Barry C. Swift

Herman sat at the fire, obviously enjoying its heat. When Wili sat beside him, he looked over at his friend. "What's tomorrow going to be like, I wonder. I hear these Swedes have some help from that Grantville place."

Wili twisted the stick he was holding. "I once met a man who claimed he'd been in Grantville. Don't remember his name; called him 'New Guy' the way we did everyone 'til they survived a couple of fights.

Horst brought him over; said they'd been together with Tilly at Breitenfeld; that he was 'solid.' Do you remember Horst? With him that was as much praise as you could hope for, so we made room at our fire.

He seemed to know what he was doing; claimed a space for his blanket and went to work on his pike.Don't remember him saying much 'til someone said that the Swedes we'd be facing the next day came from somewhere called Grantville. It was the first I ever heard of the cursed place."

Herman took a sip of beer, then dunked a piece of bread in his stew. "So, what did this 'New Guy' have to say about the place? I've heard all sorts of rumors."

Wili shrugged. "He didn't say anything, at first, not 'til it was certain that the rest of us knew nothing about 'em. Then he said, 'I've been there. They may be fighting for the Swede, but they're not Swedish; they're some kind of English or Scots, but the town is in Thuringia.'"

Lucas, who was doing his usual imitation of a log on the other side of the firewood, interrupted. "I don't believe those stories about them being wizards. And who cares if they're Scot dogs or Saxon pigs? Is this a mercenary unit? How good are they? Where have they fought?"

Wili shrugged again, even though it was impossible for Lucas to see it. "We figured that it was a good thing when he told us that, to his memory, they didn't hire mercenaries. After all, no town militia was going to stand up to a veteran unit like ours. But he disagreed. He claimed to have been the last survivor of a screw up when the squad he was in got separated from the rest of his company."

Wili sat up straighter and his voice took on a higher pitch. "'There I was, alone with nothing but my wits and my knife. Fortunately, I'm good enough with the knife that I don't need more wits than I have. I set off, trying to get back to a friendly district and doing pretty well after a few days. I thought I was being careful until I got swept up by a scouting party from this Grantville. I'd wandered into their territory without knowing anything about them. I was angry with myself for getting careless, but was told later that they were more alert than most towns. I don't have much English, and that's what they mostly speak there, so I didn't understand much of what I saw.'"

Herman looked over at him. "Wili, was this just before Horst's last battle? Did this guy talk like a priest, you know, someone who did a lot of reading?"

"Yeah, Herman. Why?"

"Because I remember him now. Horst tried to give him to us but Ludwig wouldn't have him. Horst said that this guy had stood beside him in the hedgehog at Breitenfeld after a Swedish cannon broke Horst's pike and killed the three men next to him. Ludwig didn't want anyone under him who sounded like an officer, though."

Wili gave his habitual shrug. "That's more than Horst ever said to me. But then, he didn't have to. If he said a man was solid, that was enough for me."

From behind the woodpile, Lucas could be clearly heard grumbling. "So what? Who cares about this ponce? How good are these guys we're going to kill tomorrow?"

Herman threw a bone from his stew over the woodpile. It missed Lucas, but the dog that jumped over the barrier, chasing it, didn't.

Wili snorted. "Shut up, Lucas. I'm getting to it." Once again his voice took on a higher pitch as he recited a story that had dominated his thoughts for much of this campaign. "'The place is strange in ways I can't describe. I got lucky when the scouts brought me in. I must have given the right answers because their questioning didn't even start to get nasty. They had some strange notions though: they laundered my clothes for me and separated me from my lice and fleas. Then, since I had some coin, they sent me to thismiser's house. At least, I think he must have been a miser because he was certainly rich enough not to need to rent rooms. On the other hand, the meal he served was better than I would expect from a miser, so what do I know?'"

Wili knew he was a good mimic and once again sent a quick prayer of thanks for the teachers he had hated as a child. He had realized years ago that remembering things by rote was a potentially lifesaving skill. Potentially, nothing he thought.It did save my hide when I was chosen for the 'dangerous' job of taking a message from that suicidal idiot to headquarters. Well, maybe not suicidal, it was his men who died, not him.

He roused himself from his musing and resumed his story, "Anyway, the new guy claimed he didn't have much English and that the Grantviller had less German but there was this other boarder who was able to help a bit and they wanted to talk about the place. Which was fortunate for us, eh, Lucas?"

"Not that I can tell," came back from the other side of the woodpile. "Although, it's boring enough to be a good bedtime story."

Wili took the posture and tone that his teachers had beat into him as appropriate for recitation. "'There was an interesting display on the wall: two fancy hats, a couple of swords, and several pistols, all hung on nails. I said that I'd only seen arrays of weapons like that in noble's houses. He got out a very small musket that he called a 'twenty-two' and said that it was the only weapon he owned; those were 'trophies.' When I didn't understand, he told me a story about how he had been given this 'twenty-two'

when he was a child. It seems that the city guards ran an athletic program for the children of the town where he grew up, including teaching them to shoot. What's more, he claimed that his older sister had learned to shoot when she was ten years old, just as he had, and that this had been her musket. I thought he was joking; this 'twenty-two' he was holding must have been some kind of toy musket that they used for training these girls. I tell you, the bore was no bigger than a writing quill and it had neither matchlock nor that fancy French flintlock. But he insisted that it was a real weapon.'"

Wili stopped and threw the stick he'd been fiddling with in the direction of Lucas' bedroll. "This the part you care about, so quit pretending to snore, you ignorant sot. That bit about the 'twenty-two' is one of the best descriptions I've heard about these quick-firing muskets that the Swedes are supposed to have.

That Grantviller didn't consider the swords or pistols 'real weapons,' but the little musket with a bore your ramrod wouldn't fit down, was."

The stick came back over the woodpile. "So what? It isn't the weapon, but the man who wields it,"

Lucas said. "And that was a weapon for a girl, anyway."

"You are as stupid as you are doomed, Lucas. But I will continue this story in the hope that Herman, here, will benefit." Again, Wili resumed his recitation. "'The Grantville nobles had an interesting scheme.

Each year they sold their commoners the right to try to shoot a deer. City men and peasants both could pay a fee and be allowed to tromp through the woods until a week was up or they shot a deer. It was a point of pride for them to 'get their buck.' My host would go out with friends who would loan him a full sized musket for the hunt. He went every year but never succeeded. I thought of this city man thrashing through the brush and could think of many reasons why he'd never see a deer; it wouldn't matter how good a shot he was.'

"'The reason I got caught was that they had more patrols out than usual because there had been a raid recently. They claimed a couple thousand Croats had come through while their militia were off destroying a couple of Spanish tercios outside a neighboring town. That last was true. I met some of the men captured from the Spanish before I left the town. But it's not the whole truth. You remember the thrashingthose Swabians got near Suhl? They were routed by a third part of the Grantville militia while the rest were dealing with the Spaniards.'"

Once again, Herman interrupted. "Too bad, since Lucas is asleep, he missed out on how easy it will be for him to kill these men tomorrow."

Wili forged on with his story. Having started a recitation, it always felt wrong not to finish it. "'Anyway, that left the town's women and burghers to handle the Croats. I didn't believe that there had been any two thousand Croats. After all, the town was still standing, but I wasn't going to call my host a liar. Good thing too, because the next day my translator friend showed me a cemetery with a couple hundred Croat graves.'

"'So I'm glad I kept silent while that burgher sat there, stroking his tiny toy musket, looking at those hats and weapons, saying, "Ja, those Croats came and I finally got my buck.'"

Resuming his usual growl, Wili asked, "Okay, Lucas, does that satisfy you? The Granviller's women are good enough to handle Croats. Do you think their men might give you a morning to remember?

"Anyway, the next morning, the New Guy's pike was there, but that craven whoreson and his gear were gone. I was going to talk to Horst about it, but didn't get a chance before the battle. And he didn't survive the day, so that was that. Since none of us who survived got within seventy-five yards of the Grantville Swedes, I guess an extra pike really wouldn't have mattered. From what you say, Herman, about how he handled himself at Breitenfeld, maybe the New Guy wasn't so craven. Maybe he was just smarter than he looked."

Wili noticed that neither of the other men said anything. Maybe they thought so, too.

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