Ring of Fire III

Upward Mobility

June 1634

“We are almost at the border of Grantville, Herr Miro.”

Estuban Miro tried to nod an acknowledgement, but the motion was lost amidst the greater swayings and jouncings imparted by the wagon’s passage across yet another set of muddy ruts. Miro had heard of the wonderful roads in and around Grantville, of their many improvements, but this was not one of those major thoroughfares. Political unrest in Franconia had peaked in the past few months, prompting the regional teamsters to give it a wide berth. Ultimately, that had meant a final approach on this narrow, twisting pike that pushed into Grantville out of Hersfeld, well to the west.

Despite the presumed safety of the route, the driver had been slightly more alert the last few miles. Just south of the light forest that hemmed in this modest lane, the road from troubled Suhl wound its way north into Grantville. Indeed, according to the driver, even along this pike, recent reports of-

There were sudden, sharp noises in the brush. Cracking branches and the unmistakable rustling of rapid, even violent motion. Miro’s hand went to his dagger, a move which prompted the driver to scrabble for the rude ox prod cum cudgel that he kept at his side.

As Miro tracked the approaching noise, he noticed a small glade just beyond the treeline to the east. This was an excellent ambush point for bandits, particularly since the slight dogleg in this stretch of the road hid it from both its east and west continuations.

The low brush seemed to burst outward at them; Miro drew his dagger, went into a crouch-and froze. A small, wooly ram-a merino? — leaped out into the roadway. Right behind it-generating a much larger explosion of sundered underbrush-was an equally immature ram of much less prepossessing appearance. The horns of both animals were small and ineffectual, but evidently spring had awakened their nascent rutting aggression. Or at least it had so affected the pursuer, who made up for his lack of comeliness with an inversely proportionate allotment of spunk. Charging stoutly, he routed the other ruminant eastward. Then, with what seemed a singularly defiant-and self-satisfied-glance at the wagon and its occupants, the unbecoming ramlet trotted further westward along the road.

Another commotion in the underbrush augured further drama: a boy-perhaps nine years old-broke free of the clutching foliage in a thrashing tumble of leaves and limbs. He jumped up and swore vehemently: “ Heugabel! ” Ignoring the wagon and its occupants, his searching gaze found the young ram’s receding rump. The boy’s mouth opened wide; invective streamed out: “ Ess-oh-Essen, du verdammten scheisskopf! Komm’ doch hier! Schnell! ” And, the sound of his further exhortations dwindling along with his spare form, the boy-and his wooly charge-were lost to sight.

The wagoneer shook his head. “Here, around Grantville, ist all-vays trubble. Even der rams are rebellisch…‘rebelyus,’ I tink ist die Englisch wort.” He shook his head again. “All-vays trubble.”

Miro shrugged and carefully resheathed his dagger. Trouble, he supposed, was in the eye of the beholder. Miro had begun his journey to Grantville by debarking upon the shadiest wharves of Genoa, then heading north to begin his transalpine journey via Chiavenna. That newly open city had been tense: still patrolled by various Hapsburg detachments, this gateway to the Valtelline had lately become a hotbed of suspicion and intrigue.

Of course, Italy in general was tense. The anti-Spanish restiveness in Naples was increasing steadily. Rome had been simmering higher as Philip of Spain became increasingly impatient with Urban VIII’s “irresolute stance” toward heretical faiths. And with Galileo’s much-anticipated trial approaching…Estuban Miro had simply been glad to leave Italy when he did. As a marrano — a “hidden Jew” of Iberian origin-any region in which both Spanish truculence and religious intolerance were on the rise was a region he preferred avoiding.

His transalpine journey had been slow (as he had been warned), but not particularly arduous: the light, intermittent snows of spring had been far less trouble than the run-off from the post-winter melt. The passes weren’t the only messy parts of Switzerland, though: tariffs, tolls, and other administrative pilferings mired every border between the cantonments. Once beyond the alps in Konstanz, his travel choices had been either an armed caravan through still-embattled and bandit-ridden Swabia, or a barge up the Rhine and over on the Main to Frankfurt. And thence by wagon, and occasional cart, to-well, to this very spot on the road.

The trees diminished on either side of the lane as it neared a more substantial east-west road. The driver pointed to the northeast, where the land seemed to jump up with an eerie suddenness: the famed rampart that was an artifact of the Ring of Fire. “Grantville,” he announced. And with a shake of his head, he predictably amended, “Trubble.”

Miro smiled. For the driver, the growing cluster of strange buildings and strange customs would certainly define “trouble.” But for Estuban Miro, it simply meant “new and different.”

And that, in turn, meant “opportunity.”

July 1634

Don Francisco Nasi rose and proferred his right hand as Miro entered. The reputed spymaster’s shake was not perfunctory, but it was brief.

Sitting in unison with his host, Estuban noted that this office, like every other he had seen in Grantville, was spartan by Mediterranean standards. Indeed, it was austere by any standards of the world outside the borders of this strange town, even considering that this small room was merely Nasi’s occasional “satellite office”: his duties were now in Magdeburg.

Don Francisco evidently eschewed small talk: “I’m sorry we could not meet earlier. My work for the Congress of Copenhagen was quite time consuming. Tell me, how are you enjoying Grantville, so far?”

“It is full of wonders, mysteries, and puzzlements. I had heard the tales, of course, even seen some of the books. But it does not prepare one for…all of this.”

Nasi almost smiled. “Yes, it can be a bit overwhelming. Perhaps that is why you have not yet called upon my brothers or cousins? After all, it is not every day that a relative from the Mediterranean arrives in Grantville.”

Miro managed not to smile: Nasi was tactful, but wasted little time. “It would not have been appropriate, Don Francisco. It was best that I made my presence generally known in town so that you might-assess me-first.”

“ ‘Assess you’?” Don Francisco repeated mildly.

“Of course: to determine if I am whom I claim to be.”

Nasi spread his hands in dismay. “But you could no doubt furnish us with letters of introduction from your many commercial contacts. Or from your own father, my father’s nephew-” and he stopped when he saw Miro’s widening smile.

Miro shifted into Hebrew as he asked: “My father is your father’s nephew? Hmm: shall I trace the entwined branches of our family trees, Reb Francisco? My father is your father’s first cousin once removed, not his nephew. Joaquin Nasi is your grandfather through his son-your father-Mendo. Joaquin is my great-grandfather through his daughter Ana, my grandmother. But this proves little: any clever impostor would think to memorize our family tree.”

Don Francisco smiled, responded in the same language. “Perhaps-but not many could recite it so concisely and certainly as that, cousin. And I doubt any impostors would be able to mimic that Mallorquin accent so well, as well as the small linguistic quirks of Palma’s xuetas.”

Miro answered Nasi’s smile with one of his own. “You have a keen ear, Don Francisco.” Even other marranos usually failed to discern his origins as a son of Mallorca’s Jewish-or xueta — community. Even when Estuban allowed his home dialect to emerge.

Nasi leaned forward, all business again-but now, with a decidedly sympathetic undercurrent. “So tell me: why do you have no letters of recommendation? As I hear it, you have contacts in Venice-”

Miro waved a negating hand. “Impossible. Seeking their attestations would have compromised my family in Palma.”

One of Nasi’s eyebrows elevated. “How so?”

Miro shifted to Spanish, and adopted the bearing and diction of a true hidalgo. “Don Francisco, I was not just any marrano. No one outside of the xueta community in Palma knew I was a Jew. No one. The marrano s I dealt with in Portugal thought me a Spaniard. And I never undertook any action, or entered into any relationship, that connected me with other marranos — including my own family. That is why I have not been back to the Balearics in eight years.”

Don Francisco leaned back, and despite his legendarily imperturbable demeanor, his mouth hung open a little. “Eight years?”

Miro nodded. “I went on my first trading voyage when I was seventeen. My father decided I had a gift for commerce and for navigating the various social complexities that it implies for us marranos. So at nineteen, it was decided that I was to be withdrawn from activity beyond the xueta community. I disappeared, insofar as the outside world was concerned.”

Don Francisco nodded, understanding. “So you could emerge with a different identity, six years later, groomed to pass as a hidalgo and to operate as one in all regards, down to the smallest detail. And all the records of your community’s hidden holdings, accounts, contacts-?”

Miro tapped his temple. “All up here. Never written down, not one bit of it.”

“And your credentials were never questioned?”

Miro kept his shrug modest. “Why would they be? I never attended a court, I never went to a ball, I never proposed a joint family venture, I never wooed a gentleman’s daughter. My purpose-and my activities-were purely business, and my demeanor and speech were my bona fides.”

“So, given your extreme separation, how did you manage to function as a factor for the xuetas in Palma?”

“By working as a cargo broker only, and by making sure that my terminal clients in the Mediterranean were non-Jews who had a record of preferring to do business with the xuetas of Palma. I was able to impose terms on most transactions which made it inevitable that they would be brought-advantageously-to my community. Whose merchants would know, by a variety of codes, that it was I who had sent the deal to them. The money I made as a broker and speculator was, however, the source of our greatest gains, and I funneled both my profits, and my community’s, into separate accounts in Venice. My family and friends access theirs through a lawyer who specializes in handling confidential transactions in the Rialto.”

Nasi frowned. “And you left your position-why?”

“Firstly, many excellent opportunities in the Mediterranean were compromised when the Nasis departed en masse from the Ottoman Empire.” He allowed himself a smile at Don Francisco’s raised eyebrows. “I do not criticize your decision; indeed, have I not made the same one myself? But the regional consequences were undeniable: the marrano business networks that you managed in the Mediterranean faltered when your direct control dissipated.

“Besides, the trade in the Mediterranean is changing and as it does, it attracts new scrutiny. Any determined attempt to track where my trades ultimately resolve would reveal a suspiciously high percentage of them ending quite favorably in the hands of the xuetas of Palma. Not that I am particularly worried about the Spanish government: Olivares’ hordes of auditors and investigators have troubles enough without worrying about small fish such as myself. Besides, they would only discover that I am facilitating trade upon which they grow ever more dependent, as their failures in war and diplomacy mount.”

Nasi nodded. “So, since exposing your past did not threaten you personally, your primary fear was for how it might impact your community.”

“Exactly. I was particularly worried by a group of broadly inquisitive Portuguese nationalists that I knew: they would have found me extremely useful against their Spanish occupiers. Even though attempts at directly extorting me would have been fruitless, the related knowledge of how we xuetas have been manipulating trade would been decisive leverage against my community.”

Nasi steepled his fingers. “Our old Ottoman masters might have seen a similar advantage in coercing you to become their confidential agent-and not just with regard to the Spanish, but all the European nations of the Mediterranean.

Miro nodded. “So, to protect my community, I left my life as a broker quickly, unannounced-and with no time or opportunity to access my own funds in Venice.”

“And now you hope to go into business in Grantville?”

“That is my hope. Although I am open to opportunities involving an official position, as well.”

Evidently Don Francisco heard the subtle inquiry; he shook his head-sadly, Miro thought: “Had you arrived two years ago…” Nasi shrugged. “But now, if I tried to-to find a place-for you, there would be strong accusations of nepotism. And let us speak truth: what credentials, besides your claims of who you are and what you have done, do I have of your abilities and accomplishments?”

“None whatsoever.” Miro smiled and stood. “My regards to your family.”

August 1634

While he waited for the bank’s chief officer, Senor-no, “Mister”-Walker, to finish guiding an elderly lady through a lien agreement, Estuban Miro considered his unusual situation. He was, by any reasonable assessment, a relatively affluent man, yet all his money was trapped in a Venetian bank. Radio was, unfortunately, no answer to his predicament. Even if access had not been highly restricted, no responsible bank would transmit or receive confidential instructions through these devices, since their nonofficial operations were expressly excluded from any assurances of secrecy.

So he would have to endure the to-and-fro tedium of exchanging bonded letters with Venice. The first several would be necessary to establish his identity, achieved through a multi-tiered set of codes and checks. Next would come detailed financial instructions, and finally, the actual transfer of credit to the bank here in Grantville. Even if he was fortunate, it would be at least four months before any of his assets-other than his emergency stash-became available.

So here he sat, waiting to see if there was a way to parlay his remaining travel monies into real estate. If the bank was willing to extend him any credit whatsoever, it might allow him to buy a humble property in which he himself could live while subsisting upon the meager rents generated by boarders. The plan elicited a small grin: the price of his newfound freedom was, evidently, a life of penurious humility. His old, Talmud-spouting neighbor in Palma would have found much to appreciate in this pass of events.

However, it wasn’t the frugality of the investment that irked Miro: it was the wrongness of it. There was a new kind of business booming here in Grantville, which was the epicenter of an expanding trade in information and credit-based (or as some called it, “liquid”) finance. In all the known world, only Venice and Amsterdam had possessed primitive precursors of this kind of fluid commercial network. And of course they-and so many others-had now assiduously studied and selectively adapted the vast array of up-time financial instruments for the specific needs of their rapidly altering markets.

These trends were spawning a peculiar kind of economy, particularly in Grantville: here, the power of the up-timer bourse was not vested in traditional accumulations of common goods, coin, and land, but in a far-flung network of high-value, and often rare, equipment, information, and expertise. Interestingly, many of the most lucrative contracts involving the transfer of these “new goods” resembled the contraband trade. The freight was extremely low-volume, high-value, and required maximum security: the most common examples were bonds, contracts, bank notes, correspondence, research, copied up-time books, sometimes gems and specie. And in addition to safe transport, these objects also wanted rapid transport: it seemed that a constant challenge in this new economy was that its crucial assets were always needed in too many places at precisely the same time. And that, Miro knew, was the key to a whole new kind of wealth: anyone who could figure a way to swiftly and safely move these key resources from one nexus of need to another would become a very rich man, indeed.

But how to do it? Airplanes possessed the obvious, needed characteristics-but, just as obviously, were not a practical answer at all. Regularly chartering airplanes was as completely out of the question as was owning them. Those few that existed were already overtaxed, and those in private hands seemed to spend half of their working hours commandeered by the government or its confidential agents. Furthermore, the airplane’s need of specialized infrastructure-airfields, prepositioned fuel and maintenance caches, repair personnel and ground crew-made the establishment of a broad, commercial network based upon these rare and complex vehicles something far beyond his capacity for investment, even if all his Venetian resources were at his fingertips…

But they were not, and that lack echoed the very problem he sought to solve: if only there was a faster way to transfer the funds, to access his remote capital for a timely local investment…

Miro caught movement from the corner of his eye: Coleman Walker was finally heading his way, the banker’s elderly customer now being escorted to her safe deposit box by a teller. However, before Walker crossed half the distance, his subordinate-an eager, but somewhat disheveled looking fellow named Marlon Pridmore-rose and snared his manager with an eager, urgent phrase. Behind, the elderly lady reemerged from the vault, evidently in some dither of uncertainty, her eyes scanning intently for her implicit savior, Mr. Walker.

Miro, sensing a further delay in the offing, edged closer-and heard Marlon Pridmore gushing: “So we’ve got the burner running at peak efficiency now, even with alternate fuels.” Walker, facing slightly away from Pridmore, rolled exasperated eyes as his employee burbled on: “I tell you, Coleman, that balloon of mine is going to soar…”

By which time the little old lady had returned: she scooped her desperate arm through Walker’s, who allowed himself to be drawn away with an apologetic glance.

Which Miro hardly saw. All he could see was the radiant glee of the ballooning enthusiast who stood before him, albeit now somewhat sheepishly.

“Sorry, sir-I just get carried away when I’m talking about the balloon I’m building.” Pridmore looked away guiltily. “Other folks can get pretty tired hearing about it.”

“Not me,” Miro averred flatly. “Tell me more.”

Pridmore did just that. In excruciating detail. Miro estimated that he had understood about one third of Pridmore’s discursis, possessed a vague conceptual appreciation of a second third, and was absolutely baffled by the rest. But he also knew that none of that mattered: what mattered was that Mr. Marlon Pridmore-an indifferently skilled bank officer-might be able to construct a working balloon. Or, in Estuban Miro’s mind, a commercially viable form of air transport.

Pridmore was wrapping up: “I’m actually amazed you can follow all this, Mr. Miro, particularly without any drawings or models to show you. Understanding a blimp is easier when you can see it.”

“Well, then: may I see it?”

Pridmore, like a proud father being asked to display his newborn child, beamed mightily. “Why, sure you can! Whenever you want.”

Miro rose. “How about now?”

The ride to Pridmore’s house was not long, and was the first Miro had ever taken in an up-time automobile. But he almost failed to notice the marvels of this conveyance, so focused were this thoughts.

Balloons. He had read a little about them in the library already. They were not fast in terms of absolute velocity-certainly not in comparison to airplanes-but, like airplanes, balloons recognized few obstacles. Because the sky was their home, they flew as straight as the crow, rather than crawling as crooked as the tortoise. And for them, airfields were not required: a network of the simple support facilities would be easy enough to set up in communities located at the right intervals. And the operation of a blimp was, in comparison to piloting an airplane, almost laughably simple: it was the difference between manning a rowboat on a fishpond and steering a three-masted merchantman through treacherous reefs.

And bandits and toll collectors could only stare up and wonder what small treasures might be nestled in the gondola above them, seemingly close overhead, but for all practical purposes, as distant from their greedy hands as the wealth of Prester John’s fabled kingdom.

Pridmore’s balloon turned out to be a surprisingly simple device. Large when inflated-it would measure 150 feet in length, and 60 in girth-it became so small when deflated that it would easily fit in its own, longboat-sized, wicker gondola. Two engines-up-time devices once used to propel small, two-wheeled vehicles-provided the motive force that pushed the floating lozenge through the air. Close beneath the bag-or “envelope”-of the vehicle was what Pridmore called a “burner”-a special torch which sent new hot air upwards to keep the canvas inflated. Miro found himself deeply impressed by the elegance and practicality of the whole vehicle.

Or at least, of its many unassembled pieces: they lay about the master ballooner’s small barn in what almost looked like disarray, the envelope itself still a pile of unsewn strips. Miro gestured toward the gear: “It seems that you have a long way to go before your airship is ready, Mister Pridmore.”

Marlon-who was also called “Swordfish,” for reasons having to do with an obscure pun on piscine nomenclature-nodded sadly. “Yeah, got a ways to go with this ol’ girl. Just me and Bernard doing the work. A few other folks pitch in-when they have the time.”

“Can you not hire more workers?”

Pridmore stared sideways at him. “On my salary? Not hardly. I’m lucky to have a week where I get twenty hours to work on her.” He sighed and stared longingly at the somewhat chaotic collection of airship components. “Not like I haven’t had offers, though.”

Miro turned to face Pridmore. “To what offers are you referring?”

“Well, there was a bunch of Venetian fellows who came out here just last week. Said they had come all the way from Italy just to learn how to build aircraft-any aircraft. But none of the airplane firms wanted ’em: they’ve got more staff and apprentices than they can pay, right now, and these Venetian fellas didn’t have any prior experience with up-time machines. So they wound up coming here. They were plenty interested but couldn’t stick around: said they needed a salary more than knowledge, so they left. Can’t say as how I blame them. Last I heard, they were trying to scrape enough dollars together just to get back to Venice.”

Miro began walking to the barn door; Pridmore looked up, surprised, and trotted after. “Where are you goin’, Mr. Miro?”

“If you would be so good as to drive me back to town, Mr. Pridmore, I have some new business to conduct there.”

An hour from closing time, the tubular door chimes sounded, causing Nicolo Peruzzi to look up from securing the display case in the front room of Roth, Nasi, amp; Partners, Jewelry Sales and Lapidary Services. His first instinctual hope was that it might be a customer, but one glance made him conclude otherwise.

He had seen this fellow before-a handsome, saturnine man of about thirty years with a hint of the hidalgo about him. And today he seemed more Mephistophelean than usual. Perhaps it was because he entered the store alone, and Peruzzi was-uncharacteristically-without nearby employees. Perhaps it was because of the fellow’s careful backward glance into street, as if checking to ensure that he was neither followed nor under observation. Or perhaps it was because of the long, straight dagger he produced as soon as the door had closed behind him.

Peruzzi’s hand went to the large button under the rear lip of the display case and remained there, quite taut. Was this fellow-named Miro? — really going to rob him? In broad daylight? It was known that, although Miro was a wealthy man, he was struggling financially, still separated from his funds in Venice. But had he really become so desperate? And so stupid? Did he really think he would get more than a mile from the store before the police-?

But Miro smiled at Peruzzi and pointed with his finger-not the dagger: “May I borrow that small-do you say, ‘screwdriver’?-please?”

Wordlessly, and now as thoroughly baffled as he had been terrified, Peruzzi complied.

Miro used the screwdriver to wedge up the brass band that secured the narrow neck of the pommel to the end of the dagger’s grip. Then, exerting pressure in the opposite direction, he levered the pommel off the hilt. As it fell into Miro’s hand, Nicolo saw that it was hollow-and that, nestled inside, were two rubies and an emerald, the latter of a most prodigious size.

Sometime later-seconds? minutes? — Nicolo Peruzzi realized that he had been staring at the green stone, and that his jaw had been hanging slack. As he closed it with an embarrassed snap, Miro smiled faintly and said: “I am told that up-time gem-cutting techniques can dramatically increase the value of these stones. What share of the emerald would you charge to undertake this service for me?”

The Venetians were not hard to find in the Thuringen Gardens. In the first place, there were nine of them. In the second place, they had obviously been nursing well-watered wine and a few pretzels for a very long time. In the third place, they wore the morose expressions of the underemployed.

Miro sat down without invitation. “May I buy the table a round of drinks?”

From that moment on, no invitations were needed. Nor credentials. Nonetheless, Estuban Miro provided a (strategically edited) review of his assets, prospects, and immediate interests: to wit, constructing an airship. He ended by staring hard at the one who seemed to be the group’s leader, a fellow named Franchetti. “Can you build it?”

“What? Signor Pridmore’s airship?” Franchetti shrugged. “Our conversation with him never went so far. After all, we came here to build air-o-planes.”

“Airplanes,” Miro corrected him.

“ Si: air-o-planes. But we learned that we did not have the skills for that work. Or the knowledge. And for every up-timer who could teach us, there are a hundred, maybe a thousand, down-timers who want to learn. And it is a long process-made longer if one does not read English.”

“Or does not read at all,” grumbled his beefiest partner.

“ Si: this is true. The balloon-that would be easier. But Signor Pridmore, he does the work himself; he has no way to pay us. And we must eat.”

“And, I fear, go home,” added another sadly, watching a bevy of jeans-clad young women, recent high school grads, swaying past, the denim evidently painted on their hips.

Miro kept his eyes upon Franchetti’s. “If Signor Pridmore were to let you watch him at his work, and explain his procedures as he did so, do you think you could learn to build it?”

The Venetian shrugged. Among the French, that gesture would have meant, “it simply cannot be done.” Among Italians, it meant “of course it can be done.” His words matched the motion: “Yes, the balloon is not so difficult, I think. We have the right kind of skills. Sails, wheel locks, ships, dyes, even clocks-one or more of us have had a hand in crafting all these things in Venice. The work we saw Signor Pridmore doing-the physical tasks-appeared simple enough. But what to do, and why, and in what order?” He shook his head. “Of this, we have only a small understanding.”

“Or no understanding,” put in the beefiest one again. Miro decided that this large brooding fellow-apparently named Bolzano-could not be a bad sort: he was too forthright about his own cognitive limitations.

The wiry leader went on. “But together, we could learn to copy what he does. Particularly if he will take the time to explain each action and its purpose.”

Miro allowed himself the luxury of a small smile. “That, I think, can be arranged,” he said, producing a purse that attracted the eyes of the Venetians like a magnet attracts iron filings.

October 1634

Marlon Pridmore clapped an encouraging hand down on Franchetti’s narrow shoulder. The Venetian foreman nodded gratitude and withdrew to study the burner yet again. “They’re clever guys, most of them,” Pridmore averred with a nod as he came to stand beside Miro. “Hardly need all the tutoring you’re paying me to give them. They’ll build you a fine balloon, sure enough.”

“They have an excellent teacher.”

Pridmore looked abashed and very, very proud. “Aw, I jus’-”

“You have taught them as no one else could. Their progress is extraordinary.” Yes, Miro added to himself, so extraordinary that they are already outpacing you, Marlon. Not that there was any surprise in that; a handful of part-time enthusiasts were no match for nine artisans working full time. But that speed of construction had a price-nine salaries worth, to be exact. So Miro had to use his limited funds as efficiently as possible, which gave him no choice but to complete his own airship before Pridmore’s. But one particular difficulty had begun to loom large: “Mr. Pridmore, I am concerned about our engines.”

“What about them? Don’t they work?”

“Yes-I mean, I believe so. But they are not the same as yours. They are-what is the term? — ‘lawn-mower’ engines. And this is where the understanding of my men is so very limited. Is there any chance that they could receive some special tutoring in regards to these engines? That, for an additional consideration, you might guide them through-?”

“An additional consideration? Don Estuban, your weekly fee for my services is plenty enough as it is. But I’ll tell you what: some of the real small-engine experts are over at Kelly Aircraft. And Kelly always needs extra money. So if you could push a few hundred at him-”

“It will be as you say. And if you will be so kind as to be my intermediary to Mr. Kelly, I believe it is only right that you receive fifteen percent of the fee I will give him. This is your ‘finder’s fee’ principle, yes?”

“Well, yes-but maybe you could help me with something else, instead.”

“If I can, I will.”

“Well, it’s like this: to make the canvas really hold the air, I need to coat it with a blend of different substances. And one of them is pretty hard to get, up here.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Gum arabic. I’m telling you, with a few gallons of that stuff, I could-”

“I believe I have a connection for that substance, Mr. Pridmore. And I think he owes me enough old favors that it can be made available at a very reasonable price.”

Pridmore’s gleeful expression made his answer redundant. “Not a problem, Don Estuban. Hell, I was worried that I might not be able to afford enough-or maybe any- gum arabic. So this is great news, just great.”

“I am happy to be of service,” said Miro with a small bow, and a smaller smile.

“Not as pleased as I am for your help, Don Estuban.”

Staring at the engines, Miro straightened and let his smile expand. “I assure you, Mr. Pridmore, the pleasure is all mine.”

December 1634

Francisco Nasi watched Piazza reading the report. “Miro’s airship is already closer to completion than Pridmore’s. Much closer.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Piazza subvocalized.

“He’s very good at what he does.”

“Pridmore?”

“No: Miro.”

“You mean, building airships?”

Nasi sighed; every time he made one of his brief returns to Grantville, Piazza seemed to take a subtle delight in becoming marginally more obtuse. “No, Ed: I mean Miro is very good at getting information, managing relationships, coordinating disparate operations and drawing upon widely divergent resources.”

Ed put down the report. “What are you saying?”

Nasi shrugged. “I’m saying that you might want to consider Miro’s capabilities in the context of a more-permanent-relationship with this government.”

“You mean, as a spy?”

“No. As an intelligence officer. Maybe even chief of intelligence, eventually.”

Piazza put aside his glasses: it was an exasperated gesture. “Francisco, we’ve already got one of those.” He stared meaningfully at Grantville’s resident spymaster.

“For now, yes. But Mike anticipates that when his time as prime minister is over, he is likely to relocate, and my own interests might take me in the same direction.”

“Oh, so we’re back to the imminent Prague exodus again…”

“Ed, I understand you don’t welcome the thought of it, much less the actuality, but I have a duty there-not just to the USE, but to my people. Sooner or later, I must-” He sent a desultory wave toward the east. Toward Prague.

Piazza made a sound that resembled “Umhh-grumpff” and looked at the reports on Miro’s airship project again. “So you think he could do your job?”

Francisco shrugged. Was it his merchant’s instinct not to “hard sell” Miro-or a sense of pride-that kept him from simply answering “yes”? Instead he said, “His mind is nimble, highly adaptive, but also capable of sustained focus. He speaks and writes six languages. He is a trained observer of nuances, including social ones-such as those required to construct and to live an assumed identity for almost ten years. He has extraordinary knowledge of one of our most urgent intelligence areas, having unparalleled familiarity with waters, ports, and markets of the Mediterranean. And he learns very, very quickly.”

“So you’ve been watching him? And he’s reliable?”

“Yes, to both.”

“Do you think he knows you’re watching him?”

“Of course he knows. As I said, he’s very good at what he does.”

January 1635

Marlon Pridmore walked around the large barn that Miro had rented, staring at the neatly arranged airship components at its center.

“You know, I would have been happy to do this without the extra-”

“Mr. Pridmore, please. It is the least I could offer. Your presence here is of immense help to us.”

Pridmore snorted out a laugh. “Really? Hell, I wish my shop looked so good-or I was so far along.” He started walking again, eyeing the rows of empty fuel tanks professionally. “Giving yourself a lot of operating range, eh?”

“Or more payload over shorter distances-and at higher speeds.”

Pridmore stopped. “How high a speed?”

“It is our objective to be able to operate at thirty-five mph.”

Pridmore started, then glanced back at the envelope. “Thirty-five mph? Then you’re building it wrong.”

Miro felt a stab of panic deep in his bowels, but gave no sign of it. “Wrong in what way?”

“Well, you need a keel and a nose-frame; you can’t just have an unsupported bag.”

Miro’s response was the most routine sentence he used when discussing balloons with Marlon Pridmore. “I don’t understand: what do you mean?”

“I mean, if you try to get an unsupported hot air envelope up to 35 mph, it’s going to deform on you.”

Miro felt an incipient frown and kept it off his face. “Can you explain that to me…erm, visually?”

“Oh, sure. You’ve seen soap bubbles, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they stay round as they float through the air, right?”

“Yes.”

“But what happens if you blow too hard on them-either with the wind or against it?”

Miro thought for a second, then nodded. “Their shape begins to stretch, to warp. They can’t really be pushed very hard without, without-”

“We would call it ‘being deformed by atmospheric drag.’ It’s the same with a loose-bag blimp; there’s only so fast you can go before the ‘nose’ of the bag starts dimpling and buckling: the air inside can’t hold the shape against the pressure generated by the air friction on the outside.”

“So you need a…an ‘internal skeleton’ to help it keep its shape.”

“Right. In this case, you don’t need more than a keel and a nose-cone-sort of like a spine with an underslung umbrella at the front.”

“I see. And you would know how to make this?”

“Why, sure. And Kelly will have some good tips for you, too. Better, maybe.”

“This is most helpful: please, let me compensate you for your advice.”

“You already do compensate me for my advice. Damn, your money is helping me far more than my advice is helping you.”

Miro smiled as he opened his purse. “Trust me when I insist that you are quite mistaken in that assumption, Mr. Pridmore; quite mistaken, indeed.”

March 1635

Despite the bitter wind that drove the cold rain sideways into every pedestrian’s face, Francisco Nasi waved broadly at Miro and crossed the street toward him.

Miro waved back and smiled. He had not seen much of Nasi over the last five months. Mike Stearns’-and Ed Piazza’s-spymaster extraordinaire was usually in Magdeburg, often closeted for marathon meetings, and sometimes “traveling on business” to places about which only one thing was known: they were far away from Grantville. In consequence, Miro had had few opportunities to converse with Nasi again-and whenever he did so, Miro sensed-what? A shadow of guilt? A hint of regret?

Miro took Francisco’s extended hand, noted the same slightly melancholy smile. “How are you, Don Francisco?”

“I’m freezing, so my senses still function. And you, Don Estuban?” Nasi’s use of his full, correct title was code, but its message was quite clear: Nasi had learned that Miro’s Venetian funds had finally arrived, were more considerable than even he had guessed, and-most importantly-were the proof positive that the xueta was exactly who he had claimed to be almost eight months earlier.

“I am well enough, Don Francisco. And my project is nearing completion.” As if you didn’t already know that.

“Excellent. But it must be very absorbing. We don’t see much of you in town.”

“But how would you know if I’m in town, Don Francisco? Your presence here seems much rarer than mine.”

“ Touche. But I have much family here, and they are my eyes and ears. On the streets, in the restaurants, elsewhere-”

Elsewhere. By which you mean, “the synagogue.”

Nasi looked up the street at nothing in particular. “I have regretted that the circumstances of your arrival made it impossible to-to welcome you, as was proper. As is traditional.”

Miro proferred a small bow. “You had no choice, Don Francisco. Your official responsibilities must trump all other considerations.”

“Yes. But only for as long as they must.” Nasi put out his hand to say farewell, opened his mouth, waited a long moment before speaking. “You have no family here. And a seder alone is no seder at all.” Then Nasi smiled faintly, released Miro’s hand, and, hunching over, hurried off into the cold.

Miro looked after him: it had not been, strictly speaking, an invitation. But that would no doubt change when Estuban Miro made his appearance in the almost-repaired synagogue this coming Shabbat.

He trusted that the spitting rain hid any other moisture that might have made his eyes blink so quickly. To sit and pray in a synagogue once again. To share a seder once again. To hear and speak Hebrew. To be a Jew in something other than name and memory only. To reclaim his life after nine long years.

Estuban stared up into the cold rain and felt suddenly warm, felt his soul rise with the promise of his almost-ready airship.

April 1635

Franchetti angled the props upward a bit, driving the blimp toward the ground. Then he cut the engines, and pulled hard on the lead ground line.

The forward bow of the gondola pushed into the soft loam, and the night-time noises hushed; the moon stared down, bright and indifferent.

As the rest of the Venetians swarmed the craft-affixing new lines, tossing in some ballast, opening flaps-Franchetti hopped out, followed by Bolzano, his beefy assistant in all things. “I am an aviator!” Franchetti cried. “I have flown like the birds!”

Miro smiled. “Excellent work, Franchetti-and you must not breathe a word of it.”

“But Don Estuban-”

“This is as we agreed, Franchetti. Would you take away Signor Pridmore’s joy at being the ‘first’ to fly in a balloon? After all he has done to help us build the Swordfish?”

Franchetti looked like a truant child. “No, you are right, Don Estuban-but did we not finish first? Long before him? And look at her! Is she not beautiful?”

Now sagging slightly in the moonlight, her abbreviated ribs showing, Miro thought the airship looked more akin to an emaciated maggot. “She is beautiful indeed, Franchetti-and I promise, in the future, you will be able to tell everyone that you were the first test pilot-for the next airship we build.”

Franchetti stared at him. “The next-? So we are not done? Then why did you say that this was our final week of pay?”

“Because now we change how you will be paid, Franchetti. I have been thinking that the master craftsmen who build my airships should also have the option to have part ownership in them. Of course, not all will want that. However, for those who do-”

But Franchetti was out of the gondola in a single leap and, landing with his arms around Miro, planted a sweaty kiss on each of the xueta’s well-shaven cheeks. “I will be an aviator!” he shouted loudly into the night sky.

So loudly that Miro harbored a faint worry that Marlon Pridmore might have heard-and might have lost the joy of thinking himself the first to fly one of the airships he had designed.

May 1635

Francisco Nasi’s desk was almost bare, and the contents of his “courtesy office” were now mostly in boxes. Nasi was bound to depart within a few months, and the process of relocation was already underway. But right now, his attention was very much riveted on the report in front of him. “I notice that President Piazza’s agents picked up this man Bolzano just a day after you passed word to me that we keep an eye out for him, heading south. What I’m wondering is: why?”

“Why what, Francisco?”

“Why you wanted the local authorities advised to pick him up. And how you knew he was a confidential agent for ‘other interests.’ ”

Miro shrugged. “The answer to the second is also the answer to the first. Bolzano started out as self-deprecating, unskilled illiterate, only worried about securing a salary. But during the process of constructing the Swordfish, he proved to be a quick study, dedicated, resourceful. And when I offered extended contracts with better terms to all my workers, he demurred, pleading urgent business in Padua. Nonsense. He had to return south to report to his real employers, and so had to decline the permanent position-which was wholly out of character for the role he had opted to play up here.”

“Well, you were right-although it seems he was not working directly for any government. Only a factotum for parties unnamed. But why did you recommend that President Piazza hold him in custody, Estuban?”

“Firstly, Francisco, I suggested it to you.”

“Yes-and my responsibilities here are finished. I no longer have power in this matter.”

Miro decided not to look as dubious as he might have. “Yes-that’s what all the official documents say. But it seems to me that President Piazza has asked you to, well, ‘watch over’ me this far, so I surmised that he might ask you to oversee this final related incident. Just as a means of ensuring a smooth transition, of course.”

Nasi did not blink or move for five full seconds. Then he said, almost without moving his lips: “I have certain-discretionary allowances-regarding the resolution of your current project. But let us return to the topic: why did you request that Bolzano be held?”

“First tell me this: why have you elected to do so? My suggestion certainly isn’t justifiable grounds for detaining a foreign national, is it?”

Nasi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You know it’s not.”

“Then I was right to guess that-for a little while, at least-Grantville’s own intelligence ‘brotherhood’ would like to keep my balloon a secret.”

“Well…yes. So far as it’s possible, since the Venetians spoke openly about what they were doing. But most everyone thinks they are still building the first balloon, not the second.”

“Yes; that was why I suggested you find and detain Bolzano. Not to protect the knowledge of how to make an airship; that will be common knowledge, soon enough-particularly since this design is so simple. But Bolzano might also have informed others that we already had a working balloon.”

“Yes, about that-”

Estuban let himself smile. “It’s about Italy, isn’t it?”

Nasi’s face became completely expressionless. “How do you know?”

“News like that travels quickly; by tomorrow at the latest, everyone in Grantville will know that there will soon be an anti-pope, and that Urban is missing.” Miro smiled wider. “Or is he? Because if Urban isn’t missing-if, instead, someone wanted to fly him out from a spot where there was no airfield, or fly in a special security team and their equipment-I suspect it might be very helpful to have a balloon to expedite that kind of mission.”

“So you can do it? You can fly to Northern Italy?”

“I can lift three thousand pounds over the Alps and arrive in Brescia four to eight days after we start out. The journey would be in four legs. Leg one is to Nurnberg. Then to Biberach. Then across the Bodensee up to Chur in the Grissons cantonment. Then south over the Valtelline and onto the Northern Italian plain. Each leg is a three-hour trip, give or take. Assuming that we must arrange support at the endpoint of each leg, we should be able to make a flight every two or three days. If the support could be arranged ahead of time,”-Miro looked through the wall in the direction of the radio room-“we could perform a flight a day.”

“So we-that is, President Piazza-could have a team on-site in four days?”

“If you consider Brescia ‘on-site,’ then, yes: if the weather permits, four days. Assuming that President Piazza-or even higher authorities-can arrange the necessary support.”

“And what kind of support will you need?”

Miro wondered, given the carefully rehearsed diction of that question, if it had been originally anticipated by Nasi, or Piazza, or Stearns-or maybe all three. “At each endpoint, we need a place to store the balloon-which, given its segmented keel, folds down to fifty feet long and twenty wide. And we need enough fuel on site-ethanol, methanol, lamp oil, fish oil-for the balloon’s next flight.”

“Sounds simple.”

“Oh, it is-which is why I already have twelve transport contracts for when I begin commercial flights.”

“Twelve? Already?”

Miro nodded. “Six out of Venice, one from Lubeck, two from Amsterdam, one from Prague, two from Brussels.”

“And you are carrying-?”

“A fair number of passengers, particularly diplomats and specialists. Lots of documents: data, research copies, bonds, certificates, and contracts of all sorts. Some specie, some spice, some lenses, even some gemstones and pearls. Low weight, high value. My rates are steep, but the transport is fast, safe, and almost entirely tariff- and toll-free.”

“And could you carry a-a ‘special cargo’ for President Piazza, first?”

“Of course; here’s the rate sheet.”

Nasi studied it, blanched, and then looked a bit like a penniless farmer confronting a burly amtman. “Estuban-I can’t-I don’t think the government here can pay these charges.”

Miro nodded, watching Nasi closely: another second and the spymaster might start mentioning how President Piazza might need to “nationalize a key asset-such as your balloon-for the duration of the crisis.” Probably not, but why risk having the deal move in that direction? By claiming poverty, Nasi had inadvertently given Miro the initiative: “Let’s keep the operating expenditures equal to my costs, Francisco: just have the president-or your successor-pay for the fuel and the crew. Besides, what’s more important to me than your government’s money is your government’s political influence.”

“What kind of influence?”

“The kind that would allow my airship company to become a government partner in bulk purchasing and shipment of various kinds of fuel. The kind of influence that would help us get support facilities established in the cities we’d be servicing directly. The kind of influence that reduces or eliminates certain tariffs or taxes. In short, nothing that needs to come out of a president’s-or a spymaster’s-always overburdened operations budget.” And Miro smiled.

Francisco smiled back. “To quote a fine, if sentimental, movie I just saw, I suspect that President Piazza may consider this ‘the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ ”

Miro nodded. “ Casablanca. See? I’m acclimating. And none too soon, for today I am truly embarking upon the American Dream.”

Francisco frowned. “What do you mean?”

Estuban feigned surprise. “Why, I have attained what every person in Grantville is pursuing! Today, as my financial prospects promise to rise with my airship, its seems that I have literally achieved ‘upward mobility.’ ”