Thomas rubbed the dice in his hand. He nodded. "Yes, I do." He opened his hand and counted the pips. "I'm not cut out for field command, am I?"
Goepfert sighed and shook his head. "No, you are not. But in time, you could be. You showed great bravery today, if not a little impetuousness there at the end. But you stood your ground and made a decision. You just need to set down those dice and apply yourself."
"Are you nuts?" Thomas said, remembering a famous line from an American general during World War II. He gripped the dice and blew into his fist. "I'm more convinced now than ever that I'm right. My plan worked. It was costly, yes, and I made some mistakes. I didn't put enough emphasis on how a superior force, just by its sheer presence, impacts the overall psychology of the battlefield. I'll do better next time. But we won today. We own the field."
Goepfert nodded. "We own it today, my lord, but tomorrow? I'm not so sure. The Gremminger family will not take this lightly. His daughter will seek vengeance, and what of the Hapsburgs? I dare say we've not heard the last of them."
Numbers passed through Thomas' mind, blocks moved, and dice rolled. "We'll worry about all that tomorrow." He stepped over Gremminger's body and placed his hand on Goepfert's shoulder. "For now, let's regroup and pull back to the security of the Fluelapass. Oh, and find Elsinger and Arnet. I want you all in my tent by sundown."
The captain nodded. "What for?"
Thomas opened his hand and revealed his dice. Box-cars.
He smiled. "I have a plan."
The Play's the Thing
Mirari Semsa looked up with a start when the front door of her chocolate shop slammed open so hard that she feared it would come off the hinges.
Elizabeth "Betsy" Springer's familiar, lanky redheaded form made a beeline across the room, weaving in and out of patrons to get to Mirari's personal table in the far corner. Two recently hired waitresses dodged out of the way as she passed, barely keeping a hold on the plates they were carrying. A few of the customers looked up, the expressions on several of their faces showed that they recognized the newcomer.
"Hello Betsy," Mirari said.
The young girl leaned across the table and looked down at the Basque woman.
"If I see him again, I'll kill him and I will do it slowly, very, very slowly." She raised one hand, finger pointed skyward for emphasis. "I'll cut his heart out with a fork. No! I'll use spoon!"
Mirari took a sip of her chocolate, set the glass down and smiled at her guest. "Why a spoon?"
"It'll hurt more!"
"Why don't you sit down and tell me what my dear cousin Denis has done?" Mirari waved to an empty chair in invitation.
Betsy dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table and glanced back toward the front door as if expecting the devil himself to be standing there. Mirari thought she could hear her friend counting backwards, first in English then in Latin, which surprised her, since she hadn't been aware that the young redhead knew any Latin.
In the few months since they had met, the reporter had become one of her favorite people in Grantville. Betsy was a little quirky, definitely not like the young women that Mirari had grown up around. That was something she liked about these American women; they were not inclined to follow the path expected of a seventeenth-century woman, which suited Mirari quite well.
"It's not Denis! He's one of my best friends," said Betsy finally. "It's that supreme idiot Albert!"
"Albert?" Mirari blinked in confusion. "I'm not really sure who you are talking about. Personally, I know four Alberts, so you need to be a wee bit more specific."
Betsy leaned back in her chair and covered her face with one hand. "There can be only one! Albert Haleman! His family lives southeast of here. For some damn reason that I don't understand he's decided that he and I are soul mates and that we should get married and have eight or twelve or twenty kids."
"Big families can be a good thing," Mirari said cautiously. She had five brothers and three sisters-at least those were the ones that her father would admit to. Things did get a bit crowded at the dinner table, but there was always someone to talk with and to take your side in an argument.
Betsy sat up straight again to throw Mirari an incredulous look. "I don't mind having kids! I actually like the idea. Someday. A long time from now. After I'm secure in my reporting career. And not with . . . " Her face twisted like she'd just tried lutefisk. "Albert. "
Mirari smiled in amusement. "So how did Albert get the idea that you two should marry?"
"I owed Albert's cousin, Hans, a favor for an interview. He said 'Let me set you up on a blind date with my cousin Albert." She puffed out her chest and cheeks while lowering her voice in an imitation of what had to be Hans. "'Then we'll be even,' he said. 'He's curious about Americans. It would only be once,' he said. Unfortunately, he neglected to tell Albert that this was a onetime only event. Now the idiot thinks we're made for each other, and that I just have to realize it. He won't take no for an answer!"
Mirari couldn't help but smile. The Basque woman could think of at least a half dozen ways to get rid of an unwanted suitor. One or two would even leave his ego intact.
"You could always tell him that you were madly in love with that young navy man from Hamburg. The one with NCIS," she suggested.
"Abelerd Gottschalk? He was kind of cute." Betsy looked thoughtful. Then she shook her head. "It wouldn't work. "
Just then one of the waitresses walked up to the table. "Mirari? He's here. " At those words Betsy went pale.
"Thank you," Mirari said. "Bring him right over. " She turned to Betsy. "I think I've got just the thing to take your mind off of Albert. "
****
The waitress led over a young man of perhaps thirteen years who was dressed in browns and grays. Like a good reporter, Betsy studied him while he approached. The first thing she noticed was his large, hawk-like nose. She actually thought it gave him a unique look. As he crossed the room, patrons stepped aside to avoid brushing the sword that hung from his belt. As he neared, his startling dark eyes zeroed in on Betsy. She flushed at being caught studying him so openly.
"Madam Semsa," the young man turned to Mirari. "It's a pleasure to see you again. "
"As it is to see you," Mirari said and then turned to her friend. "Betsy, I would like you to meet Cyrano de Bergerac."
"Cyrano? Oh! They wrote plays about you!" All thoughts of Albert flew from her mind. Betsy stood to offer de Bergerac her hand. Rather than shake in the American style, he turned it and kissed her knuckles. If he had been a few years older, Betsy would have been flattered. As it was she thought it was cute. She could easily see where the older Cyrano would get his reputation for being a great romantic.
"I'm told they exaggerated the size of my nose, somewhat," he said ruefully.
"You know what they say about a man's nose," Betsy replied. Then her eyes grew wide as she realized what she had said.
Cyrano lifted a single eyebrow in question. He was obviously trying to appear worldly and cool, but a furious red blush darkened the back of his neck and cheeks. "That would be where my other reputation comes from."
"Mondemoiseau de Bergerac is taking a grand tour of Europe. He and his companion have traveled some way out of their way so that he can speak with you, Betsy."
"Really? Where is your companion?" By the way that Mirari said the word, Betsy assumed that by "companion," Mirari actually meant "guardian."