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.”