Maybe not even then.'
'Sure of that?'
'Yes.'
Balcke's face hardened at the thought of eighty thousand
French soldiers camped within three days of his city.
'And?' he prompted.
Wéry shrugged. 'The Prince is exposed. He's still harbouring
French émigrés – d'Erles and his party. Never forget how much
Paris fears the émigré. That, more than anything, was why they
went to war in '92. Moreover he's a churchman, and loyal to the
Emperor, so they hate him. And he's small, so they despise him,
too.'
With Balcke, it was best to be direct.
'Well,' grunted the Count at length. 'That's why we keep you,
I suppose. To tell us what we need to hear.'
'I'll say something else, if I may.'
'That I won't like? Go on.'
'Squabbling makes you smaller still.'
'What do you mean?'
(What did he mean? And with the cudgels gathered on the far
side of the river? Dear Mother of God!)
'You're at it all the time!' he said harshly. 'If it's not fighting
Rother and the peace party, it's fighting the Ingolstadt set: the
Ultramontanists and all those clergy who still live in the Middle
Ages. Or you are chasing stories of Illuminati. Or it's the Jews.
Meanwhile your guilds are at each other's throats, and at the same
time they band together to hound any unlicensed trader who
tries to make a new start. It goes from top to bottom of the
city . . .'
He glanced sideways, and caught Heiss's agonized expression.
And yes, of course it was impertinent. And naive. But damn it,
they could all be dead in an hour! Why not say what he felt?
'Now see here, Wéry,' rumbled Balcke, leaning forward. 'I
know what this looks like to you. Little boys pushing at each
other in their sandcastle while the tide comes in, you think. You'd
like us all to line up in a nice straight line and fight the French
to the last man. Well, I'd like that too. But the little boys have
knives, Wéry. And so what's a boy to do, do you think? Let the
other boy stab first, I suppose? Is that how you did it in
the Brabant?'
'In Brabant I watched a cause fall apart,' Wéry exclaimed. 'I
saw it in Paris and Mainz too. Why should I see it here?'
'Because we're damned human, and that's what you've got to
work with!' roared Balcke, reddening as he thumped the table.
'There's little I can do about Canon Rother. And there's damn all
I can do about the Ingolstadt set! The Ingolstadt stuff is church politics . . .' He wagged a finger at Wéry. 'It's been going for
twenty years or more, back into the old Prince's time. Whenever
we tried to reform anything – education, the prayer service,
taxation, you name it – the Ingolstadt set fought us tooth and
nail. "Saving the religion" they call it. They were bigots. They still
are. But when we started on the monasteries – that's when it got
really poisonous. We were hitting their pockets, then. And no one
forgets. That's why the Prince goes so canny now. What can you
do about that, hey?'
Think of Old Blinkers as a cart on a slope, Albrecht had once said. Once he starts moving, it's absolutely clear where he's going to go. And
you'd better not be in the way.
And here he was, in the way. His jaw tightened, but he would
not drop his eyes.
'I've been wondering, Wéry,' said Fernhausen (still in that
maddening drawl). 'Is that why you keep so close to Bergesrode?
Or is it just that you both loathe the French?'
'Bergesrode?' said Uhnen in surprise.
'Oh yes,' said Fernhausen. He leaned back, enjoying the
group's attention again. 'Oh yes, Bergesrode. His Highness's principal private secretary, and full initiate of the Ingolstadt set.
Our – ah – former revolutionary friend here is quite a favourite
with my priestly colleague. Can you imagine it?'
Von Uhnen was surprised.
'I'd have thought you would loathe everything he stood for!'
he said, addressing Wéry directly for the first time since they had
entered the coffee-house.
'I do. Believe me, I do.'
Slavery of the mind. Blind obedience to Rome. Yes of
course he loathed that. And once the
'Sure of that?'
'Yes.'
Balcke's face hardened at the thought of eighty thousand
French soldiers camped within three days of his city.
'And?' he prompted.
Wéry shrugged. 'The Prince is exposed. He's still harbouring
French émigrés – d'Erles and his party. Never forget how much
Paris fears the émigré. That, more than anything, was why they
went to war in '92. Moreover he's a churchman, and loyal to the
Emperor, so they hate him. And he's small, so they despise him,
too.'
With Balcke, it was best to be direct.
'Well,' grunted the Count at length. 'That's why we keep you,
I suppose. To tell us what we need to hear.'
'I'll say something else, if I may.'
'That I won't like? Go on.'
'Squabbling makes you smaller still.'
'What do you mean?'
(What did he mean? And with the cudgels gathered on the far
side of the river? Dear Mother of God!)
'You're at it all the time!' he said harshly. 'If it's not fighting
Rother and the peace party, it's fighting the Ingolstadt set: the
Ultramontanists and all those clergy who still live in the Middle
Ages. Or you are chasing stories of Illuminati. Or it's the Jews.
Meanwhile your guilds are at each other's throats, and at the same
time they band together to hound any unlicensed trader who
tries to make a new start. It goes from top to bottom of the
city . . .'
He glanced sideways, and caught Heiss's agonized expression.
And yes, of course it was impertinent. And naive. But damn it,
they could all be dead in an hour! Why not say what he felt?
'Now see here, Wéry,' rumbled Balcke, leaning forward. 'I
know what this looks like to you. Little boys pushing at each
other in their sandcastle while the tide comes in, you think. You'd
like us all to line up in a nice straight line and fight the French
to the last man. Well, I'd like that too. But the little boys have
knives, Wéry. And so what's a boy to do, do you think? Let the
other boy stab first, I suppose? Is that how you did it in
the Brabant?'
'In Brabant I watched a cause fall apart,' Wéry exclaimed. 'I
saw it in Paris and Mainz too. Why should I see it here?'
'Because we're damned human, and that's what you've got to
work with!' roared Balcke, reddening as he thumped the table.
'There's little I can do about Canon Rother. And there's damn all
I can do about the Ingolstadt set! The Ingolstadt stuff is church politics . . .' He wagged a finger at Wéry. 'It's been going for
twenty years or more, back into the old Prince's time. Whenever
we tried to reform anything – education, the prayer service,
taxation, you name it – the Ingolstadt set fought us tooth and
nail. "Saving the religion" they call it. They were bigots. They still
are. But when we started on the monasteries – that's when it got
really poisonous. We were hitting their pockets, then. And no one
forgets. That's why the Prince goes so canny now. What can you
do about that, hey?'
Think of Old Blinkers as a cart on a slope, Albrecht had once said. Once he starts moving, it's absolutely clear where he's going to go. And
you'd better not be in the way.
And here he was, in the way. His jaw tightened, but he would
not drop his eyes.
'I've been wondering, Wéry,' said Fernhausen (still in that
maddening drawl). 'Is that why you keep so close to Bergesrode?
Or is it just that you both loathe the French?'
'Bergesrode?' said Uhnen in surprise.
'Oh yes,' said Fernhausen. He leaned back, enjoying the
group's attention again. 'Oh yes, Bergesrode. His Highness's principal private secretary, and full initiate of the Ingolstadt set.
Our – ah – former revolutionary friend here is quite a favourite
with my priestly colleague. Can you imagine it?'
Von Uhnen was surprised.
'I'd have thought you would loathe everything he stood for!'
he said, addressing Wéry directly for the first time since they had
entered the coffee-house.
'I do. Believe me, I do.'
Slavery of the mind. Blind obedience to Rome. Yes of
course he loathed that. And once the
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