Simpson’s eyes almost crossed. “You’re kidding!”
“No, he is not,” said Torstensson. “Such is indeed the custom.”
The general swiveled his head. The crowd’s murmur was swelling ever more powerfully. “Best we be off, now. These servants will not be satisfied until, at the very least, we look at them. Straight in the face, as you say.” He gave Mike a glance. “And maybe not then. Let us hope you can teach them—”
He broke off abruptly. Mike was grinning at the general, and the grin was purely feral. A wolf, daring a nobleman lost in the forest to finish the sentence. Before the wolf tears his entrails out.
“I do not propose to teach them manners, General Torstensson. I propose to teach manners to Germany’s aristocracy. Who are badly in need of the lesson.”
The nobleman flinched from the wolf. The general remained. Mike gave him his instructions for the day, as surely and firmly as might Gustav Adolf himself. “You, Torstensson—come with me. Your job is to keep those fucking Saxons away. Far away. And most of your own troops, for that matter. Just enough for a bodyguard for Princess Kristina. That’s it.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Mike turned back to Simpson. “Send Mary,” he commanded. “If she can’t bring herself to speak, so be it. But I want her standing there with Sharon and Gramma Richter right next to me, facing our folks. And beginning the nobility’s instruction. They’ll either learn to use a fork, Mary’s way—and be damn quick about it—or they’ll learn what a pitchfork feels like. My way, if it comes down to that.”
He began to turn toward the gate. But paused long enough to address some final words, both to the admiral from another world and the general from this one. “And it will come down to that, gentlemen, if I can’t be satisfied at the negotiating table. Never doubt it, not for a minute. I’ll compromise, if I can, but don’t ever think I don’t know whose side I’m on.”
He pointed a finger at Gunther Achterhof. “His. So you can deal with me, or deal with him. Your choice.”