“John, be quiet.” Mike’s voice was low, but almost steely. “What you—or Mary—understand about this stuff could be written on the head of a pin. You’re not in that universe, any longer. You’re in this one. And in this one . . .”
He groped for words himself. As he did so, his eyes ranged across the area, coming to rest on the small crowd of Germans gathered just beyond the gate to the naval yard. Except it was no longer a small crowd, he saw. Several hundred people, he estimated. Not hostile. Simply . . .
Watching. Waiting. Wondering.
Most of all, sitting in judgment.
He recognized one of the men standing at the front of the crowd. Gunther Achterhof, that was, one of the CoC’s militants. Shortly after Mike had arrived in Magdeburg, he had noticed Gunther and several other men following him everywhere. A self-appointed bodyguard, he suspected. Which Gunther had immediately confirmed when Mike went up to him and asked. He’d then spent some time in conversation with the man. Idle conversation, in one sense; a probe, in another.
The sight of Achterhof brought everything into full and final focus. In that one man, Mike knew, could be found the soul of the mob now rising throughout reborn Magdeburg. And soon enough, he knew, pouring into the city from the nearby area.
All of it. Beginning with the rage which could kill and mutilate a soldier, but not . . . necessarily ending there. Perhaps no longer even needing to start there, or even go to that dark place at all. Because there was also hope, and yearning. Most of all, the dawning half-recognition that perhaps victory was within his grasp, not simply vengeance. The beginning of it, at least.
“I’ll bet on Gunther,” Mike murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll always bet on the world’s Gunthers.”
He turned back to Simpson. “Do you know what they call Mary? The people who live around here, I mean. The most ferocious of the CoC’s militants. The same ones, by the way, who watch your house—her house—day and night, to make sure no enemy strikes.”
He didn’t wait for Simpson’s answer.
“They simply call her ‘the American Lady.’ That’s ‘Lady’ with a capital L, John. You can hear it in the way they say the word. And do you know why they call her that? It’s not because of her table manners, I can assure you of that. They wouldn’t know whether she was using the right fork or not themselves. No, the reason’s simple. It’s because your servant Hilde is one of them, and they know how she treats her servant. She says ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and—most important of all—she looks at Hilde when she says it.”
Torstensson grunted. This grunt had more than a trace of surprise in it. But, again, also contained the sense of an observer acknowledging an expert’s point.
Simpson didn’t really understand. It was obvious in the blank look on his face.
“You just don’t get it, John. You still think—you and Mary both—that these noblemen are just this world’s version of your old familiar upper crust. Well, they’re not. They’ve got all the vices, oh, yeah, in spades—but damn few of the virtues.”
His smile was very thin, now. “Virtues, mind you, which you only have because we beat them into you, over the centuries. Often enough with blood and iron. Usually our blood and your iron, but blood always wins out. If nothing else, it’ll rust iron.”
Still, incomprehension. Mike almost sighed. Give it up, will you? The man is what he is, and you can live with that. Just explain it to him.
He thought of demanding that Torstensson explain. But Mike wasn’t actually sure of Swedish custom. He suspected the Swedish nobility, given their own history, lacked some of the sheer unthinking arrogance of Germany’s princes.
“When a German nobleman or noblewoman addresses a servant, John, they do not say ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’ In fact, they don’t even address them at all. They summon the servant and never look at them. Simply gaze at the wall, as if the servant does not exist, and give their orders in the third person. ‘He will bring us tea.’ ‘She will clean the bedroom.’ “