Chapter 25
“It’s like negotiating with a committee, Larry,” said Jones as they mounted the stairs to the reception room of the embassy, which they used as their main center of operations.
“In a sense, we are,” Mazzare said. Then, thinking about it: “No, we are negotiating with a committee of the Council of Venice. The Grand Council is Doge Erizzo’s compromise between all the factions he has to please.”
They reached the top of the stairs, where one of the maids was waiting to take their coats. Mazzare was never quite able to keep them straight, except for Frank Stone’s would-be enamorata Giovanna—impossible to forget her, and not simply because she was the prettiest!—although he thought this one was Maria.
“That’s what I meant, Larry,” said Jones. “Thank you, Maria.”
Mazzare handed over his own coat, thanking the maid as he did so. Then he turned to Jones. “I know. It’s frustrating, thoroughly frustrating, having to listen to twenty senators say more or less the same thing in seventeen or so subtly different ways.”
“Well, except for—” Jones said, reaching for the doorknob.
“Yes, Simon,” Mazzare said as Jones opened the door, “and I think we can lay that before the principal offender, ah—right now.”
“Buckley!” Jones called out, seeing the young journalist across the room sharing a bottle of wine with the civil engineer Ernst Mauer. “You idiot!”
“What?” Buckley looked around in surprise.
Jones strode across the room, playing the agreed-upon role of Bad Preacher to the hilt. Mazzare ambled after him, taking his time so that the Good Preacher could go in after the preparatory barrage. He stopped halfway to collect a glass of wine from—he guessed—Raffaela.
Jones was in full pulpit fire-and-brimstone form and giving it his Methodist best. Buckley was, to his credit, not flinching, but getting a word in edgewise was proving beyond him. Mazzare decided to let him roast a few minutes longer as Jones enumerated his various defects of character, intelligence and consideration for his fellow-man.
The rest of the room was gawking. Ernst was edging discreetly out of the splash-zone and Sharon, who seemed to be dressed up to go somewhere for the evening, had gone from open mouthed amazement to badly concealed amusement.
He decided it was time, and sauntered over. “Joe,” he said, “Why?”
“Reverend,” he said, “I have a right—”
Mazzare held up a hand. “I know. Back in the USE, freedom of the press is written into the Constitution. Here, there are—differences. You can have all the rights you want, but—”
“The silly bastard—” Jones began.
Mazzare stopped Jones with a look, as much to control his laughter at the sight of Buckley flinching when Jones swore as anything else. It still shocked people when it came from a pastor.
“Reverend Jones is annoyed, Joe, because we both just got chewed on, politely, by the doge of Venice for permitting one of our servants to slander another ambassador.”
“Servant?” Buckley grew a little flushed. “I’m not—” Then, he dried up, apparently having started after all this time to think about how things looked.
Mazzare smiled while Jones glared. “Joe, almost no one believes that. The French embassy is seething right now. Because, as far as they’re concerned, we just pissed”—another cringe from Buckley—”all over every canon of diplomatic protocol.”
Buckley was now visibly bewildered.
Jones’ voice was fit to pronounce curses in. “Sure, we’re all polite. You idiot. We’re all good friends with the greatest of respect for one another. We’re all reasonable men, diplomatic-like. And one thing we do not do, idiot, is carry on our private fights on the territory of our generous, benevolent and above all neutral host. This includes, dumbass, publishing—across a third of Europe, yet, and how a pissant muckraker like you got syndicated beats me—a full indictment of what one of our fellow-diplomats is doing.”
“It’s also dangerous for you, Joe.” Mazzare gestured at one of the windows. “That’s not Magdeburg out there, much less Grantville.”
“Safety’s not something I lose sleep over,” Buckley said breezily. “Father, look, I’m sorry if I’ve caused you a problem, but—”
Mazzare frowned, realizing what was coming next. “Joe, I think you should think hard about that. ‘Just doing my job,’ when you get down to it, is only a hair away from ‘just following orders.’ “