Autumn, (1st cont.)

Autumn (cont. 1)

A somewhat worn but quite well made coach pulled up to a coach house in rural Stagonia. Three, well attired merchants stepped down and entered the common room. With thick Italian accents they place their orders and ask for the ostler to assist their driver. The innkeeper disdainfully noted their accent and their freshly minted Florins. He grumpily told his waitress to take care of the foreigners and stumped out to the stable.
“Zuckerman!” he called. There was a clatter from the rear of the stables and a somewhat bedraggled man emerged with his fork still in his hand. “There is an Italian coach out front. Their coachman wants to you examine a horse for some reason.”
“Ja, ja,” the ostler replied and walked out into the courtyard. The innkeeper noticed that the ostler tucked something under his tunic just before he stepped into the light.

“Gutten Morgen,” Zuckerman greeted the coachman who was bent down examining some of the straps on a lead horse. “Und vat ist der problem, mein Herr?”
The coachman straightened up and turned to the ostler. As he did so, he made a small gesture above his right eyebrow. Zuckerman looked around the empty courtyard quickly and turned back to the driver who said, “these horses are a trouble. I’d swear one of them was obtained from those Croats and the other is a Protestant.”
“Perhaps,” the ostler replied, “they’d pull better if we changed them from side to side.”
“Pasha was already switched over here,” the driver replied, “but with Andrew Kern beside him, he tends to fight the lead a lot more.”
“Have you tried giving Andrew a stein of beer before starting?” the ostler responded, concealing an involuntary jerk as he heard the names.
“It’d take a whole keg to get us all the way to Frankfurter,” the driver responded.
“Can your party stay tonight, Father?” Zuckerman asked. The Driver quickly hushed him and looked around furtively to make sure the courtyard was still empty. Zuckerman looked up at some crows squabbling in the branches overhead. “I know a good horse dealer,” he continued, “who might be able to help you. Herr Pederastien.”
“Doesn’t he supply mounts for the Stagonian Lieb Garde?” the coachman asked.
“Sometimes,” the ostler responded, “and some good grooms too.”
“Well, as God Wills It,” the coachman sighed.
“Ja, as “god” wills it,” the ostler smirked as he turned back to the stables.

A Bell Rings

The landlord jerked awake behind his bar as the gate bell rang. Who would bother? The gate would not be barred this early, even though there was no custom to speak of on such a horrible night. Cold rain, dark cold rain, about what you’d expect at the end of winter, he thought. At least there’s no lightning.
The bell rang again, and there was pounding on the gate.
The landlord’s comments revealed his Platt Deutsche origins as he grabbed a lantern off one of the wooden pillars and trudged out into the rain. “Are you crippled?’ he shouted into the night. “The bar isn’t dropped yet!” Then, in the swaying shadows, he noticed that a barrel had rolled against the gate somehow. Between his rich, lowland comment on the situation, he assured the unseen guests that he would quickly remedy things. His language became even more florid when he realized that the barrel was from today’s shipment of Italian wines ... and he’d need every drop, he had, if his guesses about the strange crowd in the back rooms was correct. Had to be a mercenary band from Italy ... Italian officer, Spanish troopers, and God knows what else. They’d retired too early, but he’d wager that they’d be out for refreshment before the last bell rang. Mercenaries were always notoriously thirsty!
As he bent for keg, however, the landlord suddenly stopped an peered through the gate window. Armed and mounted men? Before he dashed back inside to raise an alarm, however, he spotted the two coaches. “Who are you all?” he asked. “Where on this d-m-d night are you headed?”
“The Prioress Hildegarrd from St. Kunnegunde’s,” was the heavily accented reply. “They’re being sent to start a ladies’ home in Bravaria somewhere.”
“Okay,” the landlord grumbled as he rolled the keg away. “Come on in, and I’ll rouse the ostler. Bernard!” he shouted. “Bernard! Look lively! We’ve got another herd of pf—ing horses, and you’ll have to find room for them.!”
The convoy rattled onto the paving stones of the inn’s yard, and some of the coachmen sprang down to place steps at the doors facing the inn. A small wiry man in priest’s garb came out first and helped down the prioress. The landlord greeted her fulsomely, while noting that she seemed much more plump than he’d expected ... ah well, he had some good hams which could be prepared quickly.
“Where’s the ostler?” one of the mounted guards asked.
“With tonight’s rain,” the landlord grumbled, “he’s probably sound asleep. He has had another large batch of horses to bed down earlier tonight.”
The men and the nuns exchanged quick looks at this. “Will you have enough room, then?” the priest asked in a reedy voice. The nuns in the second coach stopped dismounting and listened worriedly.
“Sure, they were a cheap bunch and bedded down together like they were back in the barracks,” the landlord responded grumpily. “Bernard!” He shouted again.
One of the Croats dismounted. “Perhaps,” he commented, “we will go together and rouse the stables.”
“I am so sorry,” the landlord apologized. “I am completely mortified, Mother,” he groveled to the prioress. “Alas, meine Herr,” he continued to the soldier, “I’m afraid you have the right. How long have you been in service?”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s hardly any accent in your Deutsche,” the landlord said. “Usually, that means a veteran in the Merry Teaser’s service.”
“Her father’s, actually,” the soldier responded.
“I’m afraid he was the last of the old emperor’s,” the landlord sighed. “Well, we’ve a reputation of being a quality but orderly stopping point for soldiers now for almost a hundred years.
“Sisters, the common room is just through that porch,” he continued. “My maid will be glad to wait on you. We do have some good stew on, and if that runs out we can have some excellent ham cooked in just a few moments.” He turned then towards the stable, escorted by the soldier leading his horse.
In a moment, they’d splashed through the arch leading into the stable yard. The landlord threw open the large doors and shouted, “Bernard!”
There was no answer, but a couple of lamps were still lit and a water bucket was spilled in passageway. The landlord cursed, and started forward, but the soldier grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. In the same motion, the soldier slipped his musket off his shoulder and stepped back into the archway while cocking it.
“What? What?” the landlord spluttered. His fear of armed bands rushed back over him, as he noticed that the other guards had spread out in the court and also now were prepared for combat.

Staggering Stagonians

I've been giving some thought, at Jeff's invitation, to some characters for Stagonia ... both those in the employ of the DeVilles and those who are under the illusion that they're free agents ...
One thing which was bothering me was the perversions and disgusting habits which I'd need to ascribe to them.
Obviously, there will need to be some degree of homosexuality ... it was a feature of the period for those who were determined to rebel against the mores of their class. Equally obviously, it needs to be handled with care. After all, I've already hinted at pedophila in the case of one expired character (whose son and protege are major characters in Frankszonia). In these times, such issues are very, very sensitive. So I need to watch my step.
There was some substance abuse in the period as well, but it was no where near as pervasive as it became later in the century ... and the selection was not nearly as diverse as it is today. So drug smuggling (with a side line in aphrodisiacs, knock out drops, etc.) seems like a likely industry for the Stagonian agent.
I've decided to not have ANY cases of abduction for sex (though abduction for hostage or for political marriage slides close to this) including no "date rape" scenarios (unless it involves a hint of bestiality, after all, those goats have a fiery personality).
So, at the moment, I'm looking at smuggling, drugs, seduction (either for sex or for treason) and debauchery, poison, scams, Ponzi schemes, extortion, protection rackets, crooked gambling, and writing filthy graffitti as the main lines for Stagonian agents ... any other ideas? And what would you guys suggest I NEVER really spell out (besides abuse and beastiality) ... ?
I've got a group of Stagonians on their way to perdition in Frankfurter to write up!
:)
Arthur

Dropping from the Cathedral Eaves ...

Eaves Dropping

Mack knelt in the darkness, leaning into the shadow of the great pillar. He smiled ironically. Frankfurter was mostly Anglerican / Lutheran and pro-Protestant. Still it had a sizable population of Papists, including the scandalous Later-In-The-Day Saints. That cult had very enjoyable festivals and celebrations, so everybody pretended to belong. Still, most days, the Ducal Cathedral was almost empty. Naturally, the foolish children thought of it as a private place for their trysts ... not realizing that anybody who actually entered the building was almost always noticed by somebody, and gossip blazoned their romantic secret across the market in seconds.

So, his informant being an imaginative lass from the mercantile class (which actually runs Frankszonia), had arranged her “secret contact” there.

It was no loss. The mother of the family came from the Reich Duchy of Beerstein, so folks would already assume that he would contact them. Then again, she was healthy, pleasant looking, and quite cheerful. Having himself linked in gossip with her could only enhance his carefully contrived reputation.

So, suppressing a quiet chuckle in the stained glass colored shadows, he began to cross himself and to rise ... but froze instead.

Another had entered the nave. Unlike most folks, who went softly and even attempted furtiveness, the figure strode quickly over to the candle stands and dropped some coins into the collection box.

“Do you need a lighter, my son?” an older cleric queried from the sanctuary.
“Certainly, Light is Needed,” the stranger replied. Mack could hear the capital letters and the Italian accent.
“Adjutorum nostrum in Nomine Domini,” said the monk.
“Qui fecit Caelum et Terram,” the stranger responded.
There was a moment of quiet as the two regarded each other and swept their eyes around the dark interior. They seemed to miss Mack still reverently kneeling behind his pillar.
“He’s been spotted,” the stranger.
“How close?”
“Cavenderia.”
“And?”
“We don’t know yet. The General Secretary thinks he sailed on to Trieste and has alerted the Tyrol brothers.”
“But you?”
“Up through Croatia to Vienna and then across to the Main somewhere.”
The priest demurred, “A Turkish Captain General going through Vienna without being spotted?”
“He’s a Fhartz. They have a low opinion of the Wieners’ intelligence already, and he would be a traveling German noble. Hardly remarkable or even noticeable in the waltzes or beer gardens.”
“You’re right,” the priest mused. “He also is remarkably well suited to come as one of the Croats or an Hussar. What do you suggest?”
The stranger sat in a pew, and Mack noticed that in spite of his martial bearing he wore no sword. “I sent a Postulant to Father Feurenkopf. They’ll be watching the inns to the west of Vienna. I think we need to get higher up the Main and stake out the boats. He could easily make entrance from Offenbach.”
The priest began to pace nervously. “What shall we do if he makes it?”
“I honestly don’t know,” the stranger complained. “I know that the Secretary and his cronies have their ideas, but none of them are really used to working in the field. What’s old Stinky up to? This could be a subtle bit of pressure on the Reichs Rat in Wien. It could be a trigger for some rumpus inside Stagonia. It could be merely working out a new route to smuggle in more spices for their Frankfurters.” He grunted wryly, “it could even be a purely sentimental desire to visit again. They were quite close when the Hurtshog was little.”
“Do you think the Hurtshog might reinstate him?” The priest was very worried at this prospect.
“It’s possible,” the Italian threw up his hands. “Everybody forgets that the Apostate is legitimate, and he’d make a very skilled Regent if it came to that.”
“Gott in Himmel!” the priest paled. “We’d lose our status versus the heretics!”

One of the ornately carved doors creaked open somewhere and banged shut. The priest quickly turned to trimming the candles while the Italian rose and knelt before them. A young man, plainly dressed but in fine cloth, came in peering around. “Father Silenius?” he called from the back, is that you?”
“Yes, Richter. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Father Silenius turned to the Italian, “I’d be blest to hear your confession, traveller,” he covered quickly. “Come, let’s step into the sacristy to be private a moment.”

The two plotters exit, and the youth advances up the aisle, anxiously watching them go. Mack slips quietly away and down the stairs to the cellar. So he missed the quick light-footed entrance of a pretty farm girl who hurried up to Ricther and quickly gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek.
"Rose Marie," Richter greeted her. "I always love to see you, but here? Now?"

"You have to know," she grinned as if she were flirting but kept her voice low. "Beerstein is getting involved."
"Stagonia again?"
"Possibly, but this reunion ... there's Fhartzen whom the Reich Duchy Lace would love to see expelled and blown away."
There is a noise of a chair scrapping across the floor in the sacristy. Rose Marie flies back out again, calling, "You HAVE to come to our cookout!"

Mountain Dew (the plot thickens)

A get - together Scramble: part two

A few people came out of the house, but they did not come to greet the hikers. Instead, the girl placed her and on Emil’s sleeve, gave him a serious look and said, formally, “Welcome, von Reisling, to one of Frankszonia’s most sacred secrets, The Bock Spring.”
The people from the cottage doffed their hats, and as Emil followed suit, he saw that Hans had grounded his rifle in a veteran’s stance of attention. “Honored, I’m sure,” Emil said, “but why is it so sacred?”
“From here, Frankszonia arose,” the girl responded.
“Ja,” Hans continued. “Once, long ago, when the Electors came to crown a new Emperor, the best beer in the world was brewed from this water. The brewmaster Fhartz sent an entire wagon to them.”
“From that time,” one of the men from the cottage noted, “we Fhartzen have been enobled.”
“We Fhartzen?!?” Emil and one of the strangers exclaimed together. Even as they snatched for their pistols, however, the others reassured them.
“Do not fear, mein Herren,” the first speaker chuckled. “We are truly of the Resistance.”
“The dream of truly free Freistadt derived from the Imperial Receipt is not confined to just .my uncle,” the girl assured them.
“Your uncle?”
“The Hurtshog Stanken Fhartz zu Frankfurter,” she replied impishly.
“Ja,” chuckled Hans, “Our Rausen Marie, the Rose of the Resistance, is a Granddaughter of der Alte Hurtshog.”
“But,” Emil protested, “I know that his agents communicate regularly with the Gallians, and in spite of the hassles he’s caused other Gallian allies, he has provided troops and fought himself to protect Gallian supply routes.”
“The Hurtshog favors the Merry Teaser,” the speaker responded. “As long as there’s no hope of a Germanian nor an Imperial rescue, there’s no point in sacrificing Frankszonians.”
“Besides,” a lady smirked, “the Gallian depot is the best source of Gallian wines.”
“So, the Hurtshog pretends alliance to plunder the Frogs?” Emil asked.
“No, no,” the speaker grinned. “We replace the Gallian kegs with good Rhine wines, locally grown and legally paid for!”
“Of course,” Rose Marie laughs, “we’re careful that the gentlemen who drink their own estates vintages will get their own stuff.”
“Then the Resistance is a sham!” the other stranger shouted angrily.
“Hardly,” the speaker responded soberly, “and that’s why this meeting is necessary.”
“Most of our people hate an alliance with the Catholics,” the other woman said. “And most of the nobles resent the Gallian presence visciously. Now that the imbecile Bastille has removed the Hurtshog, they’re getting ready to act.”
“Without Stanken, we doubt that Broderick Woad will commit his men to the field,” the speaker continued, “and without Hottatrot, a lot of the Frankfurters will drag their heels in fighting their own cousins. We won’t be able to take Frankfurter, nor would we have nearly enough people to actually capture the depot.”
“But we can probably burn a lot of it,” Rose Marie eagerly suggested, “and we can drive the Gallian lapdogs back into their master’s boudior!”
“Then the Gallians would be forced to pull back from Hesse Seewald,” the other stranger realized.
“And then,” Hans contributed, “the Resistance will need a clear path to run!”
“And that,” the speaker continued, “is where you two come in. The Mayor of Ausfhart needs to know that you can clear a quick route out of the valley into Hesse Fedora or even further north.”
“And what,” the other stranger asked, “is the Mayor’s role in this?”
“My Lord Bleah,” the speaker replied, “Stanken may be Hurtshog, but the real head of the family is always the Lord Mayor. Surely you Cheezers knew that!”
“I doubt,” Emil responded, “that our Britischerwurst can get any real strength this far behind enemy lines. Why even involve us?”
“Because Stagonia and the Kerns are about to relaunch their feud on our turf,” the other woman responded. “Neither the Alte Vater nor the Hurtshog care to risk the fall out taking out too many of our cousins. This is a rather pretty dance we’re trying to make here.”
“This stinks worse than Frog Cheese,” Lord Bleah complained. “The Frankszonians would still put nearly 15,000 men into the field if you tried to concentrate for a real strike.”
“Hardly, they’ve got nearly 4000 already committed to the Altenburg affair,” the speaker commented.
“And our agents don’t report to General Mayer,” the other woman continued. “They won’t have time to get their full strength into the field, even if they knew what was going to happen by tonight! Stagonia has some usefulness, it seems.”
“So,” Emil asks, “what is going to happen?”
“These are mountains, Captain,” the speaker responded. “They hide a lot, and city troops won’t be trying to patrol them when a hard freeze hits.”
“And the morning after,” Rose Marie exulted, “my beautiful bronze guns and their friends will be skating across the fields!”
“There is a big risk in that,” Emil cautioned, “Your heat, my lady, just might melt those fields and freeze the guns!”
She laughs as the men turn back to the cottage to begin more detailed planning.

Thn Von Kerns Are Coming!!!

Once again, the creator of Erwin v. Mack is participating in the story line, I happily copied this post from HIS blog ...
:)

The Von Kerns Are Coming!

http://raubenstadt.blogspot.com/

Erwin von Mack was grateful that the trip from Raubenstadt to Frankzonia had been without incident. The Markgrafin of Raubenstadt, Sharon von Meltzer was traveling to Frankzonia to visit the ruling family, the von Fhartz, and help them celebrate the completed renovation of one of their many estates. Of course, the presence of a platoon of the Markgrafin's Own Guard Musketeers, with their glittering bayonets, and a squadron of the Markgrafin's Own Lancers, with their twinkling lance heads, probably had something to do with the uneventfulness of the journey. It would have indeed been a bold band of highwaymen to even consider hindering the carriage and it's escort.

"If I keep showing up here, they're going to name the road after me.", he thought sourly to himself.

He was not surprised to see his counterpart, von Badmann waiting by the entry portal, as he rode up to the gate. Von Badmann raised his right hand and spurred his horse forward.

"What?! No wandering yodelling instructor cover this time?", referring to their first encounter years ago. "You know, old friend, that we'll have to name the road after you, if you keep popping up!", he said after shaking hands.

"Well...at least I could yodel, unlike those God awful clocks you were trying to foist off as your own work. Besides, I had no choice in the matter this time.", he grunted, and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder towards the carriage. "The Markgrafin and her brothers have come to call."

"Her brothers?!", Badmann's tone and right eyebrow rose.

"Only two of them.", von Mack dryly replied, enjoying his friend's discomfort.

"THREE von Kerns?!!" His left eyebrow joined the right in a mighty effort to reach the hairline.

"Technically only two. The Margrafin herself, her brother David, the commander of her personal Guard Musketeers, and her other brother Paul, the commander of her Guard Lancers. You see, Paul has given up the family name. So...he'll thank you to call him what he goes by these days: Colonel Somerussian Guyovich."

"And he thinks that that is enough of a fig leaf to hide behind?", Badmann inquired.

"He has great faith in the new name, the cossack scalplock, the moustache, his troopers, that he has spent enough time in the Cossack Stiech for everyone to have forgotten why he left, and if all else fails, that weighted Hungarian saber he favors."

Von Mack laughed as he turned his horse around and started to canter back to the carriage.

"I've seen him hack through a fencepost, in one stroke, at a full gallop with that cleaver!"

"We'll talk later!", Badmann called after him, then slumped back in his saddle.

As von Mack neared the carriage, he heard the clink of tumblers and a flask, as the Markgrafin said, "To old scores."

"And their settling!", David replied.

"In a painful manner!!", Somerussian Guyovich chimed in.