1636： The Saxon Uprising ARC - By Eric Flint Page 0,48

gesture was not one of negation; just an attempt to clear his head.

“And the logic of thinking a Swedish general would hire a Pole to spy on Saxons is…what, exactly?”

Szklenski’s grin was back. “Don’t ask me. I told you I thought it was silly—and I told them so as well. But just to calm them down, I said I’d talk to you. There aren’t that many Polish CoCers in Dresden, so I figure we need to look out for each other.”

Jozef cleared his throat. “And…ah…why, exactly, would you assume I was a member of the CoCs myself?”

Szklenski got a sly look on his face. “Don’t want to talk about it, huh? That’s okay—but don’t think you’re fooling anybody. Why else would a Pole be in Dresden right now, unless he was a lunatic?”

Another excellent question.

That evening, Jozef decided it would be wise to follow Szklenski’s advice and spend his time at a different tavern. Where the now-revealed-to-be-not-entirely-good-humored Ursula did not work.

Szklenski himself escorted him there. “It’s where most of us Poles go,” he explained.

So it proved.

“You led me into a trap,” Jozef said. Accusingly, but not angrily. He wasn’t hot-tempered to begin with, and even if he had been he would have restrained himself. Being hot-tempered when you’re surrounded at a corner table in a dark tavern by eight men at least two of whom were armed with knives would be even more stupid than seducing two waitresses in one week who worked at the same establishment.

Szklenski shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. Only a bit, though.

“Sorry, but we really do have to make sure,” he said. “We’ve got a good reputation with the USE guys here and we can’t afford to let it get damaged.”

Jozef looked around. “I take it all of you are in the CoCs?”

“We’re asking the questions, not you,” said one of them. That was Bogumil—no last name provided—whom Jozef had already pegged as the surliest of the lot. He didn’t think it was an act, either.

“Give us some names,” said the man to Bogumil’s left. That was Waclaw, who had also failed to provide a last name. “Something.”

Jozef thought about it, for a moment. Acting as if he were an innocent Pole not involved with politics who just happened to wander into Dresden right now was probably pointless. The question then became, what did he claim to be?

In for a penny, in for a pound, as the up-timers said. “Krzysztof Opalinski.”

“What about him?” That came from a third man at the table, who had provided no name at all. He was quite short, but very thick-shouldered and dangerous-looking.

“Nothing about him,” said Jozef, sounding bored. “I hope you’re not expecting me to provide you with details of what we’re doing? How do I know you’re not spies?”

“Who would we be spying for?” said Bogumil, jeeringly.

Jozef shrugged. “I can think of at least half a dozen great magnates who might be employing spies in the Germanies. So can you, so let’s stop playing.”

Bogumil started to say something but Waclaw held up his hand. “He’s right. But I want to make sure you really know him.” He stood up and held his hand, palm down, a few inches above his own head. “He’s about this tall, well-built, blonde, blue eyes, and he favors a tight-cut beard?”

Jozef leaned back in his chair and smiled. “That’s a pretty fair description of his younger brother Lukasz. But Krzysztof’s about two inches taller, to begin with. He’s got broad shoulders and he’s certainly in good shape, but nothing like Lukasz, who’s a hussar and bloody damn good at it. They both have blonde hair and blue eyes, but Krzysztof’s hair is a bit lighter and his eyes shade into green. What else do you want to know?”

He stood up himself—slowly, though, so as not to alarm anyone—lifted his shirt and pointed to a spot on his side just above the hip. “Krzysztof’s got a birth mark here, shaped like a crooked hourglass. His brother—as you’d expect with a hussar—has several scars. You want to know where they are and what they look like?”

Bogumil glared up at him. “How do you know what his body looks like? You a faggot?”

“We bathe, how else? Try it sometime.”

Bogumil spluttered and started to get up, but Waclaw placed a hand on his shoulder and drove him back down on the bench they shared. “You started the insults, so don’t complain.”

He studied Jozef for a few seconds, and then looked at his companions. “I think he’s probably okay.