1636： The Saxon Uprising ARC - By Eric Flint Page 0,119

they got on their heads?”

“They’re called ‘shakos,’ Your Highness,” said Albert Bugenhagen. “Apparently it was a military design in the Americans’ universe. Rebecca Abrabanel had images of them in a book and had a hatmaker shop produce a few dozen of the things.”

The mayor of Hamburg smiled. “She says the admiral will probably have a fit when he sees them.”

The things were certainly impressive, although Ulrik couldn’t help but wonder how practical they’d be on a battlefield. For that matter, nothing the Marine guards were wearing looked all that practical. They were the most elaborate and heavily-decorated uniforms Ulrik had ever seen, outside of hussar uniforms—and those were not the uniforms hussars actually wore into battle.

They even had the ostrich plumes, sticking up from the shakos. No leopard skins, though.

As they got out of the automobile, Ulrik gave the guards a closer inspection. He was pleased—relieved, in fact—to see that the weapons the Marines were carrying looked a lot more functional than their uniforms. Good SRG muskets, with an up-time shotgun in the hands of the corporal in charge of this particular squad. The Marines held the weapons as if they knew how to use them, too.

Thankfully, there was not a halberd in sight. After the fracas in Stockholm, Ulrik would be perfectly happy never to see another halberd for the rest of his life.

The thought of Stockholm drew his hand to his waist, almost involuntarily. He was carrying the same revolver he’d used there today. There was no particularly use or need for the thing, but Ulrik found its presence comforting nonetheless.

There was a very large party waiting to greet them at the palace. Every notable in the city was there, it seemed. Toward the back, almost hidden behind several other people, he spotted Rebecca Abrabanel. Her own costume was designed every bit as carefully as the costumes she’d designed for the Marine honor guard—except hers was designed to make her as inconspicuous as possible.

“I am not fooled, woman,” Ulrik murmured to himself. Pleased yet again to encounter skill and competence.

The same skill and competence, he didn’t doubt.

And that point a band started to play, which was the third thing Ulrik would always remember. It was a catchy tune, not one he was familiar with. (Later he would find out it was the “Vasa March,” newly composed by one of the city’s musicians.) But what struck him the most was the energy and enthusiasm of the band members. If he’d been one of those musicians, he thought he’d have been too cold to beat a simple drum, much less play brass instruments.

How did you keep your lips from freezing to the mouthpiece?

Ulrik did not like to give speeches, and was not very good at it. Thankfully, because of the bitter cold, no one wanted to listen to a long speech anyway. A few short shouted sentences did well enough.

It didn’t much matter, because the huge crowd in the square had come here to see Kristina, not him. And the princess did like to give speeches.

She was quite good at it, too, adjusting the term “good” to nine-year-old standards. But those standards suited the mood of the crowd perfectly. Enthusiastic, cheerful, not hard to follow—and not too long either.

Soon enough, they were done. The only complication was produced by Kristina’s final words: I’m having a party, and everybody’s invited!

From their startled expressions, Ulrik deduced that the notables hadn’t planned further festivities of any kind. Much less a party to which the entire city had been invited.

He was amused to see the way so many of them looked toward Abrabanel, and began drifting in her direction. The young Sephardic woman was already issuing quiet orders to a coterie of other young women whom she seemed to have gathered around her. Calm, relaxed, confident. What was the difficulty of organizing an impromptu festival, after all, when one has already organized an impromptu overturn of the established order?

Ulrik wondered who the young women were. Most were probably commoners, but several of them were obviously noblewomen. They reminded him of the ladies-in-waiting that could be found in any royal court. At least, those courts run by very capable queens.

By mid-afternoon, the palace was close to a shambles. Not quite, because the mob that had poured into it was in good spirits and not particularly given to drunken revelry. Not this day, at least, when the party was in honor of a child. Still, there was simply no way that number of people could pass