"I have news," Lukasz Opalinski announced, as soon as his friend Jozef Wojtowicz entered the room which served Opalinski as a combination library and small salon.
Jozef closed the door behind him. "What could be so urgent that I had to drop everything and come here all the way from Poznan? Two days it took me, in this horrid weather."
"Oh, that's nonsense. Spring has arrived, you sissy."
"There is snow on the ground, Lukasz. And it's cold. Especially spending two days on horseback. More than two, in fact. I couldn't make it here by nightfall yesterday and had to spent the night at an inn a few miles away. A very wretched inn. Even the hogs at the place were miserable."
"Well, of course it's cold and there's snow on the ground. We're still in March—but! The equinox was four days ago. So we are well into spring."
"And you haven't even offered me a drink yet."
Opalinski waved at a nearby side table, quite heavily laden with bottles of various kinds of liquor. "Help yourself. But when did you start drinking in the morning?"
Wojtowicz took a seat on a chair not far from the divan where Opalinski was lounging. He did so without giving the side table so much as a glance.
"I fear for my chances at beatification," he explained, "should I add excessive drunkenness to my other vices."
"I'd say those chances are so close to non-existent it hardly matters."
"You never know. And I repeat, what is so urgent?" Wojtowicz gave Opalinski's hands a flamboyantly intense scrutiny. Which was perhaps peculiar, since the hands held nothing by a few sheets of paper. "So urgent, I now notice, that apparently you haven't been drinking this morning. Despite the fact that your own chances for beatification rank somewhere below Attila the Hun's—albeit, yes, I'll give you this much, higher than that of the average Polish magnate."
His wealthy friend chuckled. "That last witticism is closer to the mark than you realize." He gave the sheets of paper in his hand a little jiggle. "I just got a report from one of the spies I hired at your recommendation—at a frightful cost, I might add."
Wojtowicz shrugged. "Good spies are expensive. There are plenty of cheap spies, of course. If you ever find one who isn't completely useless—and usually a double agent—please let me know. And what does your costly but effective spy tell you?"
"He found out who assassinated Bohdan Chmielnicki. As well as who gave the order."
"As to the last . . . Samuel Laszcz, would be my guess. Failing that, one of those headstrong Radziwills."
"Mine, too—but we'd both have been wrong. No, it was Janusz Tyszkiewicz."
Wojtowicz's eyes widened. "The voivode of Kiev? But . . ."
"Yes, I know. But that suggests involvement by the crown. Given the king's favor to the Catholic church and the fact that Tyszkiewicz is a Catholic partisan."
"Say better, a Catholic fanatic."
Opalinski looked down at the papers in his hand. "But there's more. According to the spy, the plot was the product of a cabal between Tyszkiewicz, Samuel Osinsky—he's the Seneschal of Lithuania, no less—and none other than Jeremy Wisniowiecki."
"Wisniowiecki? He can't be more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old."
"Not even that. He's twenty-two." Opalinski grinned. "A bit young, one would think, for this sort of scheming. But perhaps he drinks in the morning."
Wojtowicz turned his head and spent a few seconds examining a painting hanging on a nearby wall. There was nothing unusual about the painting. It was simply one of many portraits hanging on the many walls of the Opalinski castle at Sierakow. All of them depicted various members of the illustrious family going back several generations.
Some of them had even been illustrious in truth. A goodly number more had been pure wastrels. Being born into one of the great Polish or Lithuanian magnate families automatically gave a young man a political and military career in the Commonwealth, unless he was an outright mental defective—and provided, of course, that he desired such a career. The same exalted status also gave such young men the opportunity to pass through their entire lives doing absolutely nothing useful and productive, but simply enjoying themselves.
A great many made that choice—and were then, typically, the most vociferous defenders of the rights and privileges of the Commonwealth's nobility. And the most savage when the lower classes presumed to challenge them, or were even too loud in their complaints.
Jozef had disliked the type even as a boy. Partly, perhaps, simply because he did not have their option. As an acknowledged bastard of a great magnate family, he had been given many opportunities and privileges which would have been denied to him had he been a commoner. But, still, he was a bastard. He was allowed to work in fields reserved for the szlachta—but he was expected to work.
Being fair to himself, though, Jozef was almost sure that he would have chosen a productive life devoted to the good of the Commonwealth even if he'd been legitimately born. Even, he liked to think, if he'd been born a commoner—although in that case, of course, his options would have been far more limited.
Whatever the reason, he'd entered his manhood with a sharp dislike for noble idlers. The months he'd spent in Grantville had transformed dislike into detestation; contempt into loathing—and aversion into a determination to destroy the lot of them. As a class holding power, if not as individual people.
"And what is so fascinating about my grandfather Jan?" asked Lukasz.
"You've never met them," mused Jozef, still studying the portrait. "Or, if you have, it would only have been one or two individuals."
"You're speaking of the Americans?"
"Yes. I'm sure you've been told that they are a humble folk, once you strip away the veneer of their technical wizardry and power." Wojtowicz chuckled. "That is the biggest lie ever told. They are the most arrogant people you can imagine. So arrogant that they feel no urge to proclaim their superiority over others. They simply take it for granted and go about their business, certain in the knowledge that any American with the birthright of their culture—culture, Lukasz, not blood—is the superior of any noble family, be its blood even royal."
He took a deep, slow breath. "And, in the end, I came to agree with them."
Opalinski's eyes widened a bit. "Oh, surely not."
Wojtowicz turned his head away from the portrait to look at his friend. "Oh, surely yes. First, because it is true—and the truth has been put to the test. Ask yourself a question, Lukasz. Do what the Americans would call a mental experiment. Imagine a similar-sized group of Polish and Lithuanian szlachta—say, the Sejm in full session—which had mysteriously found itself transposed in time and place the way they did. Planted, let us say, in the middle of the Roman Empire during one of its many civil wars. Would they have done as well? Would they even have survived?"
Opalinski pursed his lips. "Survived . . . yes. Many of them, certainly. If nothing else, most szlachta have martial skills, and those are always in demand. And command respect, for that matter."
Jozef scratched his jaw. "I will give you so much. And the rest? Would a few thousand szlachta have shaken the world of Rome the way a few thousand Americans have shaken—even transformed, in many ways—our own world?"
Opalinski thought about it for a while. Then, smiling ruefully, shook his head. "I think not. If nothing else, they would have immediately taken to quarreling."
"Yes, they would. And, to go back to my point, the second reason I came to agree with the Americans was because their viewpoint has the great advantage of not requiring my own abasement. Nothing prevented me, I eventually realized, from adopting the same attitude."
Lukasz peered at him, almost owlishly. "You've not struck me as being especially arrogant since your return. No more than usual, at least—and that's just the unfortunate byproduct of the fact that you're smarter than almost everybody else."
He waved his hand magnanimously. "A small enough failing—and I forgave you for it many years ago. But I'll not argue the point any further, since, as you say, I've never met any Americans. Not even one, as it happens."
He sat up a bit straighter. "But we've strayed from the point, Jozef. Yes, that young snot Jeremy Wisniowiecki is involved. Right in the thick of it, in fact."
"But why would the others involve him? Leaving aside his youth—and in his case; I've met him; the term 'callow youth' is quite appropriate—he's difficult to deal with, by all accounts. Not only arrogant but self-willed to the point of lunacy. The man quarrels constantly, and has done so since he was a boy."
"Well, as to that, I suspect the reason is that he was their connection to the assassins. The leader of whom was a man named Stefan Czarniecki—"
"Never heard of him."
"—and the reason you've never heard of him is that you don't associate with his circles. Neither do I. Neither does almost any respectable man—unless, like young Wisniowiecki, you're the scion of a great family which has used their services in the past."
"Whose services?"
"The Lisowczycy."
Wojtowicz grimaced. "He's one of them? This Stefan Czarniecki was one of Alexander Lisowski's men?"
"So it seems, although he may never have served under Lisowski himself. Lisowski died in October of 1616, and the first record of Czarniecki my spies could uncover was that he fought with the Lisowczycy at the Battle of the White Mountain. That was two years later."
"How old is Czarniecki?"
Lukasz shook his head. "My spies found no records. There may very well be no records. Czarniecki claims to be szlachta, and he's fierce enough that no one is going to contest the matter openly. But no one really seems to believe it, either. From his appearance, my spies estimate that he's somewhere in his middle thirties. No older than forty, certainly."
"Which would make him a bit too young to have fought in the Dymitriads with Lisowski."
Again, Jozef made a face. The Lisowczycy!
Even for eastern Europe, with its incessant wars of the past few decades, the Lisowczycy were notorious. Also known as the Straceńcy, the "lost men," they were a mercenary force of light cavalrymen which had been prominent in the many conflicts in the region for a quarter of a century. Their forces were mostly drawn from the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, but men joined them from all lands in eastern Europe. Their numbers varied, depending on circumstances, anywhere from a few hundred to several thousand.
They were named after Aleksander Jozef Lisowski, a Lithuanian nobleman born sometime around the year 1580. Little was known of his youth. He first came to notice during the Moldavian magnate wars, initially in the camp of Michal Waleczny, then as a supporter of Jan Zamoyski.
In 1604, toward the start of the war with Sweden, the Polish Sejm—not for the first time—neglected to raise the funds to pay its soldiers in Livonia. What followed was one of the so-called konfederacja, which were a peculiarly Polish tradition in which what amounted to a mutiny received semi-official status and quasi-legitimacy. Lisowski had been one of the ringleaders.
This konfederacja had been more brutal than most. The mutineers decided to recompense themselves by plundering and savaging the local civilians—not caring in the least that many of the civilians in question were Polish subjects. The official response to the mutiny was ineffectual, as was so often true, and not long thereafter Lisowski and his supporters joined the rokosz of Mikolaj Zebrzydowski, also known as the Sandomierz Rebellion.
A rokosz was another peculiarly Polish institution. What amounted to a rebellion—and would have been regarded as outright treason in most realms—was given semi-official recognition in the Commonwealth. Just one of many ways in which the supremacy of the aristocracy was sanctified, even over the power of the royal family.
The forces of King Zygmunt III eventually triumphed in the ensuing civil war, at the battle of Guzow, although the Vasa dynasty thereafter acquiesced to the pretensions of the nobility. Aleksander Lisowski himself became not much better than an outlaw. Fortunately, like many such rebels and outlaws before him, he found shelter with one of the great magnate families which, for its own reasons, wanted to thumb its nose at the king. In this instance, with the powerful and wealthy Lithuanian Radziwills.
Lisowski's luck had a Russian as well as Lithuanian cast. Muscovy's Time of Troubles had begun, and it wasn't long before Lisowski and his followers were meddling in the Russian lands. He became a partisan of one of the pretenders to the Muscovite throne, the so-called False Dmitry II. In 1608, as the leader of a mercenary force consisting of soldiers of fortune from everywhere in eastern Europe—Poles, Lithuanians, Don Cossacks, Germans, Swedes, Tatars, you name it—he managed to defeat the army of Vasily IV near Zaraysk. Vasily was the legitimate Muscovite heir, insofar as the term "legitimate" applied at all during the Time of Troubles.
From there, Lisowski went on to besiege Moscow itself, but his forces were defeated at Niedźwiedzi Bród and were stripped of most of their loot. Lisowski and his men continued fighting in the ensuing Muscovite wars; sometimes winning, sometimes losing—and always expanding their reputation for brutality and pillage.
Eventually, in 1616, while encamped on the Polish-Muscovite border, Lisowski fell ill and died. His men adopted the name Lisowczycy—"Lisowski's Men"—in his honor, and continued their activities as a mercenary force. They had played an important role fighting for the Austrian emperor in his defeat of the Bohemian Winter King at the Battle of the White Mountain.
"I wouldn't think a scion of the Wisniowiecki family would have direct contact with such adventurers," said Jozef.
Opalinski's lip curled a little. "Most wouldn't. But young Jeremy is said to fancy himself as a terrifying figure on the battlefield. A veritable Achilles, reborn."
"Based on what? If I recall correctly, his military experience is limited to the recent campaign to relieve the Russian siege of Smolensk. In which he did nothing of any note."
"He claims unspecified exploits in the Netherlands, as well."
By now, Jozef's lip was curled as well. "Not bashful, is he?"
"No more than Lucifer. The point being, that it seems Jeremy Wisniowiecki believes that being associated with the Lisowczycy enhances his martial stature."
"In short, he's engaged in what the Americans call 'slumming.'"
At Lukasz's raised eyebrow, Jozef explained the term. He concluded by saying: "But I still don't see what in this news was so urgent that you needed me to come here immediately from Poznan."
Lukasz's eyebrow rose higher still. "No? I would think it was obvious. We must be off, my good and sturdy confederate. Or should I say, 'fellow cabalist'? Perhaps 'companion in conspiracy'?"
"Friend will do just fine," said Jozef, a bit stiffly. "Off where? And when?"
"On the morrow. To Prague, of course, where else?"
Seeing Wojtowicz's frown, Opalinski clapped his hand to his forehead. "Oh, I forgot. The other news." He reached into a pocket of his coat and drew forth some more sheets of paper.
"I have a spy in Prague, as well. Even more expensive, this one. And he tells me that Don Morris Roth has already begun the creation of an armaments industry in the city."
Jozef's frown became a glare. "Prague is two hundred miles away. A week's travel even in good weather—which this is certainly not. There is snow on the ground, Lukasz. It's cold."
"Oh, nonsense. It's not that cold. It's almost April. We'll probably see flowers blooming along the way."
Some subtlety in his friend's expression alerted Jozef. He reviewed in his mind all of Lukasz Opalinski's tendencies, traits and characteristics. And his history.
"There's a woman in Prague," he said accusingly.
Opalinski rose and went to the side table. "It's time for a drink, I think. Surely, afternoon has arrived by now."
"Isn't there? Answer me."
"Well, of course there are women in Prague. It's a big city. One of the biggest in Europe. There must be thousands upon thousands of women residing in the place. Hundreds more, simply there on a visit."
"Lukasz!"
Opalinski turned away from the side table with a drink in each hand. He offered one of them to Jozef. "Oh, stop fussing at me. As it happens, one of those—must be hundreds and hundreds—of women on a visit is Izabela Tęczyńska. You remember her, I'm sure."
Jozef's glare might have matched Lucifer's, by now. "Of course I remember her. How could I not? Given that you made such a fool of yourself over her, when she and her family came to visit your family last year."
"Stop exaggerating. Perhaps I was a bit over-enthusiastic in my praises of her charms. I can see where that might have bored you."
"I was not bored in the least. How could I have been? When I had to prevent you from precipitating a duel with the Tęczyńska family's retainers."
"I said, stop exaggerating."
Jozef actually had to control himself from gobbling. "Exaggerating? You were as drunk as the proverbial lord and determined to smuggle your way into the private quarters of the lady in question."
"Would have succeeded, too, if it hadn't been for your interference." Smugly: "She was rather taken by me, you know? Told me she'd leave the window unlatched."
"Yes, I know! A duel, as I said. Insofar as a naked man running down the streets with nothing more than a candlestick for a weapon can be said to 'duel' armed retainers of a magnate family. Each and every one of whom was selected for his martial prowess. No better than Lisowczycy themselves, really."
Lukasz's hand was still outstretched, holding the drink. Jozef seized the goblet and drained half the contents in one long swallow.
"Pfah. At least promise me you won't try to smuggle yourself into her quarters, this time."
Lukacs reached back to the table and seized the liquor bottle. "Hold out your goblet," he said. "Have some more. You need it, in this foul weather."
* * *
Some hours later, over dinner, Jozef returned to the question that had puzzled him earlier in the day.
"But what do you really think, Lukasz? It's hard to imagine Janusz Tyszkiewicz being involved in the plot to assassinate Chmielnicki, unless the plot had the tacit approval of the king."
"Which it might well have had, of course." Opalinski shrugged. "There's simply no way to know yet. Keep in mind that there are certain to be several conspiracies underway, by now, most of which—probably all of which—are still fuzzy at the edges and unclear of their precise goals."
"As is our own," muttered Wojtowicz.
"Don't always be so gloomy. The point is that, at this stage, it's perfectly possible that what is eventually bound to become two conspiracies at odds with each other—with knives at each other's throats, more precisely—is still mushed together in a singly very sloppy cabal."
"Those two sharply-defined conspiracies being . . ."
"I'd think it was obvious. There is bound to develop a royalist conspiracy, first of all, determined to abase the pretensions of the nobility and give the crown the same authority it would have in most realms."
Wojtowicz thought about it. "Yes . . . and it'll be strongly pro-Catholic, as well."
That was inevitable, given the Polish Vasa dynasty's allegiance to the church. The rest . . .
Followed just as inevitably. The commitment of Polish and Lithuanian magnates to freedom of religion was more an issue of power than religion, as such. Most of the magnates were Catholic themselves, after all. But some were Protestant—and what was of paramount importance to all magnates, regardless of creed, was their own unquestioned supremacy on their own lands. For that reason alone, they would not accept any state religion that encompassed the whole Commonwealth.
So there would be another faction formed, championing the interests of the great magnates. And it was sure to be at least as rabid as any royalist faction. Probably more so. As a rule, the great magnates of Poland and Lithuania had all of the vices of monarchy and none of its virtues. They demanded, on their own lands, what amounted to the privileges of royalty—but refused, in return, to accept any responsibility for the realm as a whole.
There were some exceptions, of course. Josef's uncle Stanislaw Koniecpolski was one of them. But not many.
"A real mess, isn't it?" said Lukacs.
"And the worst of it," replied Wojtowicz, "is that our own course of action is still so unclear."
"I said. Stop being so gloomy. Some prospects are clear enough, I think."
Jozef scowled. "Yes. Your lust. My maledictions and misericorde."
"Stop it, I say! It's springtime, Jozef."
* * *