1635: The Eastern Front by Eric Flint

arguing the matter. Truth be told, Drugeth wouldn't mind doing such an inspection tour again. It was possible that the Ottomans had decided to attack Austria.
    Murad was neither stupid nor weak-minded. He could study the up-time texts as well as anyone. Grantville's records with respect to Turkey were assumed to be even scantier than those relating to Austria. But Janos had his own spies in Grantville and he knew that was only true of the public records. There was one large private library in the town which, as it turned out, had a copy of a book by a man named Lord Kinross. The Ottoman Centuries, was its title. Janos had a copy of it himself, in his chambers in this very palace.
    Assuming that Murad had gotten his hands on a copy also—and it would be foolish to assume otherwise—he was quite capable of drawing some lessons from the history recounted therein. The section dealing with Murad's own reign was quite extensive. If Drugeth were the sultan, there was one simple lesson he'd most likely draw from the Kinross book. In the end, the great Turkish power would be brought down not by Persians, the current enemy of the Ottomans, but by the armies of Christian nations.
    So, Janos made no further demurral. He finished his glass of wine, rose, and gave his friend and emperor a little bow. "As you command, Your Majesty."
    The ruler of the Austrian empire and head of the elder branch of the great Habsburg dynasty looked up at Drugeth. Once again, from under lowered brows.
    "Stop gloating," he said.

Chapter 7
    A castle in the countryside, near Dessau
    "Please have a seat, Michael." Lennart Torstensson waved at a side table against the far wall. "There is wine, but if you prefer I can have some coffee made for you."
    The Swedish general who commanded the army of the USE had a sly smile on his face. Americans had a reputation among down-timers for being teetotalers—a reputation which any number of proper hillbillies had found quite disconcerting when they learned about it.
    There was some truth to the reputation, though. The Americans came from a land where clean drinking water was taken for granted. Alcohol was generally considered something a person drank in the evening, not something you consumed the whole day long. But for people in the seventeenth century, as had been true for most of human history, alcoholic beverages were a lot safer than water, unless it had been recently boiled.
    So, here it was, still before noon—and Torstensson was having himself a little fun. Poking the stiff and proper up-timer, to see how high he would jump.
    Mike returned the smile with a frown, as he studied the bottles on the side table.
    "No whiskey?" he asked mournfully.
    Torstensson chuckled. "I should know better, by now." He gestured toward the other two men in the room, who were already seated. "You have met Dodo, I believe. The more substantial fellow over there is the duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg—and now also the prince of Calenberg."
    The very plump nobleman gave Mike a cheerful smile. "Please! Call me George. Staff meetings are dreary enough without everyone stumbling over titles." He half-rose from his seat and extended his hand, which Mike shook.
    The other officer in the room did not follow suit, but Mike knew that wasn't due to rudeness. It was just the nature of the man. Dodo Freiherr zu Innhausen und Knyphausen was a professional soldier from East Frisia and had been one all his life. He'd started his career as a teenager fighting for the Dutch, and risen to the rank of captain by the time he was twenty years old. He'd been fighting for the Swedes since 1630. Mike didn't know him very well, but his best friend Frank Jackson thought highly of him. "He ain't what you'd call the life of the party, but he's solid as a rock," had been his summary judgment.
    After Mike took his seat, he looked around. He had to struggle a bit to keep from grinning. Talk about chateau generals! This staff meeting of the commander of the USE army and