Free 1635 The Papal Stakes by Eric Flint, Charles E. Gannon

minutes after they found your cloak, they would know that we either fled to the north or the south. So maybe they had to split up into two search parties, but any way you slice it, we’re lucky we’ve gotten this far without any sign of—”
    Over the stony roar of the plummeting Acquafraggia, Tom thought he heard a faint prapf!— and the next moment, he felt a burning stripe across his left buttoc k. Damn it, he thought as he staggered, more from the pain than the grazing rush of the musket ball fired at long range, hit in the ass again?
    Grinning because he could still find humor in the situation, Tom did not fall, thanks to the ready hand of Matthias, their geekish down-time radio operator. Who asked solicitously, “Can you travel, Herr Kapitan?”
    Tom nodded, saw Matthias’ relieved smile—and then another musket ball went neatly into the down-timer’s right temple. It came out above his left ear in an eruption of bone and brains at the same moment that the weapon’s report reached them. Which meant that some of their pursuers were much closer than they had thought.
    “Run!” Tom shouted at the top of his lungs. “Everyone! Now! ”
     
    On the one hand, Miro was glad for the tail wind out of the north. Keeping a good distance from the alp known as the Tscharnoz to the west, Franchetti was catching at least seven miles per hour of free forward speed. That made it possible to throttle back the four, thirty-horse-power up-time mower engines propelling the dirigible, and thereby, save a considerable amount of fuel.
    The downside of this situation was that it put Miro, along with two thirds of the passengers, downwind of the motors. Along with the burner, these engines left little doubt as to the origins of their fuel.
    “Damn,” said Sherrilyn, wrinkling her nose. “Smells like a dead sheep. Being cremated in its own rotting fat.”
    “Yeah, a sheep that died eating codfish,” Harry expanded.
    “Who washed it down with the nastiest rotgut ever brewed from Satan’s own piss,” added Juliet, with a punctuating shriek of disgust and despair.
    Donald Ohde shrugged. “Ah…I’ve smelled worse, I have.” They all looked at him. “Can’t think where, though.”
    “Matija’s drawers,” Felix sneered.
    “Your obsession with my drawers—and their contents—is ungodly, you sodomite.”
    Gerd, not to be left out, looked up, sleepy-eyed as ever. “Get a room, you two,” he advised. Then he sent a questioning glance toward the up-timers of the Crew. “I think that line is from a movie we have seen, ja? ”
    George Sutherland, one arm around his wife, the other gesturing grandly at the white-fanged Alps surrounding them, exclaimed. “It’s a fine day to be flying, here over the very roof of the world, with all my friends.” He sucked in a great lungful of the noxious fumes. “And so refreshing, too.”
    Miro wondered if the banter ever—ever—stopped. Sometimes, it abated, but rarely and not for long. It seemed to be an essential part of the social glue that held the Wrecking Crew together. Which, he supposed, made it a good thing. But he was outside of it, just as he was outside of their circle.
    Franchetti shouted at Miro over his shoulder. “Don Estuban, look ahead.” He cocked his head toward the horizon. “Do you see it? The Lai di Marmorera?”
    Miro squinted. A smooth curve of deep ultramarine nestled between close-set mountains some miles ahead. He pointed at it over Franchetti’s shoulder. “In that valley, you mean?” Frankly, it wasn’t a valley so much as it was a flat-bottomed gorge.
    “ Si ; we head there. Then south to the Septimer Pass. We have gone more than half the way. Almost two-thirds.”
    Harry had come to stand alongside Miro. “What are we looking at?”
    Miro pointed again. “The Lai di Marmorera. Beyond that lies Bivio and the Septimer Pass.”
    “Lake Marmorera?” Harry’s brow wrinkled, one eyebrow shot up, and in that moment, Miro saw why the young rogue had