"You know that. Most of our team's finances funnel through my hands."
"We'll close them out. They've become too obsessed with their wealth. They've forgotten why the Pedagogue was sent here. I'll break them, Jerry. They'll come crawling. Perhaps I'll send them back to the Pedagogue. Make them stay aboard as crew."
Kennedy shrugged. "Well, Peter MacDonald's going to hate that. He's developed into quite a high liver—gourmet food, women, one of the swankiest estates on the eastern continent."
"Ha!" Mayer snorted. "Let him go back to ship's rations and crew's quarters."
A servant entered the lushly furnished room and announced, "Honorable Gunther calling on the Honorables Mayer and Kennedy."
Martin Gunther hurried into the room, for once his calm ruffled. "On the western continent," he blurted. "Dean and Rosetti. The Temple got them, they've been burned as witches."
Amschel Mayer shot to his feet. "That's the end," he swore shrilly. "Only in the west have the barons held out. I thought we'd slowly wear them down, take over their powers bit by bit. But this does it. This means we fight."
He spun to Kennedy. "Jerry, make a trip out to the Pedagogue. You know the extent of Genoa's industrial progress. Seek out the most advanced weapons this technology could produce."
Kennedy came to his own feet, shocked by Gunther's news. "But, Amschel, do you think it's wise to precipitate an intercontinental war? Remember, we've been helping to industrialize the west, too. It's almost as advanced as our continent. Their war potential isn't negligible."
"Nevertheless," Mayer snapped, "we've got to break the backs of the barons and the Temple monks. Get messages off to Baron Leonar and young Mannerheim, to Russ and Olderman. We'll want them to put pressure on their local politicians. What we need is a continental alliance for this war."