1636: The Devil's Opera

  “We need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Metzger looked around.

  “Someone will see us.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Byron chuckled. “Are you?”

  Metzger stood still for a moment, then reluctantly stepped into the mouth of the alley.

  “What do you want?”

  Gotthilf picked up the conversational thread.

  “We are not looking at you for anything, so rest at ease on that score. No, we want to ask you some questions about your employer.”

  “Master Schardius?”

  Aha, Gotthilf thought as Metzger visibly tensed. Jackpot, as Byron would say.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to know about?”

  Even under his loose-fitting clothing, Gotthilf could see almost every muscle in Metzger’s body tense up. The man obviously knew things he didn’t want to make known. The question was, were they the same things that he and Byron wanted to know?

  * * *

  Franz Sylwester stood outside the imperial palace in the Altstadt in Old Magdeburg, waiting in the cold along with most of the residents of the city for the arrival of Princess Kristina and her consort. He looked over at Marla and smiled. She was swaddled in so much clothing that it was almost a miracle she could move. He mentally recounted the layers: thermal up-timer underwear, doubled wool socks, heavy boots, jeans, her heaviest velvet divided skirt, two sweaters, a green down-filled jacket formerly her father’s, heavy gloves, a triple layer knit cap—pink with green and purple blotches—pulled down low over her forehead, and matching heavy scarf wrapped round and round her neck and face. Her gloved hands were in her jacket pockets, and he could barely see a glint of her eyes in the narrow gap between the lower edge of the cap and the top of the scarf.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  Her voice was so muffled by the layers of scarf that he almost didn’t hear her.

  “You.”

  “So I hate to be cold. Sue me.”

  Franz laughed and wrapped his arm around her waist. She snuggled against him. For all that she was a humorous sight, he didn’t begrudge Marla her attempts to stay somewhat warm. She did chill easily, he knew, and once she got cold it took forever to warm her up. He still remembered the ride on the river boats when they first came to Magdeburg over two years ago—had it really been that long? She got soaked in the rain because she wouldn’t stay in the shelter but had to be near the crate containing her precious piano. By the time they got to Magdeburg, he was almost beside himself with worry over her health, she had drooped so badly.

  Marla wasn’t the only one who seemed to be wearing everything they owned as they stood out in the cold February air. Most everyone in sight seemed to have on as many layers as they could fit into, but no one looked comfortable. Red noses and hands on ears seemed to be the order of the day. Franz felt sorry for the Marine guards in their new and ridiculously elaborate uniforms. He hoped that all the gilt and braid that weighed down their coats added warmth, but from the looks on most of their faces he suspected that was not the case.

  But the people he felt sorriest for were the players in Thomas Schwartzberg’s little band—or at least, the horn players.

  Thomas had managed to amass a group of fourteen brass players and six drummers; some from the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and some from the community. Trumpets, trombones, the wildly misnamed French horns, and tubas, combined with two snare drums and four tenor drums. Not a patch on the full-blown high school field band that Grantville mustered for festivities and parades, but still not bad. And for all that they were a “pick-up” group, as Marla put it, they had really cohered into a solid ensemble that could put forth an amazing volume of sound.

  But today the poor brass men were being tested to their limits. The temperature was well below the point where water would freeze, and there was a bit of a north breeze blowing. There was nothing they could do that would keep the brass warm. In fact, Thomas had fretted over what the cold would do to their intonation and timbre if the parade happened on a cold day—like today, for example. Dane Stevenson and Dallas Chaffin, the two most experienced up-time bandsmen of the group, had just shrugged.

  “It happens,” Dane had said. “You just do your best. Don’t bother trying to tune once you go outside. Just blow and go. And trust me, if it’s that cold, no one is going to be listening critically. They’re all going to be thinking about how soon they can get to a warm spot or can get a hot drink.”

  “Yep,” Dallas had confirmed. “Been there, done that. Just make sure your players haven’t had too much gin or schnapps beforehand trying to turn their blood into antifreeze.”

  The two young up-timers had laughed together after that, obviously sharing a memory of some kind. Franz reminded himself that he wanted to hear that story one day.

  The six drummers and two cymbalists, on the other hand, were all smiling a bit. Dallas had had a late brainstorm and come up with several small iron pots which he filled with lit charcoal and placed in front of their feet right when they took their positions. His excuse was that they had to do something to keep the leather drum heads at least sort-of warm, or they might become so brittle in the cold that they’d break when played. Franz wasn’t sure he believed it, but the drummers had all agreed loudly and longly, and as a consequence were all enjoying some slight amount of warmth. In fact, he noticed that the brass players had sort of curled back around the drums as much as they could, trying to pick up some bit of the warmth for themselves.

  Thomas Schwartzberg’s head swiveled to the right and cocked as if he was listening to something. A moment later, Franz could hear it, too; the sound of cheering as the vehicles of the princess’ cortege drew nearer. Within moments, the people near him started cheering and waving flags and banners and sashes in the air.

  The cars in the procession were moving at a slow pace, allowing plenty of opportunities for everyone who lined the streets to say they saw the princess, whether they really did or not. As the procession neared, Franz could only see various large fleshy men in the princess’ car. That stood to reason, he supposed. Princess Kristina was only nine years old, after all.

  The cheering redoubled in volume as the princess’ car pulled up to the area where the greeting committee and the honor guard were standing. The first man out of the car came out of the front door. He was very tall—perhaps even taller than Emperor Gustav—and was very large to boot, to the extent that the up-timer shotgun he carried in one hand seemed almost a toy of some kind. A more imposing, deterring guard Franz couldn’t imagine. He looked around alertly for a moment, then rapped once on the glass of the rear door.

  The door opened, and people started clambering out of the rear seat. Thomas turned and faced the band, pulled a baton out of one sleeve, and poised his hand in the air. As one, the brass players pulled their right hands out of their coats where they had been holding their mouthpieces in their armpits to keep them warm, plugged the mouthpieces into their horns, and applied them to their lips. All their eyes were on Thomas, who was watching the car out of the corner of his eye.

  The first man out was an obvious politician, but not one that Franz had seen before, so he suspected it was someone from one of the northern or western cities where the Committees had a strong presence. The man who followed him out to stand and straighten slowly was dressed in rich—but not gaudy—finery, and looked somewhat rumpled. By default, that had to be Prince Ulrik. Finally, the slight frame of the princess slid across the seat and out the door. When her face came into view, the crowd erupted into cheers. At the same moment, Thomas sketched a four-beat and launched the band into musical motion.

  * * *

  Byron spoke again, drawing Metzger’s attention. Gotthilf thought the man tensed even more. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Metzger’s hands had drawn into fists and raised before his body. Whatever his perception of Byron, he was definitely at least wary of him.

 
“We’re looking into several corpses found floating in the river, remember?”

  “Yah.”

  Metzger obviously wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

  “We’ve received tips…” Gotthilf began.

  “Tips?” Metzger looked confused.

  “We’ve heard rumors,” Gotthilf started over, “that someone influential in the city is having people killed who are…not meeting his expectations.”

  “Murdered because they disobey or won’t keep their mouths shut.” That was Byron’s contribution. Gotthilf reminded himself that being blunt might work to their advantage with this guy.

  “So? You think I had something to do with it?”

  Metzger’s face was giving nothing away.

  “No,” Gotthilf said. “Not that we know of. But your boss, on the other hand…” He let the pause build until Metzger’s eyes shifted. “We hear rumors that Schardius is the one ordering these killings.”

  That wasn’t an out and out lie, Gotthilf rationalized to himself. It did, however, stretch the truth to the point of dismemberment. If it got the man to talk, well, it was worth it. But his hopes of Metzger’s lips unlocking were quickly dashed.

  “I know nothing about anything like that.”

  “Word on the street is you do.” Byron being a blunt object again. Gotthilf watched Metzger’s face pale, and his fists did clench this time, for all that his features otherwise didn’t change.

  “Then the street lied.”

  “Look,” Gotthilf intervened before the two big men went toe to toe and nose to nose, “we are looking for the truth. If the rumors are wrong, fine. Tell us what is the truth, and we will move on.”

  “I have nothing to tell you,” Metzger insisted.

  “Now who’s lying?” Byron jumped back in.

  Metzger’s face went red, and his fists started to rise, but he stopped them before they got waist high. He looked at Byron, then he looked at Gotthilf.

  Gotthilf could see how hard his partner’s face was. From the tension he was feeling in his facial muscles, he suspected that his own face was similarly aligned, and his hand wasn’t far from the butt of his pistol.

  Metzger broke. His fists dropped and his shoulders slumped.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” he said in a weary tone of voice.

  “Can’t?” Byron said in a stern tone. “Or won’t?”

  Metzger shrugged. “Does it make any difference?”

  “Not really.” Gotthilf offered that. “But give me this much—is there something to tell?”

  Metzger hesitated, then realized that his hesitation was answer enough, so he nodded.

  “What are you afraid of?” Byron demanded.

  Metzger remained silent.

  The silence grew to a long moment. It was finally broken by Byron.

  “All right, we can’t make you talk. But you hear me, and hear me well, Herr Metzger: if one more person dies because you kept your silence, I will be all over you like stink on a knacker. I’ll be the first face you see when you leave your rooms in the morning, and the last one you see when you close your door at night. I’ll be picking your change up off the bar when you order a drink. I’ll take the last swig out of your bottle of gin. I’ll be watching you load and unload at the Schardius warehouse. I’ll hand you your towel at your fights. And all I need is one mistake on your part; just one, and you’ll be so deep in trouble you’ll need a miner’s lamp just to figure out how deep you are.”

  Gotthilf almost stared at his partner. That was more words than he’d heard out of him at one time since the beginning of their working together.

  Metzger stared at Byron, then shifted his gaze to Gotthilf.

  Gotthilf gave a firm nod. “Believe it.”

  The big down-timer shifted gaze between the two partners several times. His mouth tightened and twisted. “You do what you have to do,” he said. “Are we done now?”

  Gotthilf looked at Byron, who shrugged.

  “Yah, we are done.” Gotthilf waited until Metzger had started to turn to leave their confrontation. “But do not be surprised if we call you in for more discussions.”

  Metzger turned back. “If you keep this up, it will be my body you find in the river.”

  “Your choice,” Byron said coldly.

  * * *

  The band began pouring out the strains of Thomas’ work. He had entitled it the “Vasa March” in honor of the emperor’s dynasty. His explanation for that was he was honoring the emperor’s valor on the field of battle. Franz was a little skeptical that that was the reason; or at least, that it was the only reason. Musicians had for generations flattered those in power in order to reach positions of security and support. Franz had done something similar almost two years ago, when he had renamed the up-time Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 to be the Vasa Concerto No. 3. It was a custom, even a fact of life, for musicians. Looking through Marla’s eyes, he thought that might change in the next generation. He hoped so, but right now he wasn’t holding his breath.

  The march was loud, and vigorous. In the music from before the arrival of Grantville, low instruments usually just provided a foundation for the treble instruments to dance above. Franz was intrigued to hear that Thomas had written his march to feature the low brass. They were the ones actually declaring the primary themes, only to be echoed by trumpets and horns.

  And the percussion, oh my. Franz had to chuckle at some of the expressions on the nonmusician faces around him. Most down-timers never heard anything more than a small hand drum played by a traveling musician at fairs and markets when the sprightly dances were performed. The sound of rapid, heavy, orchestrated drums was as utterly foreign to them as…well, as an electric guitar would be, he supposed. It was only about four years ago, after all, that he himself had learned about them, and he still had some recollection of his initial reaction to them. “An avalanche of cacophony,” he had described it to his friends…or something like that.

  But he set those thoughts aside to listen to Thomas’ march. The low brass combined with the constant rolling patterns played on the tenor drums gave a sensation of listening almost to thunder—a thunder that throbbed and pulsed, a thunder that ebbed and flowed, a thunder that filled the square before the palace, yet didn’t cover up the sound of the higher brass or drive the Magdeburgers out in pain.

  The music came to a crashing end. Thomas lowered his baton and looked toward Franz and Marla. They both gave him an up-time thumbs-up, and he grinned in delight as he thrust the baton back into his sleeve and joined them.

  The speeches began. Franz leaned over to Thomas and muttered under the louder noise. “Well written, and well done.”

  Thomas flashed another grin at him.

  Franz learned something that afternoon: even politicians will bow to the weather, if it is severe enough. Every speech was mercifully short, even those of Prince Ulrik and Princess Kristina.

  The big surprise came at the end of Kristina’s speech.

  * * *

  Gotthilf watched as Metzger left the alleyway. He looked over at Byron, and was surprised to see a slight smile.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  Byron chuckled a bit, even though the smile faded. “We’ve got him. He’ll talk to us.”

  “I hope so. You were pretty hard on him there at the end.”

  Byron looked at him from under lowered brows.

  “He knows what’s happened, and he won’t tell us. That makes him complicit at best, if not an outright accomplice. You know what kind of man he is. Do you think he’d listen to the voice of reason?”

  As much as he didn’t want to say it, Gotthilf had no choice. “No.”

  “He’ll talk to us,” Byron repeated. “It’s just a matter of when.”

  “I hope you are right,” Gotthilf replied. “I really do not want to be in the room with Captain Reilly if they find another floater in the river.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long moment of silence, broken eve
ntually by the up-timer.

  “But it could be worse.”

  Gotthilf dipped his head and looked at his partner from under his own lowered eyebrows.

  Byron pointed south toward the palace. “We could be on parade duty.”

  “Point.”

  * * *

  “I’m having a party, and everybody’s invited!”

  There was a bare moment of silence before the cheering redoubled after the princess’ statement. Franz’s jaw dropped, and he looked over at the Magdeburg powers that be, who were beginning to cluster around Senator Abrabanel. He had noted her hanging back, letting all the other notables take the front ranks and present themselves to the princess, her consort-to-be, and to the crowds. After a moment, his mouth closed and he started to chuckle. It was obvious now to anyone with eyes just who held the reins today. All eyes turned to the senator, who started handing out marching orders. Attendant after attendant, most of them young women, left her presence with quick steps, some scattering in different directions but most heading into the palace.

  Franz was jolted when Marla grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him through the crowd.

  “Where are you going?” he asked in exasperation.

  “Inside,” she snapped back, voice still muffled by the scarf.

  “What?”

  She stopped and turned to face him. “There’s a grand piano in that palace, the one that Girolamo Zenti rebuilt and presented to the princess over a year ago. In the madhouse that’s getting ready to flow into the palace, I don’t expect anyone to be thinking about it. I want in there now to protect it. Now come on!”

  Franz now matched his wife stride for stride. Marla’s head was swiveling around, looking through the crowd.

  “There!”

  She changed course slightly. In a moment, Franz saw the slight figure of Mary Simpson appear out of the crowd as she won free of the crush around the princess.

  “Mary!” Marla called out. The admiral’s wife looked around and headed their direction. Marla didn’t even give the older woman a chance to speak, blurting out, “The palace piano! We need to protect it.”

  Mary said not a word, but turned and headed not for Rebecca Abrabanel, as Franz expected, but instead for the sergeant in charge of the Marine Guard. That worthy, already looking a bit nervous at the thought of the mass of people getting ready to invade his turf, bent down to listen to her.