1636: The Devil's Opera

  Simon’s eye caught sight of someone standing behind Elting—Master Schardius, smiling. His mind snapped out of its shock and leapt to the conclusion that the merchant was involved. That meant… He turned to Hans and pulled on his sleeve with urgency. “Crows, Hans! Crows!” He hoped Hans remembered their conversation from a few weeks ago.

  After a moment Hans dropped a hand on Simon’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “Very well, Herr Elting.” Hans’ voice was calm. When Simon looked, his face was still. It was the way he was around Master Schardius. He had taken Simon’s warning. The boy almost sagged in relief. “Let me make sure I understand you. You want me to fight this ‘champion’ from Hannover—tonight—and you will pay fifty thousand dollars to the winner.”

  “Correct.” Elting almost snarled.

  “Winner take all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “What?” A bewildered expression crossed Elting’s face.

  “Show me—show all of us—the money.” Hans pointed to Tobias and Todd Pierpoint. “Let them count the money.”

  Elting’s face grew red. “You doubt me?”

  Hans’ face could have been carved from stone. “They count the money, or you’ve made a long trip for no reason.”

  Elting’s face grew even redder, but he pulled a large purse from a coat pocket and handed it to Tobias. Simon watched with the others as the up-timer referee and the down-timer fight organizer pulled out five stacks of cash, put their heads together and counted the bills.

  “Fifty thousand, just like he said,” Herr Pierpoint announced after they restored the money to the purse and drew the strings closed. Tobias nodded in confirmation, ferret eyes wide. As the up-timer moved to hand the purse back to Elting, Hans held up a hand.

  “Keep the purse, Herr Pierpoint.” Hans turned to Elting. “Here are my terms.”

  “You can’t set terms on a fight,” Elting tried to bluster.

  Hans’ gaze was steady and cold. “You came to me with this challenge. Here are my terms.

  “One—that man,” he pointed to Herr Pierpoint, “is in charge of the fight. His rules apply. And his rulings are final.

  “Two—no one in the ring except for me, Herr Pierpoint and your ‘champion.’

  “Three—Herr Pierpoint will deliver the purse to the winner of the fight at the end of the fight.”

  “Four,” Elting spat out, “the fight continues until one of you is unable or unwilling to continue.”

  Hans considered that addition with a tilt of his head. “Or until Herr Pierpoint calls the fight over.”

  The two men exchanged nods, then Elting’s face flashed a vicious smile. “Meet your opponent, ‘Herr’ Metzger. Meet Elias Recke, champion fighter of Hannover.” He gave a shrill whistle. From the back of the crowd someone began pushing forward out of the shadows. A murmur grew in the crowd as the man came into the light.

  Simon’s first impression was “big.” Recke was a good two inches taller than Hans, his shoulders were a good hand’s span broader, and his head was like a block atop a neck like a tree trunk.

  The more Recke moved into the light, the more Simon’s heart sank. His face could have served as a model for Michelangelo’s Judas. Every edge was hard; eyes were set close together and deep-set, with black hair drawn to a widow’s peak over his forehead lending a demonic cast to his visage. The lights seemed to dim as he passed by them.

  Recke’s arms were long, his hands were huge, and his fingers were constantly flexing. The thought of those hands gripping him made Simon feel faint.

  When Recke stepped through the last of the crowd, he said nothing; just smiled cruelly and pointed one long, hard, thick forefinger at Hans, who muttered, “Now I understand.”

  * * *

  Ciclope sat at his usual table in the tavern, as far away from the bar and anyone else as he could manage. He nursed a mug of the noisome ale. That same kid with the weird arm had found him and delivered a message from Schmidt that they needed to meet. So here he was, waiting. He ought to be used to that by now, he thought to himself. After all, the man had always made them wait.

  Them. Thinking that word was like hitting a bad bruise, only in his mind. He still had trouble dealing with Pietro’s death. It wasn’t that he particularly liked the scrawny thief, but they had been working together for months now, so he was used to him. Maybe kind of like an old married couple, who take each other for granted; not that that was an idea that gave him much comfort. And Pietro was the only person in all of Magdeburg that he had trusted at his back—mostly—as much as he ever trusted anyone.

  The ringing had finally left his ears a couple of days ago, and he was walking straight without a constant feeling that he was going to fall. Best of all, his appetite had returned, so he knew he was doing better. Except for the pitiful excuse for ale that was currently slopping in the bottom of his mug as he swirled it. The only thing that would make that enticing to him would be if he was literally about to die of thirst—and then he was sure he’d have to gag it down. He honestly thought that the tavern keeper had managed to liquefy compost and was serving it from his ale barrel.

  Someone slid into the seat opposite him. He looked up into Herr Schmidt’s eyes.

  The man was still wearing the same ill-fitting clothes he’d worn at every one of their assignations, but he looked different somehow. His eyes were shadowed, and his face had a haggard look to it. He looked about as bad as Ciclope had felt right after the explosion, which was bad indeed.

  “Where’s your partner?” Schmidt said in a low voice.

  “Dead,” Ciclope muttered.

  “The explosion?”

  “Aye. We should have been clear of it, but something hit him in the head…” Ciclope shrugged.

  “Too bad.”

  “Aye.”

  Ciclope tensed as Schmidt placed a hand inside his jacket, but he drew it out only far enough to show the top of a purse.

  “I have some of the money I owe you,” the merchant said.

  “Keep it for now,” Ciclope muttered in reply. “When we leave, I’ll go first, then you can catch up to me and pass it to me then.”

  Schmidt relaxed a little and pushed the purse back under his jacket. “I’ll have more for you later.”

  * * *

  “Lieutenant.”

  The barely whispered word floated out from the mouth of the alley. It was evening, and dusk was closing in on the streets. The alley was already enshadowed in darkness. Gotthilf looked, and could barely make out a presence standing in the darkest part of the alleyway.

  Byron didn’t even hesitate. He turned smoothly and walked into the alley as if that had been part of his intent all along. Gotthilf followed on his heels, but his hand was inside his jacket on the butt of his .44 where it rode in the shoulder holster.

  “Ah, Demetrious,” Byron said in a low tone. “You’ve been a hard man to find lately.”

  A wry chuckle sounded from the darkness.

  “There needed to be some distance between me and the likes of you. A few of the people in the streets had remarked on how often you seemed to come looking for me.”

  “Ah.”

  That was not a good thing, Gotthilf thought to himself. If the people of the city decided that old Demetrious was a stooge and informer, not only would his ability to find information for them end, someone might take it into their head to end Demetrious as well.

  No, not good at all.

  “So, you’re here now. You have something for us?”

  “I hear you look for someone new,” Demetrious said, moving closer to them. “Someone perhaps not from Magdeburg, perhaps not even from this part of the world.”

  “You hear right,” Byron said. “A one-eyed man, maybe came here from Venice, maybe with another man.”

  “Ah,” Demetrious sighed. “Him.”

  “Him?” Gotthilf asked. “You know him?”

  “I know of someone who may be the man you seek.” Demetrio
us stepped up to them. “There is a man who wears a patch over his left eye who rode into Magdeburg from the south some time ago. This is a very hard man. No one likes him; most fear him, but do not know why. And he has a friend, a companion, who would go out at night from time to time, and always the next day someone in Magdeburg would discover they no longer possessed something that used to be theirs.”

  “A thief?”

  Demetrious’ shoulders shrugged in the gloom.

  “Perhaps. It is but a word, after all, when there is no proof. But that friend has not been seen of late.”

  Gotthilf and Byron looked at each other, and shared a surmise.

  “There is a man,” Gotthilf said, “who on the day of the great explosion was standing not far from the steam boiler. A rivet or bolt from the boiler struck him in the head like a bullet. His body now occupies a drawer in the city morgue.” It was funny, Gotthilf noticed, how his voice seemed to fall into the patterns and cadences of Demetrious’ voice. There was something about the old man’s voice that was just impelling.

  “This man, it is the friend?” Demetrious asked in an off-handed manner.

  “Had a knife made in Venice in his pocket,” Byron replied, up-timer speech cutting across the rhythms.

  “Ah.” Demetrious rubbed his hands together. “So the one-eyed man is now alone.” That wasn’t a question, Gotthilf noted.

  “Unless he’s made friends here,” Byron said.

  “Not this one,” Demetrious replied. “He does not reach out, not in friendship.” He rubbed his hands together again. “But you want him?”

  “Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “We want him. He may not be the murderer we suspect he is, but either way we need to talk to him.”

  “Murderer,” Demetrious said as if tasting the word. “That, he could be.” The informant said nothing for a moment. “I will look for him, but there is risk. You will remember this.”

  “You find him and he turns out to be involved in what we suspect he’s part of, and there will be a reward.” Byron was very definite.

  White teeth flashed in the dark alleyway.

  “A man always appreciates being appreciated. I will find you before long.”

  * * *

  Hans’ shoulders started to sag. Simon started to panic. But then the big man’s back stiffened, and he looked forward at Recke. He nodded. “I’m ready.” The crowd started chaffering among its members. Simon could hear the bets being made.

  Herr Pierpoint spoke up. “Well, I’m not. If I’m going to referee this fight,” the up-timer pointed at Recke, “he needs to understand the rules. And since he’s your man,” Pierpoint pointed at Elting, “you’d better make sure he understands them and abides by them, because I will call this fight in a moment if he breaks them.” The up-timer pulled the two Hannoverians together facing him and starting lecturing them, counting things off on his fingers.

  “Come on,” Hans said to Simon. For once the crowd ignored them as they pushed back toward their usual bench. Everyone was craning their necks trying to see the mystery fighter. They got to the front bench by the pit and Hans started taking off his jacket again.

  “Hans!” Simon hissed. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to fight,” Hans replied.

  “Why? You don’t need to do this.”

  “Two reasons. First, fifty thousand is a lot of money. It would keep Ursula safe and provide for her for a long time.”

  “Okay,” Simon replied. “I understand that. But is that enough of a reason to get yourself half-killed or worse when you could turn down the fight and do the providing yourself?”

  “Reason two: Schardius ordered me to lose the fight.”

  “What?” Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “He knew this was coming. Think about what he said tonight.”

  Simon thought back to earlier in the evening. What had the merchant said? But all things come to an end, don’t they? And true wisdom might lie in recognizing the end when it comes. “Oh.”

  “I didn’t understand it until the big man came out,” Hans said. “Schardius wants me to lose. He’s going to bet against me and rake in money.”

  “Are you going to lose?” Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Hans gave a grim smile. “Not on purpose.” His chest swelled, and he slammed a fist against it. “I fight for me. I don’t take orders from anyone here. I won’t lose for anyone, especially the good master,” he snarled. “He’s used me for the last time. I want that money, and I want to rub Schardius’ face in the dirt. I’ve done too much for him. No more. No matter what happens, I will never work for him again.” He spat on the ground. “That for the old carrion crow.”

  “What do you mean, he’s used you for the last time?”

  Hans bent over to whisper, “The man who went missing? Who was found floating in the river? His name was Delt. I found him and brought him to Schardius that night. He was angry with Delt for some reason.” He swallowed. “I never saw Delt again.”

  “Master Schardius killed a man?” Simon pulled away to look at Hans’ face. The boy was aghast.

  “No, but I know he was there. I know what they did.” Hans swallowed again. “I haven’t slept well since then.”

  Hans straightened up. Simon was stunned. Hans, his friend, had been a part of that? They stood in silence for long moments.

  The crowd began moving back toward them. Hans headed toward the ring. Simon stirred followed, only to be pulled up by Hans’ hand on his jacket collar.

  “You go sit with Gus.” He pointed to where the other fighter was standing, waving at them.

  “What?” Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I always go with you.”

  “Not this time.”

  “But I’m your luck!” Simon played his major card.

  “And you can be my luck from there.” Hans bent down and murmured, “You will be safer there. I want you out of the eye of Elting and Schardius.”

  Simon didn’t have an argument for that. He watched as Hans picked up a scrap of towel and walked off to edge of the ring. For the first time in a long time he felt alone, even abandoned. It was stupid, he knew, but it hurt to watch Hans climb up on the ring apron without him.

  Gus came up beside Simon. They looked at each other, and nodded. Simon thought Gus was no exchange for Hans, but he was a face that Simon knew and was therefore a comfort. They didn’t speak, and Gus didn’t try to put his arm around Simon’s shoulder or anything like that, but Simon was glad he was there anyway.

  Herr Pierpoint had finished lecturing Elting and Recke, for the big man was following the up-timer to the other end of the ring. Recke took off his coat and shirt. He turned to lay them over the top rope, and gasps and mutters broke out in the crowd.

  Simon felt his stomach churn. Recke’s back was a mass of scars. “Oh, that’s not good,” he heard Gus mutter.

  “Why?” Simon asked in alarm.

  “That man’s been flogged, not once but many times. That means he’s been in someone’s army. To be flogged that many times, he’s either stupid, wicked, or vicious. And no matter which it is, it means he’s dangerous.”

  Simon looked toward his friend.

  “Hans!” When he looked up, Simon pointed to Recke and shouted with urgency, “Wolf, Hans! Wolf!” Hans glanced at Recke, then back to Simon with a nod. Simon leaned back. He’d done all he could do.

  Herr Pierpoint moved to the center of the ring with his microphone. “Good evening on behalf of TNT Productions.” His voice boomed out over the speakers. Simon had finally gotten used to them.

  “There has been an unannounced change to our schedule. There will only be one fight tonight, for an unknown number of rounds.” He pointed toward Recke. “Fighting out of the green corner, the challenger in tonight’s main event comes from Hannover, where he is reputedly the toughest fighter in the city. Give it up for Elias Recke.”

  There was a smattering of applause, and a few boos, but most of the crow
d was silent.

  “Fighting out of the red corner,” Herr Pierpoint began while Hans climbed through the ropes, “here is Magdeburg’s resident champion, undefeated in his professional career, with a record of nineteen wins and no defeats. Give it up for Magdeburg’s own Hans Metzger.”

  The crowd erupted in cheers. Simon saw Recke looking around with a sneer on his face. Hans, expressionless, simply stood in his corner, waiting. It was very unlike him, he thought.

  The noise died away faster than usual. Simon must not have been the only one intimidated by the big man from Hannover. Herr Pierpoint continued. “You both know the rules. We won’t go over them again.” He pointed to Hans. “Are you ready?” Hans nodded. He pointed to Recke. “Are you ready?” Recke’s big head creaked down and up. Herr Pierpoint tossed the microphone over the ropes to Tobias and pointed to the timekeeper. The bell rang. He stepped back and waved the fighters forward.

  * * *

  Herr Schmidt placed his hands on the table, letting them aimlessly clasp and reclasp.

  “We need to change our attacks.”

  Ciclope could barely hear the man’s voice. He bent closer to him.

  “No more attacks on the project. The Polizei, the company, and the Committees of Correspondence will be watching things with very sharp eyes, right now.”

  Ciclope snorted. “I won’t argue with that. Besides, with Pietro dead, I couldn’t do another bomb or fire again anyway. That was his skill.”

  Schmidt nodded. “Well enough. Are you still willing to work for me?”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Ciclope retorted.

  “Well enough,” Schmidt repeated. “There is a man…the man I’ve been trying to hurt with what you were doing. I believe it is time to start looking for more direct ways to hurt him.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Ciclope sneered. “Kill him and be done with it.”

  “All right,” Schmidt said, still in a near-whisper, “how much would you ask to do it?”

  Ciclope’s sneer grew. The fool wouldn’t even say the word “kill”—he wasn’t even honest enough with himself to admit he was asking for a murder.