He calmed himself, and began running through his options. Okay, if the Polizei captured Schardius, there wasn’t much he could do about that. But if Schardius managed to elude them, where would he go? Easy answer, Ciclope thought to himself—the warehouse. The place was stout enough to be a fortress, and who knows what all he had stashed there.
Ciclope pushed his own pistol back into his pocket, and headed for the western bridge across the ditch into the Altstadt.
* * *
“Halt!”
Captain David Beatty held up his hand, and the Marine detail around the emperor’s car stopped. This perforce caused the car to stop.
Erling Ljungberg and Baldur Norddahl stopped their horses alongside his.
“What’s toward?” Baldur asked, trying to find a comfortable position on the saddle.
“Gunfire,” Beatty said. “That way,” motioning to the north and a bit east; almost the direction in which they were traveling.
There came a few more shots, and this time they all heard it.
“Sergeant MacDonald,” Beatty snapped, “front and center!”
A large red-haired man stepped out of the Marine detail and saluted. “Aye, sir!”
“Take Private MacDougal with you, go find out what’s what up there, and bring the word back to us.”
“Aye, sir!”
The sergeant saluted again, beckoned to another Marine, then led off down the boulevard, unslinging his rifle as he did so.
“Trouble?” Ljungberg asked.
“I doubt it.” Beatty’s broadly accented tones were calm, almost serene. “But I’ll not risk the emperor or the princess. Or the prince, for that matter.”
Baldur grunted in agreement with that last.
“We will bide right here until we know what’s happening,” the captain finished. “And if I don’t hear word, or if I don’t like what I hear, then we fall back on the palace.”
Ljungberg looked back at the car. “How easy is it to turn that thing around?”
“No need.” The captain laughed. “Harold can drive it in reverse almost as fast as a horse will run.”
Ljungberg pursed his lips as more shots sounded from ahead of them.
* * *
Not for the first time in his life, Gotthilf cursed his lack of height. Schardius was running like a frightened prey animal, with long-legged Byron following like a sight hound with quarry in his gaze, even though Schardius shot back at them at least twice more. They swept east at a rapid pace, and it didn’t matter how fast Gotthilf moved his legs, he lost ground with every step.
“I didn’t ask to be short,” he panted. “It’s not fair.”
* * *
“All right, people!” Amber called out after Marla returned with makeup freshened and costume straightened. “Get in your places, and get set. We’re waiting on the emperor. I don’t know why he’s late, but it doesn’t matter. Our job is to be ready. As soon as he’s here, we begin. Break a leg!”
Amber went out the door that led to the stage right lower box seats hallway. It only took her a couple of minutes to make her way around to the front foyer, then through the main doors and down to the railing surrounding the orchestra.
“Franz!” she hissed. He turned slightly and leaned toward her from where he stood at the front of the orchestra.
“The emperor should be here soon. Keep an eye on the imperial box. When the imperial butt hits the imperial seat cushion, you start the overture. Got it?”
Franz flashed a smile, then turned back to the orchestra.
Amber straightened and looked around the house. It was filling nicely. Most of the box seats were occupied. The imperial box was the only one that was totally empty. The wine was starting to flow in some of those boxes, which worried her for a moment. But then she decided that Marla and Dieter could overpower anyone in the auditorium—could probably overpower all of them combined. A small smile appeared at the thought of someone trying to outshout Marla’s voice. Let ’em try.
* * *
Simon heard the gunshots as he stood on the east bridge from the Altstadt to the Neustadt. He had been staring at the water in the Big Ditch as it rolled under the bridge for some time. Now he looked up at the sound of the shots. It sounded like they were coming toward him. He moved off of the crest of the bridge toward the north shore, craning his neck to try and see what was going on.
* * *
Schardius fired back at them one last time as he ran. It was a shot fired half-wildly, but by a stroke of bad luck the bullet struck the leg of Phillip the patrolman. He fell with a shout of pain in front of Gotthilf.
Gotthilf slowed, but Karl Honister knelt beside the patrolman and waved Gotthilf on. “I’ll take care of him, you catch up to your partner.”
Finding new reserves of strength, Gotthilf stepped up his pace.
* * *
Simon heard running steps coming toward him. He looked to the west, and could see a man running for the bridge, with another man apparently chasing him.
Simon moved to one side to clear the way, but the first man reached out and grabbed the corner of the bridge railing and swung himself around in a tight arc, which brought him into a collision with Simon.
“Oof!”
They both went down. The man was panting hard, and he swung and scrabbled at Simon, trying to win back to his feet. Something hard connected with Simon’s head, and he saw stars.
The chasing man stopped at the foot of the bridge.
“Stop running, Schardius! Throw down the gun. It’s over.”
Simon recognized that cold voice. It was Lieutenant Chieske. He looked up, and through the fading stars he recognized the man who crashed into him as Andreas Schardius. But not the smooth, urbane, in-control Master Schardius. This wild-eyed man had disheveled hair, disarrayed, ripped, and stained clothes. His hands trembled.
“No,” Schardius panted as he scrambled to his feet. “No,” and the pistol in his hand began to rise as he started to back away.
* * *
Gotthilf was panting as he drew even with Byron. They were spread out, facing the wild-eyed Schardius, whose pistol was wavering between them. Gotthilf’s gun was rock steady in his hands, for all that his chest was moving like a bellows.
“Give it up, Schardius,” Byron said, edging forward a half-step. As Schardius’ pistol aimed toward his partner, Gotthilf eased forward himself.
“It’s over, Herr Schardius,” Gotthilf said. “Give us the gun.”
“No!”
* * *
Simon reached out and grabbed Schardius’ leg, wrapping his one arm around the man’s ankle and pulling his own body on top of the foot.
Schardius shouted as he tried to move, and discovered he was tied to that spot. Simon could see the pistol begin to waver towards him. He scrunched his eyes closed, and hunched his shoulders.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Several shots went off in almost the same instant. Simon flinched, and Schardius yanked his foot out from the boy’s hold. Flat on his back, Simon saw the merchant stagger back to the opposite side wall of the bridge and raise his pistol one more time.
Bam! Bam!
Simon heard two final shots from behind him. Schardius jerked backwards, overbalanced as the side wall caught him behind the thighs, and fell into the Big Ditch without a sound.
* * *
Lieutenant Chieske cursed and the detectives rushed to the railing, guns leading the way. Simon shakily pushed his way to his feet and moved to stand beside them. He looked over the side wall to see Schardius floating in the Big Ditch, face down, arms spread out like wings. After watching the body for long moments, with no movement other than the ripples of the water, it finally came to Simon that Schardius was dead.
At that thought, the cold hand that had wrapped Simon’s heart since he had seen Hans’ body that morning began to loosen and thaw. Quiet tears tickled down his cheeks, but there was a smile of sorts on his face. Justice had been done, in his mind, and he had played some small p
art in it. It was enough.
“Simon?” Sergeant Hoch said as he put his pistol away under his jacket. “What are you doing here?”
“I was following you to the opera house,” Simon replied. “I wanted to see you arrest Herr Schardius.”
“Well, that’s twice you’ve been in the right place at the right time,” Lieutenant Chieske said, resting a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “But let that be enough. You almost got shot this time.”
“It was worth it,” Simon murmured. “For Hans.”
* * *
Baldur came back from the side of the car, where he had been answering questions from the occupants inside.
“They want to know how much longer we’re going to be sitting here,” he reported.
“Well, I would say ‘As long as it takes,’” Captain Beatty said, “but since I can see Sergeant MacDonald and Private MacDougal returning, I think not much longer.”
The two Marines walked up to the captain’s horse. The fact that they had their rifles slung from their shoulders was an indication of how peaceful they felt the situation really was. They came to a halt, and saluted.
“Well?” The captain’s voice was dry.
“Och, ’twas not so much of a much,” Sergeant MacDonald reported. “Ain domned fool, a murderer and a rapist to boot, decided to play at guns with Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeant Hoch.” The sergeant’s wide grin exposed two missing teeth. Some of the Marines had personal experience with those two members of the Polizei, and had a healthy respect for them as a result.
“Ah,” the captain replied. “I assume the fool is no longer a problem?”
“Nae problem a’tall,” MacDonald chuckled, “seeing as how he is full of large holes and floating in the Big Ditch.”
“Take your places, then,” the captain ordered. He looked back at the car, then raised his hand and pointed ahead.
“Forward.”
* * *
There was a stir in the auditorium as Emperor Gustav, Princess Kristina, and Prince Ulrik filed into the imperial box. Franz raised his baton. All the orchestra members’ eyes were instantly on him, and instruments were raised to play.
* * *
“Tell me again why I’m coming to this,” Gustav muttered.
“Because Frau Marla is singing in it,” Kristina replied. “I like her.”
Gustav looked over her head at Ulrik.
The prince shrugged. “What she said.”
They took their seats in the box’s front row.
Chapter 68
The overture began with a slow passage by the clarinets in their lowest register. Mournful, plaintive, almost haunting, the melody ebbed and flowed. Friedrich was reminded of walks in forests where everything was shadowed.
At the end of the passage, the low part was taken over by the horns, and the clarinets began playing up an octave. Somehow, the effect was not just a doubling of the notes and more volume; there was an eeriness to the music that made Friedrich’s neck hair prickle.
Halfway through this second iteration of the passage, Friedrich noticed drums playing a beat pattern. They were so soft, he wasn’t sure when they had actually started, but as the pattern recurred over and over again, they grew a little louder with each repeat.
At the end of the second passage, Franz the conductor cut the woodwinds off, and led the drums to grow louder, and louder, and louder, culminating in a massive roll on every instrument that had a skin head, from the raspy snare drum to two of the big thundering kettle-drums.
Just as it seemed the thunder would deafen Friedrich, there was a crash of the cymbals, and the entire orchestra, led by the trumpets, entered with a majestic march.
Friedrich sat back, marveling at what Kappellmeister Heinrich Schütz had wrought. That was his last conscious analysis of the opera until the end of the first scene, as the music just subsumed him.
* * *
Amber, seated next to her husband Heinrich Schütz, leaned over and spoke in his ear.
“Superb, darling. Simply superb.”
His hand tightened its grasp on hers, and he flashed her a smile.
* * *
Byron slid his pistol back into its holster.
Gotthilf leaned over the edge again to watch the body slowly floating down the canal toward the river in the sluggish current. Byron walked over to stand by Gotthilf as Honister arrived.
“Phillip’s okay. Bullet creased his thigh. He was bleeding pretty good, but I wrapped his shirt around it, so he’ll keep until someone can get him to the hospital. Where’s Schardius?”
Gotthilf pointed over the railing. Honister took a look, and shrugged.
“We going to let him float out to sea?” Gotthilf asked.
“That’s a thought,” Byron said with a morbid chuckle, “except that the CoC might gig us for water pollution. So Sergeant Honister, here”—he grinned at Karl—“needs to go roust out some fishermen to grab the body and bring it to shore.”
Honister had a bit of a why me? look on his face, but he headed toward the riverbank.
Gotthilf looked over to where Simon was standing on the other side of the bridge, leaning back against one of the end pillars.
“Simon okay?”
“Yah. Been a long day for him, though.”
“That it has.”
* * *
As the overture drew to a close, the curtain opened to the first scene, where Arthur, played by the baritone Dieter Fischer, was trying to have a council of war with his captains and knights, only they kept making ribald jokes at his expense because of his upcoming marriage. The music was fast and light, and the musical repartee was witty and flew back and forth at a fast pace. The refrain was particularly infectious.
The king is getting married,
Call the bishop out.
The king is getting married,
And not to some old trout.
The princess is a beauty,
A thing of grace is she.
Oh, the king is getting married
Under the dragon tree!
Friedrich laughed right away, and as the song progressed there was more and more laughter sounding around him. The audience gave generous applause when it ended.
* * *
Marla entered from stage left as the applause died down. Amber sat up straight. There was a difference now, an air about Marla that she had never seen before. She stalked onto the set like a predator. There was an edge, a precision about her movements that was almost lupine. The audience saw it; felt it. The susurrus of conversation died away, even from the box seats. Everyone was fixated on the young woman in the red and gold costume, ignoring even the men who followed her as her captains.
Whatever it was, even the other singers and actors felt it. Amber saw Dieter stand straighter and taller as he stood forward as Arthur to welcome Marla/Guinevere. He sang an extended aria welcoming her to his court. She sang an extended aria thanking him for receiving her. The other actors sang a rousing chorus praising the wisdom of the two rulers, and urging them to get on with the marriage. That got a few chuckles from the audience.
Arthur and Guinevere moved downstage toward the audience and the lights dimmed behind them, giving an illusion that they were secluded. Their duet that followed had a formal title in the libretto and score, but Amber thought of it as “The Pre-Nuptial Agreement Song.” Arthur and Guinevere circled around each other musically and physically, testing each other’s commitment, and striving to retain their rights as independent rulers.
It was interesting, Amber thought, that even during the dress rehearsal Dieter had always come off as slightly less than Marla in every scene they shared, even though he was physically larger. It would be hard not to, of course; good singer though he was, Marla’s pipes were just that much better than his. But tonight, standing there in his costume of tin armor and imperial purple cape, Dieter was holding his own. Or, just maybe, tonight Marla had moved to a higher plane and dragged Dieter along with her.
Either way, as they mov
ed closer physically, musically, and relationally in the plot, Dieter tonight had a dignitas that was serving him well.
The duet ended with them enfolding each other’s hands, admitting their love and pledging to each other.
More applause. Amber beat her hands together like everyone else, although she did draw the line at cheering. There were those around her, though, who felt no such compunction.
* * *
On stage, Arthur and Guinevere joined hands and walked toward the figure of a bishop who progressed from the rear to join them. The opera chorus joined the characters in celebrating the marriage of Arthur and Guinevere in high style. The music sounded very liturgical, but was richer and more resplendent. Everything climaxed in an awesome display of harmony and counterpoint as the chorus divided into an eight-part choir and sang a short fugue on Alleluia as Arthur and Guinevere both knelt before the bishop and he placed crowns on their heads.
The chorus ended in a resounding Amen as the two rulers stood and faced the audience and Arthur drew and raised his sword.
Friedrich wasn’t a musician, but he could recognize great art when he heard it. He clapped until his hands hurt. He wasn’t the only one.
The lights blacked out for the scene change.
* * *
Gotthilf looked around as Karl Honister and Dr. Schlegel joined him and Byron to watch the fishers they’d rousted out to retrieve the body of Schardius before it vanished downstream.
“Yes,” Dr. Schlegel said, “my assistants will have it on the way to the morgue just as soon as it gets on land and they get back from taking your patrolman to the hospital. Nasty wound in the thigh he’s got, but nothing life-threatening.” He looked over the bridge railing. “And as far as this one is concerned… But based on your evidence, I doubt I’ll need to do much of an examination of him. It’s pretty obvious what he died from, and you were there when he died.”
The fishers managed to drag the corpse into the boat with them without capsizing. They worked their oars to turn the boat, then headed for the pier where they were standing.