1636: The Devil's Opera

  Telemachus made another face and headed back to his press.

  “So if you don’t have a commission for us, what is the occasion for your dropping by?” Patroclus asked.

  “I need a poet,” Marla said. Patroclus raised an eyebrow, and she continued, “I have a song with English lyrics, and I need them translated into good German. But it can’t just be a literal translation; a few of the lines will need to be modified to fit the modern circumstances. That’s going to take poetic skill. So, I’m hoping you know a man we can contact.”

  “Hmm.” Patroclus rubbed his chin, leaving a trace of ink behind. “A poet, who reads up-timer English, and is skilled at his art. And is in Magdeburg. I can think of several who can write doggerel, good enough for that.” He nodded at the broadsheet that Franz was still holding. “But one who is truly worthy of the name poet?” He shook his head. “My mind is empty.”

  Telemachus turned around from the typesetting bench he was working at. “Logau might be able to do it.”

  Patroclus looked back at his brother. “Who?”

  “Friedrich von Logau. You know, the guy who wrote that epigram you like so much:

  “Was bringt den Mann zum Amte?

  Vermutlich seine Kunst?

  Gar selten, was denn anders?

  Fast immer Geiz und Gunst.”

  Franz saw a hint of confusion on Marla’s face. For all that she was adept at the Amideutsch that was common around Magdeburg and Grantville, and for all that she was better than adequate at the local dialect and in the specialized language of music, poetry was another level of skill she hadn’t fully developed yet. He ran through the epigram in his head one more time, then translated it for her as:

  “What brings a man into public office?

  Presumably his ability?

  Very seldom, so what else?

  Almost always, greed and connections.”

  “Hah!” Marla’s face lit up. “Okay, I don’t know kielbasa from bratwurst as far as German poetry goes, but if that’s his attitude, I think I like the man.”

  “The CoC like him,” Telemachus said before he turned back to his work.

  “I can see why. So where do I find him?” Marla turned back to Patroclus.

  “He has been writing things for the Times-Journal.” He shrugged. “Start with them.”

  * * *

  Ciclope and Pietro moved to the side of the road and stopped to rest their horses. Magdeburg had been in sight in the distance for some time, but Ciclope saw no reason to exhaust the animals. They were pretty worn as it was. It had been a long fast ride from Venice, and there had not been much grain available for a lot of the way. And truth to tell, neither he nor Pietro were the most accomplished riders around, although they were somewhat better now than they were when they began the ride. Now that the end was in sight, he didn’t begrudge their mounts a few moments of rest.

  “So tell me again, One-Eye,” Pietro muttered, “what are we going to be doing here? And why did we come all the way from Venice to do it?”

  Ciclope hardly ever thought of his birth name. For years, ever since he had lost his left eye in a desperate fight, he had gone by the Italian form of Cyclops. It piqued his sense of humor; he was a solid bulk of a man, but not inordinately large, and the thought of being compared to a giant did make him smile a bit every now and then.

  “Pietro, how many times do I have to tell you…”

  “One more time. What are we going to be doing?”

  Ciclope sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is the boss got a request to send two men to Magdeburg who will not be known to the residents nor to the up-timers from Grantville, and who ‘know how to handle difficult situations.’”

  “Sounds to me like somebody is trying to be clever.” Pietro spat to the off side of his horse.

  “Perhaps,” Ciclope nodded. “But the boss owes a favor to the guy who sent the request, so here we are. And we don’t dare leave without doing the job.”

  Pietro shuddered. “Nay. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this land of barbarians, and if we were to go south of the Alps back to civilized country, the boss would find us.”

  Ciclope reached up and adjusted his eye patch. “Sooner we get into town, meet the new boss, and get the job done, the sooner we can get back to Venice.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The two men urged their horses back into motion, and headed for the capital of the USE.

  Chapter 12

  Friedrich von Logau sat in Walcha’s Coffee House, doodling in his pocket notebook while his friends argued. Gathered around the table was a group of poets and writers from all over Germany, there to seek patrons and to partake of the capital city’s élan.

  “Lovecraft was the greater writer,” intoned Karl Seelbach, Friedrich’s fellow Silesian. Karl then proceeded to slurp his coffee, which evoked winces all around the table.

  Friedrich drew loops around his latest attempt at an epigram.

  In danger and great need,

  Irresolution brings destruction.

  It was rough, and he wasn’t satisfied with it yet. So he listened to his friends while his mind worked under the level of the conversation.

  “You’ve drunk so much coffee your head is addled,” Johann Gronow retorted. “Anyone with a wit can clearly tell that Poe’s skills were far superior to Lovecraft’s, although he didn’t write as much. Isn’t that right, Friedrich?”

  Gronow’s Hamburg accent grated on Friedrich’s Silesian ear just a bit, but he ignored it. “Don’t be dragging me into your interminable verbal duels over which up-time author of old grandmother tales is superior.”

  Friedrich spoke with a smile, as he was the one who had put Gronow on the trail of both authors, with the end result being the creation of Der schwartzer Kater—Eine Zeitschrift. Or Black Tomcat Magazine, as the up-timers more succinctly called it. Gronow was the publisher/editor of the two issues it had done so far, and his oft-spoken mission was to further the development of the art of macabre story-telling in German. Friedrich had it on good authority that Johann had written all of the first issue and most of the second issue except for the translations of two Poe stories.

  His mind raised a thought at that moment, and he crossed out “Irresolution” and replaced it with “Compromise.” He surveyed the result. Better, but still not quite right, somehow.

  A sudden silence at the table caused Friedrich to look up. His friends were all looking behind him. “I wonder what she wants?” Johannes Plavius said. Friedrich turned in his chair and draped an arm across its back.

  He knew who the woman was that approached with her husband shadowing her as he usually did. No one could move in the middle or upper circles of Magdeburg and not know—or at least know of—Marla Linder. Depending on one’s beliefs about music, she was either famous or notorious, but she was never ignored. All agreed that her voice was spectacular.

  Walcha’s Coffee House was not one of her usual haunts. Friedrich watched her walk toward their table. Tall, with long black hair pulled back into a “pony-tail,” as up-timers called that odd hairstyle, she walked with assurance, as if she was so certain of herself and her place that she had no doubt of what she was doing. Which she probably didn’t, he thought before he echoed Plavius’ thoughts. “I wonder what she wants with us?”

  “I believe we are about to find out,” Plavius muttered.

  Frau Linder came to a halt just beyond Friedrich’s reach. “Good afternoon, meine Herren.” Her Amideutsch had the unmistakable flavor of the Grantville up-timers, for all that her pronunciation was impeccable. Something about the tonal quality of the voice, he mused.

  Greetings rumbled from most of the circle at the table. Friedrich contented himself with a nod of the head.

  “I’m looking for Friedrich von Logau.”

  Although Friedrich did not react, he felt the gazes of his friends fix on him, and one of them must have pointed, for Frau Linder’s eyes settled on him. A feeling not unlike staring at the
muzzle of a loaded gun entered his mind.

  “Herr Logau, I am Marla Linder, and this is my husband, Franz Sylwester.” Herr Sylwester nodded his head in turn.

  “I know who you are, Frau Linder. How could I not?” He felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward.

  That seemed to fluster her for a moment, but she clasped her hands around the tube of paper she carried and settled. “I—we—have need of a poet. You have been highly recommended to us. Herr Adalbert, the editor at the Times-Journal, told us we might find you here.”

  “You have need of a poet.” Friedrich made it a statement, not a question, and his voice was very dry.

  “Yes. I have a song lyric written in up-time English that I need translated into German.”

  “A…song.” Friedrich had trouble believing what he was hearing. He frowned. “You want me to translate?”

  Frau Linder started to nod, then shook her head, which made for a very odd motion.

  “Not just translate. I don’t want a word for word literal translation. I need a German’s poet’s translations of the…the thoughts behind the English words. I need you to make the German lyrics sing like the English ones do.”

  “Ah.” That was different. That, he could understand.

  Friedrich had done some translating in his time. Most poets and men of letters did at one time or another in their careers. Translating words was usually easy. Translating the thought was always the challenge.

  He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

  Frau Linder placed the paper cylinder in his hand. He unrolled it, and started scanning the text. Midway through, he stopped, went back to the beginning, and read through again slowly, letting each word register in his mind.

  He looked up at the woman. “I will not insult you by asking if you know what you are asking. But do you realize the kind of storm this could raise? Especially now?”

  Frau Linder returned a grin that reminded him of nothing more than a feral cat showing its fangs. “Oh, I intend for it to do that,” she breathed. “Exactly that.” Her tone was not loud, but every man at the table heard it, and Friedrich felt the hair on his neck rise.

  Friedrich looked at the short length of lines on the page. He read through them again, then folded the paper and put it in his inside coat pocket.

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “Messages can reach me at the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, at the Royal Academy of Music, or at our home.” Herr Sylwester handed his wife a card, which she in turn handed to Friedrich. He looked at the address, then tucked that card into the same pocket.

  “Give me a week.”

  “Sooner would be better, but if it takes a week, and it’s good, so be it.”

  Herr Sylwester leaned forward and whispered in Frau Linder’s ear. She nodded in response, then returned her focus to Friedrich. “How much?”

  Friedrich was tempted to play word games with the woman, but in the end decided not to. “Nothing. I will do this just for the pleasure of being a part of it.”

  He was surprised when Frau Linder didn’t remonstrate with him. She simply took him at his word, and nodded. “Within the week, then. Good day to you, Herr Logau, meine Herren.”

  Herr Sylwester nodded, having never said a word to the gathered writers, then turned and followed his wife. Friedrich felt his mouth quirk again. With Frau Linder for a wife, why would the man need to say anything? And from what Friedrich had heard, although he followed in his wife’s wake often, Sylwester was no rudderless ship sucked along in an undertow. One could be quiet, and still be a rock of strength.

  Friedrich turned back to his friends.

  “Well?” Plavius demanded.

  “Well what?”

  “Aren’t you going to show us the English lyrics?”

  Friedrich made a pretense of considering this suggestion, before letting his face settle into a grin. “No,” he said as he beamed at them. “You will hear them like everyone else, when she is ready to salvo them at the world.”

  “Salvo?” Gronow caught at that word. “You infer that it will be a momentous occasion.”

  “My friends, you have no idea. But you will remember that day, I doubt not.”

  As those around him erupted in expostulations, Friedrich looked back down to his notebook, and crossed out “destruction.” He wrote in a simple word, so that the last line of the epigram now read “Compromise brings death.” He read the line again, nodded, and put the notebook back in the breast pocket of his coat.

  * * *

  Bam!

  Gotthilf walked up to the counter just as Byron fired his last shot. The action in the .45 locked back; Byron ejected the empty magazine and laid it and the empty pistol on the counter.

  “Clear!” he called out to the range officer as he slid the ear protectors down to hang around his neck.

  The range officer blew his whistle. Even though Byron was the only shooter in the range at the moment, the officer still yelled out, “Range is cold.” After a moment, a young man ran out to grab the target off the hook, then ran back to the side and around the range perimeter to bring it to the lieutenant.

  Gotthilf looked around his partner’s arm to see the grouping. “Not bad, Byron.”

  Byron laid his hand on the spread. Nothing showed outside his palm. “Yeah, eight shots in a five inch diameter at thirty feet. Not world class, maybe, but good enough for the guy’s heart and lower left lung lobe to be hamburger.” He put the target on the counter, then bent over and picked up his cartridge casings. “I almost forgot these. I’ve got almost a box worth that I need to get reloaded.”

  Gotthilf winced at Byron’s description of the effect of the shots on a body. He couldn’t disagree with it, but the thought still caused his stomach to lurch a bit. He covered for that by setting his case on the counter.

  Byron started feeding stubby .45 cartridges into the empty magazine. Click. Click. Click. “Whatcha got, partner?” In a matter of moments, seven cartridges into the magazine, ram it into the handle, one cartridge into the chamber, release the action, throw the safety, and shove the pistol into the holster in the back of his belt, all the while looking with interest at Gotthilf’s case.

  Gotthilf flicked a particle of dust off the top of the polished wood. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

  Byron grabbed for the case. “Anything that comes in a presentation case to a firing range interests me.”

  Gotthilf slapped his partner’s hands away. “All right, all right! Don’t get greedy.” He lifted the lid of the case on its hinges, and unfolded the cloth from where it covered the contents.

  “Ahh.” That lengthy satisfied sigh from Byron made Gotthilf chuckle. “What?”

  “You sound like a tad in the kitchen when the cook is baking pies,” Gotthilf said.

  Byron started to reach into the case, stopped, and looked to his partner. “May I?”

  Gotthilf nodded. Byron completed his motion by pulling the pistol from its nest in the case. He held it in both hands at first, turning it this way and that to examine it in detail. “That’s nice,” he finally passed judgment. “Hockenjoss and Klott?”

  “Of course,” Gotthilf affirmed. He was very happy with the H&K .32 he’d been carrying for almost a year, so when he decided to look for another pistol he naturally gravitated to that firm’s designs.

  “Big bore,” Bryon commented as he hefted the pistol. “Bigger than your other pistol.” He held it out at arm’s length, sighting down the range. “A bit heavy, I think. Nice balance, though.”

  “Forty-four caliber,” Gotthilf nodded as he took two gunpowder flasks from his coat pockets and the small box of percussion caps from its slot in the presentation case. He staggered from the slap Byron delivered to his shoulder.

  “All right! It’s about time you got a man’s gun.”

  “Give me that.” Gotthilf plucked the pistol from Byron’s hands, and swung out the cylinder to begin loading. “In truth, I wanted something heavier than the
thirty-two, and I also wanted more shots.”

  “Wait a minute,” Byron reached out and tapped the cylinder. “Seven shots? When did they come out with this one? Your thirty-two only has five.”

  “Uh-huh. New design.” Gotthilf was pouring powder into the cylinder chambers, tongue sticking out from between his teeth. At that moment he envied Byron the up-time .45 cartridges more than ever. He knew H&K was making some cartridge weapons, and he lusted after one of them, but the price of the ammunition was so high he just couldn’t justify it right then. Maybe in a few years. “I was in Farkas’ gun shop a few months ago, and I talked with the master gunsmith of H and K when he dropped by, told him what I wanted. They’ve been making six-shot forty-fours for a while. I asked for more, and he came back to me with this.”

  “Hmm. Seven shots.” Byron obviously mused on that for a while as Gotthilf finished loading the cylinder. “Okay. With a percussion cap system, it will take that much longer to reload, though.”

  “Maybe.” Gotthilf started loading the bullets into the chambers one at a time. “Remind me to tell you what Herr Farkas suggested when I complained about that.”

  Byron stepped back when Gotthilf began placing the percussion caps on the chamber nipples. “That stuff makes me nervous, even in small doses.”

  “Relax. H and K switched to the French caps, the potassium…potassium chlorate. It’s not nearly as sensitive.”

  Gotthilf swung the cylinder into place in the gun frame, keeping it pointing down range. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the flat pill case he used to carry his wax ear plugs. Moments later, he was ready to shoot, and nodded to the range officer.

  “Range is hot!” the officer yelled as Byron pulled his ear protectors back up.

  Gotthilf waited for the range officer to give him the nod, took a two-handed grip, focused on the target through the sights, and began squeezing the trigger.

  Bam!

  Chapter 13

  A T & L TELEGRAPH

  BEGIN: MBRG TO GVL