by Eric Flint
Schultze’s response was very sober. “Concerned. Very concerned.”
“And who isn’t?” Lentke responded dryly. “The news from Berlin is not good, and Chancellor Oxenstierna’s actions do little to inspire one to confidence.” Otto nodded in agreement.
A darker tone entered Schultze’s voice. “Indeed. You know of Gustav Adolph’s condition.” Schultze was not asking a question—it was wellknown that the emperor’s head injury received in battle with the Poles and the resulting wandering wits that Dr. Nichols called “aphasia” had for all intents and purposes rendered him non compos mentis. “I assume you also know of what Oxenstierna is attempting.”
Both Otto and Lentke started to reply. Otto waved his hand at Lentke, who nodded and said, “Every child above the age of three in Magdeburg understands what the Swedish chancellor is attempting. He desires to roll back, make null, the many changes that Gustavus has made in the governance of the USE, or at least the ones that changed the social order and the religious tolerance—or should I say, lack of tolerance?”
The older man looked over to Otto, who picked up the thread. “He and his allies have some kind of hold on Prime Minister Wettin, what the up-timers would call leverage, and between that and Oxenstierna’s position as chancellor of Sweden, they look to control the government of the USE. I believe they have misread the tenor of the times, but I am deathly afraid that we will all pay for their mistakes before they go down.”
Schultze nodded. “Your judgment, Otto, is much the same as Fürst Ludwig’s. And his situation as administrator of the property formerly owned by the Archbishopric of Magdeburg is a bit complicated. On the one hand,” Schultze held out his left hand, “his authority comes from Gustav Adolph; he gave an oath to the king of Sweden before he became emperor, and therefore he might be considered to be under the chancellor’s authority as he acts as regent for Princess Kristina during her father’s incapacitation. On the other hand,” he held out his right hand, “he detests Oxenstierna, so he would dearly love to tell him to, ah, ‘take a flying leap,’ as one of the Grantvillers described it. Even for a Swede, the chancellor is overbearingly arrogant. On yet another hand…” Otto smiled as he saw his stepfather struggle for a moment over which hand to hold up again, only to drop them both back into his lap, “Wilhelm Wettin, the prime minister, is his nephew. And although he loves his nephew and would ordinarily support him just on that cause, he is very much concerned that Wettin has made some ill-advised decisions in recent months. So he has a great desire to be very cautious as to what he does.”
“I can see that,” murmured Otto, who nonetheless wished that the Fürst would be more direct. And his earlier feeling was proven correct—this was going to be a headache day. He propped his head on his hands, massaging his temples.
“So, he is delaying responding to demands from the chancellor and his nephew, while he sent me hurrying from Halle to meet with you here. I had planned to ask Otto to bring you here, Jacob,” Schultze focused his gaze on Lentke, “so the coincidence of finding you here at the moment simply speeds my errand. Jacob, I need you to reconvene the Schöffenstuhl.”
Otto burst out laughing as Lentke’s jaw dropped. A moment later Lentke pointed a long finger in Otto’s direction.
“You put him up to this, didn’t you? Confess it!”
Still laughing, Otto raised both hands to the level of his shoulders. He finally choked back the hilarity enough to speak.
“Before the throne of heaven and all its angels, Jacob, I did no such thing. I had no idea that Papa Christoff would even be here today.”
He turned to his confused stepfather.
“You see, I just told Jacob I need him to bring the Schöffenstuhl back into being in the service of the city of Magdeburg.”
Both of them started chuckling as Lentke directed a dark look first at one of them, then the other.
“Oh, leave off, Jacob,” Schultze finally said, waving his empty hand in the air. “There is no collusion here.”
“Well enough,” Lentke said, shifting his foot on its stool. “And if that be so, then what brings you here seeking the Schöffenstuhl?”
“What the Fürst would ask of the Schöffenstuhl is an opinion, a judgment, as to whether under USE law, custom, and practice, the chancellor of Sweden can serve as regent for Gustav’s heir for the USE in the absence of a specific appointment by Gustav.”
For the second time in less than an hour, Otto saw Lentke taken aback. He could see the objection in Lentke’s eyes, and spoke up before the older man could.
“Authority,” Otto said. The eyes of both the other men shifted to him. “As we discussed, Jacob; you already possess the moral authority, and I will give you the legal standing and authority.”
He could see the words really sink in this time. Lentke responded with a slow nod.
“Such a judgment could have great effect, you know,” Schultze observed in a quiet tone.
“And what if we were to rule in favor of the chancellor?” Lentke demanded.
Schultze shrugged. “Ludwig is willing to take that chance. And in truth, if you ruled that way, it would allow him to support family, which for a man of his lineage is always an important consideration.” He paused for a moment. “But I do not think that is the ruling he truly wants. As much as he finds many of the recent changes distasteful, Ludwig is fearful of what will result from Oxenstierna’s machinations.”
“And why do you not send this request to the Reichskammergericht, or rather, the USE Supreme Court as it is called now?”
“Time, Jacob,” Schultze responded. “We need an opinion soon, and if we send our request to Wetzlar, who knows how long it will take those ‘learned men’ to respond?” It was evident from the sarcasm in his voice that he did not have a high opinion of the Supreme Court.
Otto thought about the matter for a moment, then looked to Lentke. “Jacob, do it. You know you want to.”
Lentke snorted, then turned to Schultze. “Have it your way, Christoff. Let Fürst Ludwig have the petition and brief drawn up and sent to us. I will convene my fellows, and we will deliberate; perhaps even consult with someone like Master Thomas Price Riddle from Grantville, or Doctor Grotius at Jena. I will even endeavor to conduct the deliberations at a pace somewhat faster than deliberate.” He smiled at his little joke.
“And you, Otto,” Lentke looked back to Gericke, “if you would have us do this, then find us space. The rebuilt Rathaus in Old Magdeburg will not contain us. And it is most likely that those members serving on this year’s council will not allow us to use it anyway, once they hear of what we are doing, Brandenburg sympathizers that they mostly are.”
There was a tinge of distaste in the way he said “Old Magdeburg.” The term was commonly used to refer to the half-a-square-mile within the fortifications that was the original city. Despite its near-total destruction in the course of the sack of Magdeburg by Tilly’s army, the still-official status of Old Magdeburg enabled its authorities to maintain a legal façade for their behavior. Obstreperous behavior, so far as both Lentke and Otto were concerned.
Schultze pulled a folded document from an inside pocket of his coat. Otto began chuckling as the document was unfolded and seals dangled from the bottom of it. “Here,” Schultze said, “one petition and attached brief, duly executed and sealed by the petitioner.”
“The Fürst anticipated me, I see,” Lentke said with a wry grin.
All three men sobered quickly. “Yes, he did,” Schultze replied. “And his last words to me were ‘Tell them to hurry. The time when I will need this is fast approaching.’ Ludwig is not one to jump at shadows, you know. If he feels fear, then should we all.”
With that thought Otto had to agree.
Chapter 3
Gotthilf Hoch, detective sergeant in the Magdeburg Polizei, walked out the front door of his family’s home in the Altstadt, the oldest part of Magdeburg. The early morning air was cold, even for December. He remembered hearing that the up-timers from Gran
tville sometimes said this was the “Little Ice Age.” On days like today, when his breath fogged in front of him and the hairs in his nose tingled when he breathed in, he could believe it. The old pagan stories about Fimbulwinter were easy to accept right now.
He pulled his hat down over his ears and pushed his gloved hands into his coat pockets, then started off down the street. Just his luck, when he wanted a cab, there wasn’t one to be seen.
When he reached the Gustavstrasse, he turned right and headed for Hans Richter Square, where he turned right again and headed for the nearest bridge across Der Grosse Graben, the moat that encircled the Altstadt, which was usually called the Big Ditch. He passed through the gate in the rebuilt city wall, which triggered his usual musing about the fact that the walls had been rebuilt. He’d never seen much sense in all that time and effort being spent on that task, but the city council of Old Magdeburg had insisted on it, saying that the contracts they had signed years ago to allow people to seek protection in times of war and siege required it. From what Gotthilf could see, all it did was emphasize a boundary between the old city and the new. Which, come to think of it, may have been what the city council was intending all along.
Gotthilf looked over the railing of the bridge at the water moving sluggishly through the moat. Dark water; it looked very cold. He shivered and moved on, feet crunching in the gravel after he stepped off the bridge.
Only the busiest streets in the exurb of Greater Magdeburg were graveled. Most of them were bare dirt. One thing that Gotthilf did appreciate from the cold was that the ground was frozen most of the time, reducing mud to solid. He still had to watch his step, because an ankle turned in a frozen rut could hurt like crazy, but at least he didn’t have to scrape the muck and mire off his boots like he did in the spring and fall.
There were more people on the streets now, as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky behind him. The bakers had been up for hours, of course, and he swung by one to grab a fresh roll for breakfast, since he hadn’t felt up to facing his mother across a table that morning. He munched on that as he walked, watching everyone walking by.
Construction workers of every stripe were moving briskly about; carpenters, masons, and general laborers were in demand for the new hospital expansion, as well as several other projects in the city, not to mention the navy yard. Several women were out selling broadsheets and newspapers, including the shrill-voiced hawk-faced young woman who handed out Committee of Correspondence broadsheets in that part of town.
But still no cabs. He shook his head. Never a cab when you wanted one.
A hand landed on Gotthilf’s shoulder, startling him. He looked up to see his partner, Byron Chieske, settling into place alongside him.
Gotthilf had to look up at Byron. In truth, he had to look up at most adults. He wasn’t very tall; not that he was a dwarf, or anything like that. Nor was he thin or spindly. He was a solid chunk of young man; he just wasn’t very tall.
Byron, on the other hand, was tall, even for an up-timer. He stood a bit over six feet, was well-muscled, and had large square hands. His clean-shaven face was a bit craggy in feature, but not of a nature that would be called ugly.
“Yo, Gotthilf,” Byron said. “Ready for the meeting with the captain this morning?” The captain would be Bill Reilly, another up-timer. Byron was a lieutenant. The two of them had been seconded in early 1635 to the Magdeburg city watch to lead in transforming that organization from what amounted to a group of gossips, busybodies, and bullies to an actual police force on the model of an up-time city police group. They had both been involved in police and security work up-time; they both had at least some education and training in the work; and they had both been in an MP detachment from the State of Thuringia-Franconia army that was stationed in Magdeburg at the time, so they had been available.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” Gotthilf muttered, “considering we have nothing of worth to report.”
“Yeah, Bill may chew on us a bit,” Byron conceded as they walked down the street toward the station building. “But he knows we can’t make bricks without straw. No information, no leads, no results.”
Gotthilf snorted. Byron looked at him with his trademark raised eyebrow, and the down-timer snorted again, before saying, “You know, for someone who professes to not darken the door of a church, you certainly know your way around Biblical allusions.”
Byron chuckled. “Oh, I spent a lot of my childhood in Sunday School, Gotthilf. I may have drifted away from it some as an adult, but a lot of it stuck.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and grinned down at his partner.
Gotthilf grinned back at Byron, who seemed to be in a garrulous mood this morning—by the up-timer’s standards, anyway. Byron was ordinarily one who wouldn’t say two words where one would do, and wouldn’t say one where a gesture or facial expression would serve instead. So to get five sentences out of him in as many minutes bordered on being voluble.
As they stepped on down the street, Gotthilf’s mind recalled their first meeting, ten months ago. He had trouble now even remembering why he had joined the watch; something to do with wanting to do something to prove to his father he was more than just a routine clerk, if he recalled rightly. He had been smarting from another comparison to his brother Nikolaus, studying law at Jena. Not that his father was impressed with the city watch, either, as it turned out.
On the day that he met Byron, Gotthilf was the youngest member of the city watch, the newest, and possibly the angriest. He hadn’t really wanted to be paired with the lieutenant, and he wasn’t of a mind that the over-tall up-timer had anything to teach him or anything to bring to the city watch. But their first case—one involving the murder of a young girl and a young blind lad involved in petty thievery—had opened his eyes to what the Polizei could do.
So now, even at his young age of twenty-three, Gotthilf was an ardent supporter of the captain and the lieutenant, having quit his clerking position and thrown himself into the job. He was now one of three detective sergeants on the force, partnered with Byron, and still one of the youngest men in the Polizei.
And that and a pfennig will get me a cup of coffee at Walcha’s Coffee House, he gibed at himself.
The two men walked into the station house, hung their coats on pegs in the hallway, and headed for their desks. They flipped through the papers and folders lying there, then looked at each other.
“See the captain?” Gotthilf asked.
“Yep,” Byron responded.
They headed for Reilly’s office on the second floor. Byron took the lead.
“Chieske, Hoch.” The captain set down his pencil, folded his hands on top of the document he was reading, and nodded toward a couple of chairs a bit to the side of his desk. “Have a seat. Any progress on that floater case?”
“The one the riverfront watch pulled out of the water a few days ago who looked like he’d been run through a meat tenderizer before he got dumped in the river?”
“That’s the one. The floating corpse who was identified as…” Reilly picked up a different document from his desk. “…one Joseph Delt, common laborer.” His eyebrows arched.
“Officially, nothing to say,” Gotthilf began.
Reilly nodded. “And unofficially?”
“Nothing,” Byron responded with a shrug before Gotthilf could speak.
The captain steepled his hands in front of his face. “Why? Or why not?”
“No leads, Captain,” Chieske responded.
“Make some. Start flipping over rocks and talking to bugs and snakes if you have to, but get me some results, and soon. You know as well as I do what’s going on here, Byron. It’s not as if American history wasn’t full of it.”
Seeing Sergeant Hoch’s quizzical expression, the police chief elaborated. “Magdeburg’s a boom town full of immigrants, with more coming in every day. We had a lot of cities like that in America back up-time. It went on for centuries. Certain things always came with the phenomenon, and one of them was the
rise of criminal gangs. I’ll bet you any sum you want—don’t take me up on it, I’ll clean you out—that what we’re seeing here is one or more crime bosses trying to establish themselves in the city. These men being killed are the ones who were too stubborn, too stupid—or just couldn’t learn—to keep their mouths shut.”
He leaned back in his seat. “There’s no way to completely stop it from happening, but we need to at least keep it under control. Because if we don’t and it gets out of hand, sooner or later the city’s Committee of Correspondence will decide it has to crack down on the criminals. I don’t want that, Mayor Gericke doesn’t want that, you don’t want that—hell, the Fourth of July Party and even the CoC itself doesn’t want it. But it’ll happen, sure as hell.”
Gotthilf made a face. The leader of Magdeburg’s Committee of Correspondence was a man named Gunther Achterhof. Like most people in today’s Magdeburg, he was an immigrant. He’d arrived from Brandenburg with his younger sister, the two of them being the only survivors of a family ravaged by the mercenary armies that had passed through the region.
Gunther had also arrived with a sack full of the ears and noses of stray mercenary soldiers he’d killed along the way. He was an honest man, but one whose concept of justice was as razor sharp as the knife he’d used to kill and mutilate those soldiers. If he unleashed the CoC’s armed squads on the city’s criminal element, they’d certainly bring order to the streets—but they’d also shred any semblance of due process and reasonable legality in the doing.
As it stood, there was already a fair amount of tension between the CoC and the city’s fledgling police force. If these kinds of killings continued with no one apprehended, the CoC’s existing skepticism concerning the value of a duly-appointed police force would just be confirmed.
“You got it, Captain,” Byron said.
“Go on,” Reilly waved a hand. “Go encourage the good citizens of Magdeburg to be good citizens.”
