by Eric Flint
Simon tore a sizable piece of bread from his roll with his teeth, dropped the roll in his lap and took the fragment with his fingers. He gave a low whistle. The dog looked around, ears perked. “Here, Schatzi,” Simon called. Schatzi, Simon’s name for the stray, looked around, then trotted over to face Simon. She kept her distance, though, not coming in reach of hands or feet.
Simon held the bread out to one side, and whistled again. Schatzi edged in, tail between her legs, keeping an eye on his feet, until she could reach up and neatly nip the bread from his fingers. She scurried back several steps until she felt safe enough to stop and bolt the bread. That was the work of only a few moments, then she looked up at Simon again, head cocked to one side. After a moment, she whined a little.
“Sorry, girl, that is all I have tonight.”
Schatzi, for all the world like she understood what he said, shook all over like a shrug. She turned and resumed her trail down the street, sniffing through the detritus of a day in the city, searching for anything that might feed her, no matter how noisome. Simon watched until she disappeared in the gathering gloom. He stood up, stuck the roll in his mouth again and brushed off the seat of his pants, then reached over and tucked his right hand farther into his jacket pocket with his left hand. Even though the arm was useless, or maybe especially because it was useless, he felt the cold with it.
Simon’s path led in the opposite direction from Schatzi’s. He kept looking around while he tore at the roll, chewing and swallowing as fast as he could. It wasn’t unknown for others to take from him whatever he had. Being alone, small for his age and crippled on top of it, he was often an easy mark. Living on his own, as he had now for some time, could be very hard.
The last bite of roll went down with a bit of a struggle, as his mouth and throat had gotten very dry. He could feel it slowly working its way down his throat. A smile crossed his face at the thought that at least tonight he had eaten it all. He patted the breast of his jacket; there was even food for the morning. Although he hadn’t made any money anywhere today, at least he had food. And a sheltered nook, if no one else had discovered it. He headed towards it with a jaunty step.
Steps sounded behind Simon, and before he could look around he was shoved to one side, almost falling in the street. “Out of the way, boy,” said a harsh voice. He looked up to see two large men stride by him. There wasn’t much he could tell about them in the dusk besides their size, but that voice was memorable.
More cautious now, Simon walked close to the buildings, keeping to the deeper pools of shadows. Ahead of him, the two men suddenly ducked into the mouth of a narrow alley. Simon stopped, nervous all of a sudden, and waited. After several moments passed without movement from the alley, he edged forward until he was almost at the corner. The temptation to peer around the corner was strong, but he resisted, listening instead. He could hear voices muttering, but the words weren’t clear.
More moments passed. Simon looked around. There were other people in the street, but not many. On the other side of the street a man passed by, a shapeless hat pushed back on his head, jacket open, whistling tunelessly through his teeth for all he was worth. Simon winced; whatever the song was supposed to be, it bore a certain resemblance to yowling cats.
All of a sudden one of the alley voices, the voice he had promised himself he’d remember, that voice said clearly, “That’s him.” Simon pressed back against the side of the shop, but the men didn’t look back as they launched themselves out of the alley and began pursuing the whistler. Both of them were holding knives.
Before he realized what he was doing, Simon screamed, “Look out!” Aghast at what he had done, he stood frozen by the shop and watched it happen.
The whistler spun in his tracks before the others could reach him. Simon had never seen a man move so fast. He dodged to one side, making one of the men block the other one. There was a thock as the whistler’s fist flew out and smacked the jaw of the man in front of him. That individual stopped for a moment, stunned, dropping his knife. His companion tried to dodge around him just as the whistler delivered a kick to the first man’s groin. With a yell that was more of a shriek, that unfortunate collapsed into a huddled mass on the street, tangling his companion’s feet as he did so.
The second man succeeded in staying erect, but only by dint of some desperate footwork. He obviously knew what was coming, but by the time he regained his balance it was too late. The whistler’s fist buried itself in his midsection. He folded over it with a groan but managed to hold on to his knife. But then the whistler grabbed the back of his jacket and threw the man headfirst into the wall of the building they were fighting in front of and the knife went flying. This time the noise was a “thud” sound, and the man slid down the wall to crumple senseless at its foot.
Simon stared, astonished. He’d seen many fights in the streets of Magdeburg the last few years, especially in the rougher parts of town where the rebuilding after the sack by Pappenheim’s troops was slow in happening. It was almost a daily occurrence in his experience. But he’d never seen anyone dodge a sneak attack and wreak havoc on dual assailants like the whistler had. It amazed him.
Of a sudden, Simon became aware that the whistler was staring right at him where he stood in the shadows. He closed his mouth with a gulp and stood frozen.
“You, boy.” The whistler beckoned. “Come here.”
Simon stood, lock-kneed, silent.
“Come here, boy. I will not hurt you.” Unsure of what to do, Simon took a hesitant step forward. “That’s right, boy. Come on over here.”
One slow step at a time, much as Schatzi had approached him, although he wasn’t aware of it, Simon approached the whistler. That worthy had picked his hat up off the street and was beating it on his leg. Simon stopped an arm’s length away as the man crammed the hat on his head and pushed it back.
“You are the one who yelled, right?” The whistler cocked his head and grinned at Simon. The boy’s uncertainty dwindled and a timorous smile crossed his own face. He nodded. “Then you have my thanks. I would have beaten these two louts anyway, but I would have taken some damage in the doing of it. Thanks to you, they are on the ground and I’ve had a good warm-up.”
The man in the street groaned and shifted a little, clutching himself. The whistler turned and rather callously kicked him in the head. Simon started, edging back. The whistler saw the motion. “Nay, lad, you have got to know that when someone tries to stab you in the back like this, you knock them down and keep them down. You do not let them up; for sure as you do they will try it again. Mercy is all well and good in the church when the preachers talk about the Son of God, but out in the street a man takes care of his own.”
True to his own hard rule, the whistler bent down and rifled the pockets of the two assailants, coming away with three pouches. He sniffed at one pouch. “Hmm. Tobacky in this one, and a fair size wad from the feel of it. I know just where I can sell that for a pfennig or three. As to the rest, I doubt scum like this have more than a couple of coins to rub together, but we’ll check it out later.”
He picked up the knife dropped by his first assailant, examined it cursorily, and tossed it aside. “Cheap crap,” he muttered. He didn’t bother looking for the second knife.
He stood straight and turned to face Simon, who stood ready to duck or jump out of the way. Tucking his hands in his belt, he cocked his head to one side and studied the boy. Just as Simon started to feel uncomfortable at the close regard, the man jerked his chin down in a nod, reached out and clapped Simon on the shoulder. “Well, lad, it looks like you are my luck tonight. I’m Hans. You just come with me, and I’ll give you a fine time.” Hans started off, only to stop when Simon didn’t move.
Simon didn’t know what to do. He was glad that Hans seemed to be grateful to him, but the casually violent air about the big man made him nervous.
“Come on, boy. You don’t have anyplace else to go, now, do you?”
“N-no,” Simon stuttered.
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br /> “Then come on.” Hans laid his big square hand on Simon’s shoulder, and the boy found himself coming on despite his uncertainty.
Chapter 7
Hans led the way farther into the rough quarter of Old Magdeburg. Simon was familiar with every street in the quarter. He ran them all at different times. But Hans soon led him into streets that Simon didn’t like to travel at night. They passed by people slumped in doorways. Others staggered down the street, taking swigs from coarse pottery bottles. Simon edged closer to Hans.
After one more turn into another dark street, Hans stopped in front of a door. “This is the Chain. Have you heard of it?”
Simon nodded, stomach sinking. The Chain was perhaps the worst tavern in the city. Fights were a frequent occurrence, and more than one dead body had been removed from the premises. It was said that the city watchmen, even the new Polizei, would only enter the place in groups of three or four. Simon had never been inside.
“Ah, it’s a rough place, right enough. But you’ll be safe with me.” Hans pushed the door open and waved Simon in. Steps led down into a basement. At the bottom, Simon stepped into the barroom, afraid but hiding it from his new friend.
The room was dimly lit from a smoldering fire in a fireplace on the opposite side and a few guttering tallow candles on sconces around walls. The air was smoky from the fire and candles and foul from the smell of too many unwashed bodies in a small space.
Simon coughed from the reek, then stumbled as he was pushed from behind. Hans stepped up beside him and scanned the room. “Barnabas!” he shouted. A man across the room waved his hand. Hans faced him and held up two fingers, to which Barnabas responded with an upraised thumb. Hans clapped his hand on Simon’s shoulder again. “Come on, lad. Barnabas has got seats for us, let us get some drink.” Hans pushed his way through the seated crowd. Simon followed on his heels, as there was no way he could have made his own way through that mass of rough-spun covered backs.
Hans came to a thick board laid across a couple of barrels with a lamp at one end. “Hello, Veit, you old scoundrel.”
“Hans, you lump of walking swine’s flesh. I have not seen you in must be, oh, eight days now. What made you drag your stinking carcass in tonight?
Simon stepped away when the tavern keeper so freely insulted Hans. He wasn’t sure how the big man would respond, but when Hans laughed he relaxed.
“Oh, I need a purgative, so I figured I’d come by and drink some of your swill. That ought to have me puking by midnight.” Both men laughed at that.
“So what’s your poison tonight?” Veit asked after they settled down.
“Genever. The good stuff,” Hans added as the tavern keeper turned back to the high table behind him. A moment later a blue ceramic bottle was set before Hans, stopper and neck wrapped in wax. Veit held his hand out. Simon watched as Hans pulled some coins out of his pocket, and counted them into the tavern keeper’s palm. They both knew the cost of the bottle of spirits, because Veit was counting right along with Hans.
Hans counted out the final coin and reached for the bottle, only to find Veit’s hand on it holding it down. “What’s wrong?”
“Take back that Halle pfennig,” Veit said.
Hans cursed. “You gave it to me, so you ought to take it back.”
“I’m not saying I did or didn’t,” Veit replied. “But if you were in here drunk enough to take it, then you deserve it. Now give me dollars or honest silver or do your drinking somewhere else.”
Simon was glad he couldn’t understand what Hans muttered under his breath as he took back a blackish coin from the tavern keeper and gave him a different one in exchange. Veit removed his hand and Hans picked up his bottle. Then he looked over at Simon. “Thought I had forgotten you, eh? Veit, this is…what is your name, boy?”
“Simon, sir.”
“Sir!” Hans and Veit roared with laughter. “I’m no sir, boy. I’m just Hans, and that is good enough for me.”
“Taking up with boys now, Hans?”
Simon stepped back as Hans’ face went hard and cold all in a moment. He didn’t want to be in the way if things got rough here. He’d already seen Hans in action once tonight.
Veit’s laughter choked in his throat as Hans’ hand flashed across the counter to grasp his jacket and lift him up on his toes. “You’ll not say that again, Veit,” Hans hissed through tight lips.
Veit’s eyes were wide and his face was pale behind his scraggly beard. Simon knew his own eyes were just as wide and just as white around the edges.
“Sorry, Hans. I meant nothing by it. Bad joke.”
The tableau stretched on for a long moment, then Hans relaxed his fist and let the cloth slide through his fingers. Veit settled back onto his feet.
“We will let it go at that,” Hans said in a hard voice, “but you watch your mouth, Veit. A man can get hurt by saying the wrong thing.” After a moment, he turned to Simon and said in a normal tone, “Now, boy, what do you want to drink? I’m buying.”
Simon hesitated, then stammered, “Sm-small beer.”
Hans frowned, but Veit held up his hand. “I keep some here for some of the doxies that come round in the mornings. He can have some of that, and I won’t charge for it.” The tavern keeper found a small mug on the back table and filled it from a keg sitting on the end of the table. “Here you are, lad.”
Simon took the mug from the counter and looked up at Hans.
“Right. This way.”
Again Simon followed close behind the bulk of the larger man through the press of bodies that seemed in the dim light to be clad in shades of gray. Hans pushed his way through without seeming to give a thought to those he was jostling. Following in Hans’ wake, Simon heard mutters as he went by the men, but no one’s voice was loud enough to catch Hans’ attention. After what he had just seen at the counter, Simon was not surprised. People here apparently knew Hans—knew enough to keep on his good side, anyway.
Hans arrived at a table and kicked a bench out from underneath it. “Come on, boy, sit down.” Hans himself dropped to the bench and carefully set his bottle on the table. “Barnabas, everyone, this is Simon. He is a small lad with a big name, and he is my luck. Stopped me from getting set upon by a couple of bully boys from over west of the Big Ditch. I recognized them.”
Barnabas, a thin man with a narrow face, looked horrified. “Why, that…that is unheard of. They are supposed to keep to their side of the moat, and we keep to ours. That’s the way it has always been…or at least since the sack.”
Hans was busy scraping the wax from around the stopper and neck of his bottle of spirits. He didn’t look up as he responded. “Maybe so, but just maybe someone over there is just a bit upset that I beat their man in the fights last week. Ah!” He got the stopper out and immediately took a big swig of the gin. He smacked his lips, smiled, and looked over at Simon. “Drink up, boy, even if it is small beer.”
Simon took a sip from his mug. It was as bad as he expected from this place, but he swallowed it anyway. It was wet, and he was thirsty.
“Hans,” Barnabas spoke up. “This is my cousin Karl, from Hannover.” He pointed to a man who would make two of Barnabas. “I think I have told you about him before.”
Simon studied Karl. From what he could tell, even in the dim light, the Hannoverian didn’t really fit in here in the Chain. His beard was a neatly trimmed goatee with prominent mustaches. He wore a fine hat. His clothes, what Simon could see of them, were clean. No, not at all the appearance of the normal patron of this tavern.
“Sure,” Hans said. “I remember you mentioning him. Good to meet you, Karl.” He held his hand out across the table. Karl took it with a toothy grin. Simon could see their hands tense on each other. Karl’s grin disappeared and his jaw set. There was a long moment of silence, then the clinch broke.
“So you are the famous Hans Metzger.” Barnabas’ cousin’s speech was accented. His voice was nasal and harsh. It made Simon want to hunch his shoulders up around his ears.
Hans set the blue bottle back on the table with a clack. “There might be a few people have heard my name, aye, but I would not say I was famous.”
“Oh, but to hear Barnabas say it, you are one of the most renowned men in all Magdeburg.”
“Friend Karl, if you know your cousin at all, you know that he is liable to say most anything once he has had a mug or two of ale.” A bit of the hard note had crept back into Hans’ voice. Simon hunched down a little. He wasn’t sure what was going on here and now, but he was pretty sure he didn’t like it.
“Barnabas would have it that you are a very Samson.” Karl’s tone was more than a bit pugnacious by this point. Simon didn’t understand why. “That you are renowned for your strength.”
Hans took another gulp from his bottle. “Barnabas drinks too much. And I didn’t know that he’d been to church enough to even know who Samson was.” The men around the table laughed.
“But are you that man?” Karl’s head was thrust forward, and he stared at Hans with intent.
Hans sighed. “What do you want? Are you looking for a contest with me on a night when all I wanted was a peaceful drink with my friends?”
Karl said nothing, just continued to stare at Hans.
Another sigh. “Fine. Here and now. Arm wrestling. But you will have to make it worth my while.”
Karl sat back and blinked. Simon blinked along with him.
“Make it worth your while…What do you mean?”
Hans pulled two purses out of his coat pocket. They were small and worn, and from the way they lay flat on the table they didn’t have many coins in them. Simon thought they were the purses Hans took from the men who had attacked him earlier in the evening.
