by Eric Flint
He looked up to see two men coming down the ladder at the other end of the pit. One of them began taking off his coat, followed by his shirt, which he handed to the other man.
Hans took off his own coat and folded it over one of the ladder rungs. His shirt went on top of it. His hat he dropped on Simon’s head, grinning as it settled on top of the boy’s ears. Then he dug a couple of leather gloves without fingers out of his coat pockets and tugged them on.
Without the shrouding of his clothing, Hans’ body looked like a solid slab of muscle. His waist wasn’t much narrower than his shoulders, which were wide enough. He smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand a few times, shook his arms, then stood waiting.
“What do I do?” Simon asked. He was nervous about being in the pit itself.
Hans looked over at him and grinned. “Just stand in the corner out of the way and wish me luck. I will take care of the rest of it.”
Just then another man came down the ladder at the other end of the pit and moved to the center. “All right,” he called out, in that distinctive up-time accent. “I’m Todd Pierpoint, and I’m the referee, the fight-master, for this contest. At this end of the pit, we have Hans Metzger.” Scattered cheers broke out. “And at the other end, we have Pieter Sokolovsky.” A couple of cheers and scattered boos. “This fight will be fought under the Markie of Cuiensberry rules…” or at least that’s what Simon thought was said. It didn’t make any sense to him. “…so there will be no biting, gouging, kicking, or blows below the belt. One infraction gets a warning. The second will stop the fight and give the win to your opponent. Do you understand?” Herr Pierpoint looked to Hans’ opponent first, and received a nod. “Do you understand?” Now he was looking at Hans. Hans nodded.
“Good. This fight will be fought for ten three-minute rounds. The sound of the bell,” he pointed to someone in the crowd and a bell rang, “will start and end the rounds. There will be one minute between the rounds. Now,” Herr Pierpoint looked up at the crowd surrounding the pit, “the fight begins in two minutes.” There was a rush of noise as the crowd members cajoled and argued with each other as they made bets.
Simon looked over at the other fighter. Sokolovsky was taller than Hans. His arms were longer, too. He looked soft, though; there was a bulge around his belly. Hans, by contrast, looked flat and hard. Stark Hans. The other fighter kept moving, picking his feet up and down, swinging his arms. Hans just stood there like a lump, waiting.
The two minutes passed quickly. Herr Pierpoint stepped to the center of the pit. “Are you ready?” The crowd packed around the pit roared as the two fighters nodded. Simon backed into the corner of the pit. “Begin!” Herr Pierpoint pointed up at the crowd and the bell rang.
Hans stepped forward, step, step, step, until he was close to the center of the pit. His opponent came forward at about the same pace. They started circling one another. Hans had his fists up in front of his face, Simon saw, elbows tucked in by his side. Sokolovsky was holding his fists in front of his chest with his elbows stuck out.
Simon started muttering, “Come on, Hans…come on, Hans…” over and over. The crowd was yelling and screaming.
The other fighter took a swing at Hans, a big wide looping swing of his right fist. Hans ducked the swing, stepped in while the other man was off-balance, and buried his own fist in Sokolovsky’s gut. Then Hans slammed his other hand to the other man’s ear. Sokolovsky was staggered, but manfully made a swing with his other fist. Hans ducked that one as well, then stepped back in to deliver another hammer blow to the gut.
The rest of the first round was like that. Sokolovsky would swing, Hans would evade the blows, then provide a punishing hit or two. By the end of the round, there were red marks and the beginnings of bruises on the body and face of the other fighter, but Hans stood untouched.
The bell rang. Herr Pierpoint stepped in between the two fighters and waved them to opposite ends of the pit. Hans came and stood by Simon.
“So, what do you think so far?” Hans asked.
Simon could barely hear him through the noise of the crowd. He was so excited he was bouncing on his toes. “You’re better. You’re beating him.”
“Yah. This guy’s no good. I will put him out next round, watch and see.”
The bell rang for the second round. Hans put his hands up and moved forward deliberately. This round he started the action by throwing a punch at the face of Sokolovsky. The other man tried to duck but wasn’t fast enough to evade it. It landed high on his left cheekbone.
Hans gave Sokolovsky no chance to recover. One punch followed another, body, body, head, body, head. His outclassed opponent tried to fight back, but Hans would either evade his swings or he’d brush them aside.
There was no retreat. The other fighter tried to step back and Hans stepped forward in pursuit. Always there was a punch coming, left, right, left. Simon could tell the other man was losing strength because his hands kept dropping lower and lower like he couldn’t hold them up.
The crowd was still yelling when Hans put a fist in Sokolovsky’s gut one last time, then put one to his jaw. His opponent’s arms dropped straight down. He wavered, took one step, then stretched his length on the floor of the pit.
The crowd went wild while Herr Pierpoint counted to ten. Simon didn’t understand why that was. But there was no mistaking the meaning when Herr Pierpoint lifted Hans’ hand above his head and pointed to him.
Hans made a bit of a bow to each side of the pit, then walked back over to the ladder. Simon met him there with a huge smile on his face and handed him his shirt. After pulling the shirt on, Hans grabbed his hat and tousled Simon’s hair. “I told you, you are my luck. With you around, I cannot lose.” Simon’s heart swelled with pride, a most unfamiliar emotion. “Come on.”
Simon followed Hans up the ladder, coping with the lack of a hand better going up than he had going down. He managed to step off the ladder without needing Hans’ offered hand.
Hans slung his coat over his shoulder, laid his arm on Simon’s shoulder, and started pushing their way through the crowd. It was slow progress, as it seemed that at least every third man they encountered wanted to congratulate Hans on his win, or on how easily he’d defeated his opponent. Simon heard more than one voice murmur around them, “Stark Hans…Stark Hans…” One man even pressed some silver on Hans, saying that since he’d won his bet for him, he should share in the winnings.
Simon noticed that Hans kept his eyes moving over the crowd. Just as he was about to ask him what he was looking for, Hans muttered, “There he is,” and steered them back toward the pit.
They reached a place where Hans could reach out an arm and grab a man by the shoulder. When he turned, it was Ferret-face. Simon had to swallow a laugh when he saw the man again.
“Tobias,” Hans said, “pay up.”
“All right, all right,” the man whined. He pulled a roll of the new paper money out of his coat pocket and started counting bills into Hans’ palm. “One thousand dollars,” Tobias said, putting the now smaller roll back into his pocket. “Satisfied?”
“Yah. Let me know when you have another fight lined up for me, after a week or so.” Hans tipped a finger to his brow as the crowd started clumping around the pit for the next fight of the evening.
Simon tugged on Hans’ sleeve as they stepped away from Tobias. “How much is that in pfennigs?” he asked.
“About ten Groschen, maybe a little more,” Hans replied.
Simon’s head spun. Ten Groschen; one hundred twenty pfennigs. Hans was nearly rich, with what he had won yesterday at the arm wrestling, and now this! Simon had never seen so much money at one time. “How much does the other man make?”
“A half of this, maybe a third.” Hans’ teeth flashed in his beard. “I don’t know. I have never lost.”
There was someone waiting for them as they neared the edge of the crowd.
“A good fight, Herr Metzger,” Lieutenant Chieske said.
“Ach, it was
a joke, Lieutenant.” Hans hawked and spat. “That bum could not touch me. If Tobias does not find some better fighters, I will have to find something else to do. There is no fun in defeating the weak.”
“Fun?” Sergeant Hoch asked. “You enjoy beating people?”
Simon bristled at the sergeant’s tone. Hans turned and looked down to meet the shorter man’s eyes. “What I enjoy, Sergeant Hoch, is the contest—the matching of strength to strength, skill to skill, finding the best. Tonight…I take no joy in tonight. I ended the fight as quickly as I could.”
“And it’s to be hoped that fool learns from his bruises and aches and pains not to do something like this again,” Lieutenant Chieske offered.
“Or at least not until he has gotten a lot better at it,” Hans agreed.
“Indeed. Well, good evening, Herr Metzger.” With that, the two policemen nodded and moved on.
“So,” Simon said, amazed at the calmness in his voice, “now what?”
“Now we go home to Ursula and let her know that her brother has won again.” Hans shrugged into his coat. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Byron and Gotthilf turned and watched the fighter and his companion walk away into the darkness. “Sergeant Milich said he’s connected to Schardius?”
“Yah. You think he can tell us what we want to know?” Gotthilf murmured under the crowd noise.
“Maybe.” Byron tilted his head. “But it will have to seem like his idea. If he thinks we’re trying to make him do it, he’ll just clam up.”
“Clam?”
“Okay, you know what a mussel is…”
Chapter 18
Ciclope and Pietro ducked into the tavern. It was filled with smoky haze, partly from the fireplace at one end of the room, and partly from an old man’s pipe. Ciclope had to admit that the tobacco was aromatic—not that he had any experience with it to compare it with. Tobacco was still a novelty in northern Italy, and very pricey indeed.
They bought a couple of mugs of ale, then found an untenanted table in a back corner away from the fire. Without thought, they each sat with one of the corner’s walls behind him.
Ciclope tried his ale, and winced. Not putrid, but not exactly something that he would have fond memories of, either. Ah, well.
“So, when does he show up?” Pietro asked.
“Keep your voice down or shut your mouth. The man will get here when he gets here.”
The fact that he was so short with his partner was a mark of Ciclope’s own nervousness. In truth, he himself was wondering how long they would have to wait. But the answer was the same for him as it was for Pietro; the man would get there when he got there.
Pietro had just returned to their table with their second round of ale when a man wearing ill-fitting clothes slipped into the chair across the table from Ciclope. Pietro started to say something, but Ciclope backhanded him on the shoulder as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Are you the pros from Dover?” the stranger asked.
Ciclope studied him for a moment before responding. Hard to see his eyes under the brim of the hat he was wearing, but his beard was very neatly trimmed and his hands looked rather clean for the kind of man his clothes would normally hang on. And that was the phrase his boss had told him to listen for, idiotic though it sounded. So this must be the new boss, the one that hired them to come to this God-forsaken hinterland of battlefields and howling Protestants.
“Aye, that is us,” he responded when the stranger began to shift on his stool.
“You are who Signor Benavidez sent from Venice?”
“Aye.”
The stranger’s shoulders settled a little, as tension seemed to flow out of him. “Good. It took you long enough to get here.”
“Travel from Venice in the winter is not the easiest thing to do, my friend,” Ciclope said. “And Pietro ate some bad mutton in one inn along the way, and was sicker than a dog for days afterward.”
Pietro gulped and looked queasy at the memory of it.
“Pietro—he is Italian?”
Ciclope wanted to shake his head. If this was the measure of the new boss, maybe he and Pietro had best pack up and head south again. “We are from Venice, you know.”
“Of course, of course,” the stranger quickly replied. “It’s just that you will need to blend in with these Germans, you see.”
Pietro spoke up in German. “Never fear, boss. I was raised in Graubünden, at the east end of the Swiss lands, so my Deutsch is as good as anyone’s.”
Ciclope chuckled. “If they speak Schwietzerdietsch, at any rate.” That part of Switzerland had a very distinct dialect.
The stranger shrugged. “So long as nobody thinks he’s Italian. And what about you?”
“Lower Saxony,” Ciclope said. “Dresden, to be exact.”
“Oh.” The stranger hesitated. Ciclope could guess why, given the news that had been circulating when they finally arrived in Magdeburg. Banér’s army marching on the Saxon city had everyone talking.
“And no, I have no kin left there, and it would not matter if I did, as they all washed their hands of me when I left twenty years ago.”
“Oh.” The stranger brightened. “Well enough, then.” He looked around furtively. “The reason why I brought you here…”
Finally, Ciclope thought.
“One of the building projects going on here in Magdeburg. I want you to hire on with the builder, and…keep him from succeeding.”
“What do you mean?”
The stranger leaned forward over the table. “I do not care what you do, but I want that project to fail, quickly and spectacularly. I want the people involved in the project to suffer, and their reputations to be ruined.”
“Does it matter if we hurt anyone?” Ciclope asked.
“Feel free.”
Ciclope and Pietro looked at each other, and identical smiles appeared on their faces.
* * *
Logau wiped his pen’s nib with a very stained cloth and set the pen aside with care. He leaned forward over the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. Done. Finally. Opening his eyes, he lowered his hand and picked up the page in front of him, careful to not smudge the ink.
“Do You Hear the People Sing” translated into “Das Lied des Völks.” And done in three days. Once Logau had arrived at his room and pulled Frau Linder’s page from his pocket, he had been drawn into the work of translating the song, staring at the paper and alternating scribbling in a frenzy, balling pages up and throwing them over his shoulder, and staring at the wall with unfocused eyes. He knew he had thrown himself on his bed to sleep for a few hours at least once. He thought he had eaten. Surely he had.
No matter. He was done. Now to get this to Frau Linder and see what she would make of it.
Logau threw on his coat, plucked up his walking stick and gathered his hat. Halfway out the door of his rooms, he remembered to go back for the paper.
* * *
“Frau Linder!”
Marla stopped and turned to see Friedrich von Logau hurrying after her on the street. “Herr Logau,” she greeted him when he caught up to them. Franz nodded, which Logau returned in acknowledgment.
The poet looked a bit worn to Marla. Wisps of hair stuck out at odd angles from under his hat, his coat looked as if it had been slept in, and his stockings were sagging from his breeches, all of which was intensified by the dark bags under his eyes. The burning gaze he directed toward her spoke more of a fever, though.
“I am glad to find you so quickly,” Logau said. He reached into the breast of his coat and brought forth a page, which he presented to Marla with a bit of a flourish. She smiled at that. “Here is the translation you requested, Frau Linder. I believe that it will prove suitable. However,” he pulled the page back with a bit of a smile as she reached for it, “I have decided I do have a price for this after all.”
Marla looked at him with a small frown, wondering what he was after. “Very well, Herr Logau. State your price, if you will.”
“I have three nonnegotiable demands. First, that you call me Friedrich. Logau sounds so stuffy, so…so pompous.”
Marla smiled at that. “I can do that. Second?”
“I want to be with you when you first practice this, to hear it in case I need to change something. The words flow well on the paper, but that does not mean they will do so when mated with the melody.”
“Agreed. And third?”
Logau gave her what could only be called an evil smile. “I want to be there when you sing this in public the first time.”
Marla heard Franz chuckling behind her as she returned smile for smile. She held out her hand. “Agreed and done.”
They shook hands, then she looped her hands through both men’s arms. “Come with us, Friedrich. I have to make a stop at the telegraph office, then we’ll go christen your words appropriately.”
They strode off down the street with Marla humming “We’re Off to See the Wizard.” Neither man understood why she started laughing after a few measures.
Chapter 19
A T & L TELEGRAPH
BEGIN: MBRG TO GVL
TO: HEATHER MASON
ADDR: TROMMLER RECORDS
FROM: MARLA LINDER
DATE: 18 DEC 1635
MESSAGE:
HAVE A ONE SONG SPECIAL YOU REALLY OUGHT TO BUY UP STOP
WILL EITHER WRECK MY CAREER OR TOP THE CHARTS STOP
ATWOOD COCHRAN WILL RECORD STOP
YOU IN OR OUT? STOP
MARLA
END
A T & L TELEGRAPH
BEGIN: MBRG TO GVL
TO: ATWOOD COCHRAN
ADDR: LOOK IT UP
FROM: MARLA LINDER
DATE: 18 DEC 1635
MESSAGE:
YEAH THIS IS ONE GOOD CAUSE STOP
PITCHED DEAL TO HEATHER AT TROMMLER STOP
EXPECT THEY WILL BUY STOP
RECORDING DATE SATURDAY JAN 19 STOP
THIS WILL BE THUMB IN THE EYE OF THE POWERS THAT BE STOP
