1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  “And a good day to you as well, fraulein…” That was the down-timer sergeant. Simon startled to bristle again, only to feel Hans’ fingers clamp almost to the bone on his thigh.

  “Metzger,” Hans growled. “My sister, Ursula Metzgerinin.”

  Lieutenant Chieske nodded politely to her, but Sergeant Hoch stepped forward, gently lifted her hand where it lay on the table, and bowed over it, almost but not quite drawing it to his lips. “A pleasure, fraulein.” He straightened with a pleasant smile on his face.

  Simon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping as Hans bore down on his leg. He’d have bruises in the morning, that was certain.

  The sergeant stepped back, and Simon gave a sigh of relief as Hans released his leg.

  “Just so you’ll know, Herr Metzger,” the lieutenant said, “we’re looking into some odd events that have occurred near the river in the last couple of months.”

  Hans grunted.

  “If you happen to think of anything unusual you’ve seen or heard, you might let us know.”

  Hans grunted again. Simon saw the lieutenant’s mouth twitch a bit.

  “Well, we’ve got to get back to work. Enjoy the rest of the day Herr Metzger, fraulein, Simon.” The sergeant started when his partner tapped him on the shoulder. They both nodded, then turned away. Simon looked to see Hans following their departure with a hard-set mouth and narrowed eyes.

  “A nice man, that Sergeant Hoch,” Ursula said with a bit of a smile. “The other one was a bit brusque, though.”

  Hans grunted. Simon looked to him, then said to Ursula, “He is an up-timer. They are all a bit odd; some more than others.”

  “Ah. An up-timer. I see.” Ursula looked toward the door. “Do you know, I think that is the first up-timer I have met?”

  “And please God, it will be the last,” Hans muttered. “They are nothing but trouble.”

  Simon had no reply to the last statement.

  The whole encounter had cast a pall over the afternoon. They soon arose to return to their rooms.

  * * *

  “What was that all about?” Byron asked, disturbing Gotthilf’s thoughts.

  “What was what all about?”

  “You made a big deal over Fraulein Metzger back there,” the up-timer pointed out. “You don’t normally do that. So what was it all about?”

  “Two things,” Gotthilf answered distractedly. “First, it occurred to me that leaving her with a positive memory of us might be to our advantage. And second, I think I’ve met her before, or at least seen her…but I cannot remember where or when.”

  He staggered a bit when he was unexpectedly clapped on the shoulder by his partner. “Ah, you’ll remember it sooner or later,” Byron said. “You always do.”

  Gotthilf hoped so. This was like having an itch in the middle of his back—he couldn’t reach it.

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed in a fog for Simon. He knew they had to have returned home, because he woke in his usual place the next morning. He knew he had to have changed clothes, because he was wearing some of the new clothing. He knew that he had to have gone to Frau Zenzi’s and swept, because a loaf of her bread was on the table. But all he could remember was the sheer joy of having new-to-him clothes. And shoes. Especially the shoes.

  Chapter 21

  “Good morning, Frau Simpson,” the man waiting in her parlor said as Mary Simpson entered the room. She made a lightning assessment with a single glance, a skill that had served her well since early in her days in Pittsburgh. The man was of middling height, middling years, middling size, dressed well but not with ostentation.

  “Good morning, Herr Schardius,” Mary responded. She waved to a chair opposite the small settee she preferred for her seat. “Please, sit with me. Coffee will be here in a moment.” She could hear Hilde coming down the hall with the tray.

  Hilde entered the room and set the silver coffee service on the low table in the center of the seats. Then, after looking to Mary for direction, retreated to a corner.

  Mary leaned forward, poured the coffee, and offered a cup to her visitor. “What can I do for you, Master Schardius?”

  “Perhaps it is more what I can do for you, Frau Simpson.” He took a sip from his cup, smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “I understand from some of my friends and associates that you, or rather, the Royal and Imperial Arts Council, intend to produce a new opera soon.”

  “As it happens, your friends and associates are correct; we will be staging a new opera entitled Arthur Rex.” Mary set her own cup down and steepled her fingers below her chin. “Kappellmeister Schütz is writing it even now. He says he will be done soon, so we are preparing for the production.”

  “Good.” Schardius looked into his cup for a moment. “I am here to offer to underwrite a portion of the production. I appreciate great music. I spent some time in Venice a few years ago, you see, where I was able to hear Monteverdi’s works in the Cathedral, and occasionally at some noble’s house. I even managed to hear the first performance of Il Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda.”

  Mary was impressed despite herself. “I envy you that, Master Schardius.”

  He shrugged. “It was good, and it certainly instilled in me a hunger to hear music of that scale. It is a hunger that, until recently, has mostly gone unfed.” Mary raised her eyebrows, and Schardius nodded. “Yes, the music that has been presented during the last two years by your band of musicians from and through Grantville—that has fed the hunger, yet at the same time heightened it. I have seen almost every performance, great and small, and I want more, both in amount and in kind. So here I am, willing to pay for what will feed my insatiable appetite.” Another shrug. “Business has been good, this year.”

  “And what do you want for your support, Master Schardius?”

  His eyebrows rose for a moment, and his head tilted a bit, as if he were considering her seriously for the first time. After a moment, his expression evened itself out again, but for the sharp glitter in his eyes.

  “As I said,” Schardius replied, “I am hungry and thirsty for great music, so I would expect to be allowed to observe rehearsals.”

  “I think not,” Mary said. “The director would never stand for it.”

  “Twenty percent,” Schardius offered.

  Mary shook her head.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “No.”

  “Thirty percent,” Schardius said, and a hard tone had entered his voice for the first time.

  God, Mary thought, he’s serious about this. And I can’t afford to lose that much revenue. Surely Amber will understand that.

  “You will not sit on the stage or in the wings,” Mary said as gracefully as she could. “Only in the audience seats or one of the boxes.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And you will not interfere with the director, or her instructions to the cast.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing so. I simply wish the pleasure of observing. I think we are witnessing a new moment in the arts.”

  Mary could hardly quarrel with that, since she thought the same herself. No one in Europe, not even in Italy, has ever seen the sort of opera—grand opera, it was rightly called—that was about to be performed in Magdeburg.

  “Very good, Master Schardius, we will accept your generous offer.” She stood and held her hand out.

  He came to his feet, and took her hand in his. “Have your man of business send an accounting of what is needed to my office at the Schardius corn factorage and warehouse. I will send the money as soon as I can after I look it over.”

  “Thank you.” Mary thought that he might be a bit surprised when it turned out that her “man of business” was Lady Beth Haygood.

  “And with that, I must return to my office. Today promises to be a busy one for me, but I did want to speak with you today.” Schardius turned away, then turned back. “Oh, will Frau Linder be one of the singers in the opera?”

  “Well, casting has not been done yet,�
�� she said, “but I would be very surprised if she isn’t.”

  “Splendid!” Schardius said. “I have been told she’s a marvelous singer. I look forward to hearing her.”

  Mary smiled in return. She had long experience with patrons of the arts. Even the most hard-bitten businessmen and financiers could turn into fanboys when presented with attractive female performers. Occasionally that could become a bit of a problem, but it was usually harmless enough. And there was no denying that such enthusiasms tended to open wallets still wider.

  She rose to her feet. “Hilde, show Master Schardius out, please.”

  * * *

  Simon was developing a reputation as a reliable messenger and delivery boy. His new clothes made him a bit more presentable in the eyes of the businessmen of Greater Magdeburg, and he found himself in some demand. Even so, he never neglected Frau Zenzi. Every day he would appear at the bakery’s door not long before sundown to do the sweeping.

  One day the door to the bakery opened just as Simon was reaching for the handle, and he looked up to see two familiar figures coming out of the bakery. Startled, he hesitated for a moment, then stepped down and to one side. They came down the steps and turned to face him.

  “I know you,” the short one said—Sergeant Hoch, Simon reminded himself. “You’re Hans Metzger’s young friend, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at the fights.”

  Simon fought the urge to duck and straightened instead. “Yes, Sergeant. Hans calls me his luck, so I go with him to all the fights.”

  “You must be good luck,” Lieutenant Chieske laughed, “because I haven’t seen him lose yet.”

  “And you won’t,” Simon replied fiercely. “Hans is the best.”

  Both men nodded. “He is indeed,” Sergeant Hoch said.

  “Tell me your name again, boy,” the tall up-timer said.

  “Simon. Simon Bayer.”

  “Well, Simon, no fighter stays on top forever. There comes a time where, if nothing else, age will slow him down. There’s always someone younger, faster, stronger, just waiting for that to happen.”

  “Did you have fights in the up-time?” Simon asked, intrigued.

  “Oh, yes. And they were a big deal, too. Men would fight at the town and state level, men would fight at the national level, men from different countries would even fight at the world level,” the up-timer said. “Todd Pierpoint used to fight when he was young, back before the Ring of Fire.” Lieutenant Chieske grinned. “Heck, even Mike Stearns used to fight professionally.”

  Now Simon was really surprised. “The prime minister used to be a fighter?”

  “Former prime minister,” the up-timer corrected. “And yes he did, until like I said, he ran into a man who was younger and faster. He might not have been stronger, but he was younger and faster, and according to Mike he just about took Mike’s head off.”

  “Huh.” Simon thought about that. A man who called Emperor Gustavus by his first name used to fight like Hans did. His mind swung in circles as he tried to grasp that. “Was he a world fighter?”

  “No!” Chieske laughed. “Mike was never that good. But even now, when I’m sure he’s slowed a step or two, I wouldn’t want to face him. The point is, your friend Hans won’t always be able to fight like this. There will come a time where, even if he doesn’t lose, he starts getting hurt. That will be the time when his friends will need to talk him out of fighting. Friends like you, maybe.” The up-timer gave Simon a sobering look.

  Simon didn’t want to think like that. He wanted to think that Hans would always win, would always come out of his fights with barely a mark on him. But Lieutenant Chieske’s words crawled into his mind, settled in the back of it and wouldn’t leave. He looked away, then made himself look back to the policemen and nod.

  Faint expressions of surprise and respect crossed their faces, and they nodded in return as if to an equal. With that, they took their leave.

  Simon looked at their backs, disquieted. After they rounded the corner, he turned and went into the bakery. He said nothing, just went to where the broom was stored and started sweeping. A few minutes later, Frau Zenzi came into the room.

  “Oh, good, Simon, you’re here. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Yah. I came in after the policemen left.” He continued sweeping while he talked. “Frau Zenzi?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know those two policemen?”

  “Oh, yes, for some time now.”

  “Are they good men?”

  Frau Zenzi stopped what she was doing and straightened up. “Yes, they are. They saved my Willi.” Willi was the blind boy that Zenzi and her husband had adopted several weeks ago. He usually worked in the back of the bakery. Simon remembered some kind of to-do over his coming to them, but none of the details would come to mind. “They protected him and brought him to me. They come often to see Willi. They are good men, for all that one of them is an up-timer and the other one is the son of a patrician family.” Her voice was rock solid, so much so that you could have used her statement for a foundation stone. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason,” Simon replied. “It’s just that they keep coming around my friend Hans, and I cannot figure out why.”

  “Hans. Is he the man that meets you outside the shop some nights?” Her tone was disapproving.

  “Uh-huh.” Simon kept his head down as he swept.

  “Simon, he looks to be a hard man, one who knows things and people that you should not know.”

  He stopped and looked her in the eye. “He is not like that, Frau Zenzi. He is a good man. He has a job and he works hard at it. He’s got a crippled sister at home that he takes care of. He takes care of me, too. He is not an evil man, or wicked.”

  Zenzi’s expression was still doubtful. “If you say so, Simon. But mind you, if you ever need someplace to come, if trouble comes, you come to me.”

  Simon ducked his head again. “Yes, Frau Zenzi.”

  She stared at him a while longer while he swept, then left the room. When he was done and had put the broom away, she gave him a loaf of bread, tilted her head with a wry expression, and patted him on the shoulder without a word. He left the bakery wondering what that was all about.

  * * *

  Byron looked down at his partner. “Any chance the boy could tell us anything?”

  “Could, maybe,” Gotthilf replied. “That’s if he knows anything at all. He appears to be a recent acquaintance for Metzger, after all, and why would Metzger tell a young boy like that anything? But if the boy does know something, whether he would say anything or not is another matter. He seems to be very attached to Metzger, and I doubt he would say anything without talking to him first.”

  “Okay.” They walked along in silence, eyes moving this way and that, watching the street around them. “But we’ve got to get a break somewhere. If we don’t find a lead soon, the captain’s going to tell us to move on to another case.”

  “Yah.”

  Chapter 22

  Logau cursed as he trotted down the street, feet crunching on the gravel, one hand holding his hat on his head and the other grasping his walking stick. He was supposed to have met with Frau Marla and her friends a quarter-hour ago, and he was late. It was his own fault, too. If he hadn’t started doodling with another epigram, he would have been there in plenty of time. Of course there wasn’t a cab for hire within sight. And he’d come away from his rooms with his evening walking stick, instead of his morning walking stick.

  Some days the world just conspired against him, he was sure of it.

  He was headed for the Royal Academy of Music, which was located across a plaza from the new opera house in the southwest corner of the Neustadt section of Old Magdeburg. Rather than take one of the narrow bridges across the Big Ditch into the Altstadt, then have to cross it again to get to the Neustadt, he turned north on the boulevard that paralleled the canal and followed it, dodging women waving broadsheets and newspapers for sale, wagons, carts, drays, animals and swearing t
eamsters alike until he got to the crossroad that ran through a gate in the rebuilt city walls into the Neustadt.

  Once he was through the gate Logau slowed to a fast walk. It would not do to arrive at the rehearsal out of breath, after all. He adjusted his jacket, flicked a bit of lint from his lapel, and tilted his hat to its proper angle just as he reached the steps to the academy.

  Inside the building, not having a clue where he was to go, he stopped a student. “Can you tell me where to find Room Six?” he asked.

  “Down this hall, turn right at the first cross-corridor, then about halfway down it on the left,” the young woman replied.

  “My thanks. I’m to meet Frau Linder there.”

  “In that case,” the student laughed, “just follow your ears after you turn the corner. She’s already in full voice.”

  Logau touched his walking stick to the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, and the young woman dropped a curtsey before scurrying on her way. He made his way to the designated corridor and rounded the corner. No sooner had he done so than he realized why the young woman had laughed. The unmistakable sound of Frau Linder’s voice filled the hallway, even though the door to Room VI was shut. “They need to invent a way to deaden the sound,” he muttered to himself.

  He knocked on the door just as the singing stopped. A moment later, the door was opened by a young man that Logau didn’t recognize. “Ah, Friedrich, you’re here,” Frau Linder said. “Let Herr Logau in, Rudolf. He’s playing a part in this.” The young man stepped aside, and Logau entered the room, doffing his hat as he did so. There was a table conveniently by the door already burdened by coats, so he laid his hat atop the pile. He unbuttoned his coat, but left it on as he was still feeling the chill from his brisk walk.

  Marla came and took him by the arm. “Everyone, this is Friedrich von Logau, writer, poet, and epigrammist. He’s the wordsmith who gave us the German words for this song. Friedrich, let me introduce you to the guys.”