by Eric Flint
The meeting tailed off in repeats of that theme. But underneath it all, Schardius had two thoughts. First, a question—was the fire an accident? And second, a desire—if it wasn’t, he really wanted to hurt somebody.
* * *
Georg Schmidt was delighted. “Ha! Take that!” he declared, smacking the paper with his hand.
His secretary, Stephan Burckardt, looked around the edge of the office doorway.
“Did you need something, sir?”
“No, Stephan, I do not. The newspaper has given me all I needed.” The smile on his face felt as if it was stretching stiff muscles; which it might have been, given how less than happy he had been of late.
Schmidt gestured expansively. “Go, Stephan. You and the others take the rest of the day off—with pay. Go. I will see you tomorrow.”
Stephan’s head disappeared from the doorway almost as if it had been a figment of Schmidt’s imagination. It reappeared a moment later long enough to say, “Thank you, sir,” then disappeared again.
Georg looked back to the paper, reading the article one more time, smiling as he heard the troop of feet in the hallway headed out the front door.
“Ha!” he exclaimed again. “You think you can beat me, Kühlewein? You and your money man? Oh, no. You will pay for cheating me out of my contract. You will pay dearly.”
He crossed to the window and stared out it, clasping his hands behind him.
“A good start,” he murmured. “A good start.”
This attacked the project, which would hurt all of the consortium who got the project contract awarded to them. But he really wanted to hurt Andreas Schardius. If he hadn’t poked his nose into Schmidt’s business, the other members of that consortium couldn’t have won the contract. So it was Schardius, he decided, more than any other, who deserved to be ruined.
He rocked back and forth on his feet, smiling. His Italian servants would deal with Schardius, he thought, despite all the hard men surrounding the other merchant. Indeed they would.
* * *
Otto Gericke read the article and frowned. He made a note to send an official commendation to the fire company, followed by a note to remind himself to ask Captain Reilly when the Polizei would be able to determine if the fire was an accident.
There was a long pause while Otto tapped the pencil against his lips. God Above, he hoped that this didn’t stir up the Committee of Correspondence. That was the last thing he needed right now.
* * *
Gunther Achterhof lowered the newspaper.
No one in the room stirred when he looked up. But then, they all knew him, so they all had a good idea of what his reaction would be to the article about the fire.
Gunther started to crumple the paper in one fist. Then, stopping himself, he laid the paper down on the table and smoothed it out. It was the gesture of a man capable of savage fury who was keeping it under control.
He tapped his fingers on the table for a few seconds, ever so gently. “Will,” he said after some thought. “Go to the construction site. Offer some help to the site manager with cleaning up. If he does not accept that, which he probably will not, explain to him that his project is very important to the CoC, and we will be keeping an eye on things in the future. And remind him—gently—that we will object if all the ash and scraps are thrown into the Big Ditch.” Will grinned and bobbed his head. “That water is not clean, but there is no reason to make it worse than it already is.”
“What if he asks what to do with it?”
Gunther shrugged. “Burn it in his steam engine. No-brainer, as Frau Marla would say.”
He rose, and the others rose with him. “Meanwhile, I will go have a quiet conversation with our esteemed mayor.”
* * *
Stephan Burckardt stopped in the Chain for a mug of ale as a token of celebration. He didn’t much care for the place; the locals who frequented it were a pretty rough crowd. But it was earlier than usual, and most of them would still be working, so he took the chance. It wasn’t often at all that he was given any kind of reprieve from work. Master Schmidt begrudged him even Sundays and the holy days of the church calendar, and usually managed to find a way to make him spend part of those days laboring at his desk. Stephan didn’t dare complain to the church authorities. All that would accomplish would be angering Schmidt to an alarming degree. Stephan didn’t know what Schmidt would do in that situation. He did know two things, however: Schmidt would not let what he perceived as a challenge to his authority go unanswered; and without a doubt Stephan would not enjoy that answer.
The ale was as bad as always. That was the other reason Stephan came to the Chain. It was the lowest of the low, as far as places to get a mug of ale or beer went. Even though it was located in Old Magdeburg, which most people tried to pretend at least was the home of the best people and the upper society—which thought caused Stephan to bark a bitter laugh—it represented the very dregs of Magdeburg society. And the ale, Stephan confirmed with a sip, was no better than the social ranking of the local patrons. But it was cheap, which was a sterling virtue in the eyes of the overworked and underpaid secretary.
Stephan’s thoughts rolled back to Master Schmidt, while he slowly lowered the level of fluid in his mug. The master had been in a most unusually good mood this afternoon. Whatever caused it must have been in the newspaper, as he had been snarling until the paper hit his desk. But the only thing that was remarkable in the news was the fire at the hospital project. And why would that make the master happy?
Chapter 26
Gotthilf sat on the window seat, staring out into the night, trying to scratch the itch in the middle of his mental back. He heard someone move up behind him.
“A pfennig for your thoughts.”
That was his younger sister Margarethe. Without looking around he held his hand out.
“What?”
“Where’s the pfennig?” he queried.
“Oh! You!” Margarethe slapped his palm. “That’s all the pfennig you will get from me. I think you spend too much time with that up-timer fellow you call your partner.”
Reflected in the small panes of glass he could see multiple images of her sticking her tongue out at him. He spun quickly and ran his palm across her tongue before she could react to his motion.
“Ick!” She jumped back and scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand, then stuck her tongue out again as he laughed at her.
After Gotthilf quit chuckling, she said, “No, seriously, what are you thinking about so hard? You haven’t moved from that seat for over an hour.”
“Nothing you can help with, Margarethe.”
“Maybe I can, maybe I can’t, but we won’t know until you tell me.”
“No,” Gotthilf said, “you can’t help…” A sudden realization struck him. “Actually, maybe you can. I met a young woman the other day, a bit older than you, perhaps.”
“Ah,” Margarethe interjected with a sly grin. “Is this something I need to tell Mother or hide from her?”
“Neither,” Gotthilf said, while shuddering a bit from the thought of his busybody mother linking a woman’s name—any woman’s name—to him. “It was in connection with a case we are working, not social at all.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He could see that Margarethe was disappointed there wasn’t some angle she could use to dig at him a little. He continued with, “Anyway, I met this girl, like I said, and she looked familiar to me, but I cannot remember where I have seen her before. I have been wracking my brain for days now, and nothing. It is driving me moon-silly.”
“That’s not a drive, that’s a short putt,” Margarethe spouted.
Gotthilf looked at his sister in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
“Didn’t I say it right? It’s an up-time joke. I learned it from a girl at school. Isn’t it funny?”
“Do you even know what it means?”
Margarethe frowned a little at his lack of reaction. “No.”
Now Gotthilf c
huckled a bit. “Margarethe, don’t try to tell up-timer jokes unless you really understand them. You can’t tell them right if you don’t, and depending on the joke you might find yourself in trouble. Besides, I get enough of that from Byron.” He shook his head. “Anyway, before you so rudely interrupted me, I was telling you about the girl. Her name is Ursula Metzgerinin.”
“Metzgerin, Metzgerin,” Margarethe mused. “Ursula…” She looked down at the floor, brow wrinkled, mouth pursed. Gotthilf thought about swiping his fingers across her lips, but refrained.
After a moment, she looked up. “There was an older girl in my catechism class a few years ago. Her name was Ursula, and I think her last name started with an M. She only came a few times, then someone said she was going to another church and attending catechism there.”
With that clue, Gotthilf thought back to the times when he walked his sister to catechism. Sure enough, a recollection surfaced of a younger version of Ursula, blond hair shining, coming out of the church door while he waited on Margarethe.
He jumped to his feet, grabbed Margarethe by the waist and swung her in circles in the air, proclaiming “That’s it!” over her loud protests. He set her feet back on the floor, and flung his arm around her shoulder.
“Thanks, Margarethe. That is a big help.” Their mother appeared in the parlor doorway and motioned them to come to dinner. “You’re a pretty good sister, you know…even if you can’t tell a joke.”
“Gotthilf?”
“Yes?”
“What’s a putt?”
* * *
For the next several days Ursula was her usual cheerful self—or at least she seemed to be. Simon wasn’t so sure, though. There was a shadow in her eyes, and he thought her eyes followed Hans as he moved around the room more than usual. But her voice was bright and she laughed a lot, so maybe he was imagining it.
One day, after Hans left for his job at the grain factorage, Ursula picked up her Bible as had become their custom. “Well, what shall we read today?”
Simon plopped down on his stool. “Samson. I want to hear about Samson.” He had a desire to know everything there was to know about Samson.
She opened the Bible and started turning pages. “There’s still his last adventure to tell.”
Simon hugged his knees with his one good arm, waiting.
And it came to pass afterward, that he loved a woman in the valley of Sorek, whose name was Delilah. And the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and said unto her, Entice him, and see wherein his great strength lieth, and by what means we may prevail against him, that we may bind him to afflict him: and we will give thee every one of us eleven hundred pieces of silver.
And Delilah said to Samson, Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherewith thou mightest be bound to afflict thee.
“Don’t listen to her, Samson,” Simon muttered. He could already see the way this story was weaving.
And Samson said unto her, If they bind me with seven green withies that were never dried, then shall I be weak, and be as another man.
Then the lords of the Philistines brought up to her seven green withies which had not been dried, and she bound him with them.
Now there were men lying in wait, abiding with her in the chamber. And she said unto him, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson. And he brake the withies, as a thread of tow is broken when it toucheth the fire. So his strength was not known.
Simon listened to Ursula read the story. As Delilah continued to ply Samson and Samson continued to respond to her, it crossed his mind more than once that Samson did not seem very smart.
Finally the story wound to the now-obvious climax.
That he told her all his heart, and said unto her. There hath not come a razor upon mine head; for I have been a Nazarite unto God from my mother’s womb: if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man.
And when Delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the Philistines, saying, Come up this once, for he hath showed me all his heart. Then the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and brought money in their hand.
And she made him sleep upon her knees; and she called for a man, and she caused him to shave off the seven locks of his head; and she began to afflict him, and his strength went from him.
And she said, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson. And he awoke out of his sleep, and said, I will go out as at other times before, and shake myself. And he wist not that the Lord was departed from him.
Ursula stopped.
“That can’t be all the story,” Simon exclaimed.
“I thought we could read the rest tomorrow.”
“No!” He leaned forward. “Please, I need to hear what happens.”
She looked at him for a moment, then said, “All right,” and resumed reading. Simon listened as the end of the story rolled out.
But the Philistines took him, and put out his eyes, and brought him down to Gaza, and bound him with fetters of brass; and he did grind in the prison house.
Then the lords of the Philistines gathered them together for to offer a great sacrifice unto Dagon their god, and to rejoice: for they said, Our god hath delivered Samson our enemy into our hand. And when the people saw him, they praised their god: for they said, Our god hath delivered into our hands our enemy, and the destroyer of our country, which slew many of us.
And it came to pass, when their hearts were merry, that they said, Call for Samson, that he may make us sport. And they called for Samson out of the prison house; and he made them sport: and they set him between the pillars. And Samson said unto the lad that held him by the hand, Suffer me that I may feel the pillars whereupon the house standeth, that I may lean upon them.
Now the house was full of men and women; and all the lords of the Philistines were there; and there were upon the roof about three thousand men and women, that beheld while Samson made sport. And Samson called unto the Lord, and said, O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes.
And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood, and on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand, and of the other with his left. And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein. So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.
Simon sat back on his stool. He had never imagined it would end that way.
Ursula put her Bible away and took out her embroidery. “Not a very happy ending, is it?”
“No,” Simon muttered.
“I don’t like to read that story much because of that.” She pushed the needle through the cloth. “But sometimes, you know, we need to be reminded that the things we choose to do don’t always end up the way we intend for them to.”
Simon took a deep breath. “Yah. I see that.”
“Good.” Ursula focused on her work.
It was obviously time for him to go find work. He opened the door, but looked back at Ursula before he stepped through. Ursula’s head was bent over her embroidery. She didn’t look up when he left.
* * *
“Come in, Marla.” Mary Simpson herself met Marla at the door of Simpsonhaus. “Have a seat, dear. Coffee?”
Marla settled into a chair in Mary’s parlor, nodding to Andrea Abati, Heinrich Schütz, and Amber Higham as she did so.
“Coffee would be nice.” She hunched up a bit in the chair. “It’s still cold outside.” It wasn’t just the cold. Today was not one of her better days, although she had managed to hide that from Franz. He had a major rehearsal with the orchestra today, but he would have called it off if he had seen her starting to waver.
Within moments a cup was passed to her. Marla cradled it in her hands for a few moments to savor the warmth before taki
ng her first sip.
“Ah.” She felt the warmth trickle down her throat and spread through her body. “That helps.”
Marla set her cup on the nearby side table, picked up her document case, and pulled out the manuscript of Arthur Rex. That she placed on the coffee table centered between all the seats. Then she sat back and picked up her coffee cup, still appreciating the warmth of the cup. She really hated being cold. And the warmth helped with her other problem as well.
“So, what do you think?” Amber Higham asked, interlacing one hand’s fingers with those of Heinrich Schütz, her husband.
Marla took a sip before she replied.
“It’s good.” She saw a line appear between Amber’s eyebrows, and hastened to say, “It’s very good.”
“Do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?” Heinrich asked with a smile.
“Well…” Marla dragged the syllable out.
Heinrich chuckled. “Masses I have written, and motets. Opera, however, is a somewhat new thing for me, especially one of this…magnitude, shall we say. You, despite your youth, know more of them than I do. So, please, give me your thoughts on this. I promise not to rage if you butcher my sacred cow.” He chuckled again.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Marla protested, in the face of everyone else’s smiles. After a moment, she smiled as well. “All right, but I need more coffee first.” She leaned forward and held her cup out for Mary to refill.
Settling back with a freshly filled steaming cup wafting warm vapors past her nose, she began. “My main observation is I think it needs more passion and tension, especially between Merlin and Guinevere early on and between Guinevere and Nimue in the last act. Second, the vocal styling is too…too restrained, too soft. It needs more bite, more edge to it. The last thing is, am I correct you are thinking of me for the role of Guinevere and Master Andrea,” she nodded at him, “for the role of Nimue?”
“Yep,” Amber replied, “you called it.”
