by Eric Flint
Simon had to think about that a bit. “But he does not hurt them bad. It’s just like in play, you know. It’s not like he is trying to kill them or anything. He is not a soldier.”
Simon’s opinion of soldiers was shaped by his elders’ recollections of the sack of Magdeburg by Pappenheim’s troops. In his mind, he often thought of them as some species of devil, led by Pappenheim direct from the right hand of Satan, eight feet tall, with horns and bloody fangs.
He saw a trace of a smile on Ursula’s lips.
“Yes, Simon, he is not a soldier. Thank you for reminding me that there are worse things for a young man strong in body to do than to occasionally pummel someone.”
Simon mulled that one over, and decided that it was a positive statement.
“Well, I have to get back on the street,” he said. “The candler told me if I came by this afternoon he would have three different packages for me to deliver, and I do not want to leave him looking for someone else.”
Ursula waved a hand as she finished the roll. “Then get on with you, and stay out of trouble.”
He grinned at her, then charged back out the door and rumbled down the steps.
* * *
Ursula stared at the door, feeling a lump in the back of her throat. Yes, it could be worse. But the reality was bad enough. She had never seen Hans fight; God willing, she never would. But she knew his strength—who better than the sister that he’d carried from place to place without complaining? And she knew the size and hardness of those hands that were still remarkably gentle when he picked her up. The thought of that strength, those hands, hitting someone on purpose, with the intent of driving them to the ground, made the bread she had just swallowed turn to a leaden lump in her stomach.
She stared around the room. Even with the shutters thrown open, it suddenly seemed gray and dim. The room seemed to be closing in on her. A sudden urge to see the sky struck her, so strong that she was on her feet and shrugging into her coat without remembering her usual struggle with the cane.
Moments later she was outside the locked door and moving down the steps at a pace that, while not as fast as Simon’s rapid rumble, was still faster than she could remember moving in oh-so-long.
At the bottom of the steps, breathing hard, Ursula looked around. Even though the day was overcast, it still seemed light to her. People hurried by, wagons rattled as they passed, it was a scene of welcome activity. And the cacophony of sound—shouts, bits of singing, creaking carts, whistles—it all fell on her ears as energizing as the most lustily sung hymn at church.
Ursula suddenly realized that she was tired of sitting alone every day. The stories that Hans and Simon would share of their work and travels within the city made her hunger to see more. So she picked a direction and started walking.
One of the city watchmen passed her going the other way, swinging a truncheon from a wrist strap. She knew what he was by the funny cut of his coat and the odd tint of green cloth from which it was made. Simon had described it to her before, and Hans had made her laugh with his attempt to describe just what shade of green it was. All in all, she decided, acknowledging the watchman’s touch of his hat brim while examining his coat with an expert’s eye, puke green was—sadly—perhaps a very accurate judgment. It had to be a dye from Lothlorien Farbenwerke. No dye from before the Ring of Fire could be that strong, that vivid, and that repulsive all at the same time. If she had to bet, either the dye or the dye-work had to be a mistake, and whoever made the cloth found a way to sell it to the city government.
For some reason that thought cheered her immensely, and she continued down the street with a smile on her face. She didn’t see the watchman turn and watch her for several moments, then pull out his constable’s whistle and blow a series of notes.
* * *
“Here he comes.” Pietro’s whisper caused Ciclope to stir where he leaned against the alley wall.
“Is he by himself?”
“One guard.”
Ciclope stood straight and rolled his head around, listening to his neck crack and pop.
“Anyone looking this way?”
“No,” Pietro muttered as he pulled his gloves on. These were the very thin gloves he’d used back in Venice when he used to enter homes by second floor windows; thick enough to protect his hands—barely—yet thin enough that he could almost feel the lettering on a coin through them. Even now, some years since he had last essayed an unheralded visit to a rich man’s home, they were still his favorite gloves to wear when something outside of society’s normal rules was to be attempted.
The accountant—Ciclope still hadn’t bothered to learn his name—was a man of regular habits. He walked the same way to work every day, at the same time. He went home at the same time every evening. And every Friday he walked from his desk at Schiffer’s main office to the hospital work site, carrying the workers’ payroll in a satchel. Most of the workers engaged in building the hospital addition still had little faith in the modern post-Ring of Fire proliferation in checks and drafts. They were used to dealing in cash, and they wanted to be paid in cash. Hence the accountant’s weekly trip.
This alley was along the accountant’s accustomed path, along a bit of a jog to the street so that part of it was not in full view from every direction on the street. So the two saboteurs set their little snare up in it.
“One man with him,” Pietro repeated in a whisper after hazarding one last peek around the corner of the building. “Big guy, on the street side. Our pigeon is walking on the inside.”
“Right,” Ciclope said. “Let’s do this and get out of here.”
They were standing with their backs against the wall that would remain out of the accountant’s view, watching for his shadow to appear. Ciclope’s eyes were pointed to the ground just outside the mouth of the alley, but he actually heard footsteps before the shadow came into view. The big guy must be big, he thought to himself.
The shadows came into view. An instant later, Pietro made his move. The wiry Italian was much stronger than he looked to be, and the accountant found his arm grasped by a hand like steel that yanked him through the air into the alley. His surprised squawk died just before it could issue forth when something round and harshly aromatic was crammed into his mouth.
Ciclope made his own move as soon the accountant flew by him, stepping out to grab the guard by his arm. Although he was a strong man in his own right, Ciclope didn’t attempt to duplicate Pietro’s feat. He settled for simply spinning the very surprised guard into the alley, following through with the motion to slam a shoulder into the man’s gut, which stopped that shout before it could proceed any farther than the inhale. The big man’s “Oof!” was punctuated by a surprised look and a gurgle as Ciclope slammed a knife into the guard’s chest, very expertly, at such a place and angle that it pierced his heart. He was dead before he even knew what happened.
Ciclope released the knife and let his target drop. He turned from the corpse to where Pietro had dragged the accountant. The victim was almost purple in the face, wheezing and gagging, pawing at his throat with his free hand.
“What’s with him?”
“Bruised bulb of garlic in his mouth,” Pietro muttered in a distracted fashion as he tried to force the lock on the satchel, which turned out to be chained to the accountant’s wrist.
Ciclope winced in momentary sympathy. “Waste of garlic,” he muttered, then took another knife from an inside pocket. “Cut the handle out.” And he proceeded to do exactly that. It took a moment—even a very sharp knife will not slice leather like it was paper—but it was a very very sharp knife, so it didn’t take took long before Pietro was holding the satchel and the accountant was free to bring both hands up to his mistreated mouth and throat.
“Sorry,” Ciclope said to the accountant, “nothing personal. It’s just business, you understand.”
That very same very sharp knife found its way into the accountant’s heart. Ciclope released it, grabbed Pietro by the arm, and hea
ded for the other end of the alley as the accountant slumped to the ground behind them, no longer concerned about the burning garlic in his mouth.
Pietro tried to twist around. “Your knife!”
“Leave it,” Ciclope said. “I never understood why you and the others insist on using expensive knives for this kind of stuff. You don’t need a good knife for this. Cheap and sharp works just as well, and you can leave it behind so no one ever sees you with it again.”
Pietro had no reply to that observation.
Ciclope missed the blood. He had wanted to see blood, but it wasn’t safe this time to wait for it.
* * *
Gotthilf looked up when he heard the constable whistle code for sergeant come!
He and Byron were still trolling for leads among their informers, and were walking in one of the less affluent areas of Greater Magdeburg. He noted that they actually weren’t far from where Hans Metzger lived. He was about to remark on that when the sound of the whistle registered.
Byron got it, too, and looked to his partner with a raised eyebrow. Should we?
Gotthilf responded with a shrug. Why not?
So they pivoted in lock step and walked toward the sound of the whistle. Half a block, turn left at the corner, and walk down to arrive at the watchman’s side just as the sergeant over this patrol sector rode up on his horse.
“So, Georg,” Byron said to the sergeant, a watchman who had been part of a couple of their previous investigations before his promotion, “I see you got tired of the shift sergeant’s desk. How goes the patrol sergeanting?”
The horse wasn’t much better than a nag, but Georg kept both hands on the reins anyway. He grinned as he responded, “Just fine, Lieutenant. Thanks for asking. Sergeant,” he nodded to Gotthilf.
Byron turned his attention to the patrolman. “So, you called this meeting. What’s up?”
Gotthilf took pity on the man, who was the very same Phillip with whom he had conversed about watching the Metzgers. “He means, why did you signal?”
The confusion on Phillip’s face faded. “I did not know you would be in the area, Sergeant Gotthilf, but Fraulein Metzger just left their rooms, so I thought to check with Sergeant Georg here to see if he wanted her followed.”
“Was she with her brother or that boy, Simon?” Gotthilf asked.
“No, she was alone.”
“Which way?”
Phillip pointed down the street in the direction they were facing. “That way, maybe five minutes ago.”
“My thanks,” Gotthilf said. He looked up at Byron. “Staying or coming?” Ye gods and little fishes, as he’d heard one up-timer say, he was starting to be as stingy with words as Byron was.
Byron waved a hand. “You go. I’ll keep trying to find Demetrious.”
“Right.” And with that, Gotthilf took off down the street.
* * *
Marla and Franz stopped midway between their separate destinations. They leaned toward each other for a kiss, made somewhat cumbersome by their coats. The day was colder than it had been for the past few days, and they were bundled into their heaviest garments. She lingered with the kiss, regardless, warmed inside by the intimacy of the moment with her husband, albeit they were outside in plain view of all the passers-by.
When they broke apart, Franz blinked at her. “My,” was his only comment.
She smiled at him, and pointed at the opera house. “Get to work,” she said. “Your orchestra awaits.”
They parted company, and she headed for the Royal Academy of Music building, the first of several planned for the complex around the opera house. Today, the biggest room inside was housing the rehearsal for Arthur Rex.
She checked her watch as she walked through the outer door. “Eep! I’m late.” By the time she walked into the room, she had her coat, hat, and scarf off, and she was tugging her gloves off with her teeth. Everything got plopped in a pile on a table by the door.
Thankfully this room, while not exactly warm by up-time central heating standards, was much warmer than the great out-of-doors. She waved at Amber, where she was talking to some well-dressed—in a relatively sober manner—down-timer. Hermann Katzberg raised his chin at her from where he was playing through one of the aria accompaniments on the rehearsal hall piano, so she headed his direction.
“Hey, Hermann.”
“Good morning, Marla,” he said as he finished a percussive run up the keyboard, ending with a chord that almost shivered in the air. Then he repositioned his hands and looked up at her. “The usual?”
“Yep.”
Hermann played through a series of chords to help her establish the sound of the piano in her mind again. Marla had perfect pitch. She had never met anyone else with perfect pitch, but speaking for herself, she had found it as much a curse as a blessing. Any performance that was not perfectly in tune was to her like listening to fingernails scraping on a blackboard. Perhaps even more so. She had never been able to communicate even to other musicians just how torturous that could be.
Likewise, it took some effort on her part to blend with instruments whose tuning had drifted off the mark. She could do it, but she had to spend some time listening to the instrument to set its tuning in her mind. And unfortunately, her mind seemed to reset itself back to the “normal default tuning” every night when she slept, so she now had a morning ritual of listening to Hermann play the piano until she could mesh with its tuning. Then she would warm up with her vocalises, at which time she was ready to begin the rehearsal. It was a bit time consuming, but by getting in early every morning, it worked.
She turned and faced Hermann, placed both hands on the piano top, and opened her mouth.
* * *
Amber Higham heard Marla beginning her warm-ups. That was good. Now if she could only get this man out of Her Rehearsal Space, maybe they’d be ready to start on time.
“One more time, Herr Schardius,” she started again, holding on to her temper with both hands, “when I agreed to let you view the rehearsals, I meant after we moved to the opera house for the final rehearsals. We are too early in the process and we have such a restricted amount of time to prepare, I can’t allow any distractions for my people right now.
“And trust me,” she held up a hand as he opened his mouth to interrupt, “you would be a distraction on the order of an elephant trying to hide under a table.”
Actually, if all the performers were of the caliber of Andrea Abati and Marla, it probably wouldn’t have been that big a deal if the merchant had hung around. Professionals of the up-time theater were used to strangers being around while they were rehearsing. But over half of her performers were basically rank amateurs, and none of them, Andrea and Marla included, had performed an opera of this magnitude before, so yeah, it was a big deal. She crossed her arms, leaned forward slightly—a dominance trick she had learned early in her acting career—and focused her strongest and most draconian glare on the merchant who was intruding into Her Rehearsal Space.
Schardius seemed a bit distracted himself now, listening to Marla’s voice make even the warm-up vocalises seem like works of art. After a moment, he shook his head in a sharp motion, then focused back on Amber. Her glare was unrelenting, and he seemed to finally get the message that he was not going to be spending the morning watching the rehearsal.
“Very well, Frau Higham.” For all that he had to be angry and frustrated—or at least disappointed—the cool tones of his voice revealed no such thing. He might have been discussing the morning weather, for all the passion that was in his voice. “But I shall hold you to your word. When you move to the opera house, I will be there to watch.”
Amber gave him a short nod, but did not change her posture or release her glare.
After another long consideration of Marla at work, the merchant sauntered to the door, looked around one final time, and left.
Amber dropped her arms. Finally! They could get on with rehearsals. She picked up her notebook of a nearby table and leafed through
it until Marla finished warming up. At that point, Amber raised her voice.
“Okay, everyone, gather ’round.” In a matter of moments, the cast scheduled for this rehearsal was standing in front of her. “Right. We’re going to pick up where we left off last rehearsal. Hermann,” she looked over to the piano, “start with the interlude before the big Act Two duet. Dieter, Marla, you’re on. Everyone else, step over there until we get to your piece.”
Over the sound of movements, Amber finished with, “Once we finish the run-through of Act Two, we’ll work on the blocking again. We’re down to less than six weeks, folks. Let’s make every moment count.”
Everyone was in place. She looked to the piano again.
“Okay, Hermann, hit it.”
Chapter 34
“Halt!”
The three laughing apprentices came to a sudden stop in front of a short man with a very loud voice who was obstructing their path with his hand upheld.
“Sir?” Martin asked. He was the oldest, tallest, and loudest of the trio, so he took the lead in most everything they did. At the moment, he was acting a bit pugnacious.
“You,” the hand suddenly became a spear with a finger that rammed under Martin’s breastbone. “Get back there and pick up the woman you just knocked over.”
Such was the tone in the man’s voice and the expression on his face that there was no hesitation. Martin spun and hurried to assist the young woman who was struggling to arise with the aid of her cane.
“You and you,” the pointing finger now aimed at the two younger members of the trio, “stand there against the wall.” The pointing finger moved, and so did they, as if attached to it.
The older youth meanwhile had lifted the young woman by main strength, and set her on her feet, all the while apologizing profusely. He was now hovering over her, hands almost outstretched as if he was about to try to dust her off, but couldn’t figure out a way to do it that wouldn’t get him in more trouble.
“That is enough,” the man called out. “Get back over here with your friends.” In a moment, there were three nervous faces in a row, looking back at him.
