1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  Franz couldn’t hear what she said over the crowd noise, but from fingers pointing first at Marla and then at the palace, he got a pretty good idea of the conversation. The conclusion of the short conversation was the detaching of one of the guards into Mary’s charge. He followed her across to Marla as the sergeant turned his gaze back to the crowd.

  “Private Brodie here will take you to the piano. You might open it up and start playing something. I suspect that Rebecca will appreciate that touch.”

  Brodie them a nod, then turned and headed for the palace with his SRG carried across his body. Marla and Franz followed close behind, following the wagging shako as the crowd moved out of the private’s way.

  Once inside, Marla pulled the cap from her head as they followed the private and shoved it and her gloves in her jacket pockets. Next came the scarf, unwound and stuffed into a sleeve of the jacket to keep it from wandering off. She handed the jacket to Franz as they walked through the double doors into the great room of the palace, and made a beeline to the piano, which was set to one side. While she was propping up the lid and opening the keyboard cover, Franz looked over to Private Brodie.

  “Our thanks. My wife is protective of any piano, but that one is one of a kind. She’ll guard it like a mother sow with one piglet.”

  “Well, if it is that important, maybe I should stand guard,” the private said with a wink.

  Franz winked back. “Well, I am certain that the palace staff would appreciate the reinforcement over this rare and costly instrument.” He sobered. “Seriously, it does sound like a good idea.”

  “Just you remember to say that to my sergeant if he comes looking for me in here where it’s warm,” Brodie said with another wink.

  Franz laughed, just as Marla started playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

  * * *

  Hans Metzger stalked through the streets of the poorest quarter of the old city. God Above, what was he going to do? If the Polizei were going to start coming after him, whether they thought he had a hand in the floaters’ deaths or not, Schardius was going to start getting nervous, and that meant his own days were possibly numbered. One on one, two on one, even three on one he wasn’t worried about dealing with any attackers, be they thugs or even true hard men. But he was under no illusions about Schardius hiring as many bodies as was needed to overwhelm him. Or even just give one of them a pistol and shoot him in the back some night.

  But his greatest fear wasn’t for himself. He would take his own chances, and after surviving the sack he figured he was living on borrowed time anyway. But what would he do about Ursula? Ursula, and Simon now? How could he protect them?

  Hans started across the east bridge between the Altstadt and the Neustadt. He stopped at the crest of it, and stared over the side at the water flowing from underneath it in the Big Ditch.

  What was he going to do?

  The water gave no answer.

  Chapter 40

  It was a long afternoon, and by the end of it Marla was ready for it to be over. She had played most everything she knew, from classical to pop to hymns. Fortunately their friends had started showing up one by one, and she was able to change off with Hermann and Thomas. She was back at the keyboard at the end of the party, however. Most everyone had left by the time she started the Beethoven. She’d almost begun playing it several times during the day, but had held back until now.

  She laid her hands on the keys, and waited. For all that it was considered by some up-time authorities to be a lesser work because of its popularity, to Marla, Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor, Opus 27, No. 2—the Sonata quasi una fantasia, most commonly known as the “Moonlight” or “Mondschein Sonata”—was quintessential Beethoven. Even more than Chopin, it was the piece that had made her want to study piano at an early age. It was the first adult piece she played in its entirety in a recital. And it was the first piece she had brought back to her exacting standards after her…hiatus.

  Eyes closed, head bowed, Marla breathed in and out, and when the moment felt right, lifted her hands and began.

  The opening slow arpeggios poured from her long fingers. Even though Marla was focused on the music, a small thought surfaced in a corner of her mind: she never did understand why the nickname of the piece was “Moonlight.” To her the opening movement, with its long quiet flowing themes was much more evocative of water. Her mouth quirked at the thought that it should have been the “Moonlake” Sonata.

  Releasing the thought, Marla poured herself into the music, and for several minutes just let the adagio sostenuto of that first movement ebb and flow in tempo, ebb and flow in volume, ebb and flow in spirit. At length, the conclusion arrived, and she closed in the soft final chords; peaceful, cleansing, cleansed.

  Without more than half a breath, she tripped on to the allegretto movement, one that had always felt like a stately dance to her, albeit one with a lilt. Eyes still closed, fingers still unerringly finding the keys, she felt her lips curve in an involuntary smile. It was impossible not to smile when playing such a light-hearted piece.

  All too soon the second movement was over, and this time the pause between it and the third movement was even shorter, lasting only long enough to lift the hands from the closing positions and place them to begin the great rolling arpeggios of the presto agitato. Fingers flashed as she began at the bottom and rolled up to crashing chords, again and again. Interludes came and went, but always the return to the arpeggios, always the return to the hammered double chords, always the impact of the keys hitting the bottom of their travelings as she treated them almost as percussive instruments.

  The final arpeggios rippled and ran down and up the keyboard to an extended trill, a final quiet interlude, then a last outburst of ripples ending in the ultimate chords. She held her hands on the keys as the final sound resonated from the piano, then snatched them away.

  “Ha! Nailed it!” she exulted.

  Applause sounded around her, and her eyes flew open. She had forgotten where she was, and for a moment she was horrified to see the princess standing close by and clapping madly, with Ulrik behind her with his hand on her shoulder.

  Not that Kristina was the only one applauding. The color climbed Marla’s face as she stood to face Mary, and Rebecca Abrabanel, and others of the political elite of Magdeburg and the USE. She inclined her head and shoulders, fuming a little on the inside. Just her luck that she had given what amounted to a mini-recital dressed like a bag lady in everything she owned.

  Marla could tell from his expression that Franz, that rat, was holding in laughter. She shot him a look that told him he would pay for not warning her. His response was a further tightening of the lips to repress chuckles that she was certain were threatening to burst forth.

  She had to straighten hurriedly, as the princess stepped forward and gravely offered her hand.

  “You are Frau Linder, the one who teaches music at the girls’ school, yes? I saw the Christmas concert there. Not last year,” Kristina corrected herself, “but the year before.”

  “Yes, you did. I remember seeing you.”

  Kristina retrieved her hand after the handshake. “I liked that then. I liked this now. Can you teach me to play like you do?”

  Marla got serious. “That would depend: how badly do you want to play, Princess?”

  The girl cocked her head and a furrow appeared between her eyebrows. Marla continued.

  “I started when I was six, and I practiced five or six hours a week. By the time I was your age, I was practicing eight to ten hours a week. When I was fourteen, it was twelve or more hours a week. And now,” she looked the princess directly in the eye, “I try to get twenty hours a week of practice in.”

  Kristina looked appalled. “I have to do that much to learn to play the piano?”

  Marla shook her head. “No, but you didn’t ask me if I could teach you to play; you asked me if I could teach you to play like me.”

  She could almost see the wheels turning behind the princess’ e
yes. And she could see the moment when Kristina understood the difference.

  “You mean that to be really good at it, I would have to work really hard at it for a long time.”

  Marla smiled. “Yes.”

  Kristina walked over and ran her hand along the side of the piano cabinet. “This is my piano, you know.”

  “Kristina,” Ulrik said.

  “Well, really my father’s, but Signor Zenti presented it to me because Papa wasn’t here when he brought it down the river from Grantville. So it’s kind of like mine.”

  That would have been December 1633, Marla remembered; the same month she had made her “debut” recital in Magdeburg.

  She ran her own hand over the keyboard cover. “Yes, Girolamo Zenti did a really good job of rebuilding this piano. It’s pretty cool, actually.” Her eyes strayed to Prince Ulrik. “The framework and the mechanism are all from an instrument that came back through the Ring of Fire, but the cabinet and case, in all its beauty, is down-time work, from one of the best instrument makers alive. Best of both worlds, you might say.”

  Heads nodded all around the room, as the point was taken. Even Prince Ulrik pursed his lips and nodded to her.

  “I knew Signor Zenti a long time ago, when I was very young,” Kristina announced, running her hand over the side of the piano again. “He was in Stockholm, making harpsichords for my father and mother. I used to go to his workshop and watch. He wouldn’t let me touch anything, but he would talk to me and explain what he was doing. Sometimes he would let me hold his tools. That was fun.”

  Marla heard the plaintive note in Kristina’s voice. It dawned on her that being the royal heir to Sweden may not have been the easiest way to grow up, especially in the last few years.

  Ulrik cleared his throat.

  “Ah, Frau Linder, I understand that you sing, as well.”

  “Yes, Prince—”

  Ulrik waved his hand. “Just Ulrik, Frau Linder. Save the titles for formal occasions, which…” he looked around to where servants were beginning to clear up some of the detritus of Kristina’s impromptu party, “…this most certainly is not.”

  The prince reached inside his jacket pocket and brought out a much folded piece of paper, which he proceeded to unfold and stare at for a moment before he turned it around and handed it to her.

  “They tell me you have some connection with this.”

  Ein Anruf Zu Den Armen, the banner read. The ubiquity of the CoC broadsheets no longer surprised Marla, but that didn’t mean she was pleased.

  “God, I’m getting tired of seeing this,” she muttered to herself, forgetting for the moment who else was near.

  “What was that?” Ulrik asked.

  Marla looked up, not exactly flustered but not sure what to say.

  “Ah…yes. These are the words to a song I sang a few weeks ago here in Magdeburg. It was an up-time song.” Her voice didn’t quite trail off.

  “A song,” Ulrik said. “Would you sing it for me…for us?”

  “Now?”

  “If possible.”

  Marla looked around. Thomas was standing nearby; she beckoned to him and pointed to the piano bench. As Thomas folded himself behind the keyboard, she looked back at Ulrik.

  “Yes, it’s possible. Give me just a moment to prepare, please.”

  Marla beckoned to Franz as well, stepped away from the prince, and turned her back on everyone long enough to grab the waistband of her heavy sweater and yank it over her head, revealing a snug black turtleneck sweater beneath it. She thrust the heavy sweater into Franz’s waiting hands, yanked her fingers through her hair to try to impart a hint of order to it, and moved over to face the curve of the piano. He wanted this song, of all songs, she thought to herself as she placed her hands along the top of the cabinet. He wanted this song? He’d get it; no holds barred.

  “Give me the chords, please,” to Thomas. He obliged her, and she softly sang wordlessly for a few phrases, warming her voice at least a little. Fortunately—or at least, semi-fortunately—the demands of the song were more emotional than technical. And right now, she had enough of an edge on that she wouldn’t have any trouble pushing the song through.

  Holding a hand up, Marla turned and faced those who had drifted over and gathered around the piano. It was mostly the politicians, but there were a few of the servants in earshot.

  She dropped the hand, and Thomas began the introduction. Came the moment, and Marla began to pour out her voice, and her power, and her edge, and her soul. Not like she did the night she sang it in the Green Horse…different, somehow…but still way more than she had ever done with any other song, even Master Carissimi’s “Lament for a Fallen Eagle.” And today she had a visible focus.

  “Do you hear the people sing…”

  * * *

  The music staggered Ulrik. Short, not flowery or ornate, it seemed barely worthy of the description “song”…until one considered the voice, and the message.

  A most remarkable voice, he thought to himself as he struggled to be objective. But the words; ah, the words as sung by that voice—razors, every one of them. He had read the article by that writer, Logau. He now had a new appreciation for Logau’s metaphor of the archer, as he felt at the moment as if Marla were indeed Diana the Huntress, with her eyes fixed on him as her lawful prey.

  * * *

  For all its power and impact, the song wasn’t very long. Less than three minutes in Thomas’ arrangement, from beginning notes to final chords. Yet, as with all weapons, it wasn’t how big it was that mattered, it was how sharp it was and how it was used. Where previously the song had been aimed at Berlin, today Marla aimed it right at Prince Ulrik. And at the end, she saw that she had reached him. Something—some narrowing of the eyelids or slight drawing together of the brows—something Marla’s poker-playing daddy would have called a “tell”—told her that a touch had been made.

  * * *

  There was silence after the final chord. Even the irrepressible Kristina was subdued for a moment.

  Ulrik looked around, and took in the expressions of those who listened: the sober faces among the leaders; the nods and quiet smiles of pride on the faces of the other musicians; and just for a moment, savage smiles of glee on the faces of some of the servants before they turned away.

  He took a deep breath, then nodded to Marla. “I believe I understand why everyone was talking about this in Luebeck. I also understand why my father has ordered three Bledsoe and Riebeck pianos for his palaces.”

  He refolded the broadsheet and restored it to his coat pocket. “And you, my dear Frau Linder, sing very well indeed.”

  The formidable songstress nodded in return.

  “I shall play the flute,” Kristina announced firmly, momentary subduing expired.

  Ulrik looked to his charge with interest. “Why do you say that, Kristina?”

  “Well,” the princess said in a voice of reason, “I will never be able to sing as well as she can.” She tilted her head toward Marla. “And we won’t be able to carry a piano around with us when we travel, so I will never be able to practice enough to play it well. But I can put a flute in one of my bags and play it wherever we are.”

  “Marla can play the flute, too,” one of her musician friends—the short one—said matter-of-factly from where he stood in front of that part of the crowd.

  Kristina stomped her foot. “That’s not fair!”

  The room exploded in laughter.

  * * *

  Ciclope looked up with a guttural snarl when someone slid onto the unoccupied stool still sitting at the small table he and Pietro were sharing in the tavern. The stranger, no one he had met before, held up a hand in simultaneous greeting and remonstrance.

  “We have a mutual acquaintance, meine Herren.” The stranger’s voice was low, both in pitch and in volume.

  Ciclope glared at the man, and he could see Pietro aiming a sharp stare from his position as well. If looks were weapons, this idiot would be lying on the floor bleeding
from multiple wounds.

  Seeing they weren’t going to speak, the stranger continued, “I am an associate of your paymaster.” Ciclope’s mouth shaped the name Schmidt, but no sound was uttered.

  The stranger nodded. “Indeed.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice even more. “That person’s associates are not certain just how well he has communicated how important it is that your next task be undertaken with, ah, zeal. We think it would be best if the effect were as great as can be accomplished. To that end, we are willing to pay you this additional sum to ‘enhance’ your work, as it were.”

  He slid one hand across the table, and when he slid the hand back there was a small purse lying before Ciclope.

  “Take that in good confidence that we will approve of anything done to improve the results of your next task. And we will be in touch again.”

  The stranger nodded again, stood, and left, leaving Ciclope and Pietro to stare after him with furrowed brows.

  Ciclope laid his own arm on the table, and knocked the purse into his lap as he did so. After another minute or so, he said back with both hands in his lap. He opened the purse and dumped the contents into one hand, then rapidly counted them back into the purse. He looked to Pietro.

  “Fifty.”

  Pietro pursed his lips.

  Then Ciclope pulled one of the coins out of the bag and set it on the table between them, screened from casual viewers by one hand. His eyebrows went up when he saw the denomination of the coin.

  “Fifty Thaler?” Pietro whispered. Ciclope nodded. The Italian grinned, and said, “You know, suddenly I feel like doing a really good job at work.”

  Both men laughed.

  * * *

  Later that evening, alone in his room, Ulrik contemplated the depths of a Venetian glass wine goblet, swirling the rich red contents slowly while he thought about the day. All things considered, everything had gone well. No, they had not gone well; they had not even gone as well as could be expected; they had for the most part gone as well as he could have desired.