1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  Gotthilf laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder, stopped, and turned the boy so he could look directly down into his eyes. “We may not be able to find out who has been doing these things, but we have to try. And we don’t forget—not on my watch.”

  Simon stared up at him unblinking—not that he had to look up that far, Gotthilf conceded in a corner of his mind, given the not so great disparity in their height—for a long moment. At length, he nodded.

  “All right. But why Hans?”

  “Because we think he knows something that will help us,” Gotthilf said. “And if he does not tell us, someone else might get hurt.”

  “Or killed,” Simon said.

  “Yah,” Gotthilf agreed. “Or killed.”

  “I found one of the deaders in the river, you know,” Simon looked away. “The last one.”

  “That’s not in our reports,” Byron spoke up.

  “Yah, well, old Johann the fisher came along right after that and took over. But I saw him first.”

  The boy swallowed, hard.

  “Wasn’t pretty, was it?” The up-timer’s voice was gentle. Byron could surprise Gotthilf, even after working with him now for almost a year.

  “No.”

  “We want to stop that kind of thing. That’s why we need to know what Metzger knows.”

  Simon looked up at Gotthilf one more time.

  “Do you think that Hans did it?”

  “No,” Gotthilf replied. “But if he knows something, doesn’t tell us, and someone else gets hurt, then it’s just like he did it himself.”

  Simon looked down and muttered something low that Gotthilf couldn’t hear.

  Gotthilf waited. After a moment, the boy spoke louder. “I don’t know anything, but Hans is real uneasy.” He shrugged. “Can I go now? I have to deliver this package for the candler.” He patted the front of his jacket.

  “Sure, kid, take off,” Byron said. “Just be careful.”

  Simon turned after a couple of steps and looked at them both. “Hans didn’t do anything to those men.”

  “We know,” Gotthilf said.

  Simon nodded, turned, and trotted off.

  Gotthilf turned back toward the police station, and his partner fell into step with him.

  Byron looked at Gotthilf with a sidelong glance. “‘Wise man,’ huh? Well, at least you didn’t call me a wise guy.”

  Gotthilf shrugged. “My pastor said you were ‘a man of wisdom, integrity, and insight,’ and suggested I listen to you.”

  “So do you memorize everything I say? If you tell me yes, I’m gonna have to be even more careful about talking.”

  Gotthilf snorted. “You barely talk now. If you restrain yourself even more, your tongue is going to dry up from lack of use.” He turned sober. “I learn from you every day, Byron. But that statement, from our first day on patrol together, is engraved in my mind and heart. If I live long enough to slip into dotage, it will be the last thing I forget.”

  “Well…” The up-timer hesitated. “Thanks…I think.”

  * * *

  Pietro carefully fitted the plug he’d just finished whittling into the hole in the end of the hollowed out log. Almost perfect. He pulled it out again.

  “So, are you done yet?”

  He looked up as Ciclope came in the door.

  “Almost, si.”

  “Got the gunpowder?”

  “Some.”

  “Already?” Ciclope was astounded.

  “Brought it with me from Venice,” Pietro said absently, flicking at one spot on the rim of the plug with his knife.

  “You what?”

  “Fellow never can tell when he might need to make a big boom.”

  Pietro put the plug back into the opening as Ciclope choked for a moment. It fitted perfectly this time. He turned the log upside down and shook the plug out.

  “Seriously?” Ciclope finally got out.

  “Si. In the bottom of my saddlebags. Not a lot of it, though. I need to find some more.”

  He nodded to where two other logs waited, hollows filled and plugs firmly in place. “Had enough for those, though.”

  Ciclope moved to stand over them. “So, how long to find enough powder to finish the other two?”

  “Not long. I know where I can find some. The moon is dark for the next few nights.”

  “So we can move with this soon?”

  “Si. Soon.”

  * * *

  At last, Frau Linder appeared in company with Frau Higham. Schardius watched and listened from his shadow.

  “So what do you think, Amber?” the younger woman asked. “Are we good to go?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Frau Higham replied. “Every show I’ve ever directed was like this at this stage: full of rough edges. It’s coming together well, though, and we’ll be fine on opening night. Trust me.”

  “Okay,” Marla replied. “If you say so. I do wish we didn’t have the observer, though. He makes a lot of us nervous.”

  “Comes with the territory, kid. Producers and supporters always find a way to get these kind of perks.”

  “Mmm.” Marla made a noncommittal noise.

  “It’s true. But as long as all they’re doing is just watching the rehearsals, I’m okay with it. But when they start making passes at the girls—or the guys, for that matter—that’s when I start kicking butt and naming names. Nothing like that’s going to happen around one of my shows.” Frau Higham’s tone was quite firm.

  “Good.”

  “Speaking of which, has Herr Schardius made a pass at you, or anyone else?”

  “Not at me,” Marla said in an icy tone. “And he’d better not. I honor my marriage vows and I honor my husband. I’m not for sale, and if he tries anything, you won’t have to act.”

  “How so?” Frau Higham asked.

  “Think about it,” the younger woman said. She started counting on her fingers. “One—my brother-in-law is Lieutenant Chieske of the Magdeburg Polizei. Two—I am very good friends with Mary Simpson, who is very good friends with Senator Abrabanel. Three—I know Prince Ulrik.” She concluded just as two large figures bounded up the steps of the opera house and came to a halt, looming on either side of her.

  “And four,” Frau Higham laughed, “you’re a cheerleader for the Magdeburg Committees of Correspondence. Point taken. He’d be lucky to get out of town with his skin intact. You’re probably safer than I am. Hi, Klaus; hi, Reuel.” The two CoC guards returned her greeting.

  “I don’t know, you’re a good-looking woman, Amber.” They laughed together. Marla continued with, “But even if I was the sort who was open to that kind of proposition, Herr Schardius is no Johnny Depp.”

  “You had a crush on Depp? You and every other teenage girl in Grantville back then, I think.”

  “Oh, big-time crush; for about six months. Edward Scissorhands is still one of my favorite movies.”

  The two women chatted for a few more moments, then exchanged farewells, walked down the steps of the opera house and parted in different directions at the bottom.

  Schardius was seething in his shadow, almost trembling; first, at Frau Higham’s denigration of his morals and motives; and second, as he realized that the only major power in the city Frau Linder hadn’t mentioned ties to was Otto Gericke, who was probably the last person Schardius could look to for assistance. Especially in something like this. The young woman was correct: against that rank of names, his ties to the Old Magdeburg Rat were nothing. He would have to be very careful.

  It took a while, but Schardius contained his anger, forcing it into a corner of his mind, where it coiled and glowed like a forge in a smithy.

  Foolish, oh so foolish Marla Linder would pay for her insulting him, he vowed. He would begin by taking care of her obvious object of amor. He wondered how long it would take to send someone to Grantville and get back a report. If she thought so highly of this Johnny Depp, then let him suffer for her.

  Chapter 46

  “Two days?” Otto Gericke asked.
>
  Albrecht, his secretary, handed the radio message form to him so he could confirm what he had been told. It took only a moment for Otto to read it: Emperor Gustavus Adolphus planned to arrive at the docks in Magdeburg in two days.

  He looked up from the form.

  “Right. Get the word out, Albrecht: Princess Kristina and Prince Ulrik; all the members of Parliament in the city; the palace staff and the commander of the Marine palace guards; the naval base; and the newspapers. Send an unofficial notice to Spartacus and Gunther Achterhof.”

  Albrecht nodded. For a moment, Otto wondered why he was still standing there and not moving on getting the notices out. Then it occurred to him that the list was incomplete. He made a sour expression, and said, “And I suppose we should send a notice to the Old Magdeburg Regierender Rat. We would never hear the end of it if we left the old city council off the list.”

  Albrecht nodded again with a smile, and now headed for his desk to begin drafting messages.

  Otto looked at the files on his desk and on the side table, and wondered if there was anything he could get done before he had to start dancing attendance on the emperor.

  * * *

  “Really?” Kristina’s face lit up with surprise and joy. “Papa will be here in two days?”

  “Really,” Caroline Platzer said with a smile.

  Ulrik watched as the girl did a little dance of glee around her tutor/governess/friend. He had a smile of his own on his face, but inside he was far from overjoyed. Oh, it was good to know that Gustav would be here soon. The fact that the emperor was apparently back in his right mind was a matter for serious rejoicing, and the fact that he was well enough to travel was the subject of prayers of thanks. But “right mind” and “well enough” did not necessarily equate to “good health,” and Ulrik, along with anyone with a firm grasp of the current political situation in the USE, had some serious concerns about the emperor’s health and future prospects.

  Very serious concerns.

  A practical concern popped to his mind at that moment, and he walked over to where Captain David Beaton was standing with the Marines currently on bodyguard duty. Like most of his Marines, Beaton was a Scot; in his case, from Skye in the Western Isles. He wasn’t the largest or most fearsome-looking man in his company, but not a one of his men would cross him, and given that he had several Highlanders and even an Irishman or two in his command, that said something about him. Ulrik had found him to be attentive to duty and competent at his work.

  “In case no one else thinks of it,” Ulrik said quietly, “it might be a good idea to get that car the princess and I rode in ready for the emperor.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Ulrik nodded, and turned back to the princess.

  * * *

  Schardius visited the opera house a few times every week, usually at dusk or later, when his appearances would be less noticeable.

  By now he knew the inside of the place very well; even the basement, with its maze of storage rooms, equipment closets, stairs, and the under-stage area that was mostly open between the supporting pillars but contained provisions for trapdoors, elevators, and other strange theatrical equipment.

  He always made a visit to the Women’s Dressing Room. Sometimes it was the first place he visited back stage; sometimes it was the last. Tonight it was his last stop. He flashed his light around, and walked down the way to the table of his interest, where he poked around the various jars and bottles on the table top. He couldn’t take any of them, of course, but he did lift the one bottle of scent and sniff at it. That smell—it sent fire through his head and to his groin. But he only allowed himself the one sniff.

  Schardius started to turn away, but stopped as his light flicked across something lying on the floor under the table. Stooping, he picked it—or rather, them—up. He stared at them, and smiled. These—now these he could take. He sniffed of them. There was a hint of the scent, but it wasn’t strong. He dared to open the scent bottle and pour a drop on each, then he closed it and returned it to its place.

  Smiling a hot smile, Schardius turned to take his new trophies to safety.

  * * *

  Ciclope looked up as Pietro slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

  “Did you get it?”

  The Italian grinned and hefted his bag, which was much larger than it had been when he left, and judging from the effort he expended to lift it, weighed more as well.

  Ciclope nodded toward the last hollowed out tree limb bomb case.

  “Let’s get it done, then.”

  “Si.”

  Pietro set his bag on the table and pulled out a very finely woven cloth sack. It was the work of moments to fill up the bomb casing, pick up the waiting plug, rub a piece of wax around it, and press it into the hole, sealing the gunpowder inside the case. He rubbed the wax over the face of the bomb, then pressed a mixture of dirt and sawdust into the wax, hiding the circle where the plug met the wall of the bomb case.

  The little thief picked up the completed bomb and set it with the other three of its mates, all masquerading as nothing more sinister than inert lengths of wood, suitable for someone’s fireplace or furnace. He dusted his hands, and said with satisfaction, “That’s that. We’re ready to go now.”

  “Good,” Ciclope said. “Sooner is better. Tomorrow? Day after?”

  Pietro thought for a moment, then nodded. “Si. I’ve been watching the night watchman, and the early morning crew. I know the routines pretty well. Give me one more night to follow them, and we can go the next day.”

  “Good,” Ciclope repeated. He pointed to where the not-so-empty sack of gunpowder sat on the table. “Why did you get so much more than we needed?”

  Pietro flashed a triumphant grin. “Because I got these, too.”

  He reached into his carry sack and pulled out two pistols. And such pistols! Hockenjoss & Klott revolvers, they were. Five-shot beauties, Ciclope discovered when he took one in greedy hands.

  “How…” he started, turning the pistol over and over in his hands.

  “You visit a gun seller’s shop, you’d be surprised if there weren’t some guns there somewhere, wouldn’t you? And I picked up bullets and these percussion cap things, too.”

  Pietro lifted more treasures from the carry sack.

  Ciclope settled in for a long evening playing with his new toy.

  Chapter 47

  “Tell me again why we’re doing this now, instead of in the middle of the night?” Ciclope muttered.

  Pietro turned around in the early predawn light with an air of patience.

  “Because I don’t know how long it will take these to burn through and explode, so if we want to catch people, we need to load them in the fire about now. If we did it earlier, they might go off too early, which would wreck the machine but wouldn’t hurt anyone. Now come on, and for God’s sake, be quiet!”

  The thief turned away and led Ciclope in a circuitous route through the darkest shadows, until they reached their destination: a wagon that had been jacked up to sit on columns of timber and brick, with its east end almost nosing the platform the steam crane was built on. It was the largest wagon either of them had ever seen, but then, considering what it carried when it rolled, it pretty well had to be.

  The wagon bed had very high sides and a wooden roof. Up-timers who had seen it frequently remarked on how it resembled an old railroad car.

  At the moment, a set of wooden steps led up to the door at the end of the wagon. Pietro handed his load to Ciclope, then paused, listening. After a moment, he slunk up the steps, then opened the door and whipped inside.

  There were a couple of muted thumps, then Pietro appeared in the door and beckoned to Ciclope. He rushed up the steps as quickly as he could with the cumbersome loads.

  There was barely room inside for the two of them, their loads, and the body on the floor. Ciclope unslung his load with a curse, but set it and the other one down with care nonetheless. Despite Pietro’s assurance that bum
ping or dropping the packages would have no effect on them, Ciclope was still a bit nervous about being so cavalier with the bombs.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the body.

  “Nils,” Pietro said, taking a knife from his pocket and cutting the cords that bound the bombs into two packages. “He’s a Swede, one of the boiler tenders, usually works the early morning shift by himself getting the steam up to operating temperature.”

  “Dead?”

  “Probably. If he’s not, he soon will be.”

  “So this is the fabled steam engine,” Ciclope drawled, looking at the equipment. “Looks like a big water tank to me.”

  “This is the boiler,” Pietro said, opening the door to the brick firebox beneath the metal tank. “It looks like a water tank because it is a water tank. The engine itself is in the crane housing on that deck in front of the wagon.”

  “Oh.”

  The heat rolled out from the open firebox. Pietro bent down and peered through the open door.

  “Okay, hand them to me.”

  Ciclope hefted one and passed it to Pietro, who shoved the log into the firebox with the fire iron that had been propped in the corner, then bent down some more to push it around inside the firebox. The process was repeated three more times, after which a few pieces of regular wood were added to the fire as camouflage. Pietro straightened with a smirk on his face.

  “That’s that.” He closed the firebox door. “No one would think to look in there for anything. Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Ciclope wholeheartedly agreed with that last sentiment. He was first out the door.

  * * *

  “Tell me again why we are here so early even the birds are still yawning?” Baldur groused, following suit with a gaping yawn of his own.

  “Because,” Ulrik said around the mouth of his coffee mug, “the emperor’s latest message said he would be here just after first light. That being the case, someone should be here to meet him.”

  “And that would be you?” Another prodigious yawn from the Norwegian.

  “That would be us and the princess,” Ulrik said with a nod to the car. “Best foot forward, family unity, all that.”