1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  “What?”

  That exclamation after reading the first few lines was the only sound he made until he reached the end of the report. But the paper began to curl and crumple as his fingers tried to draw into a fist.

  When he finished the report, he sat there, every muscle in his body locked, breath ripping into and out of his nose, head lowered, and tremors of rage coursing through his body.

  An actor? Marla Linder had dared to compare him to an actor? And one who hadn’t even come back through the Ring of Fire with Grantville at that?

  His planned revenge crumbled to dust.

  Schardius shot to his feet, grabbed his chair, raised it, and almost smashed it against the wall behind his desk. After struggling for a few seconds, he managed to restrain himself and set the chair back down on the floor.

  He felt a little better, then. His mind wasn’t in the total grip of rage, at any rate. Grabbing his hat and coat, he flung open the door, startling the office workers gathered outside his office. A moment later, he was on the street.

  He wasn’t aware that he was being followed.

  * * *

  Franz watched as Marla paced, eyes shining.

  “Dress rehearsal today. One more day, and we do it for real.”

  He rejoiced to see her like that. So far she had come, so much she had endured after the stillbirth of their daughter Alison. The thought that Marla was back to her old self almost made him want to throw a party. And he just might do that, after the opera.

  The fire was there in her eyes for everyone to see. And she was ready—past ready, as was he—to show the world—or at least Magdeburg—that Marla Linder was back.

  * * *

  Reilly looked at Honister after the mayor left.

  “Sounds to me like the mayor knows something we don’t.”

  “Yah.”

  “Also sounds to me like you have your orders.”

  Honister closed his folder. “Indeed.”

  * * *

  Schardius stood, slightly hunched over, staring through the slight crack in the lath and plaster wall that gave him a view of the Women’s Dressing Room from inside a storage closet on the other side of the wall, a closet that opened from another hallway.

  His attention was so riveted on what he was seeing in the other room, he wasn’t aware of the door into the closet opening slightly.

  He also wasn’t aware that he wasn’t the only person who had a copy of the custodian’s key.

  * * *

  “Metzger.”

  Hans heard his name growled as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned in the direction of the pull, throwing whoever was behind him off balance, and brought the walking stick around and jammed the knobby head of it into the other man’s solar plexus.

  “You always were a fool, Hermann,” he said to the now-almost-paralyzed warehouseman. He looked over Hermann’s shoulder. “Möritz, Fritz.”

  They said nothing, just spread their arms and tried to rush him.

  Hans shoved Hermann toward Möritz’s feet and turned to face Fritz as the other two men went to the ground. He swung the walking stick at the other man’s head. Fritz raised his arm to block the stick, and as he did so, Hans kicked him in the groin.

  Fritz shrieked and bent forward to clutch at his abused manhood, only to meet Hans’ fist as it crashed into his jaw.

  Crack. The jaw was broken, and Fritz collapsed unconscious. Hans took a two-handed grip on the walking stick and turned to face the other two men. Möritz had almost regained his feet when the walking stick slammed into the side of his head. The knob on the end of it shattered the skull in the left temple, right behind the eye. Möritz’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fell onto his back.

  Hermann had managed to roll onto his knees. He held his hands up, pleading, as Hans turned on him.

  “Don’t…don’t…do…”

  Hans was sorely tempted to crush his skull also. But Hermann suffered more from stupidity than outright malice. It would be enough to cripple him for a few weeks.

  Or maybe permanently—a club was not exactly a precision instrument—but Hans didn’t care much. He swung the walking stick down and smashed Hermann’s left elbow. The man shrieked and then passed out.

  Turning to leave, Hans paused for a moment to stomp on Möritz’s throat to cut off the wounded man’s stertorous breathing.

  He’d never liked Möritz. He was a sneak as well as a bully, a man who wouldn’t be above stabbing someone in the back just to do it. He was a good match for Master Schardius, and Hans would shed no tears over the death Möritz had brought upon himself.

  Chapter 59

  Gotthilf awoke suddenly, aware that someone was in the room with him. He opened his eyes the merest slit, and relaxed when he realized that it was Simon’s sitting up in bed that had awakened him. Then he became aware of being stiff and sore; and no wonder, since he had spent what was left of the previous night sleeping in a wooden chair with his feet propped up on a stool.

  “Mmm,” he grunted, dropping his feet to the floor and standing. Muscles in his back complained about the change in position for a moment, then subsided. He took the blanket that had been wrapped around him, folded it twice and draped it over the chair.

  Simon was looking around with a frown on his face. It wasn’t hard to deduce what was on his mind. Gotthilf walked over to the odd-looking piece of furniture in the corner and flipped up the lid to reveal the chamber pot.

  “You go first,” he said. He turned to his wardrobe to give the boy a bit of privacy, and soon the sounds and smells of a healthy boy relieving his system filled the room.

  Gotthilf tossed his jacket on the bed, took off his shoulder holster, and stripped off his shirt. Then he reached into his wardrobe and picked up a fresh shirt. Hearing Simon stirring around again, he turned as he pulled the shirt on over his head.

  Simon looked up from where he had just managed to buckle his belt one-handed. His head tilted as he contemplated the wardrobe.

  “You have a cabinet just for your clothes? How many shirts do you have?”

  Gotthilf looked in the wardrobe. “Here and in the laundry, seven or eight.”

  Simon’s eyes widened at the thought of that much wealth. “You could wear a different shirt every day of the week.”

  Gotthilf chuckled as he reached for his holster rig and shrugged into it. “There have been times when my mother forced me to do just that.”

  Simon stared at the rig. “You carry a gun all the time?”

  Gotthilf shrugged. “I deal with dangerous people, sometimes. So, yes, I carry a gun all the time. Two, actually. Big pistol here”—he placed his right hand on the .44 in his left armpit—“extra loaded cylinders for it here”—he touched the cylinders on the right side strap—“and smaller back-up pistol here.” He turned to show Simon the .32 holstered in the small of his back, grip upward. He picked up his jacket and put it on.

  Simon had a disconcerted look on his face.

  “Have you ever shot anyone?”

  Gotthilf abandoned a flippant answer before it was fully formed in his mind.

  “Yah, but only to keep them from hurting someone else.”

  Simon considered that, tilting his head again as he thought. When he reached his conclusion, he nodded firmly and looked up at Gotthilf.

  “So,” Gotthilf said. “Ready for something to eat?”

  That got an enthusiastic nod from the boy.

  “Well, get Fraulein Metzger’s bag and let’s get to the table while there is still food on it.”

  Simon grabbed the bag off the table with his one hand and lugged it out the door. Gotthilf followed him, chuckling. “This way,” he said as he headed for the stairs.

  They clomped on down the stairs together, and Gotthilf led the boy to the eating room at the back of the house. They arrived to find Frau Fickler at one end of the table, flanked by Margarethe on the left and Fraulein Metzger on the right. That encouraged Gotthilf. His mother took Scripture seriously in ma
ny ways, one of which was that anyone that she seated to her right was someone for which she had some sort of favor.

  Gotthilf nodded to the women.

  “Mother, Fraulein Metzger, Margarethe.”

  He guided Simon to a chair, and sat next to him. The kitchen girl brought small bowls of broth to them, along with fresh rolls. Simon sat as if paralyzed, as if he had been struck by a gorgon’s gaze.

  Gotthilf chuckled at that thought. His mother might be a bit of a scold at times, but this was the first time he’d seen evidence that she might be a medusa. He nudged Simon and whispered, “Watch me.”

  * * *

  Amber looked around from the edge of the stage under the proscenium. Not for the first time she wished the stage had an apron area in front of the proscenium. But it didn’t, so she mentally shrugged and moved on in her mental checklist.

  Franz Sylwester stood with baton in hand in the orchestra pit, watching her as the musicians in the pit watched him. The chorus and soloists were standing in the wings in full makeup and costume, ready to make their entrances. Frau Frontilia was standing at the stage manager’s desk wearing the headset, ready to start giving cues. Back stage hands were poised by the scenery flats and furniture that would have to be moved on and off stage. Even the props manager was focused on her, hands on the first props that would have to be passed out.

  “All right, folks,” Amber called out. “One time through, no stops, just like it’s for real; because tomorrow it is for real.”

  Amber left the stage and walked past the stage manager’s desk, collecting a high five from Frau Frontilia with a grin. She walked through another door into a hallway that paralleled the auditorium. It didn’t take long to circle around to the main doors. Walking through them, she walked down about halfway to the stage, then moved to a seat in the center.

  Taking her seat, she said one word.

  “Begin.”

  * * *

  The maid ushered Byron Chieske into the eating room. Gotthilf set his half-eaten roll down. This was only the second time that Byron had called on him at home in their entire partnership. Of course, the first time had been last night, and look what had come of that.

  “Time to go?” Gotthilf asked.

  “Something interesting has come up,” Byron said. “We need to get on it right now.”

  “Is it about Hans?” Simon asked eagerly, starting to get up from his chair.

  Byron pressed down on the boy’s shoulder, but Gotthilf noticed he didn’t answer the boy directly.

  “No, you can’t come with us. We’ll let you know when we find out where Hans went.”

  As he got to his feet, Gotthilf saw Fraulein Ursula sit back with the same disappointed look that Simon had.

  “Promise?” Simon asked.

  “Promise,” Gotthilf replied.

  Outside there was a police department cart waiting for them.

  “Is this about Metzger?” Gotthilf asked as he climbed into the cart.

  “Probably,” Byron said. “But he’s not at the scene now, even if he was earlier.”

  * * *

  Hans ducked into the Chain. It was early in the day, and hardly anyone was there besides Veit behind the bar, a girl sweeping the floor, and a couple of addled-seeming women who had to be the worst sort of prostitutes. He went over to where Veit was tending to the ale barrels, and dropped a pfennig on the board that served as a counter.

  “Genever,” he rasped. “Short cup.”

  Veit grabbed a squat brown bottle from the shelf behind him. It wasn’t the good gin that Hans usually got, but since he was only buying a cup, he didn’t expect the good stuff.

  Veit put the cup of gin on the counter, and counted out three quartered pfennig pieces as change.

  Hans picked up the cup and threw his head back as he drained it in three swallows. When he put the cup down, he saw Veit was staring at him.

  “Hans?” the barman whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  Hans leaned forward.

  “Buying a drink. Why?”

  “There were men in here earlier looking for you. Hard men. Very hard men.”

  Hans shrugged. “Yah. Some of them found me a little while ago. I’m here, they’re not.”

  Veit’s gaze moved past Hans.

  “They’re back.”

  * * *

  Erling Ljungberg opened the door and glared at Ulrik. It wasn’t a personal glare, Ulrik decided after a moment; not something directed at Ulrik for cause. Rather, it was more of a general notice to the world glare, delivering a warning that today was not a day to cross the emperor’s bodyguard.

  After a moment, Ljungberg stepped aside, and Ulrik entered the room to discover the emperor seated in one of two chairs, waiting.

  “Come, Ulrik,” Gustav beckoned. “Join me and take in some of this excellent coffee.” The emperor slurped at his cup with gusto.

  Ulrik took the other chair and accepted a cup from the servant. He stared at Gustav over the rim of the cup. Whatever he had expected when the emperor had summoned him for their first private conversation, it wasn’t to be seated in comfortable chairs and drinking coffee as if they were two merchants sitting at a table in Walcha’s.

  Gustav seemed oblivious to that stare as he finished his cup of coffee. He set the empty cup on the small table between the two chairs, but when the servant moved to refill it, Gustav pointed to the door instead. “Leave us,” he said.

  The servant bowed and left without a word.

  Gustav looked around. “You, too, Erling.”

  The bodyguard said nothing, but to Ulrik’s eye seemed to solidify into one of those standing stones that could be seen in some of the forest glades; stones that were rumored to be part of pagan sites. Looking at Ljungberg’s face at that moment, Ulrik could believe that. A more fitting image for old Wotan’s face he couldn’t imagine.

  “Erling, I am as safe with this man as I am with you,” Gustav said. “Stand outside the door, if you must.”

  Now Ulrik was on the receiving end of a personal glare from the bodyguard. It was much more…pointed…than the previous glare had been. He had no doubt that it promised all manner of mayhem and hurt to him if Gustav suffered even a stubbed toe while they were alone. But after a moment, Ljungberg turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with a certain amount of firmness.

  Gustav chuckled.

  “A good man, that, who takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  “Don’t tell me that he wouldn’t harm a flea,” Ulrik responded, “for I won’t believe that.”

  Gustav chuckled again, then said, “Oh, he is a hard man, there is no doubt. But he is my hard man, which is what’s important.”

  Ulrik had to nod at that.

  “So,” the emperor continued, “you have been here—on the ground, so to speak—for some time. You must have observations of the politicians, the CoC, and what has been going on. Talk to me.”

  * * *

  At the end of the discussion, Ulrik was exhausted. Gustav had drained him of almost every thought. Gustav, on the other hand, was still sitting erect, eyes shining, rubbing his hands together.

  “So,” the emperor proclaimed. “All is good. All has gone well here in Magdeburg, not least because of you having the wisdom to bring Kristina here.”

  “Your daughter…” Ulrik began.

  Gustav held up a hand. “Please, I can see what is before my eyes. She is young, but she has an instinct now as to who she can trust. In the Grantvillers’ future, she lost that instinct.” He shrugged. “But here and now, she has it. And she trusts you. And you have not betrayed that trust, unlike some others.”

  The emperor’s face darkened as he referred to the late Chancellor Oxenstierna. Ulrik tensed a little. Like all those who had close contact with Gustav, he had been lectured by Dr. Nichols as to what to expect if the emperor suffered a seizure. He also knew that strong anger had been known to trigger a seizure. Ulrik really didn’t want to have to put Dr. Nichols’ te
achings into practice. Gustav took a deep breath and let it out, and Ulrik relaxed as the emperor’s color lightened.

  “So,” Gustav repeated. “What do we need to talk about that I haven’t asked?”

  That gave Ulrik the opening he had been wanting.

  “The people, Gustav.”

  “The people? What do you mean?”

  For response, Ulrik pulled out the broadsheet with Frau Linder’s song on it, unfolded it, and passed it to the emperor.

  Gustav scanned it, then read through it again slowly. He looked up and tapped the broadsheet with his finger. “Much better poetry that you usually see in these,” he observed. “But what is so important about this?”

  “That is a song,” Ulrik explained. “It’s an up-time song, translated by a Silesian writer named Logau. But it was sung by Frau Marla Linder, in a public setting.”

  Gustav thought back. “I have heard this Frau Linder sing, in the great Messiah performance last winter. She is good, but…” He pointed to the broadsheet. “What does she have to do with this?”

  Ulrik almost shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to someone who hadn’t heard it sung in person.

  “When Frau Linder sings this song, the music sinks hooks into you, and you never forget it.” Ulrik remembered the expressions on the faces of the servants in the palace on the day of their arrival. “Never.”

  He pulled out a clipping of Logau’s column about the January 19th performance in the Green Horse, and handed it to Gustav. This time when the emperor looked up, his face was serious. Before he could speak, Ulrik forestalled him with, “I found that broadsheet in Luebeck, over one hundred fifty miles from Magdeburg, before we flew down in the airplane. And,” he held up a forefinger, “Frau Linder’s performance was recorded by an up-timer, played on the radio at least once, and Trommler Records is selling records with that song on it,” he pointed to the broadsheet, “from that performance.” He ended up pointing at the column clipping.

  Gustav was not slow on the uptake. “How many records?”

  Ulrik shook his head. “I don’t know. But the rumors Baldur has been hearing indicate a lot.”