by Eric Flint
Simon stirred, grasped the offered hand and let Gotthilf pull him up. He followed Gotthilf to where the police department carriage waited for them. Once inside, he leaned against the side. He said nothing.
“So,” Gotthilf said after a few minutes of slow progress, “does it help any knowing that Schardius is gone?”
Simon stirred. “Some,” he said.
Gotthilf didn’t push the issue. He suspected, though, that Pastor Gruber might be talking to the boy about this soon.
* * *
Amber felt Heinrich squeeze her hand again. He leaned closer.
“This shall be your triumph, tonight.”
Amber shook her head.
“No, this is your work, yours and Johann Gronow’s.”
“My dear,” Heinrich murmured as the applause and cheers continued to sound from all around them, “what we did was nothing more than preparing the canvas and mixing the paint. You have painted the masterpiece, you and your singers.”
* * *
Friedrich sat back in his chair, half-exhausted. God above, there was still one more act to go!
He looked over at Gronow, and muttered, “You are not going to give me a hint as to how this ends, are you?
Gronow grinned. “Did you give us advance warning of what you had crafted for Frau Linder two months ago? No. As Saint Matthew recorded in his gospel, ‘Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.’ And you, being a good Lutheran, would desire to be obedient to the Holy Writ. I am merely observing that because of your prior actions, you want to be treated in the same way. Ipso facto, and quod erat demonstrandum for good measure.”
“Never trust an editor,” Friedrich muttered with a scowl, settling back and crossing his arms.
* * *
Princess Kristina’s face split in a huge yawn. She sank down in her chair. Ulrik wasn’t sure she would last out the evening, as much as she professed to enjoy the show. Even now her eyes were drifting shut.
Ulrik looked over to Gustav. The emperor was holding his chin, and tapping his foot. He apparently caught Ulrik’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, for he turned his head and winked at the prince.
“What do you think of it?” Ulrik asked. He was a bit surprised to discover a moment later that he really wanted to know the emperor’s opinion on what they were hearing.
“A bit heathenish, perhaps,” Gustav conceded, “but compared to the tales my Finns tell around the campfires at night, this is actually somewhat mild.” He chuckled. “The music is quite good, I think. I’m rather glad I plucked Kappellmeister Schütz from your brother’s court.” That was said with a wicked grin.
“And the singing?”
“Oh, very fine, I would say. The baritone is as good as any I have ever heard, and he has the stature to play a proper king.” Gustav patted his ample midriff as if to exemplify the concept. “And the castrato—Abati, is that his name?—he is excellent. Although I still shiver at the thought of what was done to him.”
Gustav twitched his shoulders as he said that last. Ulrik nodded in complete agreement.
“And Frau Linder,” he prompted after a few seconds.
“Yes…Frau Linder,” Gustav responded. “We have heard even in Stockholm of La Cecchina, the ornament of the court in Florence. Perhaps in Frau Linder we have her equal.”
Or even her superior, Ulrik thought to himself as Gustav held his wine cup out for a refill.
* * *
Franz pushed his hair back and looked around the orchestra. There were smiles everywhere. They all knew they were doing well; the opera as a whole was going well. And despite all the murmurs about egotistical and arrogant singers, they all knew that the soloists were nothing short of superb tonight. Excitement was in the air in the orchestra so thick you could almost drink it.
The applause finally started to die down. Franz looked to the stage curtain, knowing that it would rise shortly. When the performance began he had been concerned about Marla. The things that had happened tonight would have been enough to put almost anyone in a funk. But she’d said she was mad, and apparently that gave her extra spirit, for tonight she was Guinevere, more so than she had ever been.
One more act, he thought as the lights blinked in the signal to begin. One more act.
He raised his baton.
* * *
Despite his determination to remember everything that happened in the last act, Friedrich was really only able to remember bits and pieces of it from that first performance, except for three great songs. By some odd coincidence, they all involved Marla Linder.
The first was the duet in the first scene where Guinevere sat alone under the Dragon Tree and poured out her heart to it; her anger, her pain, her dejection, her wounded pride, and finally her bereftness. That was a wonderful poignant moment, which was answered brilliantly when the voice of Merlin responded to her from the tree.
Merlin revealed what had truly happened to Arthur. Guinevere was slow to understand, but once she did grasp the events, and the parts played by all involved, she burned with wrath against Nimue.
Merlin cautioned her:
Beware the sylph’s strength!
Take warning from my fallen state.
No man may confound the creature’s might.
To which Guinevere responded:
No man, you say?
But I am not a man, nor have I ever been.
With Saint George and Saint Michael to strengthen my hand,
I will be this creature’s bane.
Merlin made no reply as the music echoed motifs from the overture march, and the drums rumbled beneath.
The second bright remembrance for Friedrich was in the second scene of the third act, where Guinevere tracked down Nimue and made good on her promise. The duet was strenuous and musically challenging, as one would expect between two sopranos of such power and skill. But the presentation was also strenuous as Guinevere appeared, in armor, sword in hand, and proceeded to lay into the sylph, who managed to produce a sword just in the nick of time to avoid being skewered by the queen’s first thrust.
Back and forth they went, declaiming lines of the duet as they did. Friedrich had to chuckle. Neither of the singers would have lasted long as bravos on the streets or as soldiers on the battlefields. But for stage fencing, it wasn’t bad, and it was certainly exciting.
As the duet began moving toward its conclusion, Nimue was obviously getting the worst of it. At that point, she sang:
Morrigan!
I, your ally, abettor, and adjunct
Do pray your aid
Against this fell foe!
The Morrigan, once again in the branches of the Dragon Tree, raised her wings and sang:
No friend of thine am I!
I live for strife,
And your foe brings strife home to you.
At that point, Nimue seemed to lose heart, and it was not long before Guinevere thrust her blade home to the sylph’s heart.
The loudest applause of the evening so far broke out, and the final cadences of the accompaniment went unheard by most. It was several minutes before it died down enough that the opera could continue. From the way that Guinevere’s chest was heaving, Friedrich suspected that was a benefit to her.
The final pearl of the evening was the final scene of Act Three. The planned-for rebellion had broken out, and there was no help for it but Arthur and his knights had to meet the forces of Medraut in battle. Most of it occurred off-stage, of course, but the sound effects of the battle were loud and alarming. On-stage, Arthur bitterly regretted that Guinevere and her captains had not followed him to the battle. His men were holding, but at a high price. And then the fateful breakthrough happened—Arthur’s front line broke, and Medraut and his champions came through.
It was almost a dance, Friedrich thought. The scene of Arthur battling one warrior after another, singing his rage against his half-brother, while Medraut waited, spilling his hate verbally, was powerful. Friedrich forgot to even criti
cize the fencing as the force of the scene gripped him.
The inevitable end came: the audience groaned and cried out when Arthur’s sword was trapped in the body of his last opponent, and Medraut seized his opportunity to lunge in and transfix the king. Arthur fell to his knees, bent over the sword thrust through him.
Medraut turned away from the stricken king, and launched into a victory aria, but seemingly halfway through it, the orchestra trumpets began to sound fanfare figures. Medraut looked around, but continued singing. A few measures later, the fanfares sounded again, and this time a flood of actors entered the stage, Guinevere at their head. She had brought her troops at last. As they put paid to the bedraggled remnants of Medraut’s army, she took in the scene before her, and even from his seat in the audience Friedrich could sense her drawing up, swelling, beginning to loom over the battlefield and the hapless Medraut.
Too late,
Alas, too late to save!
Then I will avenge!
And true to her word, Guinevere soon battered Medraut to defeat. He fell to his hands and knees facing upstage. Her sword rose, held in both hands, then fell swiftly. There was a chunk sound. The queen bent over, and when she straightened she was holding the head of Medraut.
Thus the traitor
Is paid his due!
Many in the audience flinched at the head, men and women alike. It was rather lifelike, complete with glassy eyes and ragged skin at the neck. But after a moment to feel properly horrified, they broke out in wild cheers and applause, including at least one roar of approval from the imperial box.
When the applause died down, Merlin appeared, singing an explanation that the defeat of Nimue had opened the Dragon Tree and released him, but that he had not been able to catch up with Guinevere and her captains.
And Merlin, singing to the melody that had been the Pater Noster in earlier scenes, drew the sword from Arthur, placed him in the barge that floated out from stage left, and in a final duet with Guinevere promised that Arthur was going to the Isles of the Blessed where he would be healed of his deadly wound and lie sleeping for the time of the people’s need.
Arthur raised up to sing a short farewell, promising to return when he was needed most, then floated off to stage right.
The final grand chorus began with a mass shout of Ave Arthur, Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus!, then reprised the great Alleluia fugue from the wedding scene, with Guinevere standing in front, sword lifted high, voice skirling over them all.
And with that, the final curtain dropped.
* * *
Ciclope had made his way across the western bridge into the oldest part of the city. After almost running into the procession of Marine guards and the emperor’s car on the Gustavstrasse boulevard, he stuck to the side streets, moving always in the direction of the Schardius warehouse.
He was still muttering about the loss of his kill. If the Polizei cost him his ten thousand dollars…
A noise intruded on his consciousness as he was walking by one of Old Magdeburg’s many churches, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder.
“You? What are you—”
Chapter 70
Friedrich found himself on his feet, beating his hands together as hard as he could, stomping his feet, and shouting nonsense at the top of his lungs. After a minute or two of that, he grabbed Gronow around the shoulder and gave him a fierce hug. “You genius!” he shouted in his friend’s ear. “I forgive you!” And he went back to clapping and shouting.
* * *
Gustav pursed his lips and nodded. “If this is what an opera is, maybe I will come to more of them. The final music was a little harsh, though.”
“The up-time influence, I’m afraid,” Ulrik replied. “They tell me we will become accustomed to it.”
“I thought it was good,” Caroline Platzer replied from the row behind them. “Not that I’m a connoisseur of operas, you understand. They didn’t stage them in Grantville very often.” Her grin was sly enough that Ulrik knew she meant that the Grantvillers had never had one.
“Frau Linder,” Gustav mused, “she is like steel on the stage. Is she like that away from the stage, from the music?”
Ulrik pointed to Baldur to answer.
“From all accounts she is a very pleasant woman, but one with a very strong view of the world,” the Norwegian responded.
“Frau Caroline, do you know Frau Linder?” Gustav asked.
“Not well,” she replied. “I was an out-of-towner, not one of the Grantville natives. But I am acquainted with her, and certainly know of her. I would say that she’s not a tough broad—not a hard person—but she is a passionate person who will stand up for what she believes in.”
Gustav folded his hands together and tapped his lips with his forefingers several times. “We shall officially ignore the song on the radio and the records,” he said finally. “This is a woman who it is better to have as a friend than a foe. She could not have played that queen as she did if she is not capable of hardness. Let us not make her discover just how hard she can become.”
The emperor stood, stretched, and yawned. “Now, I believe I would like to return to the palace and rest. You,” he pointed to one of the Marine guards standing in the rear of the box, “go tell the driver to warm up the car.” As that worthy almost leapt out the door, Gustav turned back to the family group. “But tomorrow—do we have a Trommler record player in the palace?”
Caroline looked up from where she was trying to get Kristina to wake up enough to walk. “I believe so, in the great room with the piano.”
“Good. I believe that I would like to hear Frau Marla’s infamous song for myself. Do any of you own the record?”
No one spoke for a moment, then Baldur cleared his throat. Ulrik looked at him in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought that of you, Baldur.”
Baldur shrugged. “I’ve heard her sing before. I like her voice.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s a first pressing copy of the record. In a few years, it will be worth a small fortune.”
They gathered their coats and other paraphernalia. Baldur finished off a couple of near-empty wine bottles.
“Frau Caroline?” Gustav said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Please arrange with the palace staff to have the major figures in this opera invited to the palace.”
“Can do, sir.”
* * *
Gotthilf dismounted from the police department carriage, joining Byron and Karl Honister at the bottom of the front steps of the opera building.
“Kid delivered safe and sound?”
“Yah. Turned him over to my mother and Pastor Gruber. Between them, they’ll take care of him.”
Gotthilf looked at the other two men. “Well, what are we waiting for? I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get some sleep sometime tonight.”
Byron shrugged. “Let’s do it.”
They started up the steps together.
* * *
Franz stepped backstage into a scene of almost riotous celebration. Three different less-than-delicate drinking songs were being sung by different groups of the cast. Dieter had donned Nimue’s blond wig, and was singing part of Nimue’s victory song in a falsetto that was so high it was almost painful. It didn’t help any that he was intentionally missing pitches and slurring words.
Marla was laughing, but she was wincing as well. She saw Franz standing and grinning at her, and she flew to him, producing an “Oof!” when she made contact and threw her arms around him. She was still wearing her final costume with the tin armor, and it was not very forgiving.
Franz returned the embrace, and they stood there like that for a long while, oblivious to all the pandemonium occurring around them. Finally, he broke the hold and held her shoulders, reaching up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
“Mad all gone?” he asked with a small smile.
“Yep.” She grinned back. “Not that I wouldn’t mind a little time to kick Herr Schardius where it would hurt
the most a time or three.” She looked around. “Speaking of that snake, I wonder what happened to him.”
Franz lifted his eyes above her head. “I think we’re about to find out.” He pointed to Byron and Gotthilf coming through the side door. They descended first on Amber. After a brief conversation, she looked to Franz and Marla and beckoned. They followed her and the detectives to the Men’s Dressing Room, on the opposite side of the stage.
Amber closed the door behind them, and the din outside dropped to a dull roar. “Okay, guys, what’s up?”
Byron heaved a big sigh, and began, “You don’t have to worry about Schardius anymore. He’s dead.”
Amber’s eyes widened, and Marla grabbed Franz’s arm in an exceedingly tight grip.
“He ran for the east bridge to the Altstadt, and kept shooting at us. We had no choice but to return fire. He made it to the bridge, but took a hit there and fell over the wall into the canal. By the time we fished him out, he was dead. So,” Byron shook his head, “he won’t be bothering you or anyone else anymore.
Marla shivered for a moment. “I detested the man, yeah, but I don’t think I wanted him dead.”
“If it is any help to you,” Gotthilf put in, “we were tracking him anyway because we suspected him of being involved in several murders. Not a nice man, Herr Schardius.”
“I wish we’d known all this up front,” Amber said bitterly. “Mary wouldn’t have taken a lead pfennig from the man if we’d had any idea that he had that kind of baggage. We were all a little uncomfortable around him, but we couldn’t nail anything down, and we needed the money.”
“If there is a next time,” Gotthilf replied, “which I pray God there isn’t, listen to your instincts.”
“Oh, you betcha,” Amber said.
“Anyway,” Byron concluded, “we’re going to need to take statements from you two ladies, and from the guy with the sword, whoever he is and wherever he went…”
“Friedrich von Logau,” Franz interjected.
“Thanks,” Byron replied as Gotthilf pulled his notebook out, “but that can wait until tomorrow. No pressing need for it now, the way things worked out.”
