"What?" the others asked unison.
"Proverbs 16:18 says 'Pride goes before destruction.' That was the aim. I think I know who did it."
"No," the elder machinist said. "Thomas has taken a day off. 'Urgent family matters,' he said."
"Where does his family live? In Erfurt?" Marshall asked.
"I don't know. But I think I saw him on his way to the railway station."
Wolfgang asked: "Are there any of his personal belongings?"
Nikki grinned. "Clever question."
Wolfgang blushed.
Grantville
Later on the same day
They arrived with the late train. To Marshall and Nikki, Grantville was familiar. Wolfgang had spent some time here, too. But for Nicolaus Happe, colonel of Jena's town watch-or Stadtpolizei, as they were starting to call it-it was the first time to visit the town.
The first thing he did after leaving "Central Station" was kneel down and touch the asphalt. "I've heard of this," he explained, "but I never could believe it, how smooth and level the streets in Grantville are. We need that in Jena, too. As soon as possible."
The he rose again. "Where is this church?" Marshall and Nikki pointed to St. Mary's. "Let's go."
Pater Heinzerling welcomed them. "Yes, he's here. But I won't tell you anything he told me under the seal of confession."
"We won't ask you, Pater," Nikki stated firmly. "We already know everything."
Thomas Hartung entered the room. His eyes were red. "I'm prepared now. I'll follow you."
"I only want to know one thing," Marshall said. "When your brother was sick, why didn't you try to stop this horrible affair?"
"I wasn't there," Thomas whispered. "I've been in Jena, buying medicine for Julius. I didn't know that they would use the steam car without him. I never intended any harm to Peter. He was my friend."
Rasenmuhle, south of Jena
April 1634
"Wolfgang, do it," Marshall said, and Wolfgang turned the wheel to open the big valve that had closed the Lache, the channel that had fed the Rasenmuhle for over a century.
In the meantime, the miller had moved to the Muhllache, the larger channel near the center of Jena. The railroad company had bought the whole Rasenmuhlen-Insel, the artificial island that lay between the Saale and the Lache. Nothing could be built there because the spring floods regularly drowned it.
Now the water was streaming into the dry channel again. It flew into the newly built tunnel and filled it nearly to the top. And then it happened. The new turbine started rotating. The engineering team had planned and constructed it from an up-time design called a Kaplan turbine, and the foundry team led by Wolfgang had cast the large adjustable blades, which made up a propeller six feet in diameter. And the bronze bearings which guaranteed that the turbine could work twenty-four hours a day.
For nearly a year, the glassmakers had produced light bulbs, and the electricians had laid copper wires and sealed them with sealing wax. But the small generators attached to water wheels in the creek called Leutra could only light some of them at a time, and when the electric ovens in the materials development department were in operation, all other loads in the Lokschuppen had to be cut off the grid.
But now the turbine gathered speed, the big generator turned and when an electrician gave a sign, the grid was attached to it. And the lights went on in the Lokschuppen.
All lights in all the houses, one after the other. Then the lights in the alleys and yards between the houses. Then the lights along the road between the entry gate of the R amp;D premises and the Rasenmuhle, which now contained the new power plant.
And then some technicians started the large carbon-arc lamps they had installed on both sides of the entry gate. Two white fingers of light pointed up into the evening sky and met far above.
The electrician who observed the flow of the electrical power lifted a hand with two fingers extended. Two hundred kilowatts.
That was only half the calculated maximum output, but enough for now.
Applause went up from all the people who had gathered there.
"Wolfgang, would you please come over here?" Marshall shouted and waved a hand.
Wolfgang went over and saw a middle-aged man standing beside Marshall.
"Wolfgang, this is Meister Leonhard Low from Nurnberg."
"Guten Abend, Meister Low," Wolfgang greeted the man hesitantly. He had heard the news that Low had taken over the business from bell founder master Herold, who had died shortly after Wolfgang had left Nurnberg. So this had to be the new founder master for the Lokschuppen Marshall had spoken about the last weeks.
"Guten Abend, Meister Hilliger," the older man answered. "It seems the 'propeller' you have cast has proven to be a fine piece of craftsmanship."
"Thank you, Meister, for the honor, but I'm just a journeyman."
"No you aren't. Not from now on."
Low took a large parchment from his bag and handed it over to Wolfgang. It was a master certificate.
For founder master Wolfgang Hilliger.
The Duelist, A Continuation of the Euterpe Stories
Enrico Toro, David Carrico
Magdeburg
October 1635
Giacomo Carissimi closed the front door behind himself, and began to take his coat off.
"Is that you, Jude?"
The sound of his wife's voice calling out her nickname for him still stirred a warmth in him. Elizabeth Jordan had not been married to him long. Her deceased husband Fred had died in March of this year, and it had taken her some time to deal with her grief, wrap up the family's affairs in Grantville and relocate with her children to Magdeburg. They had, in fact, been married for only two weeks. And it was still the joy of Giacomo's life to wake each morning and find her in bed beside him.
"Yes, it is me," he responded, hanging his coat on a peg in the wall next to the door. It looked to be a hard winter coming. It was already getting cold enough in October to warrant heavy coats. And being originally from Rome, Giacomo was already not very comfortable in cold weather.
"Papa Giacomo!" Elizabeth's daughter Leah came running down the stairs to the second floor. She ran over and threw her arms around him, giving him the most ferocious hug her seven-year-old arms could manage.
"Bella mia!" Giacomo said with a smile, ruffling her hair.
"Go finish your homework," Elizabeth said as she walked into the room. "Supper will be a while yet."
"Okay." Leah bounced back up the stairs as Elizabeth handed something to Giacomo.
"What's this?"
"Duh. It's a letter, silly."
Giacomo looked at it. It was indeed addressed to him, with a Grantville postmark. But who would be writing a letter to him?"
"I have no idea," Elizabeth said, which made Giacomo realize he must have spoken out loud. "Why don't you open it?"
He ripped open the up-time style envelope, extracted the pages, and began to read. "It's from Johannes Fichtold! Why would Girolamo's journeyman be writing to me?"
"Come read it to me while I finish putting supper together."
Giacomo followed Elizabeth to the room they used for dining. Leaning against the door frame, he shuffled the pages and began reading out loud at the beginning while Elizabeth began placing dishes and bowls on the table.
To Master Giacomo Carissimi
Magdeburg, USE
From Johannes Fichtold
Grantville, USE
Second day of October, in our Lord's year 1635
Esteemed Master Giacomo,
Please pardon this letter, but the matter involved is much too complicated to discuss by telegraph, even if a certain amount of secrecy was not warranted.
As you know, Master Girolamo Zenti, your friend and my craftmaster, does from time to time go on long trips to different areas. During these trips, he searches for sources of supplies and parts for pianos, as well as seeking to make contacts to develop purchasers for the pianos we construct. He left a few weeks ago on such a trip, l
eaving me in charge of the house and the workshop.
One night I woke up at the sound of someone in the main living room of the house. It was very late or very early, whichever way you want to think of it. I could hear steps coming and going from Master Girolamo's room, so curiously and a bit anxiously I got up to go check.
When I entered the room I found Master Girolamo just closing a couple of saddle bags. His clothes were dirty, his boots muddy, his face unshaven, and he clearly did not take good care of his personal hygiene. He smelled bad. I was quite taken aback by seeing him in that bad shape.
"What is going on?" I asked. "In what kind of trouble are you? Running from a zealous father or a jealous husband?" You see, I know the master well.
He whispered tiredly, "I wish. I hid for the past four nights and I was able to sneak to the house only now. But I cannot stay. I need to leave Grantville and Germany altogether."
"Why? What happened?"
"Long story short, I killed a man. It was done honorably, in a duel, in front of seconds and accordingly to the rules of honor that regulate these things. But I doubt his family and the law will consider this. They are already starting to look for me, to hunt me, and if either catches me, the outcome for Girolamo won't be that good. In one case I can end up losing my head to the ax, or be thrown in a very unhealthy gaol for some time. In the other, well, I guess bleeding slowly to death in a back alley is what I can expect."
"I do not understand. I mean if you won in a regular duel, would not that count?" I said.
"Oh, the fact the duel was carried out according to customs helped me not being killed by my rival's seconds, but it still remains illegal, and my rival's family is not satisfied. They want revenge, and they are out for blood-mine, specifically. That is not uncommon. Even in Italy, too many times a duel leads to a blood feud. It is best for everyone if I leave, and the less you know the less you have to lie for me when they ask you where I am gone."
"How did that happened? Who did you kill?"
Master Girolamo sighed. "All right, if you want to know the whole story, please go fetch us some wine while I finish packing. Then I will sit down a few minutes and tell you everything. Go, don't look at me like that!"
I came back to the room shortly carrying a carafe full of wine and two cups. Master Girolamo was sitting on an armchair right under the sconce. He seemed a bit more relaxed under the flickering light of the candles. When I gave him the cup he took it in both hands and drank fully and deeply, then looked at me and started telling me his story.
"I was in Nordhausen, for business. Christian Schenk von Tautenberg contacted me some time ago because he wanted to order two instruments for his new wife; one a harpsichord and one a wall piano for his music room. We agreed to meet in Nordhausen, because he was inspecting properties in the area his family had just inherited. The negotiations went well, and we signed a contract. I left with some silver as earnest money for the instruments. Plus, I also managed to meet two local craftsmen I decided to hire to help produce the felt punchings we need in the new pianos."
I nodded. "Production bottlenecks," as the Grantvillers call them, were becoming a common issue for many craftsmen in the area, with supply unable to sustain the demand of many goods. It was good that Master Girolamo had found some help.
"And having killed two birds with a single stone, I decided to celebrate in the best tavern in town. A place recommended to me by the craftsmen. I was expecting good food, good drink, possibly good company, and instead the fates had planned something entirely different for me."
"So now you are being very dramatic, master, but your bait is good and you got me hooked. What happened at the tavern?" Master Girolamo always tells a good story, you know. I was hanging on the edge of my chair.
"Initially, nothing happened. I was there eating and talking about trivial matters with one of the artisans I connected with that day-my treat. I will warn you that the taverns of Nordhausen have a Branntwein that should be called fool-killer. One glass and you are a fool. Two glasses and you are so numb you will probably be dead the next morning."
"So how many glasses did you drink?" I asked.
"Half of one, and that probably led to what happened next. I was getting annoyed by the very loud noises coming from a table nearby where a group of youths were eating and, well, being particularly exuberant. I do not usually mind similar habits. God only knows that when you are in your early twenties that is the time to behave foolishly. Hell, maybe five years ago I would have asked to join. But this time this group of young and very well-dressed youngsters was being a little too political for my tastes."
"What do you mean?"
"They started attacking the Piazza government of Thuringia and Franconia, and Mike Stearns, and, well, insulting almost everyone in Grantville, saying that they were subverting things and destroying the natural order of things. I guess that is all right-I mean, probably a good portion of the Germans think the same, the ones who did not take advantage of the opportunities brought forth by the Ring of Fire. However, when they started insulting the working classes, our fellow Americans, and consequently every foreigner in Grantville, I reacted."
Uh-oh, I thought. "And that did not end well, I guess?"
"That is correct. I started chastising them, but you know my German is coarse and my accent is thick. And I was feeling the Branntwein a bit. Before long I did realize I was just fanning the flames instead of putting them out. I was about to go back to my place and try to ignore all the noise, when the leader of the group asked me where I was from. When he learned I was from Roma, he started raving about me being the lackey of the pope and the cardinals and other, notgentlemanly things. He had also had more Branntwein than he needed, because he was slurring his words. But then he repeated slowly, making sure everyone around could hear, that he was Franz Jure Vorhauer, that he was connected to Graf Wolfgang III von Mansfeld, that his ancestors loved visiting Rome in 1527 and his house is still full of souvenirs from that visit. Then he stated that he and I must be cousins, because he is pretty sure his great-grandfather paid my great-grandmother in a brothel in Roma and left her begging for more."
Master Girolamo drank some wine, then continued, "Now, seeing that I was with someone from the working class, and not exactly looking like a dashing swordsman, I can only imagine he did this thinking I would leave the place fearing violent consequences if I reacted to his words. That is usually how duels are started, you know, by someone underestimating the consequence of their actions. But I did not cower in fear. I took the left glove out of my hand and I slapped him hard with it. I should have known better. Me, a foreign visitor, very likely a commoner, challenging him to a duel in a public place, in front of his friends. I left him with only two choices, none good, because one of us would have ended up hurt. He could have conjured with his friends to have me beaten for daring such a thing; or he could have accepted the duel thinking it would be an easy thing to finish. I saw the same thoughts passing in front of his eyes. The temptation to simply attack me there on the tavern floor quickly vanished and he accepted meeting me at dawn to settle things. In a way I got lucky, because it is not unheard of for a foe to be murdered by his rival's friends just before the duel. He had the advantage of numbers and did not know I carry a revolver. They could have attacked me in a back alley out of the tavern and I am not sure I'd be here to tell the story. Still, surviving the first confrontation left me with a big quandary to solve."
"And that was?" I asked.
"Well, in Germany duel customs and traditions vary significantly from town to town. I was not sure what I should have done for the day after. I was also missing some worthy seconds. That detail alone might have invalidated the duel with no one to back my cause; and besides, it would have been very dangerous."
"More dangerous than a duel?"
"Oh, Mary Mother of God, of course it is! You should know these things. Seconds are crucial." Girolamo was exasperated, I could tell. He put his glass down and counted on his finger
s. "They make sure both parties respect the rules. They make sure you do not get stabbed while removing your coat; or attacked on the way to the duel by a party of hired cutthroats. They also serve as witnesses that you acted honorably. And, finally, they protect you if the other seconds decide to join the fray if they are not able to stay still and do nothing while their friend fights. No seconds means putting your life completely in the hands of the other party. No one is so trusting, not even among men of honor."
"So how did you find the seconds you needed?"
"In the oldest way in the world, I guess," he replied. "I paid them. And they were not cheap. Dueling is 'officially' illegal, and the fact that I really did not know anyone in town did not help. It basically took me all night, but I finally found a couple of retired soldiers that needed some extra support and were not squeamish to take part in a risky endeavor. Plenty of them all over the place if you know where to look, with this war that has been going on and off for so long. They weren't gentlemen or famous fencers, but I guess they knew how to use those sharp irons they carried with them."
"So you did make it in time?"
Master Girolamo picked up his wine glass again. "Barely. The dueling place was near a small mill a few miles outside of the walls, hidden from the main road by a small row of poplars. We had to move fast to get there in time. When we arrived we found the young man who challenged me, his two seconds and a surgeon. They were all ready and the event seemed quite formal. Of that I was happy; the more formal the setting, the less chances of surprises. These people seemed willing to play by the rules."
"That was good for you," I said. "But you still ended up having to run. What happened?"
"Well, as I said, I was a foreigner in a foreign land, and about to fight an important local. I needed to win fast and leave no doubt I played clean and without any trick. The more prolonged the duel, the harder it would be to prove I dominated it. I hoped I was about to fight someone untrained, cocky, and inexperienced, someone who would have attacked me blindly. Someone easy to dispatch."
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