Grantville Gazette, Volume I

by Eric Flint

  Gotthilf snorted and nudged Byron with his foot. When the up-timer looked up with a frown, he said, "We have work to do, or so you told me, yet you sit here talking to a beggar who can probably see as well as you can."

  The boy's mouth set in a hard line. He reached up to pull off the bandage, then raised his face to them. Gotthilf swallowed a curse as he stepped back from the sight of the scarred and cloudy eyes.

  Byron took Willi's face between his hands, tilting it this way and that to let the light shine upon it. "Can you see anything at all?" The question was asked in a tone that matched his gentle hands.

  "Some light, some dark." Willi's voice was low.

  "Has it gotten worse?"

  Willi nodded.

  "When did it start?"

  "When the soldiers came." The boy started putting his bandage back on to hide his eyes.

  Byron looked up to Gotthilf. The sack of Magdeburg—four years ago. Gotthilf swallowed in sudden nausea. "Where's your mother and father?"

  "Soldiers killed them." Willi's voice was now almost inaudible.

  "I'm sorry." Byron rested a hand on the boy's hair for a moment. "Who do you live with now?"

  "Uncle."

  "What is his . . ."

  "Willi! It's time to go." Byron was interrupted by another boy running up to Willi's side. "Come on, you know Uncle doesn't like us to be late." The boy helped Willi pick up the bowl and put the coins in his pocket. "Come on!"

  "Wait." Byron reached in his pocket and pressed something into the boy's hand. "Goodbye, Willi. Nice talking to you."

  Gotthilf stood beside Byron as the two boys hurried down the street, Willi being led by the other.

  "You know when I said I'd let you know when I found what I was looking for?"

  "Yes."

  "I think I just found it."

  "The boy?"

  "Yep. Boy that size shouldn't be begging, blind or not. On my watch, you don't abuse or take advantage of kids. Someone's not taking proper care of him, and I think I'll find out who."

  "But he's just a beggar." Gotthilf was astounded at the up-timer's thoughts. Astonishment fled in the next instant, however, as Byron turned to him with a transformed face. His eyes were cold. His face was still, as if engraved in stone, except for a muscle tic in his left cheek.

  "'We hold these truths to be self-evident' . . ." Byron's voice, cold enough to match his eyes, was obviously quoting something. ". . . 'that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'" After a moment, he continued. "That's from the American Declaration of Independence. It expresses our belief that all men are created of equal worth. And that includes Willi."

  Byron's hands snaked out and grabbed the front of Gotthilf's jerkin. He suddenly found himself nose to nose with the taller man, feet dangling inches above the ground. "That boy is a victim." The up-timer's voice was, if possible, even icier than before. "And no victim is ever going to be dismissed as 'just' anything. Not on my watch. If you don't learn anything else today, learn that."

  The up-timer released his grip. Gotthilf landed hard on his heels with a jar that brought a clack from his teeth and set his head spinning. He looked up to be transfixed again by the cold glare from Byron's eyes.

  "You've got some Bible reading to do. While you're doing that, I'm going to do some research."

  Still a little wobbly, Gotthilf watched the back of the tall up-timer recede down the street.

  * * *

  Willi was two streets over before he was able to dig in his heels. "Erna!" He wrenched his arm out of her grasp. "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you out of trouble," she hissed in his ear. "One of those men was an up-timer."

  "I know that. His name is Byron. He was nice."

  "Well, I think the man he was with was one of the city watch. He looked like one I saw wearing the sash a week or two ago."

  Willi swallowed. "He wasn't nice."

  "That's right. And you just remember that. We're going to have to tell Uncle, and he's not going to like it. Now come on."

  "Wait." Willi held out his hand. "Byron gave me this. What is it?" He heard the sound of breath sucked in. "Well?"

  "It's a silver pfennig. Uncle will like that for sure. Now put it away and come on."

  * * *

  As it turned out, it was two days before Gotthilf saw Byron again. He spent a frustrating morning trying to locate the Bible passage he had been directed to read. Finally he gave it up and went to visit his pastor. The ensuing reading and discussion lasted most of the day. Verse by verse the old scholar walked him through the account, in the process showing him the wisdom and knowledge owned by Daniel, the hero of the tale.

  "It is a cautionary tale from several aspects," the pastor concluded. "First, to those who are in positions of authority: it says to guard themselves against temptation, and warns them that if they do succumb to temptation, nothing they can do will hide their sin. They will be found out."

  He turned a page. "Second, to the community: to not be quick to judge without first carefully weighing the facts. Things such as this must be diligently examined, and even the highest ranked involved should be questioned carefully.

  "Third," and here he gave a direct look to Gotthilf, "to those charged with these examinations: to be diligent to look for the facts, and not be swayed by opinions or statements from others. It is reprehensible to allow someone to be falsely accused and convicted of a crime."

  "That's what he said," Gotthilf muttered.

  "He?" the pastor asked.

  "Byron Chieske, the Grantville lieutenant I'm supposed to be working with."

  This led to a discussion of the events of the previous day. Somehow it didn't surprise Gotthilf to find that his pastor agreed with the up-timer.

  "He sounds as if he is a man of wisdom, integrity and insight. I suggest, young Gotthilf, that you listen to him."

  "Yes, sir," Gotthilf sighed.

  The following morning Gotthilf tried to apologize to Byron for not showing up the previous day.

  "Don't mention it," Byron waved it off. "I was up to my eyebrows in looking for an orphanage."

  "Orphanage?"

  "Yeah. A place where kids who lose their parents and don't have kinfolk go to live."

  Gotthilf struggled to absorb another new up-time idea. "We have no such things."

  "That's what I found out." Byron shrugged. "So then I asked what happened to the kids whose parents were killed in the sack."

  "And?"

  "Most of them were placed with kin. If no kin was found, older children were placed as apprentices and younger children were placed with families who would care for them until they were of an age to be apprenticed." Byron looked satisfied, to Gotthilf's eye. "The church kept records, they did. When I explained my concern about Willi they not only opened those records, they gave me a clerk to read them. And here," he reached in his pocket and drew out a notebook which he threw open, "is a list of families who accepted young boys into their foster care about that time."

  Gotthilf reacted to Byron's smile with an uncertain smile of his own. "Let me guess: we go to talk to these people."

  "Right. Here's the addresses. Let's go."

  * * *

  They turned away from the next to the last address on their list. "All children accounted for and healthy," Gotthilf muttered as he pulled the address list out one last time. "We're down to one Lubbold Vogler."

  "It's called the process of elimination," Byron assured him. "You work through all the possibilities until you arrive at the one that fits. So, we've eliminated all the others, we should get our answers from Herr Vogler at this last address."

  But the face that opened the door at their knock disappointed them. "No, no Vogler here."

  "Did he live here before you, do you know?"

  "No." And the door was firmly closed.

  They stepped down to the street. "Where do we g
o from here?" Gotthilf wondered.

  Byron looked around with narrowed eyes. "C'mon. And think of a question you can ask." Gotthilf followed him over to an old man sitting on a step, one hand on a cane and another holding his pipe. The up-timer nodded his head to the old man. "Good afternoon, Großvater. I am Lieutenant Chieske, and this is Herr Hoch."

  "Fuchs," the old man grunted around the stem of his pipe.

  "Herr Fuchs, we are searching for one . . ." Byron turned to Gotthilf, who fumbled the paper out of his pocket. "Lubbold Vogler."

  Herr Fuchs took the pipe from his mouth and spat expressively.

  "Does he live there?" Byron pointed to the house they had just left.

  "Nay."

  "Did he live there?"

  "Aye."

  "Do you know where he went?"

  "Nay."

  "Did he have some small children?"

  The old man finally showed some expression, as his mouth tightened. "Aye."

  Byron looked to Gotthilf. He had been smiling at the sight of Byron meeting someone even stingier with words than the up-timer, but now realized he was supposed to ask something. "Um . . . er . . . when did he leave?" He was gratified when Byron nodded in approval.

  Herr Fuchs thought for a moment. "Three years ago."

  "Did he say where he was going when he left?"

  "Nay." They waited a moment, but the old man said nothing more.

  "Thank you for your time." Byron held out his hand for Herr Fuchs to shake. "You've been very helpful."

  They turned to leave, and the old man took the pipe from his mouth again. "If you find him, tell him I remember he still owes me twenty pfennig. And give him a lick from me for the way he beat those children." He clenched his teeth around the pipe stem again and gave them a firm nod, which they returned.

  "Well," Byron breathed. "Well, well, well, well, well." Gotthilf looked up to him as he tried to keep up with the up-timer's long strides. "I do believe we've found our man."

  "Found?"

  "Well, so to speak. It appears we have a name for him, which is more than we had. Now we just need to truly find him."

  "And how do we do that?"

  "We go back to the street tomorrow and talk to Willi. One way or another, we'll find Herr Vogler through him." Gotthilf watched as Byron's face turned cold again; colder even than the other day. "And then we'll have a little talk."

  The ice in Byron's voice caused the down-timer to shiver.

  * * *

  Gotthilf couldn't decide if Lieutenant Chieske looked preoccupied in the early morning light, or if he was just sleepy.

  "Do you have a gun?" Byron asked.

  "The musket belongs to the city."

  "No." Byron shook his head. "I meant a handgun; a pistol."

  "I have a pistol," Gotthilf replied. "One of the new percussion cap revolvers from Suhl."

  "A Hockenjoss and Klott?"

  Gotthilf nodded.

  "Got it with you?"

  Byron held out his hand. Gotthilf, with mingled pride and embarrassment, pulled the pistol from his pocket and handed it to him. He watched as the up-timer handled it. The young man took a great deal of pride in his new pistol, although he thought it a bit plain. It still bothered him, however, that he had been forced to settle for the silver-chased model with bone handles. His father had made it very clear that their family was not named among the Hoch-Adel, so there would be no gilded toys.

  "A good weapon." Byron handed it back. "A little too pretty for my taste, though." Gotthilf was unable to keep his astonishment at the up-timer's reaction from his face. Byron laughed, producing by what seemed sleight of hand a weapon from underneath his jacket "Now this is what I would call a good pistol. None of that fancy work on it that has to be kept polished and clean."

  Gotthilf stared at the pistol. It wasn't pretty. It was all metal, and looked like a slab with no decorative work on it. No gold or silver chasing, no carved ivory or woodwork. Just pure function—to shoot, perhaps to kill. A chill ran down his spine at the sight of it.

  "Keep yours with you all the time now." Byron made his disappear again. "And Gotthilf," Byron started to turn away, "make sure it's loaded."

  * * *

  Erna watched as Willi tried to argue with Uncle.

  "But Uncle . . ."

  "No, I said! You will not go out, not with those . . . those . . . spies looking for you."

  "But . . ." Will started.

  "No!" A slap knocked Willi against the wall, where he slid to the floor. "Now do as I say."

  Uncle looked at the huddled boy for a long moment, then turned away and left the room. Free to move without the glare of Uncle's gaze being on her, Erna hurried to Willi's side and helped him sit up.

  "Are you all right?" She pulled his head around to see where he had been hit. Willi's ear was a bright red, so that must have been where the slap landed. "Are you all right, Willi?" she whispered.

  Willi tried to stand, then folded up again. "'M dizzy," he murmured.

  Erna helped over to their corner and covered him with their blankets after he laid down. She crouched by his head. "Willi?"

  "Mmm?"

  "Willi, don't you try to talk to Uncle for a while. He's . . . something's not going right for him. I heard men yelling in the back of the house a couple of nights ago. It woke me up. The back door slammed, then he came into our room and stood by the front door for the longest time."

  She shivered, remembering what the light from the other room had revealed. "Willi . . . Willi, he had a gun. A pistol."

  "Why would Uncle have a gun?" Willi slurred.

  "I don't know," Erna replied, still whispering. "But he does. And it scares me."

  "Mmm."

  A long moment of quiet passed.

  "Willi?" There was no response. Erna checked to see if he was breathing. He was, so she guessed he'd gone to sleep or passed out. She wiggled around, then sat with her arms around her knees, waiting until Uncle told her to go do her work.

  She hadn't been able to tell Willi the most important part. After Willi had been knocked to the floor, Uncle had stared at him, cold and hard. Then he'd put his hand in his pocket and started to take out his gun, only to stop and, after a moment, slide it back in.

  That scared Erna more than anything.

  * * *

  The space outside the bakery was empty. They loitered in the area until well past the time that they had seen Willi before. Gotthilf watched as Byron's lips tightened in frustration.

  A large woman appeared in the doorway of the bakery, looking up the street. Byron elbowed Gotthilf. "Come on." She looked to them with a frown as they approached.

  "Your pardon, Frau . . ." Byron began.

  "Frau Kreszentia Traugottin. And you are?"

  Byron introduced them as city officials looking into various irregularities. "I see that the boy is not here today.

  The woman's frown turned thunderous. "You're not looking to harass Willi, are you?"

  "No, no, indeed not," Byron soothed. "We want to talk to him because we think he knows something that will help us. And we want to make sure he's being taken care of. It bothers us that a child that young is begging in the streets."

  Gotthilf watched as Byron's conversation with Frau Kreszentia—"call me Zenzi"—elicited the information that no, she didn't know where Willi lived; no, she didn't know anything about an uncle; yes, the last few months he had been here almost every day; and yes, he always came from one direction, often with another youngster leading him.

  The conversation drew to a close. "Bide," Frau Zenzi said as she stepped back into the bakery. She returned a moment later with two rolls, to hand one to each of them. "You find my Willi, you make sure he is all right, you tell him his place is still here. Yes?"

  They assured her they would do exactly that and took their leave. Munching on his roll, Gotthilf looked back to see her standing in the door of the bakery, looking after them.

  Gotthilf swallowed the last of his roll. "For som
eone who doesn't like to talk," he commented to Byron, "you certainly are proficient at it."

  Byron paused in licking his fingers. "Just because I can do it doesn't mean I want to." He finished the finger licking, and continued, "And you'd better have been paying attention, because you're going to start doing all the talking and question asking soon." Gotthilf stared at the up-timer with wide eyes. Byron returned a grin. "Yep. Count on it. You'll talk; I'll just stand around and look threatening."

  "Ha." Still strolling down the street, Gotthilf looked up and stiffened. "Byron." He tried very hard not to shout or act excited. "Isn't that the boy who pulled Willi away from us?"

  Byron directed a casual glance that direction. "Yep. Now look away." They did so. "The trick is to not stare at the person, but to look that way just often enough to keep him in sight. Except in this case I think it's a her."

  "What?" Gotthilf absorbed another surprise. "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. I've been around girls in pants all my life, so to me they're not the automatic disguise for a girl they are for you down-timers." That was the first time Gotthilf could remember Byron using that term. He noted in passing that it was used in a neutral manner. "Girls move differently than boys, even that young. And if you look at her hands, from what I remember they're slenderer than a boy's usually are. So, I think that's a girl." Gotthilf absorbed that as well.

  There was a moment of silence.

  "Gotthilf?"

  "Aye?"

  "What's she doing out here? I mean, it looks like she's sound and healthy. She ought to be in school, right? Or in some kind of service?"

  "Yes. She should definitely not be out on the street in boy's clothes." Gotthilf was starting to understand what Byron had meant about looking for things that didn't fit the pattern.

  "So," Byron hissed, "we have two weirdnesses now—a boy begging who shouldn't be, and a girl dressed in boy clothes who is . . ."

  At that exact moment they both saw the girl snatch a kerchief from the pocket of a man she bumped into. She was so fast they barely caught a flash of it before it was stuffed inside her jacket.

  Gotthilf saw that Byron's face had gone very grim as he muttered a string of words in up-time English. Gotthilf didn't recognize the words, but he recognized the tone. If some of them weren't blasphemous, he'd eat his hat. "Okay," Byron said after he had to stop for breath, "that's the third strike. Now I really, really want to talk to Uncle."