1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (13 page)

“That is all to the good, isn’t it?” asked Helene Gundelfinger. She was the vice president of said state of Thuringia-Franconia.

Gunther shook his head. “Sheep are dumb. Stoo-piid,” he drew the syllables of the English word out.

Constantin Ableidinger, leader of the Ram movement in Franconia, grinned and responded, “Not all sheep, Gunther. Not all sheep.”

“Maybe not,” Gunther acknowledged sourly, “but too many. Just watch, this will make no difference to what is going to happen.”

“Maybe not,” Gunther’s words were echoed by Rebecca Stearns, “but it will possibly make a huge difference to Michael’s plans.” Her husband Michael Stearns was now serving as the commanding general of the Third Division of the USE army. No one knew quite for sure yet what his plans to deal with this crisis entailed, but they all had faith that he had them.

“And afterward,” Ableidinger rumbled. “As Michael has mentioned before, history is written by the winners. Being able to point to a judicial condemnation made before the fur—or rather, the lead—started flying can only strengthen us afterwards.”

“Mmm.” Gunther’s expression was still sour. “Maybe.”

Gunther Achterhof was not exactly a “glass is half full” kind of fellow.

* * *

Across town, behind the walls of the old city, three men met in the council room of the
Rathaus
, home of the
Regierender Rat,
the official city council and governing body of Old Magdeburg. One of them had just finished reading the same article from the newspaper. Three glum faces stared at each other.

“
Ach
,” Georg Kühlewein huffed, “the chancellor will not believe we did not have a hand in this.”

“Lentke is behind this. You know he is,” said Johann Westvol, Kühlewein’s frequent and accustomed partner. “The others on the
Schöffenstuhl
would not have stirred if he had not rousted them out of their holes. I told you we should have brought him into this deal with us. If he stood to make the kind of money we are starting to gather, he would have kept his peace, but ‘No,’ you said, ‘We need all the money we can get for ourselves,’ you said. Now see where we are.”

“Well, if you had not cheated him on that saffron deal, he would not have been so ready to seize an opportunity to heave a beam into our spokes.” Kühlewein was getting red in the face and his voice was getting louder.

“Both of you just shut up.” Spoken in a cold tone by the third man in the room, that phrase froze both Kühlewein and Westvol in place. Their mouths clacked shut, but the glares they focused on the speaker should by rights have set his clothing to smoldering.

“Better,” Andreas Schardius said. “We do not have time for bickering and recriminations. Now, Georg, you’re the mayor this year, correct?”

Kühlewein nodded.

“Then keep everything quiet and everyone in line. Do not give Lentke or Gericke or the
Schöffenstuhl
any more reason to look in our direction.”

There was a mutinous look on Kühlewein’s face. He was not used to taking orders from anyone, much less someone who was not a member of the
Rat
. “But…”

“
Do it.
” The ice returned to Schardius’ voice. “Or I pull out of your little group, and take my money with me. Without me, you do not have a prayer of finishing the hospital wing on time, and you certainly will not skim off the money you expect to make on this deal.”

Now there was a look of panic in both the other men’s eyes. Westvol immediately acquiesced, nodding vigorously. Kühlewein was a bit slower in signaling affirmation, but he was no less firm when he did so.

“Good. And send a note to the chancellor and explain that you had nothing to do with the
Schöffenstuhl’s
verdict. You are correct; he will probably not believe you. But if you do not send the message, he will begin to wonder even more about you. And we do not want that, now do we?” He gave a thin smile as the two men nodded in unison.

Chapter 16

A T & L TELEGRAPH

BEGIN: GVL TO MBRG

TO: FRAU MARLA LINDER

ADDR: SYLWESTERHAUS MAGDEBURG

FROM: ATWOOD COCHRAN

DATE: 14 DEC 1635

MESSAGE:

RIG STILL WORKS STOP

BATTERIES STILL HOLD CHARGE WELL ENOUGH FOR ONE LONG SESSION OR TWO SHORT ONES STOP

CAN TAKE TIME OFF FROM SCHOOL FOR GOOD CAUSE STOP

IS THIS ONE? STOP

ATWOOD

END

Chapter 17

Gotthilf turned away from the shift sergeant’s desk and stepped over to where Byron was pouring a cup of coffee. “Sergeant Milich says Metzger works in Schardius’ warehouse most days. He also says Metzger beat the charge, and is out on the street. Metzger has been keeping a low profile ever since, except that he does fight in the bear pit pretty often.”

Byron sucked at the coffee, and made a face. “This stuff isn’t any better than my mother’s coffee, and that’s pretty bad. So when’s the next fight?”

Gotthilf smiled. “By coincidence, the sergeant says he may be fighting tonight.”

His partner gulped the rest of the coffee down, shuddered, and said, “It’s rumble time, then.”

Gotthilf shook his head at yet another strange American idiom, and followed his partner out the door.

* * *

Simon walked with Hans out of the city, even beyond the exurb of Greater Magdeburg. He was uncomfortable outside of his streets, especially as it was drawing to full dark. It didn’t take long, though, before they arrived where they were going.

“What is this?” Simon was mystified. All he saw was a big rectangular hole in the ground with timbers shoring up the sides and some bench seats around it.

“It’s the bear fighting pit.”

“Oh.” Simon had heard of it, too, but he’d never seen it before. Somehow he’d always imagined it would be larger and…grander. He became aware of an odor as they drew closer to it. “It stinks.”

“Yah. Lots of blood spilled in that pit, soaked into the ground.” Hans chuckled. “Some of it even men’s blood.”

“Dog fight two nights ago,” a stranger commented.

“Fresh blood, then,” Hans said. Simon made a face.

More and more people were arriving, all men as far as Simon could tell.

“Hello, Herr Metzger,” someone said from behind them. Simon turned with Hans to find two men: one tall and one short.

“Are you on the bill tonight?” asked the tall one. From his accent, he was an up-timer.

“On the bill?” Hans replied. Simon was confused as well.

“On the card. Are you fighting tonight?”

“Who’s asking?” Hans sounded brusque to Simon.

“Lieutenant Chieske of the Magdeburg
Polizei
, and my partner Sergeant Hoch.”

“Oh.” Hans seemed taken aback. “I am at that, Lieutenant Chieske.”

“Should be a good match, then,” said the short one, who was clearly a down-timer.

“Yah, Sergeant Hoch. I will give the people their money’s worth.”

The two men nodded to them and walked on. Hans watched their backs for a moment, spat and muttered something Simon couldn’t quite hear.

“Who are they, Hans?”

Hans looked at him with a sober expression on his face. “You know about the new
Polizei
?”

“Yah.” Simon nodded.

“Those two are part of it. In fact, they are mostly leading it, from what everyone on the street says. And they have got a lot of the street people and hard men nervous. They are sharp-eyed and, so far at least, incurably honest.”

“Why are they here tonight?”

“I don’t know. Probably heard about the fight and came to sniff around the edges like your Schatzi, looking for whatever they can find.”

Simon chuckled at the image conjured in his mind by Hans’ words.

A man approached whose pointed nose and receding chin reminded Simon of nothing of so much as a ferret. “Time to get ready,” he whined at Hans. Even his voice reminded Simon of a ferret.

“Right. Come on, lad.” Hans led the way over to the pit and climbed down a ladder. When he got to the bottom he looked up at Simon. “Come on, now.”

* * *

Byron saw someone he knew. “This way,” he threw over his shoulder to Gotthilf, who followed him through the crowd. “Todd! Todd Pierpoint!”

An up-timer near one end of the pit turned. “Hey, Byron. What’s up?”

“You just here for the fight?”

“Naw, I’ve got a stake in this.”

“How so?”

“Tobias,” Todd pointed to a weasely-looking down-timer who was walking with Hans Metzger toward the fighting pit, “he found a copy of
Sports Illustrated
that covered mostly boxing stories. Once he got someone to read it to him, he got ideas about starting a fight syndicate. Turns out there’s been some sort of bare knuckle fighting around these parts off and on for quite a while. Anyway, he started looking for someone to work with him on it. He got pointed my way, and here we are. I do some general training of fighters at Karickhoff’s gym, I referee, I put up some of the initial money, and I get half the profits.”

“Wow. From one-time county welterweight champion to 1635’s own Don King. In a few years I’ll get to say ‘I knew him when…’” Byron grinned and ducked as Todd swung a lazy roundhouse at him. “So, you make much from the bets?”

Todd’s smile disappeared. “You being a cop, are you asking officially?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, for the record, I don’t bet on the fights. Conflict of interest, see?” Todd’s head swiveled to find his partner. “Tobias, now, he might. He’s never said anything to me about it.” He looked back to the two policemen. “I haven’t heard of anyone making book on these fights. So far as I know, it’s just man to man here at the pit.” He spat. “And I hope it stays that way.”

There was a moment of quiet, then Byron said, “What’s with the pit? I’d’ve thought you’d put a ring up.”

Todd sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how change-resistant some of these people can be. It took me weeks to get the fighters to understand why a raised ring would be good. They’re used to the pit; they like the pit.” He shook his head. “I finally got them to agree to use it if we built it. Now I’ve got to get the money together.” Todd chuckled. “And it may not be square when it gets built. Might be more of a rectangle, like the pit is. Change-resistant, like I said.”

“You got gloves and mouth protectors and everything going?”

“Working on gloves. The fighters we’ve got mostly don’t like the big up-time style boxing gloves. I’ve had someone make up some of the padded five-ounce martial arts style ones that leave the fingers free, and some of the fighters have started using them.”

“That include Hans Metzger?”

“Yep. And some of the guys have started using pieces of thick leather for mouth protectors, too. That works okay, but I’d rather have rubber. I keep hearing someone’s bringing rubber in from overseas, but I haven’t been able to chase it down yet. That would be better.”

Todd looked over Byron’s shoulder and waved.

“Gotta go, there’s my cue. Watch the fight—it could be good.”

* * *

Simon hadn’t dealt much with ladders in his short life; a one-handed man is at a bit of a disadvantage on one. Of course, a one-handed man is at a bit of a disadvantage everywhere, he thought to himself as he reached for the left pole. A couple of moments later he was standing on the floor of the pit, pleased with himself that he had managed to scramble down the ladder without knocking it over or falling off it.

He looked up to see two men coming down the ladder at the other end of the pit. One of them began taking off his coat, followed by his shirt, which he handed to the other man.

Hans took off his own coat and folded it over one of the ladder rungs. His shirt went on top of it. His hat he dropped on Simon’s head, grinning as it settled on top of the boy’s ears. Then he dug a couple of leather gloves without fingers out of his coat pockets and tugged them on.

Without the shrouding of his clothing, Hans’ body looked like a solid slab of muscle. His waist wasn’t much narrower than his shoulders, which were wide enough. He smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand a few times, shook his arms, then stood waiting.

“What do I do?” Simon asked. He was nervous about being in the pit itself.

Hans looked over at him and grinned. “Just stand in the corner out of the way and wish me luck. I will take care of the rest of it.”

Just then another man came down the ladder at the other end of the pit and moved to the center. “All right,” he called out, in that distinctive up-time accent. “I’m Todd Pierpoint, and I’m the referee, the fight-master, for this contest. At this end of the pit, we have Hans Metzger.” Scattered cheers broke out. “And at the other end, we have Pieter Sokolovsky.” A couple of cheers and scattered boos. “This fight will be fought under the Markie of Cuiensberry rules…” or at least that’s what Simon thought was said. It didn’t make any sense to him. “…so there will be no biting, gouging, kicking, or blows below the belt. One infraction gets a warning. The second will stop the fight and give the win to your opponent. Do you understand?” Herr Pierpoint looked to Hans’ opponent first, and received a nod. “Do you understand?” Now he was looking at Hans. Hans nodded.

“Good. This fight will be fought for ten three-minute rounds. The sound of the bell,” he pointed to someone in the crowd and a bell rang, “will start and end the rounds. There will be one minute between the rounds. Now,” Herr Pierpoint looked up at the crowd surrounding the pit, “the fight begins in two minutes.” There was a rush of noise as the crowd members cajoled and argued with each other as they made bets.

Simon looked over at the other fighter. Sokolovsky was taller than Hans. His arms were longer, too. He looked soft, though; there was a bulge around his belly. Hans, by contrast, looked flat and hard.
Stark
Hans. The other fighter kept moving, picking his feet up and down, swinging his arms. Hans just stood there like a lump, waiting.