1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (34 page)

Franz sobered. “Dear, most people can’t separate a message from its messenger. If they like the message, they will like the messenger. But the reverse is also true. Be thankful they are buying your records. They could be shooting at you.”

“Huh.” After a moment, her frown eased. “I suppose you’re right. And it’s not like all the money is going to be mine. Atwood and Trommler are going to get a good piece of it.”

“Right. So by doing well, you’re doing some good for others at the same time.”

“Right.” Marla’s expression could now be called resigned. “A rising tide floats all boats, or something like that.”

Franz chuckled again. “Only you, dear, would put up such a struggle against people wanting to give you money.”

After a moment, Marla smiled at Franz, and he felt the usual warmth of that smile flood through him. Just to tease her, he frowned.

“What?” Now she looked concerned.

“So what are you going to do for an encore?”

* * *

Mary Simpson stopped short and turned to face Gunther Achterhof.

“Are you certain?”

“From the lips of Frau Abrabanel herself, less than a quarter hour ago.”

“Two days?”

“Yah.”

Mary stood up straight, let out a determined sigh, and nodded to Gunther.

“Tell her we’ll be ready.”

Chapter 39

Gotthilf looked up at a nudge from Byron.

“There he is.”

Sure enough, Hans Metzger had appeared out of the street that ran by the Schardius corn factorage warehouse and all the other businesses that lined the river. They had been watching for some little while. The other warehousemen had mostly left some time ago, but Metzger for some reason was running a little behind the rest. No matter, Gotthilf thought to himself. In fact, it might be to their advantage if others didn’t see what was going to happen in a moment.

Metzger had his hat pushed back on his head and was ambling along with his hands in his pockets and whistling tunelessly. His carefree attitude came to an abrupt end when Byron hissed at him from the shadows.

“Metzger!”

The whistling stopped, and the big man’s head swiveled to look at them. A wary expression dropped onto his face, and his shoulders hunched a bit. “What do you want?” he asked in a mutter.

“We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Metzger looked around.

“Someone will see us.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Byron chuckled. “Are you?”

Metzger stood still for a moment, then reluctantly stepped into the mouth of the alley.

“What do you want?”

Gotthilf picked up the conversational thread.

“We are not looking at you for anything, so rest at ease on that score. No, we want to ask you some questions about your employer.”

“Master Schardius?”

Aha
, Gotthilf thought as Metzger visibly tensed.
Jackpot, as Byron would say
.

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know about?”

Even under his loose-fitting clothing, Gotthilf could see almost every muscle in Metzger’s body tense up. The man obviously knew things he didn’t want to make known. The question was, were they the same things that he and Byron wanted to know?

* * *

Franz Sylwester stood outside the imperial palace in the Altstadt in Old Magdeburg, waiting in the cold along with most of the residents of the city for the arrival of Princess Kristina and her consort. He looked over at Marla and smiled. She was swaddled in so much clothing that it was almost a miracle she could move. He mentally recounted the layers: thermal up-timer underwear, doubled wool socks, heavy boots, jeans, her heaviest velvet divided skirt, two sweaters, a green down-filled jacket formerly her father’s, heavy gloves, a triple layer knit cap—pink with green and purple blotches—pulled down low over her forehead, and matching heavy scarf wrapped round and round her neck and face. Her gloved hands were in her jacket pockets, and he could barely see a glint of her eyes in the narrow gap between the lower edge of the cap and the top of the scarf.

“What are you laughing at?”

Her voice was so muffled by the layers of scarf that he almost didn’t hear her.

“You.”

“So I hate to be cold. Sue me.”

Franz laughed and wrapped his arm around her waist. She snuggled against him. For all that she was a humorous sight, he didn’t begrudge Marla her attempts to stay somewhat warm. She did chill easily, he knew, and once she got cold it took forever to warm her up. He still remembered the ride on the river boats when they first came to Magdeburg over two years ago—had it really been that long? She got soaked in the rain because she wouldn’t stay in the shelter but had to be near the crate containing her precious piano. By the time they got to Magdeburg, he was almost beside himself with worry over her health, she had drooped so badly.

Marla wasn’t the only one who seemed to be wearing everything they owned as they stood out in the cold February air. Most everyone in sight seemed to have on as many layers as they could fit into, but no one looked comfortable. Red noses and hands on ears seemed to be the order of the day. Franz felt sorry for the Marine guards in their new and ridiculously elaborate uniforms. He hoped that all the gilt and braid that weighed down their coats added warmth, but from the looks on most of their faces he suspected that was not the case.

But the people he felt sorriest for were the players in Thomas Schwartzberg’s little band—or at least, the horn players.

Thomas had managed to amass a group of fourteen brass players and six drummers; some from the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and some from the community. Trumpets, trombones, the wildly misnamed French horns, and tubas, combined with two snare drums and four tenor drums. Not a patch on the full-blown high school field band that Grantville mustered for festivities and parades, but still not bad. And for all that they were a “pick-up” group, as Marla put it, they had really cohered into a solid ensemble that could put forth an amazing volume of sound.

But today the poor brass men were being tested to their limits. The temperature was well below the point where water would freeze, and there was a bit of a north breeze blowing. There was nothing they could do that would keep the brass warm. In fact, Thomas had fretted over what the cold would do to their intonation and timbre if the parade happened on a cold day—like today, for example. Dane Stevenson and Dallas Chaffin, the two most experienced up-time bandsmen of the group, had just shrugged.

“It happens,” Dane had said. “You just do your best. Don’t bother trying to tune once you go outside. Just blow and go. And trust me, if it’s that cold, no one is going to be listening critically. They’re all going to be thinking about how soon they can get to a warm spot or can get a hot drink.”

“Yep,” Dallas had confirmed. “Been there, done that. Just make sure your players haven’t had too much gin or schnapps beforehand trying to turn their blood into antifreeze.”

The two young up-timers had laughed together after that, obviously sharing a memory of some kind. Franz reminded himself that he wanted to hear that story one day.

The six drummers and two cymbalists, on the other hand, were all smiling a bit. Dallas had had a late brainstorm and come up with several small iron pots which he filled with lit charcoal and placed in front of their feet right when they took their positions. His excuse was that they had to do something to keep the leather drum heads at least sort-of warm, or they might become so brittle in the cold that they’d break when played. Franz wasn’t sure he believed it, but the drummers had all agreed loudly and longly, and as a consequence were all enjoying some slight amount of warmth. In fact, he noticed that the brass players had sort of curled back around the drums as much as they could, trying to pick up some bit of the warmth for themselves.

Thomas Schwartzberg’s head swiveled to the right and cocked as if he was listening to something. A moment later, Franz could hear it, too; the sound of cheering as the vehicles of the princess’ cortege drew nearer. Within moments, the people near him started cheering and waving flags and banners and sashes in the air.

The cars in the procession were moving at a slow pace, allowing plenty of opportunities for everyone who lined the streets to say they saw the princess, whether they really did or not. As the procession neared, Franz could only see various large fleshy men in the princess’ car. That stood to reason, he supposed. Princess Kristina was only nine years old, after all.

The cheering redoubled in volume as the princess’ car pulled up to the area where the greeting committee and the honor guard were standing. The first man out of the car came out of the front door. He was very tall—perhaps even taller than Emperor Gustav—and was very large to boot, to the extent that the up-timer shotgun he carried in one hand seemed almost a toy of some kind. A more imposing, deterring guard Franz couldn’t imagine. He looked around alertly for a moment, then rapped once on the glass of the rear door.

The door opened, and people started clambering out of the rear seat. Thomas turned and faced the band, pulled a baton out of one sleeve, and poised his hand in the air. As one, the brass players pulled their right hands out of their coats where they had been holding their mouthpieces in their armpits to keep them warm, plugged the mouthpieces into their horns, and applied them to their lips. All their eyes were on Thomas, who was watching the car out of the corner of his eye.

The first man out was an obvious politician, but not one that Franz had seen before, so he suspected it was someone from one of the northern or western cities where the Committees had a strong presence. The man who followed him out to stand and straighten slowly was dressed in rich—but not gaudy—finery, and looked somewhat rumpled. By default, that had to be Prince Ulrik. Finally, the slight frame of the princess slid across the seat and out the door. When her face came into view, the crowd erupted into cheers. At the same moment, Thomas sketched a four-beat and launched the band into musical motion.

* * *

Byron spoke again, drawing Metzger’s attention. Gotthilf thought the man tensed even more. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Metzger’s hands had drawn into fists and raised before his body. Whatever his perception of Byron, he was definitely at least wary of him.

“We’re looking into several corpses found floating in the river, remember?”

“Yah.”

Metzger obviously wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

“We’ve received tips…” Gotthilf began.

“Tips?” Metzger looked confused.

“We’ve heard rumors,” Gotthilf started over, “that someone influential in the city is having people killed who are…not meeting his expectations.”

“Murdered because they disobey or won’t keep their mouths shut.” That was Byron’s contribution. Gotthilf reminded himself that being blunt might work to their advantage with this guy.

“So? You think I had something to do with it?”

Metzger’s face was giving nothing away.

“No,” Gotthilf said. “Not that we know of. But your boss, on the other hand…” He let the pause build until Metzger’s eyes shifted. “We hear rumors that Schardius is the one ordering these killings.”

That wasn’t an out and out lie, Gotthilf rationalized to himself. It did, however, stretch the truth to the point of dismemberment. If it got the man to talk, well, it was worth it. But his hopes of Metzger’s lips unlocking were quickly dashed.

“I know nothing about anything like that.”

“Word on the street is you do.” Byron being a blunt object again. Gotthilf watched Metzger’s face pale, and his fists did clench this time, for all that his features otherwise didn’t change.

“Then the street lied.”

“Look,” Gotthilf intervened before the two big men went toe to toe and nose to nose, “we are looking for the truth. If the rumors are wrong, fine. Tell us what is the truth, and we will move on.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” Metzger insisted.

“Now who’s lying?” Byron jumped back in.

Metzger’s face went red, and his fists started to rise, but he stopped them before they got waist high. He looked at Byron, then he looked at Gotthilf.

Gotthilf could see how hard his partner’s face was. From the tension he was feeling in his facial muscles, he suspected that his own face was similarly aligned, and his hand wasn’t far from the butt of his pistol.

Metzger broke. His fists dropped and his shoulders slumped.

“I can’t tell you anything,” he said in a weary tone of voice.

“Can’t?” Byron said in a stern tone. “Or won’t?”

Metzger shrugged. “Does it make any difference?”

“Not really.” Gotthilf offered that. “But give me this much—is there something to tell?”

Metzger hesitated, then realized that his hesitation was answer enough, so he nodded.

“What are you afraid of?” Byron demanded.

Metzger remained silent.

The silence grew to a long moment. It was finally broken by Byron.

“All right, we can’t make you talk. But you hear me, and hear me well, Herr Metzger: if one more person dies because you kept your silence, I will be all over you like stink on a knacker. I’ll be the first face you see when you leave your rooms in the morning, and the last one you see when you close your door at night. I’ll be picking your change up off the bar when you order a drink. I’ll take the last swig out of your bottle of gin. I’ll be watching you load and unload at the Schardius warehouse. I’ll hand you your towel at your fights. And all I need is one mistake on your part; just one, and you’ll be so deep in trouble you’ll need a miner’s lamp just to figure out how deep you are.”

Gotthilf almost stared at his partner. That was more words than he’d heard out of him at one time since the beginning of their working together.

Metzger stared at Byron, then shifted his gaze to Gotthilf.

Gotthilf gave a firm nod. “Believe it.”

The big down-timer shifted gaze between the two partners several times. His mouth tightened and twisted. “You do what you have to do,” he said. “Are we done now?”