1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  “Stephan.”

  “Master?”

  “Come take dictation.”

  Maybe, Stephan thought to himself, the master wasn’t taking it so badly after all. He clung to that thought until he rounded the door frame into the office, whereupon the thought expired as if it were a mouse trod upon by an ox.

  The master’s hands were clasped in front of him, and his head was bowed. Stephan stopped as he saw Schmidt’s fingers were twisted almost to the point of breaking, and they were clasped so tightly, the flesh of his hands was nearly corpse white. Tension radiated from the master’s shoulders, and Burckardt really wished he could be someplace else at just that moment.

  Schmidt raised his head. Stephan swallowed at the fury boiling in the man’s eyes. His employer was by nature an angry man. God above knew that the master had shown a plenitude of evidence of it in the past. But this was beyond anything Stephan had ever seen before.

  At least the master was not looking at him. Stephan edged away from the path of his gaze, as if out of the line of sight of a weapon.

  “One would think,” Schmidt said, his normal rich baritone almost a whisper and sounding as if it were being forced through a sieve, “that one could count on his relations. I needed—my partners and I needed—that contract. And all my august brother-in-law, the oh-so-magnificent Otto Gericke, who gazes at the world from the heights of Magdeburg’s Parnassus and whose chamber pot does not stink like other men’s—all he had to do was hint to the hospital committee that they should favor our contract proposal.” His voice started to rise, his words coming more quickly. “But apparently that was beyond him! It was too much to ask him to help the husband of his sister. Or rather, his half-sister. His older half-sister. Let us by all means be precise. Never mind that Sophie—”

  Schmidt broke off that thought. Presumably, some things he would not say, even in front of Stephan—who, for all practical purposes, had the position of a slave.

  Stephan knew that losing that contract had hurt the master’s pride. But even more important to the pragmatic Schmidt, it had hurt him in the strongbox. Stephan was aware just how badly the master had needed that contract, since he also served as Schmidt’s accountant. Funds were tight since the Sack of Magdeburg back in 1631. To make things worse, his wife Sophie was not the most frugal of women. And he had been forced by his associates to put up a sizeable share of the funds to pay the architect and prepare the offer. He had needed that contract, but Kühlewein and Westvol had gotten it instead.

  “It is bad enough,” the master resumed after a moment, speaking again in that strained whisper, “that he allowed those bastards Kühlewein and Westvol to win out over us. But now he celebrates with them?”

  Schmidt exploded into motion, sweeping his arm across the desk to send a thin-walled Venetian rose-colored glass wine decanter and matching glasses flying to crash against the wall and shatter into tiny slivers. Then he picked up the pages of the newspaper and slowly and carefully tore the paper in half, making sure that the picture of the grinning Kühlewein and Westvol was sundered in the process. He tossed the shreds of paper onto the spreading pool of wine, then spat on the mess for good measure.

  Stephan found himself backed against the wall by the door, wishing that he could escape.

  Schmidt spun and stared out the window for some time, his back to Stephan, obviously still seething.

  Eventually, the master squared his shoulders. “Very well, then. We’ll start a new game.” He seemed to be talking to himself. Then he half-turned his head and said: “Take a letter, Stephan.”

  He barely gave Stephan enough time to sit down and pull out a notebook. “Address it to Signor Nicolas Benavidez, Venice, Italy.”

  “To Signor Nicolas Benavidez, Venice, Italy.”

  Stephan’s ability to read and write Italian was a major reason why Schmidt had hired him years ago. He tried not to think of why he was still working for the merchant. A temptation to…adjust…Schmidt’s accounts and pocket the difference had not gone undetected, with the result that he was now bound to Schmidt with chains he saw no way of breaking.

  “Look up the address, add the usual greetings and pleasantries,” Schmidt said. “Here’s what I need to say: Esteemed Sir, I find that I am in need of that favor that you promised to me some years ago. It would be a great help to me if you would send me two of your best men to assist me in a matter. These need to be men that know how to handle difficult situations.”

  Stephan noted all that down. He looked up to see the master staring at him.

  “Got all that?”

  Stephan nodded.

  “Good. Close it with the usual. Make it even more flowery than you usually do. Have it ready for me to sign when I get back. No copy for our files.”

  Schmidt spat again on the now-soggy newspaper, picked up his hat and started to leave. He paused in the doorway long enough to add, “And clean up that mess.”

  After the outer door slammed behind Schmidt, Stephan laid his notebook down on his own little desk in the outer room, found a scrap of towel and a box, and walked back into the master’s office. He knelt to gather the sodden newspaper scraps and place them in the box, then gingerly picked out as much of the broken glass as he could find. Finally he mopped up the spilled wine as best he could.

  After disposing of the box and its contents, Stephan straightened the chair behind the desk, neatened the contract pages where they were still open on the desktop, and generally made sure the rest of the room was in order. Then, returning to his own desk, he pulled out cheap paper to draft the letter on and a much better grade for the final copy. Every movement was precise, subdued, exact. As you’d expect from a lowly clerk who’d once made the mistake of thinking he might soar into the heights of embezzlement.

  The analogy with Icarus didn’t occur to Burckardt himself. He was a clerk born into a very modest family, not a figure from myth. Icarus had plunged to his death in the sea. Burckardt has gotten his wages lowered, his hours lengthened, his person demeaned. His prospects ruined also, of course—but they’d never been good anyway.

  Chapter 6

  “No!”

  Franz Sylwester winced as Pastor Jonas Nicolai jerked back in surprise at the vehemence in Marla Linder’s voice. For all that his wife normally shone with a pleasant temperament, she had a temper that, when stirred, rivaled the tempests on the seas. Unfortunately for the pastor, he had just invoked the tempest. And, judging from his expression, the poor man had no idea what had gone wrong, but he had just enough perception to realize that something had.

  Pastor Nicolai from the Heilige Geist (Holy Ghost) church had asked if he could call on them. Franz remembered that he and Marla had looked at each other quizzically when they received the note. Neither of them knew the man, since they did not attend any of the Lutheran churches in Magdeburg, but they decided they would do the polite thing and allow the call.

  In the flesh, Pastor Nicolai proved to be somewhat urbane, and his tone had a supercilious air to it. Within five minutes of conversation Franz was wishing the man would say what he had to say and leave. Within the second five minutes it became clear that the pastor was hoping to recruit them as musicians for his church, and Franz became heartily sick of the man. Within five more, as the pastor revealed that his specific purpose was to make a pastoral and consoling visit to the bereaved family that he hoped to pull into his parish, Franz was sick to his soul and desperately seeking ways to cut the visit short.

  The stillbirth of their first child in October had put Marla on the edge of a mental precipice. It had only been a couple of weeks ago that she had been turned away from it through the help of some of their musician friends. She wouldn’t talk about it now. From conversations with Mary Simpson and Lady Beth Haygood, Franz knew that she might never talk about it. But he knew in his heart that she had spent those weeks staring into the abyss of Hell, unable to even grieve properly for their stillborn daughter Alison. And he knew that although she no longer did so directly
, and although her face was alive again and her smile could be seen from time to time, she was still subject to times and days of darkness.

  And now, out of a misguided desire to comfort the bereaved parents—at least, Franz hoped it was misguided and not an intentional trespass—this idiot of a pastor had opened his mouth and spilled out the one religious doctrine common to all the reformers that he had hoped to keep from Marla until she had regained her balance.

  “Frau Linder…” Pastor Nicolai began in a worried tone. “I’m afraid it is true Frau Linder. Holy Scripture is quite clear that children who are miscarried or stillborn do not have a place in Heaven.”

  “No,” Marla responded again. Although her tone was quieter, Franz’s shoulders twitched as he recognized what their friend Rudolf Tuchman had called her “sword steel” voice: hard, cold, inflexible, and barely restrained from cutting the pastor to ribbons. “I don’t accept that.”

  “But all the authorities agree…”

  “Then all your authorities are wrong.”

  “Even Martin Luther…”

  “And he’s wrong, too.”

  Pastor Nicolai was now staring red-faced at the very self-assured, very controlled young woman in front of him who was contradicting him at every point. If the man had not been such a fool, Franz would have felt at least a bit sorry for him. As it was, he squeezed Marla’s hand in encouragement.

  “But…” the pastor managed to utter before Marla cut him off again.

  “These men you refer to are only men, Pastor. They can be just as wrong or mistaken as any other men, including the popes they abhor. And in this case, if this is what they all teach on this subject, then they’re all mistaken. The Bible does not teach that Alison is in Hell, and I will not accept that from you or anyone else.” Marla’s tone was beyond cold now. In fact, icy failed to describe it.

  Nicolai tried to expound his position again. Franz had had enough, and stood, shutting off the pastor’s flow of words. “This conversation is over. Let me show you to the door, pastor.”

  Marla laid a hand on Franz’s arm. “I suggest you spend some time meditating on Second Samuel Chapter Twelve, Pastor Nicolai, particularly on David’s reaction to the death of his child. Your authorities misinterpret what is being said there.” She removed her hand, and Franz escorted the pastor from the room.

  Franz led the pastor to the front door and held it open for him. As the pastor stepped through the door, he had a thought.

  “Pastor Nicolai?”

  “Yes?” The man turned, and Franz could see the light in his eye that perhaps the wayward musician was going to apologize to him. He had to bite his lip for a moment to keep from laughing.

  “Are you married, Pastor?”

  “Why…yes, I am.”

  Franz could see the confused look pass over the pastor’s face.

  “Is your wife a woman of wisdom?”

  Now the poor pastor was very confused. “I believe so.”

  “Do you listen to her?” Franz hurried on before the pastor could respond. “I don’t mean talk to her; do you listen to her?”

  Pastor Nicolai still looked confused, but gave a slow nod.

  “Then I suggest you ask her to explain to you what you did wrong here today. Good day to you, sir.”

  Franz closed the door, and turned to find that Marla had come up behind him. Her face was relaxed and her eyes were dancing. “That was cruel, love.”

  “No more than the man deserved.” He folded his arms around his wife. Her arms went around his waist, and she laid her head on his shoulder. They stood that way for a moment, then he murmured, “I am sorry.”

  She leaned back head and looked at him. “For what?”

  “For allowing that fool to come and disturb you, and for not warning you what the Lutherans and Calvinists teach about…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “About children like Alison.” Marla completed it for him, and he nodded. “That’s okay, dear.” She raised a hand to his cheek for a moment, then gave him an impish grin that brought warmth to his heart. “Lennie came by last week, remember?”

  Lennon Washaw was a Grantviller Methodist deacon who resided in Magdeburg now. He was a good and kind man who was a lay preacher for those up-timers who had gravitated to Magdeburg, whether Methodist or not, who were not comfortable with the various down-timer congregations in the town. He had spoken at Alison’s funeral, and was held in high esteem by both Marla and Franz. For all that Franz didn’t agree with the man on several points of doctrine, he knew and trusted Herr Washaw to care for their welfare more than any of the Lutheran pastors in Magdeburg—Pastor Nicolai in particular now being a case in point.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, one of the reasons he did was to warn me of this very thing. He knew that it was going to come up sooner or later, and he wanted to prepare me for it.”

  “Ah.” Franz began to smile in return. “And so you knew which scripture to quote to a pastor.”

  “Yep.” Marla giggled, hugged him tight, then released him. “Now, aren’t we supposed to be meeting Mary soon?”

  * * *

  Simon jumped up the steps of Das Haus Des Brotes. He opened the door and hurried through, panting. He’d run the last few blocks to the bakery because he thought he might be late. Once inside, he looked for Frau Zenzi—Frau Kreszentia Traugottin verh. Ostermännin, mistress of the bakery—but she was busy with a late customer, so he stepped into the back, found the broom and went to work.

  The boy swept the broom across the floorboards of the bakery with care. Frau Zenzi always inspected his work, so he needed to do his best. He concentrated on the corners with special care. The coarse twigs of the broom were hard to maneuver, especially one-handed. Not for the first time in his young life he cursed his right arm where it hung straight by his side, just as it had for as far back as he could remember.

  He couldn’t remember just when he noticed that he was different from other children, that his right arm wouldn’t work. But as far back as he had clear memories, it had always hung limp. He did remember crying about it when he was little, screaming about it. When he was older, he remembered praying about it. And then there were the times when he would sit and try by force of will to make it move. But no matter how he willed it, no matter how he strained, the response, always, was nothing. The arm hung there like a limb broken from a tree but still hanging by some shred of tissue or bark, just like now.

  And of course, since the arm didn’t work, the musculature had atrophied—withered—early in Simon’s life, leaving it looking like nothing so much as a dead twig. He’d never known anything else. The left arm, however, since it had to do the work that the two healthy arms of normal people would do, was very well developed and strong. Other people were sometimes surprised by just how much Simon could do with his one good hand.

  Simon stopped sweeping for a moment. He no longer grew angry with himself or his arm. It was what it was. He mostly just worked out ways to do what he needed to do one-handed. But sometimes he grew irritated at the way it flopped around, like it was doing now. He placed the broom between his legs, reached over with his left hand and with a practiced motion hooked his right hand and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. There, he thought. Now he could finish the sweeping without his arm getting in the way.

  Just before he grasped the broom again, Simon looked at his left hand, closing and opening his fingers. If he ignored his right arm most of the time, the reverse was true of his left. It was never far from his thoughts. What would he do if he ever hurt that hand? It was a constant fear. Life was difficult one-handed—he could barely imagine the hell it would be if he had no hands.

  Back to sweeping, he told himself. He swept the back area, then moved out to the front room where Frau Zenzi met her customers. She brushed by him as he swept along. Again, he took pains with the corners.

  “Simon?” Frau Zenzi’s voice came from the back of the bakery, and he could hear her steps approaching. “Are you done yet?
” The mistress of the bakery appeared in the door from the rear.

  “Almost, Frau Zenzi.” One of the things that Simon really liked about the mistress was that she let everyone call her by her nickname. A large woman with a broad friendly face, she was not one to ordinarily stand on position. She was a caring woman, as well, who often would tend to the unfortunates of Magdeburg. In fact, she had taken a young blind boy named Willi into her household recently. Her husband, the baker Anselm Ostermann, would simply shake his head and smile whenever she added another person to her list of special people.

  Simon was another of Frau Zenzi’s special people. She had allowed him to begin sweeping the bakery every evening in exchange for some bread. At the age of twelve—he thought that was how old he was—Simon was determined to work for his food. No beggar he. And Simon did work. Frau Zenzi was never able to find anything wrong with her floors when he was done.

  And so it was tonight. Simon finished cleaning out that last corner, then swept the pile of dust and flour and who-knows-what-else over to the front door with care. He flung the door open, swept the pile out the door, then leaned out to sweep it off the outside step. Once that was done, he closed the door and turned to put the broom away.

  Frau Zenzi was standing behind him. She took the broom from him. “I will put that away.” She smiled as she handed him two rolls. “Here. Take these and go, so I can bar the door. We will see you tomorrow.”

  Simon took one roll and tucked it inside his jacket, then took the other and gave a slight bow to the mistress. “Thank you, Frau Zenzi. And I will be here tomorrow.”

  Outside in the gathering twilight, Simon walked down the muddy street chewing on his roll. After walking a short distance, he stopped and sat on the front step of another building. He waited. The evening air was past chilly and moving toward cold. He pulled his jacket tighter around his chest.

  The evening had not advanced much further when he saw what he was waiting for. A small dog, nondescript, brown with a white splash on the face, was nosing her way down the street, sniffing and rooting around, occasionally gulping something that she found. Stray dogs weren’t common in Magdeburg, and the ones that were seen from time to time were pretty wary of people, as the city council would often set the knackers to hunting them. This one was obviously female, for her dugs hung heavy with milk. There were pups somewhere, waiting for her to return.