1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  He had eventually left Florence with his lust unslaked. But to this day, the sound of an attractive woman singing could send a thrill up and down his spine. And now, in the person of Marla Linder, he might be able to attain his desire, his longing.

  That thought caused his breath to come a little faster.

  * * *

  Karl Honister finished reading the article out loud, and looked over the top of it at Byron. “Frau Linder is some connection to you, isn’t she?”

  Byron shrugged as he signed off on a report. “Wife’s sister.”

  “Is she always so…ah, direct?”

  Gotthilf snorted. “Try strong-willed. She’s full-blood sister, after all, to the woman who married him,” he jerked a thumb at his partner, “of her own free will, and holds her own with him.”

  “Point,” Honister said as Byron grinned. The other detective sergeant pulled a paper out of his coat, and unfolded a broadsheet. “But I have met Frau Linder the elder, and I don’t think she would have seen this come out from something she did.”

  Byron took the paper, and Gotthilf read over his shoulder. The hair on his neck stood up as his eyes scanned down the lyrics on the page. “Wow,” the down-timer said.

  “Nope,” Byron said after he handed the page back to Honister. “Jonni might be stubborn and hardheaded, but she’s never been in her little sister’s league. And even though she didn’t write the words, that’s pure quill Marla on that page. No give to her, once she’s decided.” He scanned over and signed another report. “I’m not much of a praying man, but from time to time I thank God for sending Franz Sylwester along four years ago.”

  “What do you mean?” Gotthilf asked.

  “You’ve met Marla. Try to imagine her without Franz in her life.”

  Gotthilf considered, and twitched his shoulders in a sudden chill.

  “Yah.”

  Grantville

  Atwood was so wrapped up in the music that when it came to an end, he had forgotten where he was. It was an occupational hazard for a disc jockey. It took a moment before he realized it was time for him to talk again. He quickly flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.

  “Once again, that was the Little Fugue in G, written originally for organ by Johann Sebastian Bach and transcribed for orchestra by Leopold Stokowski. I hope you enjoyed that; it’s certainly one of my favorites.”

  As he was talking, Atwood was flipping switches and checking that the cassette player was cued up. It still amused him from time to time that he was a radio disc jockey to half of Germany.

  He flipped a last switch and spoke into the open mike. “I promised you something very special at the beginning of the evening. Tonight we have a recording of someone here in Germany, made only a week ago. I predict that you will either like it or hate it, but you will not be able to ignore it. So, here is Marla Linder and her friends, with ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’”

  Atwood pressed the play button on the cassette deck. After a moment the music began to flow from the control room monitor speakers. He leaned back and just listened, a large grin on his face.

  He had the professional musician’s ability to divorce himself from the effect of the music while he appraised the performance. It was especially hard to do for this recording, though, and not because he’d been involved in producing it. Marla’s performance was beyond her usual excellence; it was so spot on it was like it was the sonic equivalent of a laser beam. And for a live recording, with the equipment available, it was pretty darn good, if he did say so himself. His Sony rig was near top of the line when he got it, and for Marla he had opened his last virgin chromium dioxide cassette tape package, over which he would never record. That sound was as clear and as pristine as anything that would be produced for generations, probably. The folks at Trommler Records had practically slavered over it.

  And wouldn’t it just set the fox in the henhouse, though? Most down-timers still didn’t get the full power and impact of radio. The nobility for sure didn’t get it. This recording would drive the point home like a ten penny nail smacked by a sixteen-pound sledge hammer.

  Assessment over, he surrendered himself to the music. All too soon it was finished. He leaned forward again. “There is nothing I can say after that. I hope you enjoyed it. And if you did like it, you might drop a line to the folks at Trommler Records. They’re going to put out a record of that song. It should be available soon.

  “Thanks for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I’ll see you next Sunday evening.

  “I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”

  Magdeburg

  Gotthilf threw a hand up in front of Byron’s chest and brought his partner to a halt.

  “What’s up?” Byron asked, looking around.

  “Sssh,” Gotthilf whispered. “That’s Fraulein Metzger up ahead.”

  Byron caught sight of the woman limping along the street, leaning heavily on a cane. “So it is. Want to go talk to her?”

  “Actually, I do,” Gotthilf admitted. “But by myself, I think.” Byron looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I might get more out of her that way.”

  His partner shrugged. “Whatever. I’m good with that. I’ll head back to the station. I’ve got more reports to read anyway.”

  They parted company, and Gotthilf trailed along behind the woman for about half a block, then he eased up beside her.

  “Fraulein Metzger?” He gave a partial bow, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers.

  “Oh!”

  The young woman lurched in surprise, and Gotthilf hastily reached a hand out to grab her elbow and help her keep her footing. As soon as he could see she was stable, he released her and stepped back to give her room.

  “Oh,” Fraulein Metzger repeated in a more normal tone of voice. “Sergeant Hoch, is it not?”

  “Yes, Fraulein. I saw you in the street alone, and wondered if something was wrong.”

  “No,” she replied. “I looked out a little while ago, and the sun was shining, and since it was, I decided to walk down to Frau Diermissen to get some purple thread.”

  “Purple thread?” Gotthilf asked as he kept pace with her slow steps.

  “Mm-hmm.” Fraulein Metzger didn’t say anything for a moment as she negotiated a tricky patch of the street where a puddle had formed across part of what would have been her best path. Gotthilf stood ready to help her, but she placed her cane carefully, and stepped with care across the slick gravel, arriving at the other side without mishap.

  Once there, she resumed her conversation. “I do embroidery, you see, for Frau Schneider and other seamstresses.”

  “Frau Schneider, you say?” Gotthilf tucked that connection away in his mind. You never knew when little bits of information like that could prove to be useful. “My mother speaks very highly of her.”

  “And she should,” Fraulein Metzger said with a smile. “I think she is the best of them. Certainly she is the best I have worked with.”

  “So, you needed some purple thread for work you are doing for the good Frau Schneider,” Gotthilf continued. “But could you not have sent your young friend Simon Bayer for it and saved yourself the steps?”

  Fraulein Metzger stopped, and looked at Gotthilf. He noticed with part of his mind that her eyes were level with his, and they were not at this moment friendly. In fact, they seemed rather cold.

  “Sergeant Hoch, I am a cripple. That does not mean I am stupid. You dance attendance on me for a reason, and it is not because of my fair face or form.” Gotthilf thought he detected a trace of bitterness; but only a trace. “If you have something to ask me, ask it.”

  Gotthilf tilted his head and observed her for a moment, then nodded. “As you say. Yes, we…”

  “The Polizei,” she interrupted.

  Gotthilf nodded again. “The Polizei have been looking at y
our brother. Not that we suspect him of a crime,” he hastened to add as her eyes widened. “But he has been known to associate with men that we are interested in.”

  “So why have you not asked your questions of him?” Fraulein Metzger asked, her voice oozing tartness.

  Gotthilf shrugged. “Because the time is not right. We do not know enough to know what questions to ask.”

  Fraulein Metzger stared at him with hard eyes for several moments, then faced forward again. “Men!” she muttered as she started down the road again.

  Gotthilf continued to keep pace with her. They walked in silence for some time, until he said, “We have met before, you know.”

  “Yes, at the tavern several days ago.” Her tone now bordered on acerbic. It was obvious that she was no longer enjoying their conversation.

  “No, actually it was back before the sack. And perhaps I misspoke a bit; we did not actually meet, but we did see each other.”

  Ursula stopped again, and the expression she turned on him was dark enough to be called thunderous.

  “Do not attempt to delude me, Sergeant!”

  He held his hands up in a peace gesture. “On my honor, our paths have indeed crossed on occasion when I accompanied my sister to her catechism classes.”

  “Your…sister.”

  “Margarethe Hoch. She is somewhat younger than you, I believe, but I do recall seeing you at least twice.” As he said that, the image of a younger Ursula Metzgerinin crossed his mind. “It was before the sack of the city, of course.”

  An expression of sorrow and pain crossed Fraulein Metzger’s face. “Yes. Of course. So much there was before the sack of the city.” She faced forward and resumed her progress.

  Their mutual journey ended at a flight of wooden steps up the outside of a building. Fraulein Metzger turned to face him once again.

  “I remember Margarethe Hoch. A sweet girl.” She paused for a moment. “Those were good times. Give her my greetings, please.”

  “I will,” Gotthilf said. “May I help you in any way?” he continued, as she set foot on the first stair tread.

  “No,” Fraulein Metzger responded. “There is nothing you can do to help.” She looked back over her shoulder with a smile. “But thank you for asking.”

  And with that, she began her slow ascent up the stairs, one tread at a time, using her cane and the railing to pull herself up over the obstacle that her right leg presented. Gotthilf waited at the bottom, watching, until she had attained the landing outside her door. She pulled a key from a pocket in her jacket, unlocked the door, and entered in without looking at him.

  After the door closed, he heaved a sigh, and stood staring at nothing in particular for a long moment. That last smile—that was the face of the girl he had seen before the sack. That was the face of the woman who might have been, before her body was wrecked by God-knows-what horrible accident. It was the face of a woman that he was beginning to find very interesting, God help him.

  He looked up to see a Polizei patrolman walking down the block toward him. He stepped away from the stairs and beckoned to the man. It was one of the older hands, so they recognized each other.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant Hoch,” the patrolman said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Do you know the people who live up these stairs, Phillip?”

  “Aye. That would be Hans Metzger, a warehouse worker and sometime fighter in the contests held out at the old bear-baiting pit; his sister Ursula, the cripple; and some boy that seems to have moved in with them recently.”

  “The boy would be Simon Bayer, and no, I don’t know if he is really from Bavaria.”

  “Is there something you need from them, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, uh, no. Not from them. What I want is for you and your mates to keep an eye on Fraulein Metzger. See to it that no one bothers her.”

  “Right. Keep a protective watch on the Fraulein. I will pass the word to Bastian and Johann. They usually walk the other shifts on this patrol. Anything else?”

  Gotthilf hesitated for a moment, then said, “Also keep an eye on her brother. If you notice anyone spending a lot of time with him, I want to know about it. If he has any unusual visitors, I want to know about it. If he disappears for any period of time, I want to know about it.”

  “Right, sir. Will do.”

  “That’s all, Phillip. Send word to the main station if anything comes up I need to hear about.”

  The watchman touched the brim of his hat in salute, and moved on down the street. Gotthilf looked up at the door into the Metzger apartment, feeling as if he had perhaps betrayed a friend.

  Part Three

  February 1636

  Let me write the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws.

  —Dónal Ó Conaill

  Chapter 31

  Magdeburg

  Right in the middle of the big Act III duet between Guinevere and Arthur, Marla started coughing. It was more than a small cough. It bordered on a paroxysm; cough followed cough followed cough. The rehearsal ground to a halt around her, and after a moment, Amber Higham picked up a bottle and brought it to her.

  Marla finally got whatever it was in her throat cleared out, and took a breath. She felt light-headed after all that, and she must have looked pale, because Dieter Fischer—not the radio preacher, the other one, the singer—who was singing the role of Arthur took her by the arm and led her back to her stool. Amber handed her the bottle of purified water, and she sipped at it, then held the cool ceramic of the bottle against her forehead.

  “Better now?” Amber asked.

  She took another sip of water, then nodded.

  “Yeah. I don’t know what caused that, but it’s over.”

  Amber studied her with practiced eyes, and evidently came to a decision, because she announced, “That’s all for today, folks. We’ll pick back up tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. And Dieter,” she pointed a finger at the baritone, “don’t forget your music again.”

  “Yes, Frau Amber,” he muttered against the laughter of the other singers in the room.

  “You don’t need to do that, Amber,” Marla protested. “I’m okay now, we can keep going.”

  “Nope,” Amber said. “The care and feeding of performers—especially you temperamental singers—is part of my job description. You’re starting to droop, but you’re not the only one. We’ll call it a day, and pick it up from there tomorrow. Now go home and drink some tea or coffee or a hot toddy or whatever to rest your voice. Git!”

  Marla got, along with the others. Amber in full director mode was not to be gainsaid. And in truth, she was tired. Fatigued would be a better word, actually. But it was a good feeling.

  Ever since the night she sang The Song (as she thought of it) at the Green Horse, she had felt different—more…something. Assured wasn’t the word, and neither was peaceful or well. Centered, now…that might be the right word. She still hurt from her loss, she still grieved at times, but she didn’t feel totally off-balance all the time, as if she was swinging from one extreme to another on an emotional bungee cord. It was like when she first met Franz, after the Ring of Fire happened and she’d lost her parents and her brother. She’d been more than a bit moody then as well, and he had given her a center to rest on. Now, in a very strange way, that performance had done the same thing for her.

  Or maybe she was just a bit dotty, to use a phrase her Aunt Susan would say, and it was just that enough time had passed for her to turn the corner, or crest the hill, or pass through the valley of the shadow of death, or whatever metaphor was most appropriate. Either way, she was thankful for the change.

  By now her musings had carried her through the front door of the Royal Academy of Music, where they had been rehearsing. She finished buttoning her coat, and shifted her load of books to her left arm.

  She looked up as Klaus and Reuel stirred from where they leaned against the front of the building. “Ah, there you are, my faithful shadows.” The two men grinned at
her, but didn’t speak. She pointed across the small plaza. “To the opera house, to find my husband. The orchestra is rehearsing today, and we got done early.”

  * * *

  “Yo, Karl,” Byron called out. Gotthilf tagged along with his partner as Detective Honister changed directions and came their way. “I hear the final report on the fire investigation was turned in yesterday. Did Dan say it was arson?”

  Karl Honister shook his head. “No, he stopped just short of that. He listed it as the most likely possibility, but he also said that it might have been an accident due to carelessness. The oil can that we found was one that belonged to Schiffer, after all.”

  Gotthilf snorted. “That is analogous to saying God is at fault because He created all things; therefore He created the wood, the oil, fire, and the idiot that brought them all together.”

  Byron laughed out loud. “Good one, partner.” Gotthilf grinned in reply.

  Honister smiled. “Indeed. Myself, I think the candle stub we found is probable proof of intent.”

  “Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “I have trouble believing that that particular piece of evidence was there simply by random chance or negative serendipity.”

  The other two men nodded in agreement.

  “I think Captain Reilly agrees,” Honister added. “He told me to do more digging into this, see if I can find a suspect either way.” He looked at Magdeburg’s two best detectives. “Any advice for me on this one? I do not mind admitting it is somewhat outside of my experience.”

  “Just one thing,” Byron said. He looked to his partner.

  “You should know this one,” Gotthilf picked up the cue. “I learned it at my father’s knee, and you should have learned it at yours—follow the money.”

  * * *

  “Arson?” Andreas Schardius pinched the bridge of his nose. “They think that someone set the wood stock on fire on purpose?” He lowered his hand and stared at Georg Kühlewein and Johann Westvol. His stomach began to roil; not an uncommon occurrence when he was in the presence of these two.