1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

“Not necessarily,” Kühlewein said. “They did say that it could have simply been an accident on the part of one of Schiffer’s employees.”

  Schardius’ mouth twisted in reaction to that thought, but he didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “Do you know who is doing the investigation?”

  The other two men looked at each other, then Kühlewein said, “Someone named Honister, I believe.”

  “Ah, Phillip Honister’s boy,” Schardius said. “He’s of good stock; he’ll do it right. At least it’s not Chieske and Hoch.”

  He’d had contact with those two during the investigation of Paulus Bünemann’s death last year. Bünemann was a fellow corn factor, and the two detectives had had the temerity to consider him a suspect in the crime. Not respectful; especially since he hadn’t been involved in it at all. Not that he hadn’t thought about it occasionally, but he’d decided a long time ago that thoughts didn’t count, except in Sunday sermons.

  Kühlewein and Westvol looked back at him with lowered eyebrows, obviously waiting for a reaction that they weren’t sure they wanted to experience. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

  “Fine. Maybe it was an accident, or carelessness, or simple stupidity. I am not sure I believe it, but let’s say it was. We cannot afford—Can Not Afford,” making sure they heard the emphasis in his voice, “to have another such event occur.”

  Both the other men nodded their heads with vigor. They understood that losing big money was a Bad Idea in more than one respect.

  Schardius leveled an index finger at Kühlewein. “Therefore you, Herr Mayor Kühlewein, will stress to Leonhart Kolman there must be no repeats of this event. Feel free to loose the flensing knife of your tongue and flay him in slow inches.”

  Kühlewein nodded, with a hard set to his mouth and no compassion in his eyes.

  “And you,” Schardius shifted the finger to Westvol, and sighted down it like a gun barrel. “You will say nothing, and do nothing, of any sort out of the ordinary.” Westvol nodded, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  Schardius sighed. “Spit it out, man.”

  “What about the newspapers?”

  Schardius sat up straight. “Oh, do not tell me you have been talking to newspapermen!”

  “No, no,” Westvol hastened to assure him. “One reporter tried to interview me about the Polizei report on the fire, but I told him I could not spare the time right then. But he will try again, I am sure.”

  Westvol looked nervous at confessing this, but for once Schardius was not angry with the man; he was actually delighted with him.

  “Good. Perfect, in fact. And in the future, if newspapermen contact either of you about anything dealing with this contract or project, just tell them that you have no comment and that the partners in the project will make a joint statement soon.”

  He was going to leave it at that, but decided he’d best make sure they knew what he expected. “And if they do contact you, you will tell me about it immediately. Understood?”

  Both men nodded. Schardius had to suppress a snort at the thought that the race to be Dee might be even again.

  * * *

  “So, how are rehearsals going?” Mary Simpson asked, as she passed a cup of coffee to Amber Higham. They were in Mary’s parlor again. That was her usual place for small meetings. She said the informality relaxed everyone.

  Amber didn’t care. The combination of good coffee and the heat emanating from the cast iron heater in the corner made the parlor one of her favorite places in Magdeburg during the winter. February had proven to be even colder than January so far, and January had not been warm by anybody’s definition. She remembered one of the science guys back in Grantville talking about a Little Ice Age. From the sensations her toes were reporting, it wasn’t particularly little.

  “Rehearsals are going well,” Amber replied, in her usual precise use of the English language. “In fact, we are actually a bit ahead of schedule in terms of learning lines and notes. I’m going to start blocking in another day or two.”

  The two women sat in companionable silence for several moments, just sipping coffee and enjoying the moment.

  Mary finally set her cup down. “So, give—how is Marla doing?”

  Amber shrugged. “As far as I can tell, fine.”

  She had been keeping strict watch on the young woman. Amber knew all about dealing with grief and stress; not from having lost a child, but from a particularly messy and tempestuous divorce after she’d caught her first husband in the costume room with the latest ingénue—again. Character assassination was the most civil of the techniques his lawyer had leveled against her, until she finally agreed to a rather less-than-equitable settlement just so she could get it over and done with. Then she’d retreated from Chicago to Grantville, where she licked her wounds for longer than she liked to admit. So, yeah, she knew something about grief.

  “She’s focused, staying on task, and she’s learned—or learning, rather—in short order a part that might have challenged Beverly Sills.” Amber shrugged again. “Only problem I see is that she’s still a bit short on stamina. I have to rein her in, keep her from pushing too hard.”

  “Good.” Mary seemed to relax a bit. “I hated to draft her so soon, but if we were going to have a prayer of pulling Arthur Rex off, we had to have her.”

  Amber nodded. “Oh, yeah. Heinrich outdid himself with this one. There are parts of it that sound like Puccini and Verdi rolled into one. But that rewrite of the two lead women’s roles—killer stuff, in more ways than one.”

  Mary busied herself in pouring more coffee for the two of them, and then sat for a moment, staring at her cup but not drinking. Okay, Amber thought to herself, she’s got something to tell me, and she’s either not sure how to say it or she doesn’t like what she’s about to say. Either way, that’s not good.

  “I’ve had a request,” Mary finally started. When she lifted her eyes, they weren’t exactly pleading, but they did ask for understanding. “One of our backers—the merchant who’s footing half of the production costs, actually—wants to watch the rehearsals when you start in the opera house.”

  Amber blew air through her lips. She was right. This wasn’t good news. She really really really didn’t like having producer types hanging around her rehearsals. The performers needed to be focused, and that was hard enough to achieve without the distraction—and often, the interference—of people with a vested interest in the production at hand.

  On the other hand, in the theatre world, the Golden Rule was “those who have the gold make the rules.” It was just a fact that sponsorship and special privileges went hand in hand. And it wasn’t the first time this had happened to Amber in her career as a director.

  “All right,” she sighed. “I don’t like it, but I’ll let him watch from the audience or one of the box seats, not on stage. But if he gets disruptive or tries to interfere, I’ll kick his august and wealthy butt out the stage door.”

  Mary smiled. “Thanks, Amber. That’s all I can ask for. And that’s what I told him. I think it will really help in getting the production publicized.”

  “Hope so. By the way, have you nailed down yet just exactly when opening night will be? I have a need to know that, you know?”

  Mary laughed. “Yes, I have. First night will be March 25th.”

  “March 25th?” Amber searched her memory. “Not the first day of spring. Old beginning-of-the-year day?”

  “Nope,” Mary responded with a grin. “But I did ask the pastors what would be the best day in March for the debut, and they came back with the 25th. Seems for Lutherans that’s the Feast of the Annunciation, and it’s the most important feast day in March, so that’s what we went with.”

  Amber shrugged again. “Maybe I need to get Heinrich to include ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’ in the overture.”

  The meeting ended in laughter.

  Chapter 32

  Pietro nudged Ciclope.

  “There he comes now.�
�

  Ciclope waited for a moment, then looked around with a casual air and let his gaze seemingly by accident pass over the average looking down-timer who was walking by. His eyes ended up looking up the street beyond the man, and he didn’t look back until after the man had passed them by. Only then did he look back to Pietro.

  “You are sure he’s the one?”

  “Si. Head accountant for Schiffer. I found out from three different people, and they all said he is the one in charge of the payroll.”

  “Come on,” Ciclope said, as he pushed away from the wall and turned in the direction the accountant had gone. “I just hope you did a better job of disguising your questions than you did your fire.”

  “That was not my fault!” Pietro complained. “There wasn’t supposed to be anything left there.”

  “Quiet,” Ciclope ordered, and his partner, wonder of wonders, obeyed—at least to the extent of dropping off into unintelligible mutters.

  Now what, Ciclope began wondering, could they do with the accountant and paymaster?

  * * *

  Franz Sylwester stumbled in the parlor, tripping over furniture that his early-morning bleary eyes could barely see. He did manage to avoid dropping the lamp, but only at the cost of a bruise on his shin that was going to hurt later.

  Whoever it was that was playing tympani riffs on their front door was noticeably impatient. He would barely allow for a couple of breaths before resuming his hammering. There was a glimmer of light coming in through the parlor window curtains, so if it was not dawning yet, it wasn’t far from it. Franz not being what Marla called a morning person, he was not happy about being aroused from some of his best sleep of the night.

  He finally made it to the door, set the lamp on the nearby table, and pulled the bolt and yanked open the door in a single motion.

  “Who the…” Franz stopped in mid-tirade as he realized that a large fist hung directly in front of his nose. After a moment, the hand dropped, and he recognized the man to whom it belonged.

  “Thomas?” It was Thomas Schwartzberg, one of his best friends for years, and an intimate member of the musicians who had coalesced around Franz and Marla. “What the devil are you doing here at this hour?”

  “I need to talk to you, Franz. It is important.”

  Before Franz could respond, from behind him he heard, “Franz? Who is it?”

  He looked behind him to see her standing in the doorway to the back part of the house, belting her robe about her waist.

  “It’s me, Marla,” Thomas spoke over Franz’s head from his advantage of height.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, Franz. Let the man in.”

  Feeling more than a bit put-upon, Franz opened the door wider and stepped out of the way for their friend to enter. After closing the door, he picked up the lamp and led the way to where Marla was settling onto a chair. Franz set the lamp on another table and settled himself on the sofa. He pointed to another chair.

  “Sit.”

  Thomas placed his hands on the back of the chair in question and leaned forward. Before he could open his mouth, Franz snarled, “You woke us up almost in the middle of the night. I am tired, and not at all happy about the manner by which I was roused. I refuse to get a crick in my neck staring up the length of your oversized body.” He stabbed his finger at the chair again. “So sit!”

  Thomas released the chair back, stepped around it, and sat, all without a word. He then looked at the two of them, hands on his knees, silent.

  Franz wiped a hand over his face. “Ach, my friend, my very dear friend, forgive my rudeness. I am not at my best in the morning, and especially so when awakened so abruptly.”

  Thomas smiled, and it was like the dawn of the sun, teeth gleaming in the lamplight. “Well I know it, Franz, and I will forgive if you will forgive my beating a tattoo on your door before a white hair could be told from a black.”

  Franz waved a hand. “Forgiven, forgiven. Now, what drives you to chance the anger of the dragon so early?”

  Thomas leaned forward, elbows on knees and excitement evident in every line of his face.

  “I need the orchestra, Franz—or at least the wind players.”

  “Why?”

  “Frau Simpson commissioned me to write a march as part of the program she described some time back. I have been working on it. But last night she sent me a note, saying that it needed to be ready to perform at a moment’s notice.” Thomas’ face was animated, and his hands were waving around.

  “She gave no explanation as to why?” Franz asked.

  “None.”

  Franz crossed his arms and leaned back as he thought. “I have heard no rumors that would explain that.”

  “Nor have I,” Thomas agreed.

  “Me neither,” Marla contributed through a yawn.

  “But whatever it is, it must be important,” Thomas rushed on. “This is my chance, Franz, my chance to make an impression! Help me, I pray.”

  Franz had known Thomas for years, and never had he heard such a note of pleading from his friend. He thought for a moment.

  “The orchestra is somewhat ahead of where we absolutely must be in the learning of Arthur Rex. I think we can allow you some time. At least a half an hour for several days; perhaps a full hour, depending on how things flow.”

  Thomas’ face lit up again with the biggest smile Franz could ever remember seeing on his face. He leaned forward and stretched out his long arms to snatch Franz’s hands and shake them both.

  “I thank you with all my heart, and so you prove yourself to be the greatest of friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Thomas looked for all the world like a man who had just been told his first son had been born alive and healthy. Franz winced at the thought, but it was appropriate for Thomas, for every composer seemed to have a paternal (or in some rare cases, maternal) instinct for his works.

  “You’re not going to have much of a band with only the winds from the orchestra,” Marla observed. Franz caught a glimpse of a broad smile on her face as well.

  “True,” Thomas shrugged. “But I will take whatever I can get. And even a brass quartet would get the piece heard.”

  “Here’s a thought for you: there are people from Grantville in Magdeburg who play instruments. I can give you a couple of names, and maybe they can think of others. If they don’t have their horns with them, a telegram to Marcus Wendell and he’ll have something playable on a train headed for Magdeburg in twenty-four hours. That would bulk up the ranks.”

  “Wait, wait,” Thomas said. He pulled a pad of music paper out of a capacious coat pocket. Franz could see the top page was covered with music notes, with whole sections of the page crossed out.

  Franz almost laughed at what happened next: Thomas’ hands began acting like two squirrels chasing each other around a tree, diving into one pocket after another. “Pencil, pencil…I know I have a pencil…I never leave the room without one. Where is it?” His voice descended to muttering as his hands continued the chase.

  “Aha! Here it is!” Thomas produced the pencil in triumph from a pocket that Franz knew had been plunged into at least three times before the pencil was finally found. Thomas poised the pencil over the pad. “Names, please.”

  “Dane Stevenson and Dallas Chaffin. They were both here in Magdeburg the last I knew. Dane plays tuba, and Dallas is a percussionist. And they might know of some others.”

  Thomas wrote the names in the margin of the page with care, then looked up. “Anyone else?”

  “You might ask Lennie Washaw as well. He’s in touch with most of the up-timers in Magdeburg. He could know of some other players.”

  Thomas noted all that before carefully restoring both pad and pencil to their accustomed places. He stood, and gave a short bow to them both.

  “I thank you again for your grace and kindness, and for the good advice. I shall pursue these names immediately,” with a pat for the pocket where the pad was resting.

  “Uh, Thomas,” Marla responded in
one if the driest tones Franz had ever heard her use, “you might want to wait a little while to do that. Most people don’t like to be hammered awake at the crack of dawn, or to talk to strangers before they’ve had their morning coffee and brushed their teeth.”

  “Oh. Right.” Thomas looked a bit nonplussed, then shrugged. “Okay. Good-bye.” He shook hands with them both, and charged out the front door before Franz could stir from his chair.

  Marla finally broke down in giggles, and Franz felt himself chuckling along with her.

  “Is he always like that?” Marla asked. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that before.”

  “Thomas is a man of strong passions,” Franz replied, “but even for him that was a side of Thomas I have not seen. Must be part of becoming a composer.”

  “Must be,” Marla said. She stood up. “Well, come to bed, love, and let’s see if we can get a bit more rest before the day truly begins.”

  Chapter 33

  Simon Bayer charged up the steps to the rooms that Hans and Ursula shared with him. He burst in the door, to find Ursula sitting in her chair, reading her Bible.

  “Here you are, Ursula,” he said as he presented her with a roll fresh from Das Haus Des Brotes. “Hans said to bring this to you now, and he would bring more when he comes home tonight.”

  “Thank you, Simon.” She set her Bible on the side table, tore the roll into smaller pieces with her fingers, and began eating it. “I thought Hans would be fighting tonight.”

  “Naw,” Simon said. “Herr Todd and Herr Tobias said the bear pit is filled with snow and ice, and the new place still is not ready, so they had to cancel this week. But they promised they will be ready soon.”

  His excitement must have showed, because Ursula sighed and shook her head. He looked at her with a frown. “Aren’t you proud of Hans, Ursula? He has never been beaten. Men call him the Samson of Magdeburg.”

  “I am glad that he has not been hurt,” Ursula replied after a moment, “and I am glad that he has found something that he likes to do. I just wish that he was not hurting people to make this money.”