1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  Gotthilf frowned fiercely. “I am Detective Sergeant Hoch, of the Magdeburg Polizei.” He pulled a case out of his coat pocket, and flipped it open.

  Two of the faces went ashen at the sight of the snarling lion badge now displayed in front of their noses; the youngest boy’s face lit up and he leaned forward just a bit. “Cool,” he breathed. That word had become almost as ubiquitous among the youth of Magdeburg as okay had. One of his friends elbowed him, and he straightened in a hurry.

  The boys watched as the sergeant put his badge away and took out a small notebook and pencil from an inside pocket.

  “Names.”

  The stammered responses were jotted down in the notebook.

  “Martin, Phillip, and Johann. The three most common names for boys in Thuringia. Why could your parents not have had some sense of originality?”

  The pencil stopped.

  “Masters.”

  Those names were also jotted down in the notebook. The boys’ eyes watched as the notebook was closed and returned to its resting place. If anything, the boys were looking even more nervous.

  “Now, what are you doing running loose on an afternoon when you should be at work?”

  The two younger boys looked at the hapless Martin. “It, um, it is the commemoration of the Lord’s Presentation. Our masters were called to the guild halls, and said we could take this afternoon off.”

  “And what were you going to do? Besides get into trouble, that is.”

  Again the glances, again Martin had to speak. “We thought…”

  “Yes?”

  “We heard about the fights out at the old bear pit,” one of the younger boys—Phillip—piped up.

  “The fights, huh? And what do you know about them?”

  “That Hans Metzger is the best fighter,” Johann said.

  “Is not,” from Phillip.

  “Is too!”

  They both shut up as a red-faced Martin almost knocked them down with nudges from his elbows.

  “Hans Metzger, huh?”

  Nods from all the boys.

  “Well, you had better pray that you don’t meet Herr Metzger, since that was his sister that you sent sprawling in the dirt and gravel.”

  Three faces suddenly achieved a corpselike pallor.

  “Somehow I do not believe your masters would countenance your running wild in the streets of the city, knocking young women off of their feet.”

  The sergeant’s expression had just gone from stern to flinty.

  “And I hate to think what might happen to anyone who Herr Metzger thought had given his sister less than the respect he believes she is due.”

  Two sets of eyes were very wide; young Phillip’s were half-closed, and he wavered a bit as he stood there.

  “I suggest that you go provide your most profound apologies to Fraulein Metzger, then get out of my sight. Is that clear?” He pointed toward the young woman, who was standing where Martin had left her, leaning on her cane. The boys timidly approached her. Each bowed in turn, and attempted to apologize to her, stammering all the while and casting sidelong glances at the sergeant.

  “Enough,” the sergeant finally directed. “Now get.”

  The boys vanished.

  * * *

  Gotthilf looked at Ursula Metzgerinin, and felt a smile spread across his face in response to the one that was lurking around the corners of her mouth.

  “Quite the taskmaster you are,” she murmured.

  “Are you all right?” Gotthilf asked as he stepped closer.

  “Yes.” She lifted a hand from her cane and waved it in the air. “In truth, it was more a matter of I tripped myself. They barely touched me. And you, stern face of authority that you are, you…”

  She paused, obviously looking for a word.

  “I read them the riot act?” Gotthilf contributed. “Lowered the boom? Chewed them out? Gave them what for?”

  Ursula tilted her head and furrowed her brow.

  Gotthilf laughed. “Those are all up-time figures of speech meaning I berated them thoroughly.”

  Her expression cleared, and she laughed.

  “Yes, you did that well.”

  They stood, smiling at each other, and Gotthilf thought to himself that Ursula stood in beauty. Oh, not that she was the most striking woman he had ever seen. His father would call her “presentable at best,” and his mother would probably sniff at her, but something about Ursula as she stood there in the weak winter sunlight caught his regard.

  That was the moment when he finally admitted to himself that he was intrigued with this working class girl—woman. It was a moment of light, of expansion, of ebullience.

  And the next moment it all came crashing down in shards in his heart and soul. She was the sister of a suspect under investigation. He could not act on his interest. Could not. He almost shuddered at the thought of what Captain Reilly would say about that—never mind what his partner would say.

  “Are you going after more embroidery thread?” he asked, in an attempt to move past the moment.

  “No,” she replied. “Just out getting some sun and air. But I think I have had enough of both for the day, so I will return to our rooms now.”

  “Then have a good day, Fraulein Metzger.” Gotthilf touched a finger to his hat brim, and forced himself to stand in place and watch her limp back the way she had come.

  * * *

  Ursula called herself fifteen different kinds of fool as she hobbled back to the rooms. She was not a stranger to attraction to the opposite sex. Before the sack, she had had contact with boys of her own age, had felt the stirrings of interest, of emotion, of what might have become the beginnings of passion. Then the sack happened, and the wrack of her body. Since then, the only man she had seen for more than a few moments had been her brother.

  Of all the men to be attracted to, it had to be one of the Polizei. And not a watchman, either, but a sergeant. And he was from a well-to-do family. His clothes would tell that to anyone with an eye for fabrics and tailoring, like her. And she really did remember his sister from the catechism classes.

  Dreams; the thought that someone like him might find her interesting, poor and broken as she was.

  Dreams dry as dust. What did she have to offer him?

  * * *

  Magdeburg Times-Journal

  February 6, 1636

  Magdeburg Polizei Captain William Reilly appealed to the public today for assistance in solving a brutal double homicide committed on February 4. The two men, both employees of Schiffer Painting and Contracting, were found stabbed to death in an alley off of Kanalstrasse in Greater Magdeburg. When last seen at the company headquarters, they were carrying the week’s payroll for the expansion building project at the Magdeburg Memorial Hospital. The payroll was not found at the crime scene.

  “It seems obvious that robbery was the motive for the killings,” Captain Reilly stated to reporters today. “If anyone noticed anything unusual around that alley on the afternoon of the 4th, please let us know. Likewise, if anyone sees someone flashing a lot of cash around.”

  Chapter 35

  Franz walked into the auditorium from the rear audience entrance. It was early in the morning, and he was confused for a moment that some of the players were already on the stage and playing. Then he recognized Thomas Schwartzberg standing in front of them waving his arms in a simplistic conductor’s pattern. So, by process of deduction, those who were on the stage must be the players Thomas had recruited to play his march.

  He smiled when he remembered Thomas asking him for advice on how to conduct. “Just give them a good solid beat,” he’d replied. “You can’t go far wrong if you do that much.” And from the look of it, Thomas had taken that advice to heart.

  The piece they were playing was recognizably a march; at least to someone who had an ear for up-time music, which definitely included Franz. He stood in the back of the hall and listened to them run through it. Thomas’ experience in notating up-time music from recordings had defin
itely shaped his style in this first work as a composer.

  Low brass was very prominent in the march, which was something that would sound strange to the typical down-timer. Tubas and sousaphones and baritone horns were all unknown here-and-now. Franz suspected that one of the reasons was just the economics involved. A dozen trumpets could be made from the brass used in a single sousaphone; maybe more.

  The rumble of low-pitched drums also stood out, which was another sound the down-time residents hadn’t heard before. In fact, as the music crested to the final climax, it resembled thunder. Franz smiled at that. It would be an ominous sound to many of those who heard the march, he thought to himself.

  After Thomas concluded his rehearsal and the musicians began to scatter—some to their day jobs, some to different chairs on the platform for the orchestra rehearsal—Franz walked up beside him.

  “Oh, hello,” Thomas said after a quick sideways glance.

  “Nice job,” Franz said. “It’s starting to sound good.”

  “Thanks,” Thomas said. “It took longer than I thought it would, but it’s finally getting there.”

  “So are you ready?” Franz asked.

  “Is it time?”

  Franz let a mischievous grin surface when Thomas reacted in wide-eyed panic. “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Don’t do that!” Thomas slumped in relief as he continued, “Still, I wish whatever it is would hurry up and happen.”

  “Me, too,” Franz replied, “if for no other reason than so you’ll settle down.”

  * * *

  Karl Honister looked at the naked knife blades the blacksmith was holding. His name was Erhard Misch and he was a friend of the Honister family.

  “Very cheap knives,” the smith said. “I punched out the rivets—they were soft brass—and took the hand grips off.” He nodded at the pieces of wood lying on the table standing to one side. “The blades are steel, but not very good grade steel, and not forged all that well.”

  “So can you tell me where they came from?” Honister took one of them and turned it over in his hands.

  “Not from around here,” Misch replied.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I know the work of every smith in and around Magdeburg, and no one does work like this.”

  “Right.” Honister said. “So what else can you tell me about them?”

  “Made by the same smith, probably in or near Venice.”

  “Venice?” Honister looked up from the blade.

  “Yah.” The smith pointed with one very large and very grimy finger at a mark on the blade he held. “No maker’s mark on either blade, but that’s a symbol used by a lot of people in Venice.”

  Honister held his hand out for the other blade, and looked at both of them closely. Sure enough, there was a similar mark on the first blade as well.

  He looked up at the smith. “Anything else, Erhard?”

  Misch spread his hands. “Looks like young journeyman work to me, maybe even made on the sly and sold for drinking money. Even the wood for the grips is cheap pine.”

  Honister set the blades on the table next to the grip pieces. “So what are two cheap knives from northern Italy doing buried in the chests of two dead men in a Magdeburg alley?”

  “Good question.” Misch picked up a towel to wipe his hands.

  “Got an answer?”

  “Nay. That’s why you are the detective and I am but the blacksmith.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Honister said sourly over the smith’s chuckle.

  * * *

  “I want the money,” the mysterious boss hissed as he leaned over the table in the tavern.

  “No,” Ciclope murmured in return. “We took the money, we keep it.”

  “You fools!” The boss’s whisper almost could be termed a scream; for all that it was barely audible. The expression on his face and the tone to his voice both expressed agitated anger. “You can’t spend it. You can’t even be seen with part of it. The Polizei will be looking for anyone who has more than two or three of the bills and asking some very pointed questions of them—questions I do not think you want to be faced with.”

  Ciclope ran his finger around the rim of the mug sitting before him. It was still full of ale, which was still as noisome as ever. He was minded to have Pietro start a fire in this place. If there was ever a waste of space, this tavern was it.

  “Half,” he said as he drew a line on the table top between them to test the boss, who placed his head in his hands and muttered something Ciclope didn’t catch.

  The boss lifted his head. “You idiots really do not understand just how much danger you are now in. I do not fault you for what you did. I applaud it, to be truthful. But the up-timers have a very dim view of murder, and they will really be on the hunt for you. If they get even a hint that you might have some of that money, they will be on you like flies on the turds floating in Venice’s canals.”

  Ciclope considered that, and reluctantly came to the conclusion that the boss probably knew what he was talking about. The man had had a lot more contact with up-timers that he had, after all.

  “All right,” he conceded. “You take the money in exchange for money we can use, good silver from Venice or Amsterdam.” The boss seemed to choke, which was almost—but not quite—enough to make Ciclope laugh. “After all,” he continued, “we have expenses, too. And we deserve some…compensation…for our work.”

  The boss seemed to have his breathing back under control, although his face was perhaps a bit darker. It was hard to tell for sure in the shadowed interior of the tavern.

  “I cannot exchange all of it. I doubt that anybody in Magdeburg has that much silver on hand, except…” The boss’s expression twisted. Ciclope noted that the man apparently knew how to hate. And given the reasons why he and his partner had been called to Magdeburg, that gave him some idea as to who the unnamed source of silver might be.

  “And having that much silver would be almost as dangerous as having the paper money,” the boss continued. “I can get you maybe…”

  Here came the offer, Ciclope thought.

  “…maybe enough for one part in ten.”

  Ciclope gave the man marks for sheer arrogance. “I was thinking more like three parts in four,” he replied. “Maybe even five parts in six.”

  The boss choked again, and this time Ciclope did smile; just a bit, a narrow blade’s edge of a smile, but a definite smile. The boss saw it; his color seemed to pale a bit.

  They bargained back and forth, before finally settling on three parts out of ten.

  “It will take me some time to gather that much coin without arousing suspicions,” the boss said. “Two, maybe three days. I will look for you here when I have it, and we can make the exchange elsewhere.”

  “Agreed.” Ciclope nodded to the boss.

  After the boss left, Pietro looked over to Ciclope. “He will try to cheat us, you know.”

  “I know,” Ciclope said. “That is why you will leave in a moment and follow him. I want to know where he goes, and I especially want to know who he is. Be discreet.” He gripped Pietro’s forearm hard. “Do not let him see you, and do not attract attention. Right?”

  “Si.”

  Pietro left the table and drifted out the tavern door. Ciclope frowned, which scared away a couple of burly types who were looking for a table to sit at. What could they do next to disrupt the building project? They needed something big; something flashy…Hmm…

  * * *

  The watcher had observed the whole exchange from where he sat in the corner, collar pulled up and hat pulled down.

  Interesting, he thought. Unfortunate that he couldn’t have heard the conversation, but now that he had seen the connection, perhaps he could dig the rest of it up.

  * * *

  Gotthilf was already at the Polizei shooting range when Byron finally showed up. When his partner walked in he had the cylinder of his new model seven-shot H&K .44 revolver swung out so he could check the loads and t
he percussion caps.

  “Ready, partner?”

  Byron appeared to be in a brisk mood this morning, wasting even fewer words than usual. Gotthilf responded with a nod.

  Byron stripped the magazine out of his up-time Colt .45, and laid both on the counter beside Gotthilf’s. He then dug his ear protectors out of his coat pocket and laid them on the counter as well.

  The up-timer touched Gotthilf’s revolver with a fingertip. “Didn’t you say something about Herr Farkas telling you about a fast loading technique for this thing?”

  Gotthilf just smiled, and pulled two extra revolver cylinders out of his pocket, lining them up on the counter in front of him.

  “What the…?”

  Byron picked a cylinder up and examined it closely, using a finger to feel inside one of the chambers, then to touch the caps on the back of the chambers.

  “Is that wax?”

  “Yes,” Gotthilf said as he pulled his earplugs out of his own pockets. “Herr Farkas gave me the idea when I picked up the pistol at his shop: a very thin layer of wax poured into the chamber after the load is finished, and over the cap after it is installed. It is waterproof, so it helps keep the loads dry, and it will help keep things in place unless the cylinder is dropped or thrown at someone. Of course, it may take a bit more work to get the gun clean after shooting it.”

  “And can you change cylinders quickly?”

  Gotthilf shrugged. “Watch and see.” He nodded to the range officer, who blew his whistle and yelled, “Guns down.” The other shooters immediately laid their guns on the counters and raised their hands for a few seconds. After looking around, the officer pronounced, “Range is cold.”

  Gotthilf held up three fingers. The range officer nodded. “Three targets in lanes six, seven and eight.”

  The target spotter ran out from behind his barrier, posted three man-sized targets side by side, and scurried back to his safe spot.

  The range officer looked around. “One shooter,” he yelled. “One shooter only.”

  Gotthilf put his earplugs in. He looked to the range officer, who nodded and announced, “Range is hot!”

  Picking up the big revolver, Gotthilf swung the cylinder out one last time for a check, then returned it to its seated position with a click. He took a two-handed stance, focused on the center target over the sights, and began squeezing the trigger.