by Eric Flint
“Good fight,” Hans decreed.
“Every win is a good fight,” Gus grinned.
“Yah.”
Hans stood and began taking his own jacket and shirt off. He draped them over the back of the bench, then dropped his hat on Simon’s head. Simon looked up at his friend from under the brim of the hat and held up his own fist.
“Luck.”
Hans tapped fists with him. “Luck from my luck. I’m sure to win.”
Gus returned the favor as he helped Hans with his gloves. When they were fitted to Hans’ satisfaction, he alternated pounding his fists into the opposite palms, standing and waiting for the announcing of his fight.
Hans didn’t have to wait long. It was only a minute or two before Herr Pierpoint was announcing the last fight of the evening.
“Fighting out of the green corner, the challenger in tonight’s main event hails from the Western Isles of Scotland. He stands five feet eleven inches tall and weighs two hundred twenty-five pounds. He is the best fighter in the Marine guards. Give it up for Anselm MacDonald of Clanranald!”
The other fighter was a bit taller than Hans, Simon saw when he climbed into the ring at the other end, though perhaps not as big overall. His red hair was like a flame atop his head, and when he grinned his front teeth were missing. There was a loud burst of applause and yells of “Go, Anse!” from a group of men in boots and buff coats standing at his end of the ring, and he raised an arm in salute.
“Fighting out of the red corner,” Herr Pierpoint began while Hans climbed up to the ring, “here is the premier fighter in Magdeburg today. He stands five feet nine inches tall and weighs two hundred thirty-five pounds. He is undefeated in his professional fighting career, with a record of sixteen wins and zero defeats, with fourteen of the wins coming by knockouts. Give it up for the Samson of Magdeburg, Hans Metzger!”
Pierpoint pointed to where Hans was stepping through the ropes, and the crowd exploded, roaring and cheering and clapping in a flood of sound. Simon stood up on the bench and yelled along with the rest of them.
Hans stood in the center of the ring and grinned, turning to each of the four sides and pointing to the crowd there, which resulted in even more cheering. It took a long time for the noise to die down.
* * *
“Interesting,” Byron said.
Gotthilf looking to his partner. “What?”
“The man’s no Muhammad Ali, but he’s certainly learned how to work a crowd.”
“What…” Gotthilf started to ask the obvious question, but just then the bell rang and the fight began. “Oh, never mind.”
* * *
Ciclope looked around as Pietro approached, whistling a song from the gutters of Venice—or what would pass for gutters among the canals of that city. He saw that his partner had a drawstring bag slung over one shoulder.
“So, what’s to do?” Pietro asked as he joined the little tête-à-tête.
“Herr Schmidt, here,” Ciclope jerked a thumb in the man’s direction, “has agreed to double our take of the payroll money.”
“Shh!” Schmidt said, looking around, then relaxing a bit when he realized still no one seemed to be close to them. The anger on his face was still very evident, however.
“That is very good,” Pietro said, slinging the bag to the ground and rubbing his hands together. “When do we get it?”
“I have the amount we originally agreed on here,” Schmidt muttered, shifting position a bit so they could see a bag behind him. “But it will take some time to get that much again. I can’t get too much too fast from any one person, or it could cause someone to start thinking and asking questions.”
“Fine. Give us that much, then,” Ciclope kicked Pietro’s bag forward and reached for the other bag. “We can wait for the rest…for a while.” His tone made it clear that it had best not take any longer than absolutely necessary.
Ciclope hefted Schmidt’s bag. It had a very satisfying weight to it, and emitted a clink when he shook it a bit. He handed it to Pietro, whose face immediately put on a very large grin. A thought crossed Ciclope’s mind, and he looked over at Schmidt from under lowered eyebrows.
“A word, Herr Schmidt.”
Schmidt glared back.
“We may not be master merchants like your august self, but we are not ignorant. We can count—quite well, actually—and we know how much we should be receiving in that bag. If the count is off by more than a handful of coins,” Ciclope focused a wolfish grin on the merchant, “why, we will have to come visit you.”
Ciclope let the silence broaden for a long moment.
“And we do know where you live.”
Schmidt’s face tightened. He stood motionless for moment, not saying anything. Finally, he just shook his head and pulled a small sack out of a pocket of his ragged coat and handed it to Pietro.
“Always nice doing business with a man who understands the realities of life,” Pietro cracked.
* * *
Simon watched keenly as Hans stepped up to face the Scot MacDonald. Gus slid over to sit by him.
“So, you are Hans’ luck?” the other fighter asked.
“Yah,” Simon replied, eyes on the action. “At least, that is what he calls me.”
“That’s good,” Gus said. “A fighter can be good, but he still needs some luck on his side.”
They both winced as the Scot unloaded a flurry of punches. Hans ducked some, and took the rest on his arms. After that moment, MacDonald stepped back and starting circling Hans, who circled in turn.
“The Scotsman is stupid,” Gus said.
“Why is that?”
“He is wearing those big heavy gloves.”
“The ones like mittens that Hans won’t wear?” Simon looked at the hands of the Scot, and sure enough, that’s what he was wearing.
“Yah. He probably thinks that they’ll help him hit harder, the dummkopf.” Gus spit in the dirt. “That will not help him.”
“Why not?” Simon looked over at the other fighter.
“Hans wears what Herr Pierpoint calls the MMA gloves. His hands will be faster. You’ll see.”
The first round ended. Hans came over to his corner and leaned back against the ropes, waving a hand to Simon. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard.
The bell clanged, and Round 2 began.
“Ah,” Gus said.
“What?” Simon asked, alarmed.
“No, it’s good. Look at how the Scot is moving.”
Simon watched. At the end of the second round, he still hadn’t seen what Gus was seeing. It wasn’t until most of the way through the third round that he finally got it. “The red-haired guy is flat-footed. He does not move on his toes like Hans does.”
Gus nodded.
“Yah. That’s one thing that Herr Pierpoint keeps hammering into us, that we need to be on our toes. It’s all about speed, and you can do everything faster when you’re moving on your toes. You watch, pretty soon now Hans is going to hand this guy his head.”
Gus seemed to be lacking as a prophet, however, throughout the first four rounds. Hans seemed to be content to let the big Scotsman try his whole arsenal. Straight jabs, uppercuts, haymakers, cross punches; he wasn’t able to tag Hans with many of them, and those that did land didn’t seem to faze the German.
In the rest period after the fourth round, Simon turned to Gus and asked the question that had been on his mind most of the evening.
“Why are you helping and supporting Hans? Didn’t he beat you?”
“Like a drum,” Gus said with a big grin. “But he was not mean about it, and he helped me up off the ground after it was over. And he’s Our Hans,” he said, waving his hand round the arena. “Everyone watches Hans. And when he goes up against someone from outside Magdeburg,” pointing at the redhead across the ring, “then we all are for him. The Scotsman may think he’s a hard man, but compared to Hans…” He shook his head.
“Stark Hans,” Simon said, looking back to the ring as the bel
l rang for Round 5.
“Yah.”
The two fighters approached each other from their opposite corners. They started their circling again, until all of a sudden MacDonald lunged forward with a straight punch. Hans must have let his focus drift for a moment, because the punch crashed through hands he raised just a fraction of a second too late and connected solidly with his jaw. Simon leapt to his feet as the crowd roared.
“What happened? What happened?” he shouted, shaking Gus’ shoulder.
“I don’t know, Simon,” Gus shouted back through the crowd noise. “But whatever that big oaf did, Hans has really had his bell rung.”
Indeed, the German was back-pedaling around the ring, head ducked, hands in from of his face, elbows tight to his sides, weathering a storm of punches from the big Scot, who was obviously trying to finish Hans off. But before too long, the storm began diminishing as the Scot was unable to sustain the frenzied pace. By the end of the round, he was almost plodding, and Hans was back to ducking and flicking off anything that came close to connecting.
The end of the round bell rang. Hans came back to his corner and leaned back against the ropes. He didn’t turn around, but Simon could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he was angry.
He tugged on Gus’ arm. “Come help me up.”
For a moment the other man didn’t move, a confused expression on his face. But as Simon gestured to the ring with his hand, understanding dawned, and he took Simon around the waist and lifted him up to the apron of the ring.
Hans’ head swiveled to look at Simon, who gulped at the set expression on his friend’s face. For the first time, he began to really understand just how hard Stark Hans could be.
Simon still shuffled sideways until he was close to the fighter. He raised his fist up between them. “Luck,” he said.
Hans stared at him for a few seconds, then a slight smile appeared and he reached out and tapped Simon’s fist with his own. “Luck,” was the reply.
Simon turned and hopped down off the ring apron, supported by Gus’ strong arms. He went back to the bench, but instead of sitting he stood up on it so he could get his best view of the ring. He had a feeling something was about to happen.
As it turned out, he was right. Hans glided out of his corner, met MacDonald in the center of the ring, and proceeded to give the Scot intensive instruction in the art of pugilism as practiced in Magdeburg. Punch followed punch, measured and administered with a precision and a force that was almost like watching an up-time repeating firearm in use.
“See, see!” Gus said, grabbing Simon by the shoulder. “I told you his hands would be faster.”
Simon could see it. Hans’ fists would flick out and back, so fast it seemed that he couldn’t have hit the big Scot. But the red marks on the body and face of MacDonald told the tale, as did the blood flowing from his nose and from the cut above one eye, matting in his moustache and beard.
Simon had never heard the word juggernaut, but if he had, he would have agreed that it was a good description of Hans in this round; advancing inexorably, with nothing to deter or divert him from his goal, which appeared to be nothing less than the demolishment of one Andrew MacDonald of Clanranald.
The end came suddenly when Hans blocked a haymaker, stepped forward and buried one fist right below the sternum of the hapless Scotsman. MacDonald froze for just a moment, almost paralyzed, and in that moment Hans landed a thunderous blow on the point of the chin hidden behind the red beard.
The big Scot was straightened up by the punch; his eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed backwards onto the floor of the ring.
The crowd erupted in cheers as the referee waved Hans to his corner, and began reciting the count. Simon, elated, counted along with him.
“Eins!
“Zwei!”
Gus started yelling out the count in concert with Simon.
“Drei!
“Vier!”
By now others around them were counting with them.
“Fünf!
“Sechs!
“Sieben!”
The entire crowd was shouting along with the referee now.
“Acht!
“Neun!
“Zehn!”
Hans came out of his corner for the obligatory holding up of the winner’s hand. He turned and waved to each side of the ring, then returned to the near side of the ring, stepped through the ropes and hopped down to the ground.
Gus immediately began helping with removing the gloves. Simon picked up Hans’ shirt and handed it to him as soon as his hands were free, following it with the big man’s coat.
Hans plucked his hat off of Simon’s head. Simon grinned up at him; Hans grinned back and held out a fist. “Luck.”
Simon tapped it with his own fist. “Luck.”
“Luck indeed,” Gus said. “Wish I had a luck like that.”
Hans draped an arm around Simon’s skinny shoulders. “You find your own luck. Simon’s mine.” Simon beamed in pride.
And with that, they took off to find Herr Pierpoint and collect the winnings for the evening.
* * *
“Well, I guess we have an understanding,” Ciclope said to Schmidt. “A good evening to you, Herr Schmidt.”
He started to turn away.
“Wait!” Schmidt hissed.
Ciclope turned back slowly, a serious frown forming on his face.
“What are you going to do next?” Schmidt asked. “I have the right to know.”
“Ah,” Ciclope responded. “Next? Pietro, tell the man what we have in mind.”
The Italian did so, in a rapid mutter. Schmidt’s eyes grew wider and wider, and toward the end he began to smile. After Pietro was done, he clapped his hands together.
“Wonderful! If you manage that, I will increase the money from two parts in three to three parts in four!”
Ciclope smiled in turn. “Get the money ready, Herr Schmidt. It will take a while to get put into action. Pietro has to find some tools, first; but it won’t be long. And I promise you, it will set Magdeburg on its ear when it happens.”
* * *
The watcher nodded to himself. Confirmation.
Chapter 38
A T & L TELEGRAPH
BEGIN: GVL TO MBRG
TO: FRAU MARLA LINDER
ADDR: SYLWESTERHAUS MAGDEBURG
FROM: HM AT TROMMLER RECORDS
DATE: 6 FEB 1636
MESSAGE:
YOU ARE A PROPHET STOP
NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLET STOP
DOING A THIRD PRESSING OF DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING STOP
ORDERS KEEP POURING IN STOP
HEARD THROUGH GRAPEVINE THAT RECORD PLAYER CO HAS SOLD ALL UNITS ON HAND AND IS BACKORDERED OUT WAZOO STOP
YOU HAVE PROBABLY MADE US ALL WEALTHY STOP
OR AT LEAST WELL OFF STOP
CONGRATS STOP
WHAT TO DO FOR ENCORE? STOP
HEATHER
END
Marla looked up from the telegram, a bit bewildered. “But I didn’t do it for money.”
Confused himself, Franz took the telegram from her and read it. “Ah,” he said after being enlightened. He handed the telegram back to Marla. “Did you expect to be ignored?”
“Nooo…” Marla drew the word out as her eyebrows drew down into a frown.
Franz smiled and he spread his hands. “Well then, it was inevitable, I fear, that after delivering such a message you would become either famous or infamous. Of the two, I really think famous is the better choice.”
“But I didn’t want the focus to be on me!” Marla looked like she wanted to stomp her foot. Her frame of mind was not helped when Franz started chuckling. She swung a slap at him, which missed by two feet.
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.” Af
ter 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.