by Eric Flint
The one-eyed man was watching the opera hall, which meant he had to be watching someone in the opera hall. That was something Lieutenant Chieske would like to know. But the lieutenant would be even more pleased to know just who it was that the one-eyed man was watching.
Demetrious settled in for a wait.
* * *
Margarethe returned to the eating room in just a few moments, followed by her father.
Herr Hoch was a solid bulk of a man. He gave an impression of being almost square from shoulders to waist. That, combined with dark hair containing only wings of silver at the temple and a dark spade-shaped beard, made him a man that everyone took seriously, even at first acquaintance.
Ursula sat up straight, pressing herself against the back of her chair. Herr Hoch smiled at her, but spoke to his wife.
“Yes, my dear?”
Frau Fickler waved her hand at the contents of the table top. “Johann, before you is the wealth of our young guest, Fraulein Metzger.”
His eyes passed over the stacks of bills and coins. He didn’t say anything at first, but his eyes did widen just a bit. After a moment of consideration, he gave a nod—almost a bow—of respect to Ursula, who found herself nodding back.
Herr Hoch returned his gaze to his wife.
“I am certain you would not call me from my own accounts just to impress me with Fraulein Metzger’s worth. Is there some other reason I am here?”
His smile lightened what could otherwise have been a very snide remark.
Frau Fickler returned his smile, and said, “Our young guest cannot carry all this around with her all the time. Nor would it be safe for her to just leave it in the room we have given to her. Would you be willing to stand as fiduciary to her and take her wealth into your custody? At least, until she understands better what choices she can make?”
“Ah.”
Herr Hoch’s eyes now turned to Ursula again.
“Is that agreeable with you, Fraulein Metzger?”
“Please, what is fid…fidu…”
“Fiduciary?”
“Yes. What does that mean?” Ursula asked, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous and panic-stricken as she felt.
“It means that I would take your money into my charge with the responsibility of preserving and protecting it for you. I would not invest it or spend it without your approval.”
Ursula considered that. It would be a comfort to her to know that all that money was being properly taken care of. On the other hand, could she trust Herr Hoch? All she really knew about him was that he was Sergeant Hoch’s father.
As if he could read her mind, Herr Hoch smiled. “We will write up a simple contract where I shall be fiduciary for, let us say, three months. I shall do nothing to or with your money without your approval. And at the end of three months, I will return the money to you, or you can decide to have me continue as fiduciary, or have someone else assume that role.”
Ursula considered some more. She could see Margarethe nodding vigorously from where she stood behind her parents. That affirmation, and what she knew about Sergeant Hoch, finally convinced her.
“I…I think I would like that, please.”
Herr Hoch smiled again. “Good. I will bring you a contract in less than an hour. After you sign it, then I will remove the money for safekeeping. Meanwhile, you should take a little of that to keep with you for immediate needs.”
“I will see to that, dear,” Frau Fickler said.
“Very good,” Herr Hoch said, standing. “I will bring the contract back shortly.”
The older woman began gathering the money and placing it back in the bag. She set a very small stack of USE bills, some pfennigs, and an empty purse in front of Ursula.
“This will be your daily money, my dear.”
Ursula spent some few moments tucking the money into the purse. Finally she looked up, to see the other two women looking at her with smiles.
“Thank you for your help, Frau Fickler.” Ursula looked down at the purse clutched in her two hands, and fought back tears.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” Frau Marie’s face now showed concern. Margarethe came and sat on the other side of Ursula.
“My brother fought to get that money, to provide for me. But I would give it all just to know he is safe.”
A single tear trickled down Ursula’s cheek as her two new friends moved in to comfort her.
* * *
The final climactic chords crashed to an end. Franz brought his baton down in the final cutoff, and the music stopped. The dress rehearsal performance of Arthur Rex was completed.
There was a moment of silence, Amber stood up and walked up the aisle, clapping as she did so.
“Bravo!” Amber called out. “Bravo!”
The chorus on stage began to clap and stomp and whistle. Amber let them blow off some steam, but after a minute or so, she stuck her fingers between her teeth and blew a sharp shrill whistle of her own. In a few seconds, there was perfect quiet.
“Great job today, kids. Absolutely great. You, too, gentlemen,” she said, looking over at Franz and the orchestra. Franz nodded in return.
Amber turned back to the stage.
“Okay, one last reminder. Here’s tomorrow’s drill: backstage and technical team here at 3:00 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Soloists here at 3:30 for makeup. Chorus here at 4:30 for makeup. Musicians here at 5:00. Everyone in costume by 5:30, everyone in place by 5:45, overture starts at 6:00. That right, Frau Ballauf?”
“Yes, Frau Higham,” the stage manager responded from the side. “And use the back door, everyone.”
“Got that?” Amber looked at the assemblage.
“Yes, Frau Amber,” came the chorused response.
“Great. Now go hang the costumes up, and show up tomorrow sober and not hung-over.”
The performers began to disperse, chattering loudly.
Amber wrapped her arms around herself and watched them go. This was really going to happen, she thought to herself. They had pulled it off.
Now, if only Herr Schardius would go away. She could feel his eyes on her back, and it made her itch.
* * *
It had been a long day for Simon Bayer. He had trudged over all of the Altstadt and most of the Neustadt and a lot of the exurb looking for Hans, with no luck in finding him.
Simon’s feet hurt; he was tired, thirsty, and hungry. He was also sick at heart. He didn’t know what Hans was up to, but ever since the fight last night he was worried for his friend.
As the sun started to approach the western horizon, Simon went to Frau Zenzi’s to sweep, as he did every day. The good frau tried to talk to him a couple of times, but he didn’t say much in response. She finally gave up and gave him a roll and a hug around the shoulders when he finished.
Simon sat down on the building steps and nibbled on his roll. Even though his stomach was empty, the bread tasted like ashes to him. When Schatzi made an appearance, he gave her the whole roll.
He smiled briefly as she gulped the bread down, then looked at him with her head tilted and her tail wagging a little.
“Sorry, girl,” he said, showing an open hand, “no more.”
Tonight, very unusually, the dog didn’t trot off, but continued to stare at him. Simon looked at her, and whispered, “Where is Hans, Schatzi? Do you know?”
At that exact moment, Schatzi shook all over, sneezed, and moved on down the street.
“I guess that means ‘No.’”
Simon stood, dusted off the seat of his pants with his left hand, made sure his right was firmly in its pocket, and started walking down the street.
“Hey, Simon!”
His head whipped around at the shout in momentary expectation of Hans. The next moment those expectations crashed, as he saw it was Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeant Hoch in a police cart.
“C’mon, kid, climb aboard.”
Lieutenant Chieske held down a hand. Simon grabbed it and was pulled up into the cart.
“
Did you find Hans?” Simon asked.
Sergeant Hoch shook his head.
Simon looked out at the passing buildings.
“Where are you, Hans?”
* * *
Hans looked out from the alleyway as Simon passed by in the cart. It was good to know that the boy was still safe and in good health. If Simon was, then Uschi was as well.
He had been watching for some time; watching, but not moving into view, not speaking. It wasn’t safe to do so; not for the boy, and not for himself.
“God go with you, Simon,” a rare prayer passed through his lips.
He remembered almost the last thing Simon had said to him.
Consequences.
* * *
“We have been looking for your brother,” Gotthilf said with patience for the third time. “But it is hard to find someone who doesn’t want to be found in less than a day.”
“But what is he doing?” Ursula demanded. “Do you know?”
Ursula stood as straight as she could, rigid with fear and anger, facing him and demanding answers. Margarethe and Frau Marie stood behind her, saying nothing. It amused Gotthilf in one corner of his mind to see that his sister had the same identical frown as his mother.
“No, we do not know what Hans is doing,” he replied.
Ursula must have seen something in his face.
“What do you think he is doing, then? Surely you have a guess!”
Ursula’s tone was savage and her face was hard. It was obvious she would have an answer from him.
“You will have no peace from this,” he warned her.
“I don’t want peace! I want the truth! I want to know what is happening with my brother!”
Ursula’s face was pale, almost as if carved out of ice. It drew Gotthilf; drew him in a way no other woman had ever drawn him.
“Very well,” he capitulated. “We think—and it is only a guess, mind you—we think that he has set himself up as a stalking horse to trap those who would hunt him and you.”
At that, Ursula wavered on her feet, and Gotthilf sprang forward to ease her onto a chair. His mother and sister clustered around her, and he stepped back.
After a moment, the young woman raised her head and motioned Frau Marie and Margarethe back.
“Is he still alive? My brother?”
“We think so. No body has been found.”
The word yet hung in the air between them, for all it had not been spoken aloud.
Ursula leaned back and placed both hands atop her cane before she spoke again.
“His body has not been found, you mean. But what of others? What of those you say would be hunting him?”
Gotthilf shrugged. “There are two corpses in the city morgue, apparently dead at your brother’s hands, and three men in the city hospital with serious injuries. Two of them may be crippled for life. The witnesses we have are all clear that they attacked him.”
Ursula’s hand flew to her mouth at the mention of the dead men, and if possible she grew even paler.
“So, if we are correct in our guess,” Gotthilf finished, “your brother’s plan to hunt the hunters has succeeded to this point.” He looked away from Ursula to see Simon crouched in misery in a corner of the room. “It remains to be seen how successful it will prove to be in the end.”
Chapter 62
Hans had very little warning.
There was a sound of running feet behind him. He looked around to see half a dozen or more men swarming toward him in the moonlight.
Hans had been heading toward that same nook in the Neustadt where he thought he would be safe for the night. Now, all he could do was tuck himself into an angle in the freestanding wall of an old building that had burned in the great fire of 1625 and had never been rebuilt. At least there no one could get behind him, and they were forced to come to him almost head-on.
He settled his back against the stones of the walls, holding the walking stick in both hands. He was glad that Frau Anna had given him the stick. It would be put to use one more time tonight.
The pack slowed their pace, and came to a stop just beyond his reach, settling into a semi-circle. They were silent.
“Devil got your tongues, lads?” Hans mocked.
“You are a dead man, Metzger,” a cold voice said.
“Ah, is that you, Ernst?” Hans laughed. “I wondered how long it would be before you found me. Of course, I’ve been leaving a trail behind me all over town.”
He laughed again. “Got some new boys, have you, Ernst? Did you tell them the reason you need them is because I hammered five of your men into the mud yesterday, left two of them for dead and the others probably crippled for life?”
“You are a dead man, Metzger,” Ernst Mann repeated.
“Maybe I am. But I’ll tell you this: if I am, I’m not the only one. Hope you’ve all made your peace with God, boys, because I’m not going to meet Him alone.”
Several of the men drew knives at that. Hans blessed Frau Anna yet again for the heavy coat, the gloves, and even the wrappings around his ribs. He didn’t expect them to keep him alive to see the dawn, but they would keep him alive longer; long enough to put paid to this pack, perhaps. He trusted Chieske and Hoch to take down Schardius, but he was going to make sure that the devil’s tools before him didn’t return to their master.
He had no fear, he realized. None. He knew he was going to die here. But every one of these men that he took with him was one less that could threaten his sister. And at that thought, a white heat filled him.
“Come on, boys,” he taunted them. “Either come take me now, or crawl home to your holes as craven curs!”
* * *
The fight didn’t last long. Fights with those kinds of odds seldom do. And to an outside observer, it would have seemed just an extended flurry of grabs and hits. But to Hans, time seemed to slow down as he prepared to sell himself dearly.
The first man to die didn’t see the walking stick in Hans’ hand until right before it rammed through his eye and into his brain. He dropped with a choked scream, fouling the footing for those who followed him. Unfortunately, the walking stick wedged in the eye socket. Hans cursed as he had to release it.
The second man came from the left. His knife snagged in Hans’ coat. Hans reached out and grabbed the man’s shoulder, then delivered two rapid hammer blows to the attacker; one of them smashed out several teeth and the other might have broken his jaw. Hans pushed him back to fall over the body of the dead man.
The third attacker had tripped over the dead body. His knife lunge missed Hans entirely. But his body didn’t. Off-balance, he tripped again and fell into Han’s right side, with his shoulder landing squarely atop the broken rib.
“Ungh!”
White fire sheeted through Han’s mind as pain blazed throughout his body. He fell back against the wall behind him, and for a moment that support was the only thing keeping him on his feet.
But even as Hans grappled with the pain, his hands seemed to move of their own accord as they grabbed the man’s head and twisted.
The third attacker dropped at his feet, head looking back over his shoulder.
There was a brief pause as the others drew back a step or two. Hans breathed heavily, air rasping in and out of his throat. Hunched over the pain, he stepped his left foot forward a bit and turned his right side away from the attackers. He knew he couldn’t take another hit like that last one.
They stared at each other in the moonlight; Hans on one side and Ernst Mann and his remaining cohort facing him across a puddle of moonlight.
“So, it is down to you, Ernst,” Hans rasped. “You and Otto and Jurgen and Wilhelm. Are you enough? Are you enough to do what that devil Schardius has ordered?”
“We are,” Ernst replied in his cold voice.
The warehouse manager beckoned the others close.
While they whispered, Hans breathed deeply, sucking in as much of the cold air as he could. He could feel the sweat beading up on his back, chilling
in the cold. He had lost his hat, and could feel the night breeze off the river stirring his hair. He glanced up for the barest of moments to see the moon sailing above him.
A good night to die, he decided.
Hans drew himself up as the others separated, spreading out as much as the angle of the walls allowed. He beckoned to them.
“Come and get me.”
* * *
The last of the fight was short and savage. Otto launched himself from the far left, making cuts and lunges with his knife that at first were blunted by the heavy coat. Jurgen stood to the front and swung fists at Hans’ face and head. Wilhelm came from the far right and somehow managed to snake his arm around Hans’ throat, attempting to choke him.
Hans had no choice. He kept his left hand and arm raised somewhat to shield the knife. The fists he just had to duck or ignore, because the arm around his throat had to go. He reached up and began breaking fingers. Wilhelm grunted as the first one snapped, hissed with pain when the second followed. When the third followed, he bellowed and tried to push away.
Hans reached back and grabbed Wilhelm by the hair, hauling him around in front of him to take a couple of hits from Jurgen’s hard fists while he gathered himself. Then he threw Wilhelm to the ground and kicked him in the head—possibly hard enough to kill him; certainly hard enough to take him out of the fight. Then Hans threw fists at Jurgen and Otto. Some landed, some did not. He felt some stinging places where Otto’s knife had penetrated the coat or the rib wrappings. He could feel blood trickling down his face from where Jurgen had reopened some of the cuts he had sustained in the fight with Recke. But he was still on his feet, still taking and dealing damage. The night was not over.
Hans surged forward, grabbed Jurgen’s shoulders and smashed his forehead into his foe’s face, shattering his nose and spraying blood over both of them. He pushed the dazed Jurgen away and rounded on Otto, who was moving in to stab him again. Before he could block it, Otto’s knife had sheathed itself in his left side, low down below the rib wrappings.
A cold pain shot through Hans. He knew that now his minutes were limited. He could feel blood beginning to flow out.