by Eric Flint
“And so there are too few left to man the gates?”
The guard looked east. “Well, I do not know. They are not stationed in the town, you see.”
“Not in town? Where are they?”
“The abbey at Heggbach, about six miles east.”
“There is a hospital there?”
The fellow looked uncomfortable. “No.”
“Then what?” snapped Thomas. “Why send them to the abbey?”
“To keep them away from us,” the man mumbled. “The abbess and many of the nuns—they had already died of the plague, there. The survivors had gone elsewhere: there weren’t enough of them left to maintain the abbey. Besides, they were too weak to live on their own.”
“And none of you helped them,” finished Larry in a flat tone.
The guard stared back in faint defiance. “There was nothing we could do. By the time we learned, a third of the nuns were dead or nearly so. And besides, they are not our responsibility. At times, they had been most troublesome. The abbess of Heggbach was frequently in dispute with the abbey’s tenant farmers, many of whom live much closer to our walls, and who sought our intervention. Which made for trouble with the abbey.”
Larry stared at the man. “So when the sick replacement garrison showed up, you sent it into quarantine at Heggbach Abbey. Where I presume you expected them to die.”
“I expected nothing!” shouted the weaver-watchman. “I am a simple man given an old gun to guard a gate. I am not consulted on such things. I just hear news like everyone else. If you wish to complain to the Burgermeisters, they should still be in the Rathaus—although not for much longer.” He sent an appraising squint toward the end of the tower’s lengthening shadow.
“Fine,” said Larry with a sharp nod, “we’ll do that.”
* * *
Following the guard’s directions, they moved toward St. Martin’s cathedral, angling south through the reasonably wide streets once they came upon it. Thomas chose his calmest tone, and began. “I say, Larry—”
“I know,” the American shot back, “I was pretty tough on that poor guy at the gate.”
“Rather. Why?”
“I guess because what he said pushed my buttons. Yeah, I understand why they did what they did: they had the plague at their gates, and a reasonable chance of keeping it out if they were careful about how much external contact they had. But damn, so many towns around here made such an easy accommodation with turning away people in need, with turning a blind eye upon human suffering. Just like they did during World War II, up in my time.”
Thomas considered. “Larry, I claim no expertise in what your histories call the Holocaust. I will simply observe that villainy, bigotry, and genocide have a long history of traveling together. The same up-time processes that enabled mass production were no less an enabling factor for mass destruction.
“However, in this time, what you see as an easy accommodation with cruelty may simply be the exhaustion of hoping for fairy tale endings. I notice in your American history that things almost always came out right in the end, as though there was some guardian angel watching over the fate of your nation. As best as I can tell, some of your more gullible leaders actually believed there was. But here, you are dealing with persons brought up on unremitting rounds of war and plague, of whole generations sucked into the maw of death.” North looked up as they fell into, and then out of, the shadow of the cathedral. “You Americans never had a reason to lose hope. These poor sods were born into a world where there wasn’t any hope left.”
Quinn nodded slowly, pointed. “There’s the new Rathaus, at the head of the market place. Ready for a frontal assault on close-minded and quarrelsome bureaucrats?”
Thomas sighed. “Oh, yes; I live for the thrill of that particular battle.”
* * *
After navigating the closing bakers’ stalls crowded along the arcades of the Rathaus, they made their way inside. It was the same scene of impermanence and frenzy that Thomas had seen in small city Rathauses throughout Germany. Often used for general meetings and other large gatherings, the ground floor of such buildings were rarely furnished with fixed partitions. Field chairs, stools, and folding tables abounded, as did arguments, exhortations, and idle chatter. Quinn waded manfully into the chaos, fixed upon a young fellow who was just preparing to run a message, flashed a Kreutzer at him.
The fellow’s stride broke, swerved in the direction of the American. His eyes roved over the group’s gear. “Yes, Herr Hauptman?”
“I wish to speak with either the Burgermeister or the Stadtamtmann. Where will I find them?”
The reply—“upstairs”—earned the fellow the Kreutzer; his reaction was a quick smile and a quicker departure.
Progress through the diminishing crowd in the Rathaus was still slow, due to the frenzy of the remaining workers as they redoubled their efforts to wrap up and head home. An outbound scribe descending the northern staircase attempted to dissuade them from ascending, saw that his entreaties were pointless, gesticulated toward their destination, and left them to their own devices.
Thomas was content to let Quinn continue to walk point; that way, the American would hit the first political tripwire, and they were deep in what was, for all soldiers, enemy country: the tortuous warrens of bureaucrats.
Quinn knocked on the jamb of an already-open office door. “Herr Burgermeister von Pflummern?”
A youngish, fit man looked up from his pile of books and papers. “Yes?” In the next second he was on his feet, his eyes slightly wider and much more cautious. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
While Quinn presented their bona fides, their papers, and their business, Thomas scanned the room and the hallway surreptitiously. Another man, older and thickly built, emerged from a larger office halfway down the hall, two other men in tow. Brows lowering, they glanced hastily at the strange group around the entrance to von Pflummern’s office, and hurried toward the southern staircase.
Von Pflummern’s office was half chaos, half order, leaving Thomas with the impression that it was being used by two different men. Judging from the way that pristine orderliness seemed to be encroaching on dust-covered layers of entropy, the neatness was logically a characteristic of the newcomer. A glance at von Pflummern himself, and Thomas knew him to be the recent arrival.
It was not just his comparative youth: it was his immaculate dress, hair, and hygiene. The pen he was using was neatly and newly cut, and the ink, quill knives, and blotting paper were arrayed evenly along the margins of his workspace.
Just as Burgermeister von Pflummern was about to correct Larry’s (and therefore, Ed Piazza’s) ostensible misunderstanding of what had, and had not, been offered and promised by the inner council of Biberach’s Rat, Thomas intruded a quick question: “Excuse me, Herr Burgermeister von Pflummern, but how recently did you replace the former Catholic Burgermeister?”
Von Pflummern’s jaw froze, then thawed into a surprised stutter: “How, how do you—? Two months. And a few weeks.”
“So you were not a Burgermeister at the time the aerodrome agreement was made, is that correct?”
“It is, but as the senior Catholic member of the inner council, I was fully aware of all the particulars.”
“I did not mean to imply otherwise. I just noted that your office has—well, has the look of transition.”
Von Pflummern flushed slightly, nodded, looked around; had there been enough space and chairs, Thomas intuited that the man’s innate congeniality would have had him inviting them all to take seats. But then he stood straighter and extended a hand toward the door, back in the direction of the stairs.
“You are correct. We have had many losses, this past winter. My predecessor died of a fever, and the former Protestant Burgermeister, Johann Schoenfeld the Elder, died of the plague late last year. He was one of the few to contract it and he refused to come back within the walls. Now I will thank you gentlemen to see yourselves out; I must close my office and return home.”
North was going to press for one more tidbit of information about the prior Roman Catholic Burgermeister when Quinn stuck out a hand with a slight bow. After a moment’s hesitation, von Pflummern took it. Quinn bowed slightly. “I am sorry we have intruded so late in the day. As you see from my orders, I will need to speak to you at greater length, as well as the town’s other Burgermeister and its Stadtamtmann.”
“The Protestant Burgermeister is Hanss Lay. My brother Christoph is the Stadtamtmann. We will make what time we can for you tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.”
* * *
Before heading back to their beddings of hay and the smell of ordure, Quinn suggested they visit a tavern a few blocks south of the market place that was known as far as Ulm for its beer. Thomas offered no resistance and made a silent footnote to inquire upon returning to Grantville if the up-timer’s modest means had improved in recent days, or if he was on a rather generous operating account. If the latter, that suggested he had garnered an unusual measure of trust from the notoriously frugal (not to say miserly) Ed Piazza.
The inside of the Grüner Baum was tidy and nicely appointed: the ravages of the Thirty Years’ War had indeed visited this town lightly, if even its taverns were no worse for wear. Thomas downed his first pint before the barmaid could escape the table: “noch ein” he ordered with a wide smile and turned to Larry. “Very nice of you, standing us a drink.”
“I find your use of the singular—‘a drink’—particularly ironic.”
“As was intended. Now, what do you think that was all about, back there?”
“Don’t know,” answered Quinn, staring at a spare, morose-looking fellow across the room. “Hopefully, we’ll get a better idea tomorrow.”
“I doubt it,” said Thomas, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the barmaid and thereby gauge when the next frothy stein might arrive. “I get the distinct impression that the town fathers are concealing something. Possibly even in cahoots across denominational lines, if I read that little closing scene correctly upstairs at the Rathaus.”
“You might be right,” Larry agreed. His tone suggested his attention was elsewhere.
Thomas followed his gaze, which was still fixed—and with greater intensity—upon the morose fellow sitting alone across the rapidly filling room. Who, Thomas noticed, was wearing well-worn clothes, but not of the typical, almost stolid, local cut. His garments and gear emphasized line and flow: Thomas discerned that they were not only easier to look at, but also, probably easier to move in.
In short, they were almost certainly Italian. The look of the leather, the faint hints of color and the detail of worksmanship all suggested those origins, now that he studied the man more closely.
He also noted that the fellow kept his head turned slightly, eyeing the world from one side more than the other, rather like parakeets did.
Thomas was about to remark on this odd feature when Quinn rose with a muttered, “I’ll be damned,” and began moving across the room. Thomas, flustered, rose, and—after a moment of desperate and disappointed scanning for his inbound pint—followed.
He arrived at the table in time to see Larry offer a quick half-bow and inquire, “I am sorry to intrude, but may I inquire: are you an artist?”
The fellow—younger than Larry—started, and in that moment, Thomas saw why he held his head peculiarly: his left eye had the subtle, milky discoloration that often followed and marked a blinding injury.
More surprising still was the fellow’s response. “Why, yes: I am. Or so I style myself. Who, may I ask, is inquiring?” The smile was congenial but also far too old and world-weary for the young face. “A factor for a patron, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Larry answered with a grave nod. If he noticed Thomas start in surprise along with the half-sighted fellow, he gave no indication. “There are several people where I’m from who are very interested in your work.”
“‘My work?’ At present, what few canvases I painted I was compelled to leave behind in Rome. How could anyone here know of my work?”
“Not here, Herr Schoenfeld. I am referring to up-timers in Grantville—and some of their Dutch acquaintances.”
Now the younger man sat up very straight. “If this is a jest, it is in very poor taste, and I will ask you to leave. If not, I will thank you to indicate who you are, who you represent, and how you know me.”
Larry answered Schoenfeld’s first two queries and concluded with, “As for knowing you: in my time, Johann Schoenfeld was known as the father of Baroque art in Germany. You, sir, are famous.”
Schoenfeld stared, then laughed, his tilted head back. “Famous?” he barked so loudly that several other heads in the Grüner Baum looked up from their steins. “If I’m famous, it’s for failing my family and my craft. Famous for fleeing before the black tides of war.”
“I assure you, Herr Schoenfeld, in my time, sketches from your early career were sought-after treasures of art history.”
Schoenfeld studied Larry with his good eye; Thomas knew he was being thoroughly scanned as well, albeit peripherally. “And so this is how you knew me?”
Larry nodded. “Before coming down here, I was briefed on everything we knew about Biberach from this time period. Other than a few brief mentions about events in the Thirty Years’ War, it was best known for being your birthplace and family residence until you left for Italy.”
Johann Schoenfeld leaned back, his long nose seeming to accuse them. “I am sorry to tell you that your histories are incomplete. I apprenticed in Ulm and then Basel before returning here—just before stories began circulating about the wonders of Grantville. And just when it also seemed possible that Wallenstein or the Bavarians would finally pillage Biberach. And so I fled to Italy. To escape. And yes, to work, also, but mostly to escape.”
Larry shrugged. “Why should one remain in the path of war when it approaches?”
Schoenfeld’s one good eye stabbed at him. “To support one’s family. Which I did not. And thanks to that, my father is dead of plague.”
Thomas blinked: so, the late Burgermeister Schoenfeld and the artist’s father are one and the same. It was not beyond possibility that there could be two such men of the same name, and same generation, who would have died of the plague in Biberach. But it was pretty unlikely, and besides, a Burgermeister would have the wealth and authority to send a talented son—particularly a son who was blind in one eye—off to a safer place, a place to which a journeyman artist would logically go. Similarly, a Burgermeister who thought that way was also likely to be the kind of selfless man who, once infected, would quarantine himself outside the town rather than risk bringing the plague into the streets where all his loved ones and friends lived their crowded, wall-bound lives.
Thomas’ hypotheses received an additional boost when the young artist took up his own drink and continued gesticulating with the other hand—which was clearly withered. “If I had not been so—so weak, so useless, this would never have happened.”
Thomas, who had resolved to let Larry handle this on his own, found himself objecting: “Herr Schoenfeld, I have known many cowards. You are not among their number.”
Schoenfeld looked at Thomas. “And how would you know this?”
“Because I have been in more battles than you have lived years and I can tell you this about cowards: they spend most of their time making excuses for themselves. The last thing they do is take blame upon their own back for fear that others will see them for what they really are.” He considered his next words carefully. “What I see right now is a man whom God, fate, or chance—your choice—intended for a different greatness. Perhaps to inspire men through your visions of the world, rather than to cause men to expire out of it.”
“As has been your lot in life,” Schoenfeld added the unspoken footnote.
“Unfortunately, yes. And I will tell you that nine out of every ten so-called ‘deeds of valor’ were merely acts of desperation that came out well. And that there is very little glory p
icking your way among the dead and dying after a battle.”
Schoenfeld’s answer was a strange, small, poignant smile. “As you say these things, my mind’s eye shows me what I have always wished to paint.”
“Come to Grantville,” put in Larry, “and I will show you that you did. I saw some pictures of your paintings before I came here: they are heroic, but always haunted by the horrors of war. Some critics said they could sense Breughel and Bosch lurking just beyond the margins of your canvases.”
Schoenfeld’s eyes—including the sightless one—were suddenly bright. “I would like to see these canvases—if for no other reason to know what now I will never paint.” Then the vitality seemed to ebb out of him. “But there is too much to settle here. Too many troubles.”
“Something that we can help with, perhaps?” Larry offered carefully.
“Maybe. I don’t know enough, yet. I just arrived yesterday and learned—well, about my father. And the other problems. It is difficult, adapting to so much, so quickly. Perhaps, if we were to meet here again tomorrow, at about this time—”
“We shall.” Quinn’s voice was firm and friendly. “And now, tell us about Italy. We have heard that there is trouble there.”
Schoenfeld rolled his eyes. “That is like saying that water is wet. I had been thinking of pursuing an invitation to go to the court of Count Orsini of Naples, but—”
Thomas managed to catch the eye of the barmaid and guide the lost beer to his waiting hand; listening to traveler’s tales was thirsty work, after all.
* * *
It was also thirsty work listening to German Burgers say “no” in half a dozen different ways, as Thomas discovered the next morning. It certainly made him want to have a drink. Or three.
The return to von Pflummern’s office was cordial but brief. The brother Christoph—the Stadtamtmann and the decidedly less-congenial sibling—did not even sit, but stood behind his brother, arms crossed, his frown as firmly fixed upon his face as his sharp-bridged nose. When asked if he had been part of the negotiations, he shook his head once and spat out a crisp, “Nein.” And that was all.