Grantville Gazette-Volume XIII

by Eric Flint

  "Well, I meant . . ." She sputtered a little. "Not nobles or anything."

  Their conversations continued. One day, the topic was Jerg's maternal great-grandfather's sister's stepdaughter. Whom he had never met. That was the day that Father Anselmus mentioned that the abbey had tax and lease records much older than the church books. Mrs. Sutter gave him a blinding smile.

  Jerg Huber gave him a blinding smile, too. Even if Father Anselmus didn't, quite, believe in miracles, he had performed one, at least in Jerg's opinion. Since then, the up-timer hadn't pestered him any more, but rather had buried herself in the muniment room at the monastery, assisted by Father Paulus. From first daylight to the last dim remnants of dusk, according to Herr Crawford, the day he left Schwarzach to escort Mistress Horton to Besançon, she made copies of financial documents and put them in her files.

  As Jerg Huber lighted a votive candle in the great church at the Abbey of Saints Peter and Paul, he gave thanks that the world still contained small miracles as well as large ones. Miracles such as the diversion of Frau Sutter to the abbey's archives.

  Moreover, he had received, through this woman, the knowledge that his fatherly patience would be rewarded. Eventually, Hans and Jerg would marry—marry well, both of them—and father families. There would be only daughters for Hans, but four sons for Jerg.

  If things remained the same in this world as they had unfolded in the one from which Grantville came, of course. A man could only hope.

  September 1634

  "Send her home," Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar said. Firmly. "By the time we wind things up here and das Kloster returns to Schwarzach to start planning next spring's actions, let her be gone. Absent. Removed. No longer present. While I admit that the likelihood that she is an intelligence agent seems to be . . ." His voice trailed off.

  "Diminishingly small, on the basis of everything Crawford told us," Friedrich von Kanoffski contributed.

  "Minute," Duke Bernhard admitted. "Minuscule. Nevertheless, we have Mistress Horton on her way to our civil headquarters, where she can do the most good now that she has provided directions for our new medical corps and well away from the location where we will be considering our . . . upcoming enterprises. Let the other one depart as well."

  "You are assigning Colonel Raudegen to guard Frau Dreeson and Signorina Allegretti," Kanoffski suggested. "I will have the boat stop at Schwarzach. He is surely capable of removing Frau Sutter from the abbey and ensuring that she returns to Grantville."

  "If anyone is. He can certainly try," Duke Bernhard rubbed his stomach. "But I remember all too well what it was like when I was a boy and my tutors started talking about the genealogy of the Wettins."

  Grantville, October 1634

  "Do you realize, Melvin?" Roberta asked. "The colonel would not even tell me his actual name. The one with which he was born. He claimed that he had used his military alias since he was old enough to run away from home and it was good enough for him."

  "Ummnn," Melvin said.

  "But I kept talking to him, and I got a lot of clues. I'm pretty sure I know what village he was born in, now, but I need a good map of Lower Austria. And his mother was called Barbel. I'm pretty sure that with those clues to go on, I could work out his family tree, with enough time and effort."

  "Sounds like more trouble than it's worth, to me. Especially since Raudegen doesn't want you to research his family tree. Why don't you just keep working on our kids, now? There's a whole batch of stuff that came in while you were gone, from Kitzingen and places like that. I piled it all in your inbox. It doesn't sound to me that doing research on Raudegen's family would be easy."

  "But it would be a challenge, Melvin. A challenge." Roberta waved both her hands. "Nothing worthwhile is ever simple. Nothing."

  * * *

  The Ear of the Beholder

  Written by Terry Martin

  "No way, man, I thought they were Brits!"

  "Way, dude. They were Brits. But their first record was in German." Danny grunted to signify that was settled. "Not only that, but it was recorded in Paris."

  "France?"

  "Is there any other?"

  "Well, not any more there isn't." Carson chuckled. Danny nodded in agreement.

  Colby shook his head. "Man, that Rishloo character ain't gonna like that much."

  "Jeez, Colby, Rishloo was long gone when—" He was interrupted by an explosive sneeze from the drummer. " Gesundheit! Anyway, that guy was long dead before the Beatles came around."

  Colby shrugged. "It sounds pretty weird, but if you say so . . ." He turned to the drummer. "Hey, Carson, you may want to wipe yourself off. You got a massive snoogee running down your shirt from that sneeze." He snorted a laugh as he pointed.

  The drummer looked down to see the 'snoogee' oozing down his shirt. His cuff smeared it into the fabric.

  "Good enough, dude." Colby snorted again.

  "Nice," was all Danny could think to say.

  They had all been learning German and so the lyrics were not much of a challenge, but the slow and steady beat was giving Carson fits. "There's no place in this song for me to really show my stuff."

  Danny knew 'show my stuff' translated into 'bang on the drums in a mad frenzy.' And that was probably how his parents had agreed to let them practice in their basement—they had already become accustomed to the noise of his showing his stuff. And Colby was having a similar problem playing a steady rhythm.

  "Do you guys really want to be musicians or are you so pigheaded you won't play anything but the heavy metal you love? Personally, I don't mind 'down-sizing' the rockness of the tunes so the locals can start to know us better. After that, we could ease them into the heavier stuff. You dig?"

  "Yeah, but." Colby gestured helplessly. "C'mon, guys, I mean 'soft rock'? Really! I don't think I could stomach that."

  "Know what you mean, dude. Can't stand to even listen to the stuff myself."

  Danny threw his hands up in exasperation. Ever since the Ring of Fire had left them stranded in this world of minuets and dirges, the four of them were about the only heavy metal freaks around. Before that they always had friends in Barrackville, the record store in Fairmont, and the occasional concert at WVU in Morgantown.

  "Guys, c'mon. What good is being a 'professional' musician if you can't play anywhere? I know Carson would love to strut his stuff and Colby would love to wow the ladies with his licks, especially Carson's sis, Natasha. Which I suspect is the real reason you wanted to join the band."

  Colby began a feeble protest, but Danny continued. "The point is, fellas, we're pretty good at what we do and would be no good to anyone in a machine shop, construction crew . . ."

  "Or the army," Colby added.

  "Or the army. Except maybe with their band—if they had one. But all we really want to do is play music. And if it's that important to you—and I mean music is all you feel passionate about . . ."

  "Except for maybe my sister." The drummer laughed. Colby glared.

  Ben, being the youngest, had let his elders carry the conversation. Now he blurted out his biggest fear. "All the down-timers want to hear is country music, and I know I don't want to play that. Don't even think I can. Just as soon not play music at all if that's all there is."

  Danny relaxed a bit and laughed. "Well, I can't say I don't agree with that sentiment. It's at least got to be rock for me, even if we have to play the 'oldies.' Otherwise we'd just be another polka band."

  "Yeah." Colby laughed. "And I never learned the accordion."

  They all shared in a laugh then, and Danny felt the tension ease. "So, I figure if we can slow the beat down a bit—c'mon, Carson, you can do it!—and let up a bit on the rhythm, I think we can get the audience to like us."

  Ben sighed. "Better than last time, I hope." Even Danny winced at the memory. "I thought no one was ever gonna talk to me again."

  "Yeah," Carson added, "we didn't make many friends that night."

  The silence that descended over the group left ea
ch in their own embarrassment. They had fast-talked a gig at the Gardens one night when some group from Jena did not show up. It did not take them long to get their equipment there and set up—each was high on adrenaline and ready to shine.

  The first song was "Sugar" by System of a Down. They had changed some of the lyrics to make it presentable to younger people. At the end of the song a waiter had approached and whispered to tone it down, as people were trying to eat.

  What? They could not eat with the music playing? So they toned down their second song. Something mellower: Anthrax's "God Save the Queen." Someone pulled the plug before they got thirty seconds into the song. Literally pulled the plug on their equipment.

  That was the extent of their professional performances. They never even got to what they considered their 'signature piece,' "Caught Somewhere in Time" by Iron Maiden.

  "That song would've really rocked," commented Ben.

  "What song are you talking about?" Colby was still depressed remembering that night.

  "'Caught Somewhere in Time.' It was, like, so perfect for what's happened to us."

  "Know what you mean, man." Danny tried to shake off the mood. "But we gotta pick a new signature song and try it again. We can't give up."

  "Okay." Carson twirled his drumsticks. "What say we give this Beatles' song a try?"

  * * *

  It took every bit of charm Danny had to just get his foot back in the door at the Thuringen Gardens. Their prior engagement was still the stuff of legends and he had to convince them that an audition would be worth their time.

  "Okay, fellows. We got one shot to do this." Danny spoke quietly to the band after they had finished setting up the equipment. "Are we ready to wow them?"

  Colby nodded. "My ax is tuned and ready to rock—rock quietly, that is."

  Carson and Ben nodded their agreement. Danny turned to the crowd of three: the manager and two of the wait staff. "We'd like to start out with an old favorite."

  Carson was able to get the simple beat going. Soft, slow, and steady. Danny took the mike and sang, in German.

  After three songs, the manager signaled them to stop and tipped back his chair. "Well, boys, I must say. I'm quite impressed with the change in your sound. Do you have enough material to play a couple of sets for an evening?" He leaned forward to set the chair aright. "I mean without resorting to the kind of stuff you played the first time?"

  "Yes, sir." Danny replaced the mike in its stand. "We have enough similar material ready to do three or four sets, if you like. Soft rock, middle-of-the-road . . ." He chuckled. "Stuff that will not destroy anyone's digestion or drown out their conversations."

  "Very good. I think I can get you in for one night next week—how's Wednesday sound?" He came over and extended a hand. "And we'll see how it goes from there."

  Danny shook the hand. "Fantastic! I know you won't be disappointed."

  The others also shook the hand and murmured their thanks. Then quietly got to the task of putting everything away.

  Walking home with their heavy load on a couple of dollies, they said little. Danny wondered if it was some sense of having sold themselves out or simple elation at a chance to redeem themselves.

  Colby voiced his concerns. "Man, after all these weeks of practice, I sure hope they like us."

  Carson smirked. "I am sure Natasha already approves."

  * * *

  Now that it was over, it was all well worth it—all the hard work and practice, practice, practice. Their performance pleased everyone as much as the tryout.

  The early Beatles went down well. The up-timers knew the song well enough, even if the lyrics were in German, which pleased the down-timers.

  Most the stuff was old Beatles' tunes and the like. Even one Garth Brooks piece that was more rock than country. Still, the high point of the evening was when they played the John Denver classic "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Most the up-timers sang along and quite a few of the down-timers as well.

  And they were all smiling when they got to tearing down their equipment.

  Carson nudged Colby in the ribs. "I noticed Natasha was pleased with the performance—especially yours."

  "Maybe so." Ben laughed. "But he was spending most of his time flirting with Cheyenne Bledsoe."

  "Oh? So, what, Colby? You already dumping my sister?"

  "Hey, there's nothing wrong with your sister, man. I mean she's nice and all." He shook his head. "But Cheyenne is hot!"

  "See fellas? It's like I told you. Being a professional musician will get you noticed. If we had stuck to the metal, no one would be talking with us." Danny paused a moment. "I think the Denver and Brooks songs got the best audience response. Maybe we could add a few more of those. Y'know . . . country and folk?"

  Carson shrugged. "Okay by me. At least we're playing."

  "Me too. And you know? I was thinking about that beer barrel polka song. I remember it from a movie or something."

  Ben stopped and stared at Colby. "Are you kidding? A polka?"

  "Well, I mean it could be kinda fun playing one of them."

  Danny nodded. "We could check into it."

  Three of the members nodded together and continued rolling up cords.

  Ben hung his head in disbelief and moaned.

  * * *

  Out of a Job?

  Written by Iver P. Cooper

  I am no ordinary assassin. As one of the foreign agents of the Most Serene Republic, it is my task to bring our wayward glassmakers back into the fold. I prefer the carrot to the stick, and the stick to the dagger.

  But if need demands it, I am an assassin. In Normandy, I left one recalcitrant glassmaker with a dagger in his heart. And, lest his colleagues think it a chance street killing, I attached a note to the hilt. It bore but one word: "Traditore." As the French say, " pour l'encouragement d'autres." Or perhaps that should be, " decouragement"?

  How I despise these ingrates. The security of the Venetian Republic rests on its economic power, and that, in turn, on its mastery of certain arts, glassmaking being primus inter pares. Yet they dare to pass on our precious secrets, knowing full well what damage it will do to their homeland. And are not the glassworkers the most pampered of craftsmen? Why, regardless of their birth, the masters are permitted to marry the daughters of the nobility.

  My bird, Tomasso, had flown the coop again. We had tracked him to London, and a member of the Ambassador's staff had been sent to offer Tomasso a nice sum of money to return home. He had laughed, assuring our envoy that his noble British patron would pay him more, and that if he had to be confined to an island, he would rather it be England, not Murano. Despite the difference in climate.

  The domestic branch of my department had been watching his family, of course, hoping that he might come home for a conjugal visit, and arrested his wife as she tried to slip out of the country to join him. She was imprisoned, and persuaded to write letters begging him to return. We passed those letters on to Tomasso.

  They seemed to have some effect on him and he promised that he would come home as soon as he finished a particular job for his nobleman. One, he assured us, that didn't implicate any Venetian secret. Then it was until an outbreak of the plague subsided. Then he had to wait for the roads to clear.

  I decided I had heard enough excuses, and set up the arrangements to abduct him. Such are tricky, since you must find the renegade alone, if at all possible, and get him out of the country before he is missed. He must have noticed something, because next thing I knew, he was gone.

  I rode the post to Dover—which ate quite a chunk in my expense account, being eighty miles at two and half pence to the mile—but by the time I got to the docks, he was off and away.

  Nor did I find him in Calais.

  The first new rumor I heard of him was in Paris. I hoped he would settle down there long enough for me to set up a retrieval, but he didn't oblige me. Couldn't find a good enough deal, I suppose.

  My pursuit was a blur of long roads and bad food, crisscr
ossing France, the Netherlands, and Germany. I caught up with him at last in Lauscha, in Thuringia. There, he had settled down to a life of making titanic gilded waldglas beer goblets for the feasts of barely literate princelings. What a comedown!

  The town was small enough for strangers to be noticed, so I spread some coins about and waited for him to head out. I knew he would do so, eventually; he was in town only to sell his wares and buy supplies. The walglashutten, where the glass is actually made, have to be located near a source of wood for the fires, and as soon as they exhaust the local supply, they are moved.