Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI

by Eric Flint

  "So. The rumors are correct. The prodigal has returned."

  Franz's shoulders tightened, and his head pulled down instinctively. The last time he had heard that voice, it had been hissing in his ear moments after his left hand had been crushed during a brawl at a tavern here in Mainz. It was burned in his memory. It haunted his nightmares. It was the dividing line between his youth and the rest of his life.

  Slowly, he turned. "Heydrich."

  If Rupert Heydrich had not spoken, Franz would not have recognized him. Prior to Franz leaving Mainz, his memory of Heydrich was that of a slim, reasonably good-looking young man, somewhat vain, who always dressed well, made a fetish of cleanliness, and carried himself with an air. The figure that stood-wavered, rather-a few feet away bore no resemblance to his memories. The clothing was filthy; the shirt was smeared with soot, there was mud caked on both knees, the boots were scarred and worn, waistcoat and hat were missing. His hair was unkempt, his beard was scraggly. But his face was the worst… Franz had been gone for less than two years, and what had been a smooth youthful face looked now as if it belonged to a debaucher of the vilest kind. There were lines graven around the eyes and from nose to chin, seams under the cheekbones, and the bags under his eyes were dark enough to have been painted there.

  "Are you surprised to see me, little Franz?" The voice was rougher, but the timbre was still the same, still enough to send shivers up his spine. The vitriol that dripped from it, however, was even worse than he remembered, if that was possible.

  "Aye," said Franz. "I had hoped that you would have the decency to avoid me if you heard I was in Mainz."

  "Oh, I could not avoid hearing that you had graced our fair city with your presence. There are those in our streets who, upon sighting you, could not wait to rush to my side and spill into my ears the news that, all unbidden and unheralded, you had returned.

  "I waited, Franz… waited for you to come to me, to speak with your old friend Rupert, to renew old ties and friendships. But you never sought me out, and I am wounded to the heart." Heydrich theatrically placed one hand above the organ in question. Isaac stirred. Franz grabbed his shoulder, urging him back.

  "I remember the last time we talked, Rupert. You seemed to have no use for me then."

  "Oh, I was in my cups, Franz. Surely you can't hold that against me?"

  Franz would have been stunned by the apparent arrogance, but he could see Heydrich's face clearly, and it was obvious that there was no truth in the man. He held his left hand up between them. "And was this done in your cups as well, Rupert?" There was no answer.

  Franz continued. "I despaired of ever playing again, Rupert, to the extent that I attempted to smash my violin. I wandered away from Mainz, hoping that I would die." Heydrich smiled.

  "And no doubt I would have, but God in His infinite mercy guided me to Grantville." Heydrich's smile slipped away into his beard like a worm into loam.

  "Yes, Grantville, Rupert. I found that city, and amidst the reality of it I found wise men and women of the medical arts who could restore enough use of my hand that I could learn to play again. And I found music, Rupert, music from the future, music grander than any we had ever heard or played for the Prince-Bishop."

  Franz felt his voice swelling, felt himself standing taller, staring directly into Heydrich's eyes. "I found a place there, a place that Archimedes himself would envy, a place to stand, where with my friends we will move the music of the world with the lever of Grantville and its archives."

  Heydrich snorted. "You rave."

  "Do I?" Franz turned slightly and unbuttoned his coat. As he shrugged it off, he saw Marla coming back down the stairs. Shoving the coat into Isaac's arms, he hissed, "Go to Marla. Keep her out of this!" Isaac turned away, and he turned back toward Heydrich.

  Under his coat, Franz had slung the case containing his violin and bow to keep it warm. Now he set the case on the top of the bar, opened it, and took out them out. "I will play you a simple song," he said, testing the tuning of the violin, "for that is all I can play as yet. A simple song from Grantville, from the future, and you will understand, I think."

  Nestling the violin under his chin, Franz raised the bow and began to play.

  ***

  Isaac hurried to reach Marla just as she reached the bottom step. He grabbed her arm, and looked to Reuel. "Franz says we must keep her here." Reuel immediately grabbed her other arm.

  "What are you doing?" Marla twisted in his grip. "Let me go! What's going on?"

  "Shhh!" Isaac hissed at her. "Marla, that is Heydrich he faces! The man is drunk, or mad, or both, and is dangerous as a mad dog. You must stay here, let Franz face him. If you intrude you will distract him, which just might get him killed."

  "Listen to him." Reuel surprised him by his support. "I am charged with your protection… I will not let you go there. Keep quiet, and your husband will probably survive. Start fighting or screaming, and he will die for certain." Marla turned white, gulped, and nodded.

  Isaac turned to watch just as Franz began playing. It was one of the Irish songs, the one called variously "Londonderry Air", or "Derry Air", but most commonly "O Danny Boy." Isaac had sung it before, and the words reeled through his mind as Franz played.

  O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

  From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.

  The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying.

  It's you must go, and I must bide.

  As Isaac sang the words of the song in his mind, Franz's violin sang the song without words, rich, sonorous, and somehow sad.

  But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,

  Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow.

  'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow.

  O Danny boy, O Danny boy, I love you so.

  Franz sped the tempo a little in the chorus, lifting and swelling the sound as the lines rose and fell, slowing again in the last phrase. Isaac matched him move for move in his mind, thinking in a back corner of his mind that they needed to perform it this way some time.

  And when you come, when all the flowers are dying,

  And I am dead, as dead I well may be,

  You'll come and find the place where I am lying,

  And kneel and say an 'Ave' thee for me.

  The second verse was so delicate, it was almost musical lace. Franz's touch was so light it belied his frequent insistence that he was still a fumbler, still only hacking at playing because he was not fully rehabilitated.

  And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me,

  And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be,

  If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me,

  And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

  Again the sound swelled with the chorus, joyously, triumphantly, cresting in the third line. The tone was so pure, so sweet that chills surged up and down Isaac's spine. Closing his eyes, he abandoned himself to the music, as it began to ebb.

  And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

  Franz repeated the last line, slowly, softly, taking the final note up an octave and just seemed to hold it forever, letting it gently fade. As it disappeared, Isaac opened his eyes and looked to Marla. He was unsurprised to see tears on her cheeks.

  ***

  Releasing the breath that he hadn't even realized he had been holding, Franz lowered his bow. He turned to the bar and set both violin and bow back in the case. Closing it, he pushed it toward the innkeeper, and motioned that he should set it behind the counter. The man nodded, and made an arrested motion with the cudgel in his hand, as if to offer it to Franz. Franz shook his head slightly and turned back to Heydrich.

  "Rupert," Franz said. No reaction. "Rupert," he said louder. Heydrich started, and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Rupert, there is such music to be learned, such music to be played, that there is room for the two of us and many more. Can you not feel it? Can you not feel that tonight, perhaps tonight alone, we can make amends a
nd enter this new world together?"

  Heydrich said nothing.

  Reaching back to the bar, Franz picked up the mug of beer he had ordered what seemed to be hours ago. "Come, Rupert," holding the mug out, "will you drink with me? Can we make amends?" There was silence for a long moment, then Heydrich's left hand snaked out and slapped the mug from Franz's grip. It bounced against the counter, and rolled across the floor.

  "Make amends?" Heydrich spat. "Never! You have slandered me, making everyone think that I caused your injury. You belittled me, you took the praise that was my due, you were constantly stealing my place, you… you… It is all your fault!. And now you come, sneaking back to Mainz, seeking to steal my place again, bringing with you Jew Isaac and some slattern. Who is she, some down-on-her-luck whore who can find no one better than a cripple and a Jew?"

  Rage flared through Franz. He felt as though every muscle in his body was clenching, as if he was swelling in size to contain his wrath. Somewhat of that must have shown, for Heydrich fell back a step or two.

  "What lies between us, Rupert," Franz said in a voice so cold it could have been the winter wind blowing from the mountains of Sweden, "is between us alone. You will not say these things to my wife." As Heydrich's mouth opened, Franz raised his hand. " You will not. " His voice was no louder, but it was so hard it could have cut steel.

  Heydrich was silent for a moment. "As you say, it is between us." His voice was shaking.

  Franz lowered his hand, and when he spoke again, his voice was normal. "One last time, Rupert. I freely admit that I have wronged and hurt you in the past, just as you have wronged and hurt me." He held his hand out again. "Will you not take my hand and help heal this breach? Will you not make amends?"

  For answer, Rupert spat at him

  Filled with an unexpected sadness, Franz lowered his hand. "'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' By your own words and actions are you judged, Rupert. As you have rejected, so you are rejected. There will be no place for you in our world. Good-bye, Rupert. I shall not see you again."

  Franz started to turn away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Heydrich yank something from inside his coat. Heydrich yelled, "Turn not your back on me, wretch! I will have your life's blood for the insult!" The next few moments were a blur. Franz could sense Heydrich lunging for him, no doubt with a knife in hand. He attempted to jump out of the way. Marla start to scream and the innkeeper began to bellow. His foot slipped in a puddle of beer on the floor from the mug that Heydrich had knocked from his hand earlier. Panic flashed through Franz's mind when he hit the floor-a flashback to the night Heydrich had crushed his hand. There was a loud thump behind him, and he rolled, cradling his hands between his chest and the counter, protecting them, expecting at any moment to feel Heydrich's boots crashing into him.

  Nothing happened. The innkeeper stopped yelling. Marla stopped screaming. Then he could feel her at his side, pulling on him, saying, "Get up, get up! Are you hurt?" over and over again. He started to yell for Isaac and Reuel to come get her, to get her out of Heydrich's way, but a different sort of panic shot through him-Marla was in reach of Heydrich! He uncurled and shot to his feet instantly, looking around for his nemesis, and seeing… Reuel, bending over the huddled shape of a man on the floor. An unmoving shape. A shape wearing the coat that Heydrich wore.

  Reuel stood, stuck his toe under a shoulder, and rolled Heydrich over. As his face appeared, Franz froze. Marla screamed again. Isaac said something that Franz didn't understand.

  Heydrich would torment no one any more. As he would have done, so he was done to. Protruding from his right eye-socket was a knife hilt, blood seeping out around it.

  "Never seen anything like it," the innkeeper said, shaking his head. "The drunken fool was holding that little knife ham-fisted, and when he slipped on the beer and threw his hands out to catch himself, he would not let go of the knife. His head came down right on the point of the blade." The innkeeper kept muttering, even as he sent a pot boy for the guard.

  Fortunately, when the soldiers of the guard arrived, they accepted the witness of the innkeeper and those few patrons who had not slipped out the back door as to what had occurred. Once they found out Marla was from Grantville, their questions were few and perfunctory.

  The sergeant pulled the knife from Rupert's eye, revealing a very narrow and thin blade. "An assassin's toy," he grunted, snapping it in two with little effort.

  Waving his men on, the sergeant exited, and the corpse of what had once been one of the finest musicians in Mainz was dragged out the door as if it were unwanted baggage. Other than the pot boy scrubbing the blood and beer from the floor, there was no physical evidence of the conflict that had just occurred.

  Franz sat at a table. He was stunned, hands shaking, unable to speak, barely able to think. Marla sat to his left, both hands gripping his crippled hand, a worried expression on her face as she looked into his eyes. Isaac brought another beer from the bar and set it in front of Franz, but Franz was unable to grasp it.

  Hermann had come down the stairs to find out what all the uproar was about, and had been demanding an explanation. Isaac finally sat him down and told him what had happened. "Good riddance to bad cess," was his verdict. Hermann sniffed. Then he went back up to the rooms.

  Finally, Franz stirred. "That could have been me," he croaked from a mouth and throat dry enough to spit dust.

  Marla brushed back his hair. "He never got close to you, dear heart."

  "No. You don't understand." Franz was finally able to grab the mug and swallow a sip. Throat moistened, he continued, " I could have been Heydrich! "

  Marla looked horrified. "What do you mean?"

  Staring straight ahead, as if he were looking down a league of road, Franz said, "We were so much alike… in talent, in zeal, in passion, in goals. We were friends for a while, but then the competition to be best came between us. Neither of us could ever be happy that the other had done well, won some accolade, taken some prize. It poisoned our friendship, and we began to taunt, and goad, and bait each other. I was good at it, and more often than not, I won the battle of words.

  "It was on a night of such a battle that he attacked me." He swallowed. "But I had dreamt of doing the same to him, of somehow causing the end of his career by some kind of injury. It was part of why I almost went mad, thinking that because I had been envisioning such things, God had visited them upon me."

  "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, Blessed be the Name of the Lord," Isaac said quietly.

  "And that verse, my friend, is what challenged me, kept me thinking, and walking, and living until I got to Grantville." Franz was quiet again for a long time, but seemed to have shrugged off the shock. He finally looked at Marla with a bit of a quirk to his mouth, almost a smile. "Do you know, it was Heydrich that was responsible for our getting married?" Now Marla looked shocked. "Truly. If he had not done this to me…" Franz lifted his crippled hand. "I would never have gone to Grantville. I would never have met you that night. I would never have heard you sing, or play, or teach, or… anything." Franz paused. Then he spoke, softly. "God used Heydrich to humble my pride, and send me to you."

  "Would you do it over again?" Marla quietly asked.

  "To come to you?" His smile was blinding. "Oh, without hesitation, love. Without hesitation." She melted against him, holding his arm with two hands.

  Silence.

  "I wish he had taken my hand," Franz said. "I wish he had accepted my apology… I wish…"

  More silence.

  "Those who take up the sword," Franz said finally, as if pronouncing an epitaph, "by the sword will die."

  Copenhagen – February, 1634

  Josef watched as Heinrich Schutz, Kappellmeister to the court of John George, Elector of Saxony, finished reading the letter. He then started over at the beginning, and read it again. Johan assumed it said the same thing the second time as it did the first. Finally, Master Schutz set the letter down on top of the haphazard pile
of music atop the table he sat behind, and looked for a long while at where the ceiling joined the wall on the far side of the chamber.

  The Kappellmeister was an impressive figure, Johan had to admit. Heinrich Schutz was dressed in black with a broad white collar. He looked every inch the lawyer he had originally studied to be, before taking up music. His face was… striking, Josef decided. Schutz had gray hair swept back from his forehead, a prominent nose and strong chin. He looked to be a friendly man, but Josef knew that to have survived as the major musician of the court at Dresden, there must be some steel in him.

  Dropping his eyes back down to look first at Josef and then at his brother Rudolf, Schutz smiled slightly. "So, my friend Maestro Carissimi bids me come to visit him in Grantville. This letter, uncharacteristically short though it might be for one from il maestro , is undoubtedly from him. I recognize both the hand and his elegant turn of phrase. He waxes eloquent on the subject of the music and instruments found in Grantville; from the future, he says. Did I not know him to be one of the soberest men alive, I would say that he sounds as if he fell in a brandy tun, and did not climb out until after he had drunk most of it." He folded his fingers together, and rested his chin on his thumbs. "But, as I said, he is a most sober man, and one not given to exaggeration, so I must give some credence to his writing."

  Schutz fell silent, and stared steadily at the Tuchman brothers. The weight of that gaze became heavy indeed. Josef bit his tongue to keep from babbling in front of the preeminent musician of Europe north of the Alps. He felt Rupert shift his weight, and knew that his brother was feeling it as well.

  Finally, the master smiled. "Good. You are men of some substance. I like that." He sat back in his chair, crossed a leg across the other knee, and waved a hand. "Speak. Tell me of this Grantville of which I have heard so much, and why Maestro Carissimi speaks so highly of it."