1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (35 page)

Gotthilf looked at Byron, who shrugged.

“Yah, we are done.” Gotthilf waited until Metzger had started to turn to leave their confrontation. “But do not be surprised if we call you in for more discussions.”

Metzger turned back. “If you keep this up, it will be my body you find in the river.”

“Your choice,” Byron said coldly.

* * *

The band began pouring out the strains of Thomas’ work. He had entitled it the “Vasa March” in honor of the emperor’s dynasty. His explanation for that was he was honoring the emperor’s valor on the field of battle. Franz was a little skeptical that that was the reason; or at least, that it was the only reason. Musicians had for generations flattered those in power in order to reach positions of security and support. Franz had done something similar almost two years ago, when he had renamed the up-time Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 to be the Vasa Concerto No. 3. It was a custom, even a fact of life, for musicians. Looking through Marla’s eyes, he thought that might change in the next generation. He hoped so, but right now he wasn’t holding his breath.

The march was loud, and vigorous. In the music from before the arrival of Grantville, low instruments usually just provided a foundation for the treble instruments to dance above. Franz was intrigued to hear that Thomas had written his march to feature the low brass. They were the ones actually declaring the primary themes, only to be echoed by trumpets and horns.

And the percussion, oh my. Franz had to chuckle at some of the expressions on the nonmusician faces around him. Most down-timers never heard anything more than a small hand drum played by a traveling musician at fairs and markets when the sprightly dances were performed. The sound of rapid, heavy, orchestrated drums was as utterly foreign to them as…well, as an electric guitar would be, he supposed. It was only about four years ago, after all, that he himself had learned about them, and he still had some recollection of his initial reaction to them. “An avalanche of cacophony,” he had described it to his friends…or something like that.

But he set those thoughts aside to listen to Thomas’ march. The low brass combined with the constant rolling patterns played on the tenor drums gave a sensation of listening almost to thunder—a thunder that throbbed and pulsed, a thunder that ebbed and flowed, a thunder that filled the square before the palace, yet didn’t cover up the sound of the higher brass or drive the Magdeburgers out in pain.

The music came to a crashing end. Thomas lowered his baton and looked toward Franz and Marla. They both gave him an up-time thumbs-up, and he grinned in delight as he thrust the baton back into his sleeve and joined them.

The speeches began. Franz leaned over to Thomas and muttered under the louder noise. “Well written, and well done.”

Thomas flashed another grin at him.

Franz learned something that afternoon: even politicians will bow to the weather, if it is severe enough. Every speech was mercifully short, even those of Prince Ulrik and Princess Kristina.

The big surprise came at the end of Kristina’s speech.

* * *

Gotthilf watched as Metzger left the alleyway. He looked over at Byron, and was surprised to see a slight smile.

“What are you grinning about?”

Byron chuckled a bit, even though the smile faded. “We’ve got him. He’ll talk to us.”

“I hope so. You were pretty hard on him there at the end.”

Byron looked at him from under lowered brows.

“He knows what’s happened, and he won’t tell us. That makes him complicit at best, if not an outright accomplice. You know what kind of man he is. Do you think he’d listen to the voice of reason?”

As much as he didn’t want to say it, Gotthilf had no choice. “No.”

“He’ll talk to us,” Byron repeated. “It’s just a matter of when.”

“I hope you are right,” Gotthilf replied. “I really do not want to be in the room with Captain Reilly if they find another floater in the river.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long moment of silence, broken eventually by the up-timer.

“But it could be worse.”

Gotthilf dipped his head and looked at his partner from under his own lowered eyebrows.

Byron pointed south toward the palace. “We could be on parade duty.”

“Point.”

* * *

“I’m having a party, and everybody’s invited!”

There was a bare moment of silence before the cheering redoubled after the princess’ statement. Franz’s jaw dropped, and he looked over at the Magdeburg powers that be, who were beginning to cluster around Senator Abrabanel. He had noted her hanging back, letting all the other notables take the front ranks and present themselves to the princess, her consort-to-be, and to the crowds. After a moment, his mouth closed and he started to chuckle. It was obvious now to anyone with eyes just who held the reins today. All eyes turned to the senator, who started handing out marching orders. Attendant after attendant, most of them young women, left her presence with quick steps, some scattering in different directions but most heading into the palace.

Franz was jolted when Marla grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him through the crowd.

“Where are you going?” he asked in exasperation.

“Inside,” she snapped back, voice still muffled by the scarf.

“What?”

She stopped and turned to face him. “There’s a grand piano in that palace, the one that Girolamo Zenti rebuilt and presented to the princess over a year ago. In the madhouse that’s getting ready to flow into the palace, I don’t expect anyone to be thinking about it. I want in there now to protect it. Now come on!”

Franz now matched his wife stride for stride. Marla’s head was swiveling around, looking through the crowd.

“There!”

She changed course slightly. In a moment, Franz saw the slight figure of Mary Simpson appear out of the crowd as she won free of the crush around the princess.

“Mary!” Marla called out. The admiral’s wife looked around and headed their direction. Marla didn’t even give the older woman a chance to speak, blurting out, “The palace piano! We need to protect it.”

Mary said not a word, but turned and headed not for Rebecca Abrabanel, as Franz expected, but instead for the sergeant in charge of the Marine Guard. That worthy, already looking a bit nervous at the thought of the mass of people getting ready to invade his turf, bent down to listen to her.

Franz couldn’t hear what she said over the crowd noise, but from fingers pointing first at Marla and then at the palace, he got a pretty good idea of the conversation. The conclusion of the short conversation was the detaching of one of the guards into Mary’s charge. He followed her across to Marla as the sergeant turned his gaze back to the crowd.

“Private Brodie here will take you to the piano. You might open it up and start playing something. I suspect that Rebecca will appreciate that touch.”

Brodie them a nod, then turned and headed for the palace with his SRG carried across his body. Marla and Franz followed close behind, following the wagging shako as the crowd moved out of the private’s way.

Once inside, Marla pulled the cap from her head as they followed the private and shoved it and her gloves in her jacket pockets. Next came the scarf, unwound and stuffed into a sleeve of the jacket to keep it from wandering off. She handed the jacket to Franz as they walked through the double doors into the great room of the palace, and made a beeline to the piano, which was set to one side. While she was propping up the lid and opening the keyboard cover, Franz looked over to Private Brodie.

“Our thanks. My wife is protective of any piano, but that one is one of a kind. She’ll guard it like a mother sow with one piglet.”

“Well, if it is that important, maybe I should stand guard,” the private said with a wink.

Franz winked back. “Well, I am certain that the palace staff would appreciate the reinforcement over this rare and costly instrument.” He sobered. “Seriously, it does sound like a good idea.”

“Just you remember to say that to my sergeant if he comes looking for me in here where it’s warm,” Brodie said with another wink.

Franz laughed, just as Marla started playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

* * *

Hans Metzger stalked through the streets of the poorest quarter of the old city. God Above, what was he going to do? If the
Polizei
were going to start coming after him, whether they thought he had a hand in the floaters’ deaths or not, Schardius was going to start getting nervous, and that meant his own days were possibly numbered. One on one, two on one, even three on one he wasn’t worried about dealing with any attackers, be they thugs or even true hard men. But he was under no illusions about Schardius hiring as many bodies as was needed to overwhelm him. Or even just give one of them a pistol and shoot him in the back some night.

But his greatest fear wasn’t for himself. He would take his own chances, and after surviving the sack he figured he was living on borrowed time anyway. But what would he do about Ursula? Ursula, and Simon now? How could he protect them?

Hans started across the east bridge between the Altstadt and the Neustadt. He stopped at the crest of it, and stared over the side at the water flowing from underneath it in the Big Ditch.

What was he going to do?

The water gave no answer.

Chapter 40

It was a long afternoon, and by the end of it Marla was ready for it to be over. She had played most everything she knew, from classical to pop to hymns. Fortunately their friends had started showing up one by one, and she was able to change off with Hermann and Thomas. She was back at the keyboard at the end of the party, however. Most everyone had left by the time she started the Beethoven. She’d almost begun playing it several times during the day, but had held back until now.

She laid her hands on the keys, and waited. For all that it was considered by some up-time authorities to be a lesser work because of its popularity, to Marla, Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor, Opus 27, No. 2—the
Sonata quasi una fantasia,
most commonly known as the “Moonlight” or “Mondschein Sonata”—was quintessential Beethoven. Even more than Chopin, it was the piece that had made her want to study piano at an early age. It was the first adult piece she played in its entirety in a recital. And it was the first piece she had brought back to her exacting standards after her…hiatus.

Eyes closed, head bowed, Marla breathed in and out, and when the moment felt right, lifted her hands and began.

The opening slow arpeggios poured from her long fingers. Even though Marla was focused on the music, a small thought surfaced in a corner of her mind: she never did understand why the nickname of the piece was “Moonlight.” To her the opening movement, with its long quiet flowing themes was much more evocative of water. Her mouth quirked at the thought that it should have been the “Moonlake” Sonata.

Releasing the thought, Marla poured herself into the music, and for several minutes just let the
adagio sostenuto
of that first movement ebb and flow in tempo, ebb and flow in volume, ebb and flow in spirit. At length, the conclusion arrived, and she closed in the soft final chords; peaceful, cleansing, cleansed.

Without more than half a breath, she tripped on to the
allegretto
movement, one that had always felt like a stately dance to her, albeit one with a lilt. Eyes still closed, fingers still unerringly finding the keys, she felt her lips curve in an involuntary smile. It was impossible not to smile when playing such a light-hearted piece.

All too soon the second movement was over, and this time the pause between it and the third movement was even shorter, lasting only long enough to lift the hands from the closing positions and place them to begin the great rolling arpeggios of the
presto agitato.
Fingers flashed as she began at the bottom and rolled up to crashing chords, again and again. Interludes came and went, but always the return to the arpeggios, always the return to the hammered double chords, always the impact of the keys hitting the bottom of their travelings as she treated them almost as percussive instruments.

The final arpeggios rippled and ran down and up the keyboard to an extended trill, a final quiet interlude, then a last outburst of ripples ending in the ultimate chords. She held her hands on the keys as the final sound resonated from the piano, then snatched them away.

“Ha! Nailed it!” she exulted.

Applause sounded around her, and her eyes flew open. She had forgotten where she was, and for a moment she was horrified to see the princess standing close by and clapping madly, with Ulrik behind her with his hand on her shoulder.

Not that Kristina was the only one applauding. The color climbed Marla’s face as she stood to face Mary, and Rebecca Abrabanel, and others of the political elite of Magdeburg and the USE. She inclined her head and shoulders, fuming a little on the inside. Just her luck that she had given what amounted to a mini-recital dressed like a bag lady in everything she owned.

Marla could tell from his expression that Franz, that rat, was holding in laughter. She shot him a look that told him he would pay for not warning her. His response was a further tightening of the lips to repress chuckles that she was certain were threatening to burst forth.

She had to straighten hurriedly, as the princess stepped forward and gravely offered her hand.

“You are Frau Linder, the one who teaches music at the girls’ school, yes? I saw the Christmas concert there. Not last year,” Kristina corrected herself, “but the year before.”

“Yes, you did. I remember seeing you.”

Kristina retrieved her hand after the handshake. “I liked that then. I liked this now. Can you teach me to play like you do?”

Marla got serious. “That would depend: how badly do you want to play, Princess?”

The girl cocked her head and a furrow appeared between her eyebrows. Marla continued.

“I started when I was six, and I practiced five or six hours a week. By the time I was your age, I was practicing eight to ten hours a week. When I was fourteen, it was twelve or more hours a week. And now,” she looked the princess directly in the eye, “I try to get twenty hours a week of practice in.”