1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (39 page)

“Isn’t that Metzger’s young friend Simon up there?”

Byron’s gaze followed the tilt of his head. “Believe so.”

“Is that other group of boys with him or following him?”

“Looks to me like they’re following,” Byron said after a moment.

Gotthilf picked up the pace a little, watching the boys as they drew closer.

“Yah, they’re following, all right. And it doesn’t look to me like Simon is very happy about it.”

Byron nodded. “Yep.”

“Shall we go talk to him?”

“Might’s well. We don’t seem to be finding anyone else to talk to today.”

They sped up their pace until they were only a couple of steps behind the group of boys. One of them looked around. Gotthilf recognized him; Martin, one of the trio he had encountered the last time he had seen Ursula Metzgerinin. That thought brought a frown to his face. He pointed a finger at the boy, and Martin’s face paled at the sight. The big apprentice grabbed his friends by the arms and veered off in a different direction. Gotthilf snorted. Whatever the boy had been up to, he appeared to have had a sudden change of plans.

The two detectives dropped into step with Simon, one on each side of him.

“Hello, Simon,” Gotthilf said.

The boy glanced at him. “Hello, Sergeant Hoch.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

Simon looked back over his shoulder, and relaxed a bit when he saw the other boys were gone.

“It is now.”

“Not friends of yours?” Byron asked.

“No,” Simon said in a low tone. “Not friends of mine. None of them wants to be friends with a cripple.”

“Ah,” Gotthilf said. “Bullying you, were they?”

“Nah,” Simon shook his head. “Not yet. They just said some things, is all. But…”

“But they might have done something if we hadn’t come along.”

Simon shrugged.

They walked a few more steps in silence, then Simon looked up at Gotthilf again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Ask,” Gotthilf replied.

“Why are you and Lieutenant Chi…Chieske bullying Hans?”

Gotthilf’s eyes widened, and he heard Byron snort. Of all the questions that the boy could have asked, that had to rank as one of the most unexpected. He gathered his wits quickly.

“We are not bullying Herr Metzger,” he said.

“Looks like it to me,” Simon insisted. “You keep showing up where he is, or following him or me, and you keep asking questions and pushing.”

Byron looked at Gotthilf over the boy’s head with a sardonic expression and a shrug, as if admitting the boy had nailed them. Which, of course, he had.

“Well, yes, we do keep coming around,” Gotthilf said. “But that’s because we’re pretty certain Herr Metzger knows some things about how some people got hurt.” He carefully avoided the word
killed.
“Those are things that we really need to know so that we can bring the people responsible before a judge.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you care who did it? They were all just poor folks like me, weren’t they? Who cares about us?”

Several more steps passed in silence. “All I can tell you,” Gotthilf finally said, “is why I do. A wise man I respect very much once told me something like this: ‘They are victims, and no victim is ever going to be dismissed as
just
anything. Not on my watch.”

Gotthilf laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder, stopped, and turned the boy so he could look directly down into his eyes. “We may not be able to find out who has been doing these things, but we have to try. And we don’t forget—not on my watch.”

Simon stared up at him unblinking—not that he had to look up that far, Gotthilf conceded in a corner of his mind, given the not so great disparity in their height—for a long moment. At length, he nodded.

“All right. But why Hans?”

“Because we think he knows something that will help us,” Gotthilf said. “And if he does not tell us, someone else might get hurt.”

“Or killed,” Simon said.

“Yah,” Gotthilf agreed. “Or killed.”

“I found one of the deaders in the river, you know,” Simon looked away. “The last one.”

“That’s not in our reports,” Byron spoke up.

“Yah, well, old Johann the fisher came along right after that and took over. But I saw him first.”

The boy swallowed, hard.

“Wasn’t pretty, was it?” The up-timer’s voice was gentle. Byron could surprise Gotthilf, even after working with him now for almost a year.

“No.”

“We want to stop that kind of thing. That’s why we need to know what Metzger knows.”

Simon looked up at Gotthilf one more time.

“Do you think that Hans did it?”

“No,” Gotthilf replied. “But if he knows something, doesn’t tell us, and someone else gets hurt, then it’s just like he did it himself.”

Simon looked down and muttered something low that Gotthilf couldn’t hear.

Gotthilf waited. After a moment, the boy spoke louder. “I don’t know anything, but Hans is real uneasy.” He shrugged. “Can I go now? I have to deliver this package for the candler.” He patted the front of his jacket.

“Sure, kid, take off,” Byron said. “Just be careful.”

Simon turned after a couple of steps and looked at them both. “Hans didn’t do anything to those men.”

“We know,” Gotthilf said.

Simon nodded, turned, and trotted off.

Gotthilf turned back toward the police station, and his partner fell into step with him.

Byron looked at Gotthilf with a sidelong glance. “‘Wise man,’ huh? Well, at least you didn’t call me a wise guy.”

Gotthilf shrugged. “My pastor said you were ‘a man of wisdom, integrity, and insight,’ and suggested I listen to you.”

“So do you memorize everything I say? If you tell me yes, I’m gonna have to be even more careful about talking.”

Gotthilf snorted. “You barely talk now. If you restrain yourself even more, your tongue is going to dry up from lack of use.” He turned sober. “I learn from you every day, Byron. But that statement, from our first day on patrol together, is engraved in my mind and heart. If I live long enough to slip into dotage, it will be the last thing I forget.”

“Well…” The up-timer hesitated. “Thanks…I think.”

* * *

Pietro carefully fitted the plug he’d just finished whittling into the hole in the end of the hollowed out log. Almost perfect. He pulled it out again.

“So, are you done yet?”

He looked up as Ciclope came in the door.

“Almost,
si.
”

“Got the gunpowder?”

“Some.”

“Already?” Ciclope was astounded.

“Brought it with me from Venice,” Pietro said absently, flicking at one spot on the rim of the plug with his knife.

“You
what
?”

“Fellow never can tell when he might need to make a big boom.”

Pietro put the plug back into the opening as Ciclope choked for a moment. It fitted perfectly this time. He turned the log upside down and shook the plug out.

“Seriously?” Ciclope finally got out.

“
Si
. In the bottom of my saddlebags. Not a lot of it, though. I need to find some more.”

He nodded to where two other logs waited, hollows filled and plugs firmly in place. “Had enough for those, though.”

Ciclope moved to stand over them. “So, how long to find enough powder to finish the other two?”

“Not long. I know where I can find some. The moon is dark for the next few nights.”

“So we can move with this soon?”

“
Si.
Soon.”

* * *

At last, Frau Linder appeared in company with Frau Higham. Schardius watched and listened from his shadow.

“So what do you think, Amber?” the younger woman asked. “Are we good to go?”

“Oh, yeah,” Frau Higham replied. “Every show I’ve ever directed was like this at this stage: full of rough edges. It’s coming together well, though, and we’ll be fine on opening night. Trust me.”

“Okay,” Marla replied. “If you say so. I do wish we didn’t have the observer, though. He makes a lot of us nervous.”

“Comes with the territory, kid. Producers and supporters always find a way to get these kind of perks.”

“Mmm.” Marla made a noncommittal noise.

“It’s true. But as long as all they’re doing is just watching the rehearsals, I’m okay with it. But when they start making passes at the girls—or the guys, for that matter—that’s when I start kicking butt and naming names. Nothing like that’s going to happen around one of my shows.” Frau Higham’s tone was quite firm.

“Good.”

“Speaking of which, has Herr Schardius made a pass at you, or anyone else?”

“Not at me,” Marla said in an icy tone. “And he’d better not. I honor my marriage vows and I honor my husband. I’m not for sale, and if he tries anything, you won’t have to act.”

“How so?” Frau Higham asked.

“Think about it,” the younger woman said. She started counting on her fingers. “One—my brother-in-law is Lieutenant Chieske of the Magdeburg
Polizei
. Two—I am very good friends with Mary Simpson, who is very good friends with Senator Abrabanel. Three—I know Prince Ulrik.” She concluded just as two large figures bounded up the steps of the opera house and came to a halt, looming on either side of her.

“And four,” Frau Higham laughed, “you’re a cheerleader for the Magdeburg Committees of Correspondence. Point taken. He’d be lucky to get out of town with his skin intact. You’re probably safer than I am. Hi, Klaus; hi, Reuel.” The two CoC guards returned her greeting.

“I don’t know, you’re a good-looking woman, Amber.” They laughed together. Marla continued with, “But even if I was the sort who was open to that kind of proposition, Herr Schardius is no Johnny Depp.”

“You had a crush on Depp? You and every other teenage girl in Grantville back then, I think.”

“Oh, big-time crush; for about six months.
Edward Scissorhands
is still one of my favorite movies.”

The two women chatted for a few more moments, then exchanged farewells, walked down the steps of the opera house and parted in different directions at the bottom.

Schardius was seething in his shadow, almost trembling; first, at Frau Higham’s denigration of his morals and motives; and second, as he realized that the only major power in the city Frau Linder hadn’t mentioned ties to was Otto Gericke, who was probably the last person Schardius could look to for assistance. Especially in something like this. The young woman was correct: against that rank of names, his ties to the Old Magdeburg
Rat
were nothing. He would have to be very careful.

It took a while, but Schardius contained his anger, forcing it into a corner of his mind, where it coiled and glowed like a forge in a smithy.

Foolish, oh so foolish Marla Linder would pay for her insulting him, he vowed. He would begin by taking care of her obvious object of
amor
. He wondered how long it would take to send someone to Grantville and get back a report. If she thought so highly of this Johnny Depp, then let him suffer for her.

Chapter 46

“Two days?” Otto Gericke asked.

Albrecht, his secretary, handed the radio message form to him so he could confirm what he had been told. It took only a moment for Otto to read it: Emperor Gustavus Adolphus planned to arrive at the docks in Magdeburg in two days.

He looked up from the form.

“Right. Get the word out, Albrecht: Princess Kristina and Prince Ulrik; all the members of Parliament in the city; the palace staff and the commander of the Marine palace guards; the naval base; and the newspapers. Send an unofficial notice to Spartacus and Gunther Achterhof.”

Albrecht nodded. For a moment, Otto wondered why he was still standing there and not moving on getting the notices out. Then it occurred to him that the list was incomplete. He made a sour expression, and said, “And I suppose we should send a notice to the Old Magdeburg
Regierender Rat
. We would never hear the end of it if we left the old city council off the list.”

Albrecht nodded again with a smile, and now headed for his desk to begin drafting messages.

Otto looked at the files on his desk and on the side table, and wondered if there was anything he could get done before he had to start dancing attendance on the emperor.

* * *

“Really?” Kristina’s face lit up with surprise and joy. “Papa will be here in two days?”

“Really,” Caroline Platzer said with a smile.

Ulrik watched as the girl did a little dance of glee around her tutor/governess/friend. He had a smile of his own on his face, but inside he was far from overjoyed. Oh, it was good to know that Gustav would be here soon. The fact that the emperor was apparently back in his right mind was a matter for serious rejoicing, and the fact that he was well enough to travel was the subject of prayers of thanks. But “right mind” and “well enough” did not necessarily equate to “good health,” and Ulrik, along with anyone with a firm grasp of the current political situation in the USE, had some serious concerns about the emperor’s health and future prospects.

Very serious concerns.

A practical concern popped to his mind at that moment, and he walked over to where Captain David Beaton was standing with the Marines currently on bodyguard duty. Like most of his Marines, Beaton was a Scot; in his case, from Skye in the Western Isles. He wasn’t the largest or most fearsome-looking man in his company, but not a one of his men would cross him, and given that he had several Highlanders and even an Irishman or two in his command, that said something about him. Ulrik had found him to be attentive to duty and competent at his work.

“In case no one else thinks of it,” Ulrik said quietly, “it might be a good idea to get that car the princess and I rode in ready for the emperor.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Ulrik nodded, and turned back to the princess.

* * *

Schardius visited the opera house a few times every week, usually at dusk or later, when his appearances would be less noticeable.

By now he knew the inside of the place very well; even the basement, with its maze of storage rooms, equipment closets, stairs, and the under-stage area that was mostly open between the supporting pillars but contained provisions for trapdoors, elevators, and other strange theatrical equipment.