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1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 45

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 45

Chapter 25

Magdeburg Times-Journal

January 15, 1636

A fire broke out yesterday at the construction site of the new surgical wing of the Magdeburg Memorial Hospital in Greater Magdeburg. It was contained and quickly put out by the local fire company, assisted by the members of the construction crew. According to Captain Bill Reilly of the Magdeburg Polizei, injuries were minor, consisting mostly of burns, although one workman was knocked out when he ran into the path of the crane hook just as it started to swing. His workmates picked him up and ran him right next door to the hospital, where he is currently still under observation.

Johannes Kretzer, spokesman for the Schiffer Painting and Contracting firm, managers of the construction project, indicated that the fire was contained to the lumber stores. “We salvaged much of the timber,” Kretzer said. He acknowledged that this would be a setback to the project, however.

No cause of the fire has been determined as of press time today.

****

          Andreas Schardius opened his eyes when Johann Westvol finished reading the article aloud. Westvol and Georg Kühlewein stared back at him; Westvol blankly, Kühlewein with a thunderous expression. Neither of them said a word. That was just as well, Schardius thought to himself. He was not in a mood for their typical idiocy. He had heard up-timers talk about Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but he hadn’t really understood that until after he had embroiled himself in the affairs of these two men. They weren’t even bright enough to say “I’m Dee.”

Well, perhaps they were better than that — they had been effective Bürgermeisters before the sack of the city, after all, in a venal sort of way — but not much.

“You realize, of course, that this fire may have ended your tapping the revenues of this project.” Schardius knew how to deal with untoward events. He was a very successful trader, after all, with all that was implied by that label. So his voice was calm, and steady, and had just the right touch of firmness to it. “At least for a while.” He watched the reactions of his partners carefully.

Westvol was predictable. His eyes widened, for all the world like a five-year-old spoiled child who had just been informed that his greatest wish was not only not going to be granted, neither were any of the other wishes on his current “If you love me you will get me this” list.

“But the newspaper said they put the fire out quickly and salvaged the wood . . .” Westvol began.

“Shut up, Johann,” Kühlewein growled. “He’s right. It doesn’t matter what the article said, Leonhart Kolman told me they lost nearly half of the wood outright, and a lot of what’s left is only usable now to feed the steam engine in the crane. You know the price of wood these days . . . especially the long timbers we had to have brought all the way from the mountains.”

Praise be to God, Schardius thought to himself with more than a touch of sarcasm. Kühlewein just took the lead to be Dee. There might be hope for the man after all if he could recognize reality when it stepped up and slapped him in the face.

Westvol looked like he was going to cry, until his face lit with a sudden smile. Schardius had been waiting for that.

“And no, you can’t file a claim against the accident insurance, Johann.”

“Why not?” the Bürgermeister asked with a note of petulance.

“Do you remember when we were drawing up the project plans and you insisted on the high deductible on the insurance to hold the premium costs down?” Schardius drew his eyebrows together in a serious frown.

“Yessss.” That was drawn out slowly by the hapless Westvol, who was bright enough to see what was coming.

“Well, the cost of the damage is only just a bit more than the deductible.”

“Oh. Then why did we buy the insurance, then?”

“Because you insisted we should.”

Westvol had no response to that, which was just as well. Schardius extended his frown to the fuming Kühlewein, who glared back but didn’t say a word.

“So what are we going to do?” Westvol finally asked.

“We are going to order more timber, pay the costs of the fire company, and have Kolman beat into his people that this cannot be allowed to happen again.”

The meeting tailed off in repeats of that theme. But underneath it all, Schardius had two thoughts. First, a question — was the fire an accident? And second, a desire — if it wasn’t, he really wanted to hurt somebody.

****

          Georg Schmidt was delighted. “Ha! Take that!” he declared, smacking the paper with his hand.

His secretary, Stephan Burckardt, looked around the edge of the office doorway.

“Did you need something, sir?”

“No, Stephan, I do not. The newspaper has given me all I needed.” The smile on his face felt as if it was stretching stiff muscles; which it might have been, given how less than happy he had been of late.

Schmidt gestured expansively. “Go, Stephan. You and the others take the rest of the day off — with pay. Go. I will see you tomorrow.”

Stephan’s head disappeared from the doorway almost as if it had been a figment of Schmidt’s imagination. It reappeared a moment later long enough to say, “Thank you, sir,” then disappeared again.

Georg looked back to the paper, reading the article one more time, smiling as he heard the troop of feet in the hallway headed out the front door.

“Ha!” he exclaimed again. “You think you can beat me, Kühlewein? You and your money man? Oh, no. You will pay for cheating me out of my contract. You will pay dearly.”

He crossed to the window and stared out it, clasping his hands behind him.

“A good start,” he murmured. “A good start.”

This attacked the project, which would hurt all of the consortium who got the project contract awarded to them. But he really wanted to hurt Andreas Schardius. If he hadn’t poked his nose into Schmidt’s business, the other members of that consortium couldn’t have won the contract. So it was Schardius, he decided, more than any other, who deserved to be ruined.

He rocked back and forth on his feet, smiling. His Italian servants would deal with Schardius, he thought, despite all the hard men surrounding the other merchant. Indeed they would.

****

          Otto Gericke read the article and frowned. He made a note to send an official commendation to the fire company, followed by a note to remind himself to ask Captain Reilly when the Polizei would be able to determine if the fire was an accident.

There was a long pause while Otto tapped the pencil against his lips. God Above, he hoped that this didn’t stir up the Committee of Correspondence. That was the last thing he needed right now.

****

          Gunther Achterhof lowered the newspaper.

No one in the room stirred when he looked up. But then, they all knew him, so they all had a good idea of what his reaction would be to the article about the fire.

Gunther started to crumple the paper in one fist. Then, stopping himself, he laid the paper down on the table and smoothed it out. It was the gesture of a man capable of savage fury who was keeping it under control.

He tapped his fingers on the table for a few seconds, ever so gently. “Will,” he said after some thought. “Go to the construction site. Offer some help to the site manager with cleaning up. If he does not accept that, which he probably will not, explain to him that his project is very important to the CoC, and we will be keeping an eye on things in the future. And remind him — gently — that we will object if all the ash and scraps are thrown into the Big Ditch.” Will grinned and bobbed his head. “That water is not clean, but there is no reason to make it worse than it already is.”

“What if he asks what to do with it?”

Gunther shrugged. “Burn it in his steam engine. No-brainer, as Frau Marla would say.”

He rose, and the others rose with him. “Meanwhile, I will go have a quiet conversation with our esteemed mayor.”

****

          Stephan Burckardt stopped in The Chain for a mug of ale as a token of celebration. He didn’t much care for the place; the locals who frequented it were a pretty rough crowd. But it was earlier than usual, and most of them would still be working, so he took the chance. It wasn’t often at all that he was given any kind of reprieve from work. Master Schmidt begrudged him even Sundays and the holy days of the church calendar, and usually managed to find a way to make him spend part of those days laboring at his desk. Stephan didn’t dare complain to the church authorities. All that would accomplish would be angering Schmidt to an alarming degree. Stephan didn’t know what Schmidt would do in that situation. He did know two things, however: Schmidt would not let what he perceived as a challenge to his authority go unanswered; and without a doubt Stephan would not enjoy that answer.

The ale was as bad as always. That was the other reason Stephan came to The Chain. It was the lowest of the low, as far as places to get a mug of ale or beer went. Even though it was located in Old Magdeburg, which most people tried to pretend at least was the home of the best people and the upper society — which thought caused Stephan to bark a bitter laugh — it represented the very dregs of Magdeburg society. And the ale, Stephan confirmed with a sip, was no better than the social ranking of the local patrons. But it was cheap, which was a sterling virtue in the eyes of the overworked and underpaid secretary.

Stephan’s thoughts rolled back to Master Schmidt, while he slowly lowered the level of fluid in his mug. The master had been in a most unusually good mood this afternoon. Whatever caused it must have been in the newspaper, as he had been snarling until the paper hit his desk. But the only thing that was remarkable in the news was the fire at the hospital project. And why would that make the master happy?

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 44

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 44

Chapter 24

          Ciclope actually saw what he believed was the first puff of smoke. He had glanced at the wood yard from a distance as he walked by carrying some tools to the brick yard. He glanced around quickly. No one else had that particular angle of vision on the wood. He almost sagged in relief, but steeled himself to keep trotting with the tools and not look around.

          After some discussion, he and Pietro had agreed to try and set a fire. The wood was costly, so any amount of destruction would work toward their ordered goal. But even though it was costly, it was mostly left unattended. That played into their hands nicely.

Pietro had convinced Ciclope that he could get in and out of the wood yard without being noticed. Ciclope knew his rail-thin companion was adept at getting into and out of places without being noticed. He had been a thief, after all, and from all accounts he had been a successful one. Unsuccessful thieves didn’t last very long in Venice. If the Doge’s guards or the city watch didn’t grab them in the act, the other thieves would rat them out to the guards. It reduced competition among the thieves and gave the guard something to brag about, which meant they’d be a bit less vigilant for the next little while.

But Ciclope had still had his doubts as to whether or not Pietro could get into the wood yard, at least without being noticed by someone. Apparently he could.

So Pietro still remembered how to move like a thief, Ciclope mused to himself as he neared the brick yard. He’d buy the little runt a mug of ale. Now, had he remembered how to set a fire so that it would catch fast and burn hot?

A shout sounded from behind him. He looked around to see flames spreading along the top of the wood piles. From the smoke that was rising, it looked as if the fire was well and truly set.

Looked like Ciclope owed Pietro two mugs of ale.

****

          “Look out below!”

Ciclope jumped back with the rest of the gang he was with just a moment before a barrel’s worth of water splashed over the flaming timber stack they were attempting to pull apart.

“Now!” shouted Leonhart Kolman as the steam crane swung the barrel back toward the Big Ditch to refill it for the next dump. The gang leaped in with their tools and poles as the flames momentarily died down and tipped the top of the pile over to the ground on the other side where the charred timbers and boards sizzled in the pools of water and mud. They spent a couple of minutes making sure that the fire in that stack, if not totally quenched, wouldn’t at least return to a conflagration for some time. Then Kolman looked around, pointed to another stack, and yelled, “Come on!”

Ciclope cursed to himself as he allowed most of the others to get ahead of him. He had to show willingness in this emergency, but at the same time he didn’t want the efforts to be too successful. The crew boss was entirely too good at his job.

“Get out of the way!” someone yelled from behind Ciclope. He jumped to one side just as a stream of water shot past him to splash against the stack the gang had been headed toward. His internal cursing redoubled as he realized that the fire company had finally managed to get their balky steam engine running well enough to start their pump sucking water out of the moat to feed their erstwhile limp hoses.

****

          “I think that has it.”

Ciclope looked up from where he was trying to clean his mud-encased shoes to see Leonhart Kolman talking to the head of the fire company. Both men drooped with weariness. But then, they were no different from anyone else in the construction site. Firemen were slowly dragging their hoses out of the way of the construction workers trying to shovel and rake the charred bits of wood together.

Pietro looked toward Ciclope from the gang he was mustered with. He tilted his head to one side just a fraction of an inch, and a hint of a smile crossed his face; more of a smirk, actually, and it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

Ciclope raised his chin by the same distance. Good job.

          Pietro looked away.

“Stop those men! Now!”

An up-timer by the sound of his accent. Ciclope turned his head to catch a glimpse of a clean — or at least not sooty and mud-soaked — man charging from the main gate of the site toward the leaders. An older man dressed in restrained down-timer finery followed behind, picking his way with care.

Kolman tipped his helmet to the back of his head. Ciclope had observed the man for long enough that he knew this meant the crew boss was about to level some unsuspecting soul.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my construction yard?” Kolman demanded.

“I’m Bill Reilly, Captain of the Magdeburg Polizei, is who I am, and it’s not your construction yard right now, it’s the scene of a possible crime, and your men are destroying possible evidence. Now shut it down!”

Ciclope forced himself to stand still. For all that the up-timer was practically nose-to-nose with the crew boss, Ciclope was still in his range of vision, and he wanted to do absolutely nothing that would draw himself to this man’s attention.

“But . . .” Kolman tried to interject.

“Now!” Reilly roared.

“Do it,” the well-dressed down-timer said as he arrived at their sides.

“But Master Gericke . . .” the crew boss tried again.

“Do it.” Gericke’s words were cold and. “This is a public project, and until the fire company, the Polizei, and I are satisfied that there is nothing criminal going on, this area is under the control of the Polizei.”

Kolman took his helmet off his head and slammed it into the mud, then turned around and began yelling and waving his arms and pulling the construction crew away from the smoldering heap of the wood yard.

Reilly pulled a watch whistle from his pocket and blew a long blast on it. The shrill tone hadn’t ceased sounding when several of the Polizei entered the construction site carrying short poles with cruciform bases and lots of cord. As Ciclope watched, they began cordoning off the wood yard at Reilly’s directions.

Ciclope looked to where Gericke and the fire company head were talking. So that was the famous mayor, he took note. At first glance, he seemed to be not much more than just another burgher. But Ciclope was pretty sure the mayor was a hard man, for all his polish. He eavesdropped on the conversation for a moment.

“Hard work,” Gericke observed.

“Aye,” the fire company head replied. “And in fairness, it would have been a lot worse if the Schiffer people had not improvised a water hoist and dump out of the Big Ditch. Master Gericke,” the man sounded like a man arguing a case before a judge, “we have got to have a better steam engine and pump. We near enough lost everything today because we couldn’t get that balky bitch of an engine to run reliably. This time it was a pile of wood. Next time it will be a house with children in it . . . or a church.”

Ciclope saw Gericke wince at that last.

The saboteur had observed in the city’s taverns that the quickest way to get a group of Magdeburgers frothing mad was to mention how Pappenheim had caused almost all their churches to be burned to blackened shells of masonry. Sad drunks, quiet drunks, jolly drunks; all would transform to narrow-eyed lunatics ready to perform a double orchidectomy on Pappenheim with a rusty broken razor and without the benefit of the new-fangled anesthetic if they only had the opportunity. A very Old Testament attitude. And that was the men. What the women proposed was beyond the Old Testament, and made even Ciclope shudder.

Suffice it to say that the Magdeburgers were sensitive about their churches.

Gericke took a deep breath. “The city cannot pay for it. But have your owners come talk to me. Maybe something can be worked out.”

Ciclope faded back as that conversation ended and Gericke started looking around. He didn’t want to catch that man’s attention either.

Not a bad day’s work, he thought to himself as he joined the throng of men heading for the gate. Not bad at all. A pity no one was seriously hurt, though.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 43

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 43

Simon walked beside his friend, trying to absorb everything that had just been said. “But . . . but he seems so nice and friendly.”

“Does he? Think about what he told me before the fight. Think it over carefully.”

          Simon recalled the words the merchant had spoken. One phrase in particular stood out in his memory, I shall only be disappointed if you lose, Hans. He thought of the expression on the merchant’s face, of the tone of his voice. A realization dawned in his mind.

“He ordered you to win.”

Hans spat. “Yah. Ordered, and threatened.”

Simon shuddered. “Threatened?”

“Oh, I know the words seem mild. But there was a warehouseman who did something to ‘disappoint’ the good master some time back. One day he didn’t come to work, nor the next day. The day after that he was found floating face-down in the river.”

“You think . . .”

Hans was silent for a moment. “Not that it would have done much good, the words of such as us against the word of one of the richest men in Magdeburg.”

Simon was very confused. What was Hans talking about? And if Master Schardius was such a bad man . . . “So why do you work for him?”

Hans was silent for a long time. Then he said: “I was never able to read or write. The school master would write the letters down, but when I tried to read them they twisted around. So I ended up working for Schardius. I don’t like him, but…”

He shrugged. “He pays his warehouse men better than anyone else for that kind of work, and in turn we do some other work for him now and then.”

“Other work?”

“Never mind. You don’t need to know right now. It’s just . . . I needed the money,” Hans muttered. “I still do. It’s the same reason I fight. I need the money to take care of Uschi.”

“But you make enough money to take care of her from your job, don’t you? And she makes money with her embroidery.” Simon was confused.

“It’s not enough,” Hans said. “If something happens to me, she needs money set back, money to keep her. I failed her once; I’m not going to fail her again; never. That’s why I fight.”

Simon had trouble understanding. “What could happen to you?”

“I may have seen something I shouldn’t have seen.”

Hans stopped suddenly and placed both hands on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m not going to tell you to forget what I just told you. I know you won’t. But for the sake of your safety, and for Ursula’s, keep it behind your eyes. Don’t open the gate of your mouth and let it out.” He dropped his hands and started to turn, paused as if a thought had struck him, then turned back. “Unless something happens to me.”

“Nothing will happen to you,” Simon protested.

“Maybe it won’t. But if it does, you go to the policemen, Chieske and Hoch. Especially Chieske. No one else. They’re the only ones who look to be honest, and that up-timer Chieske is a hard man himself. Nobody will turn him. You tell them what I said. But no one else. Understand?”

Simon nodded.

“Promise?”

Another nod.

“Good. Now, I need something to get a bad taste out of my mouth.”

It was not many more minutes before they were at The Chain. Hans walked up to the counter and slapped coins down in front of Veit. “Genever.” Veit produced another of the blue bottles from the table behind him. Hans grabbed it and headed toward a table. Veit turned a spigot and pulled a mug of small beer from its cask and handed it to Simon.

“Fight not go well?” Veit nodded towards Hans where he was sitting alone at a table.

“He won in seven rounds. He’s happy with the fight. It’s something else that’s chewing on his insides.” Simon was faithful to his promise and left it at that.

“Right. If it gets worse, give me the high sign. A moody Hans is not good for the establishment.” Veit winked.

Simon went over and took a seat on the bench next to where Hans was cradling the blue bottle between his palms.

It was some time later that they wandered back to their rooms. Ursula was happy to see them home in one piece. She was not, however, happy about the black eye Hans had received. She let him know in very clear and concise language the extent of her unhappiness, with the aid of a finger pointing in his face. Simon was somewhat surprised to see his friend just stand with a smile on his face and let his sister upbraid him, but he was beginning to understand that Hans would give Ursula anything and everything he could, including being her target if that was what she needed.

When she at length ran out of words and emotional steam, Ursula threw her hands up in the air and exclaimed, “You great lunk, you don’t even care that you got hurt, do you?”

Hans shook his head, still grinning.

Ursula started laughing. “Oh, Hans, what am I going to do with you?” He held his arms out, and she stepped into his embrace. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Hans said, his face gone serious.

“It just bothers me that you fight so much.”

“I know,” Hans repeated. “But we need the money.”

“Do we really?” Ursula pushed back from him. “Or is that just your excuse to fight?”

Hans took the money Tobias had given him from his pocket and placed it in her cupped palms. Then he drew himself up. “I’m good at it, Uschi. I like it. And I’m going to keep doing it, to provide for you.” He spread his hands, shrugged, and turned to his room.

Ursula looked after him and took a step, then stopped. Her shoulders drooped. After a moment, she put the money in her own pocket, then reached over to the table, picked up her cane, and made her way to her own room. “Blow out the candle, please, Simon,” she said over her shoulder in a dull voice.

Simon waited for her door to close. His blanket lay folded on his stool. He sat long enough to take off his boots, then picked up the blanket. Blowing out the candle, he moved to his space in front of the fireplace. A moment later he was rolled up in the blanket, and moments after that his eyes drifted closed.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 42

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 42

Hans looked at him for a moment, then a slow smile crossed his face. “Pigeons, huh?” He looked at the crowd again, then back at Simon. “Mayhap you’re right, boy. And you’re my luck, so I’d best listen to you.” His gaze went down the pit and locked on the other fighter. “So, let’s be about this.”

          Just then Herr Pierpoint came down the other ladder and moved to the center of the pit. Simon didn’t listen as the up-timer went through his usual before-the-fight routine, focusing instead on the other fighter. Whoever he was, he looked to be more of a challenge than the last few men Hans had faced, especially poor Sokolovsky. He stood erect, head up and eyes staring at Hans. There was no fat around his middle; he was lean, and a bit taller than Hans. Simon shivered all of a sudden. Hans might have to work for this one.

Herr Pierpoint pointed to the timekeeper and the bell rang. Hans stepped forward, and the fight began.

In the event, Simon needn’t have worried. This fight was more of a contest than any that Simon had seen before, true. The other fighter was good enough to land a number of solid body blows, and early on he managed to thoroughly blacken Hans’ left eye. But in return, Hans’ relentless pounding just wore the other man down. He dropped in the seventh round.

The crowd went wild — as Simon had come to expect. But even for a fight night crowd, they were very exuberant. He looked at the people leaning over the rail, shouting and pounding on each other. At the same moment, he caught a whiff of the old blood smell from the pit itself. And in a moment of insight well beyond his years, Simon saw that the people cheering for Hans would most likely have been cheering on the dogs in the bear baitings that used to occur in the pit. That almost made him want to throw up, and he only kept his supper in his stomach by gulping hard a couple of times and taking deep breaths.

Hans walked over to Simon after Herr Pierpoint lifted his arm in victory. He was breathing deeply and flexing his hands, but there was a smile on his face. “That was a good fight,” he said. “That man knew what he was doing.” A touch to his left eye brought a wince, but didn’t dim the smile. “A good fight,” Hans repeated. He started whistling again as he donned his clothes, finishing off by plucking his hat off Simon’s head and giving the boy’s hair a ruffle.

Up the ladder they went. Simon had been up and down the ladder so many times over the last few weeks that he’d learned how to balance himself to get on and off at the top and didn’t even think about it now.

“Now, where’s Tobias?” Hans was looking around.

“Ferret-face,” Simon muttered. Hans heard him and laughed.

“There he is.” Hans pointed and they pushed their way through the crowd, accepting congratulation and claps on the back as they moved. In a moment Hans had Tobias by the arm and was watching him count out bills.

Simon counted along with them. “. . . ten, eleven, twelve.” Twelve hundred dollars! Hans was making even more money for each fight. It still amazed Simon that people would pay to see a fight, despite all the proof he had received over the last weeks.

“Twelve for tonight,” Hans said as he pocketed the money. “Next time it’s fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” Tobias almost screamed. “That’s robbery!”

Hans shrugged. “The people pay to come see me. If you want me in your fights, the price is now fifteen hundred dollars.”

Tobias’ eyes nearly popped out of his head. This increased his resemblance to the weasel-like ferrets to such an extent that Simon had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing. They left Tobias wordless and huffing.

“There you are, Hans.” The crowd parted to let Andreas Schardius and his friends through. “You are indeed the Samson of Magdeburg. Congratulations on your win tonight. May it not be the last.”

“Thank you, Master Schardius,” Hans said. Simon could hear a strained note in his voice.

The merchant waved a hand. “I’m so glad you didn’t disappoint me, Hans. If you had lost, well, it would have been costly.” With that, he turned and walked away.

Simon was alarmed. Hans’ hands were fists again. He laid a hand on Hans’ arm. “Hans . . . Hans . . . pigeons, remember.”

After a moment the fists relaxed, but this time there was no smile. “No, Simon, not a pigeon. Not that one. A kestrel, maybe, or better yet, a carrion crow.” Hans spat as if clearing his mouth. “Come on.”

****

          Byron and Gotthilf looked at each other from where they stood on the fringe of the crowd.

“Interesting,” Gotthilf said.

Byron nodded.

****

          The torchlight around the bear pit dimmed behind them. The moon was in half-phase, riding high in the sky, so their way was lit before them. Simon was perplexed, and finally worked up his courage to ask a question.

“Hans?”

“Hmm?”

“Why is Master Schardius not a pigeon?”

Hans spat again. “The preachers say that we are God’s flock, the sheep of His pasture. They might as well say we are the pigeons in His roost. Sheep and pigeons are both stupid, messy, nasty creatures, helpless for the most part. That probably describes most people — certainly the ones you and I know.” They walked a few steps farther on. “But there are always those who prey on the flocks. Call them wolves, or hawks, or carrion crows . . .” Hans kicked a rock out of his path. “. . . but they batten on the misery of others. And some of them . . .” Simon heard the smack of a fist into a palm. “. . . some of them feed on pain. And Master Schardius,” loathing dripped from the title, “he is one of the worst. He misses no opportunity to increase his wealth at the expense of others. I know that he brings stolen property into Magdeburg on his barges. I know that he cheats his customers, giving them short weights when they buy his grain. And I know that he delights in tearing at people to cause pain or to receive gain, and if he can do both at once then he is a happy man.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 41

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 41

Chapter 23

          Ciclope walked up to the gate at the construction site. “You looking to hire anybody?” he asked the burly man standing there with a clipboard in hand and a shallow helmet on his head.

          “Might be. You have any special skills?” The burly man spoke in a gravelly voice without looking up.

“I am strong, I can use a shovel or a pick, and I have laid a course or two of stone in my day.”

“We will be laying brick. It is not the same.”

Ciclope shrugged. “I can learn.”

The man looked him over, seeming to pay more attention to his hands than anything. He looked back to his clipboard as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Go see Heinrich, the mason boss. He should be over by the brick supply in the northeast corner. Tell him I said to give you a try.”

“And you are?”

The man looked up again. “I’m Leonhart Kolman, head crew boss for Schiffer Construction. Remember that name.”

“Got it.” Ciclope nodded.

Kolman focused on the clipboard and jerked his thumb again. “Get moving.”

Ciclope got. Once he was through the gate and past the crew boss, he slowed his pace and looked around. Pietro had hired on two days earlier as a general laborer, and had spent last night describing the layout of the construction site to him. Right: brick pile to the northeast, sand for mortar to the southeast, lumber pile to the northwest, and the excavation site to the southwest. Lots of men hurrying across the site in different directions. And that derrick pointing up to the sky swinging a cable with a load of barrels hanging from it must be the steam crane.

The arsenal masters in Venice must be rubbing their hands at the thought of getting one of those, he thought to himself. Whether the arsenal workers would accept it was another question.

Ahead he could see a group of men gathered together by the great mound of bricks on pallets. One was talking and gesticulating, the others were gathered around him. That was probably the mason boss.

Ciclope squared his shoulders and headed for him. He needed to convince the man to keep him on, or he and his partner would have a much harder time figuring out where to do their sabotage.

Maybe those months he spent apprenticed to that sot of a mason in Dresden all those years ago would come in handy after all.

****

          Every day after he swept at Frau Zenzi’s, Simon would give a scrap of food to Schatzi. Most nights he would then go back to the rooms and spend the time nibbling on whatever food was on the table that night while Hans and Ursula talked, or while Ursula would read the Bible aloud to them.

But on some nights, perhaps every fortnight or so, Hans would meet him when he was done and they would go to the bear pit. The quality of Hans’ opponents did improve somewhat, but no one that Simon had seen gave the hard man a real challenge.

Tonight was one of those nights. Hans was waiting on him when he stepped out the door. “Come on.” He pounded a fist into the opposite palm. “It’s fight night.”

“Okay.” Simon kept on the lookout for Schatzi as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of her in the dimming evening light. He hoped the little dog was okay.

The walk out to the bear pit went quickly. Neither of them spoke much. Hans was in a good mood. His battered hat was shoved back on his head, letting his hair escape its confines. Simon looked over at his friend, walking along with his shoulders back and his hands tucked in his belt, whistling. Hans seemed immortal, indestructible.

The crowds had already begun to gather when they arrived. Simon saw Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeant Hoch walking among the voluble men. The lieutenant raised his head a bit when he saw Simon, then winked at him.

“Hans!” someone called out, which caused them to veer away from the pit. Simon’s eyes followed their new direction to see a man approaching with several companions. He was of middling height and build, shorter than Hans and definitely not as wide, dressed very well with a large gold ring on one hand. “Hans,” he exclaimed again in a resonant baritone, “I have been hearing of your exploits in the pit, and have come to see for myself.” He clapped a hand on Hans’ shoulder.

“It is good of you to come, Master Schardius,” Hans replied with a quick bob of the head and shoulders. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

So this was Hans’ employer, Simon realized, the very prosperous corn factor whose warehouse Hans labored in during the daylight hours. He looked at the man with fresh interest, only to be somewhat disappointed. Somehow he’d expected a man of Master Schardius’ wealth and reputation to be . . . larger, somehow more impressive.

“I shall only be disappointed if you lose, Hans.” The merchant squeezed his shoulder, then turned back to his friends. “Now, who will take my bets on Stark Hans? Anyone for even money? No? Then what odds will it take . . .”

The merchant wandered off. Simon noticed that Hans’ hands were fisted by his sides. “Hans? What’s the matter?”

Hans stood motionless for a long moment, then heaved a long breath in and out. “Nothing. Come on.” He turned back toward the pit. Simon followed, hearing the murmurs of “Stark Hans” all around them.

They climbed down the ladder into the pit, where Hans as usual took off his jacket and shirt and placed them on a ladder rung. His hat went on Simon’s head. The gloves went on his hands. He swung his arms a bit, but was staring off toward the crowd instead of his opponent. Simon grew concerned.

“Hans.” No reaction. “Hans!” Still no reaction. He reached out and touched his friend. Hans started and looked over at him. “The fight, Hans. Look at him,” Simon pointed to the other end of the pit, “not all those overstuffed pigeons who came to see you beat him.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 40

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 40

She stepped to one side and Franz stepped forward. “One, two, three,” he counted. The three violinists began, playing unison notes, low-pitched and regular on the beat. At the end of the second measure, Marla opened her mouth.

“Do you hear the people sing,

          Logau sat, transfixed. He almost forgot to breathe. God above, the woman’s voice was like nothing he had ever heard. He had heard her sing from a distance once, but to be in this room, to sit almost within arm’s reach of her, and to hear her sing so . . . so indescribably. For once, he, the man of words, had no words at hand that could describe such a sensation.

The song was short, and all too soon Marla’s voice ceased sounding. Logau twitched and sat up straight, taking a deep breath.

“Good,” Marla said matter-of-factly. “We’ll work the parts some more later, but that was good. Now with the German words, so Herr Logau — Friedrich — can hear his work and judge its fitness. From the top, gentlemen.”

Again Franz gave the count; again the violins began the low rhythmic pulsing. Again Marla’s lips opened, and beauty poured forth.

Logau forced himself to ignore the siren song of Marla’s voice and concentrate on the words. Image followed image: angry men singing, men who would no longer be slaves, men responding to the sound of the drums, all for the sake of tomorrow. Then came the verse calling these men forth to stand forth and be a part of reaching that future.

The chorus of angry men sounded again. It was followed by the second verse calling men to sacrifice and martyrdom. And then the chorus again, the final time, flutes skirling and violins somehow evoking martial airs.

The last line rang out, and the song again came to a close. Logau closed his eyes for a moment, calming his heart. He opened them again, to find the gaze of all the others fixed on him.

He licked his lips, for a moment uncertain. “Frau Marla, are you sure . . .” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you certain you want to sing this song, now, the way things are?”

“Now, yes, by all means now,” Marla replied forcefully. “This song was made for this time. I will stand before the face of the chancellor and throw this in his teeth if I must. Just watch me.”

Logau looked around the room, suddenly aware that he was an alien in this group. Thomas and Hermann echoed Marla’s smile. The others, even young Johann Amsel, who was not much more than a youth, wore hard-eyed expressions. He was struck by the resemblance to a painting he had once seen of Alexander the Great surrounded by his captains. He saw in this room that same edge, that same ferocity, that same obdurate hardness that was in the faces of the captains in that picture. Being on the receiving end of those stares was not a comfortable sensation.

He stood, gave a slight bow to Marla, and addressed her formally. “As you will, Frau Linder.” He was not astonished to hear that his voice was a bit unsteady. He stepped to the table and collected his hat, then turned to face them all again. “And do you know when you will unleash this upon an unsuspecting world?”

Marla’s face softened, the smile slipping away. “On January 19th, at the Green Horse Tavern.”

Logau gave a final nod. “I will be there.” He settled his hat on his head, touched his walking stick to the brim. “Good day to you, Frau Linder, meine Herren.”

****

          After the door closed behind Logau, Marla sighed and looked around. “That’s all for today, guys. Can we meet at our house in two days?”

There were murmurs of assent as the others cased instruments and gathered coats. They left quietly, leaving Marla standing with Franz. He set his violin on the table and came and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her beneath her chin and resting his hands on the opposite shoulders. She leaned back against him, drained, almost exhausted, and pressed her hands against her face for a moment. “Am I crazy to be doing this?” She dropped her hands and turned in his embrace to rest her head on his shoulder.

“God, Franz, I . . .” Her voice broke, and she could feel tears forming in her eyes.

“Shh, shh,” Franz said. His hand rose to cup the back of her head, beneath the rubber band that was holding her pony tail. “If you feel it needs to be done, then it is not a crazy thing.”

“It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . I never cared about politics in my whole life, but what the chancellor wants to do . . . that world would kill me. I couldn’t live in it. And it would kill my babies. I’ve already lost Alison. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” Marla gulped.

“Shh,” Franz said again. His embrace strengthened, until she felt for a moment as if she were held in oak. “It is enough that you feel this must be done. We will do it; for you, and for Alison’s memory.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 39

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 39

Chapter 22

          Logau cursed as he trotted down the street, feet crunching on the gravel, one hand holding his hat on his head and the other grasping his walking stick. He was supposed to have met with Frau Marla and her friends a quarter-hour ago, and he was late. It was his own fault, too. If he hadn’t started doodling with another epigram, he would have been there in plenty of time. Of course there wasn’t a cab for hire within sight. And he’d come away from his rooms with his evening walking stick, instead of his morning walking stick.

Some days the world just conspired against him, he was sure of it.

He was headed for the Royal Academy of Music, which was located across a plaza from the new opera house in the southwest corner of the Neustadt section of Old Magdeburg. Rather than take one of the narrow bridges across the Big Ditch into the Altstadt, then have to cross it again to get to the Neustadt, he turned north on the boulevard that paralleled the canal and followed it, dodging women waving broadsheets and newspapers for sale, wagons, carts, drays, animals and swearing teamsters alike until he got to the cross road that ran through a gate in the rebuilt city walls into the Neustadt.

Once he was through the gate Logau slowed to a fast walk. It would not do to arrive at the rehearsal out of breath, after all. He adjusted his jacket, flicked a bit of lint from his lapel, and tilted his hat to its proper angle just as he reached the steps to the academy.

Inside the building, not having a clue where he was to go, he stopped a student. “Can you tell me where to find Room VI?” he asked.

“Down this hall, turn right at the first cross-corridor, then about half-way down it on the left,” the young woman replied.

“My thanks. I’m to meet Frau Linder there.”

“In that case,” the student laughed, “just follow your ears after you turn the corner. She’s already in full voice.”

Logau touched his walking stick to the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, and the young woman dropped a curtsey before scurrying on her way. He in turn made his way to the designated corridor and rounded the corner. No sooner had he done so than he realized why the young woman had laughed. The unmistakable sound of Frau Linder’s voice filled the hallway, even though the door to Room VI was shut. “They need to invent a way to deaden the sound,” he muttered to himself.

He knocked on the door just as the singing stopped. A moment later, the door was opened by a young man that Logau didn’t recognize. “Ah, Friedrich, you’re here. Let Herr Logau in, Rudolf. He’s playing a part in this.” The young man stepped aside, and Logau entered the room, doffing his hat as he did so. There was a table conveniently by the door already burdened by coats, so he laid his hat atop the pile. He unbuttoned his coat, but left it on as he was still feeling the chill from his brisk walk.

Marla came and took him by the arm. “Everyone, this is Friedrich von Logau, writer, poet, and epigrammist. He’s the wordsmith who gave us the German words for this song. Friedrich, let me introduce you to the guys.”

Friedrich paid close attention as Marla introduced the men in the room: the brothers Tuchman, Rudolf and Josef, who smiled and nodded; Thomas Schwartzberg, tall and lanky, who gave an easy grin; Hermann Katzberg, short enough to almost be a dwarf; Isaac Fremdling, dark and intense, standing with arms crossed; Paul Georg Seiler, dour but still giving a nod; and three of the Amsel brothers, Matthaüs, Marcus and Johann, alike as three sons of the same parents could be, with only the difference in their years providing any solid clue as to which was which.

These were the men in Marla Linder and Franz Sylwester’s inner circle. He noted them and made sure he knew the names and faces. These were the men who had come to Magdeburg and coalesced into a nucleus of musicians around which the new music seemed to pour out like water from a fountain. It behooved him to know them, and know them well.

“My thanks to you all,” he responded to the introductions. “I am here to simply see how my words fit with the music. Do not let me stop or interfere with anything.” He looked around for a chair, but saw they were all occupied. There was only a stool in one corner. He strode over and took a seat, resting his chin on his clasped hands atop his walking stick.

For the next half hour he was a silent witness to a master at work. The Amsels and Paul Georg Seiler were also just observers, but the others provided three violins, two flutes, and a harp. Marla worked with them as separate groups first: beating time; leading them to phrase certain notes together; adjusting the tempo here, the volume there; cajoling, urging, driving them to achieve a fusion of sound. Friedrich noticed that both Franz and Matthaüs Amsel were making notes along the way.

At the end of the half hour, Marla brushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, looked at them all, and said, “All right, let’s try it together. English first.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 38

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 38

One day the door to the bakery opened just as Simon was reaching for the handle, and he looked up to see two familiar figures coming out of the bakery. Startled, he hesitated for a moment, then stepped down and to one side. They came down the steps and turned to face him.

          “I know you,” the short one said — Sergeant Hoch, Simon reminded himself. “You’re Hans Metzger’s young friend, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at the fights.”

Simon fought the urge to duck and straightened instead. “Yes, sergeant. Hans calls me his luck, so I go with him to all the fights.”

“You must be good luck,” Lieutenant Chieske laughed, “because I haven’t seen him lose yet.”

“And you won’t,” Simon replied fiercely. “Hans is the best.”

Both men nodded. “He is indeed,” Sergeant Hoch said.

“Tell me your name again, boy,” the tall up-timer said.

“Simon. Simon Bayer.”

“Well, Simon, no fighter stays on top forever. There comes a time where, if nothing else, age will slow him down. There’s always someone younger, faster, stronger, just waiting for that to happen.”

“Did you have fights in the up-time?” Simon asked, intrigued.

“Oh, yes. And they were a big deal, too. Men would fight at the town and state level, men would fight at the national level, men from different countries would even fight at the world level,” the up-timer said. “Todd Pierpoint used to fight when he was young, back before the Ring of Fire.” Lieutenant Chieske grinned. “Heck, even Mike Stearns used to fight professionally.”

Now Simon was really surprised. “The prime minister used to be a fighter?”

“Former prime minister,” the up-timer corrected. “And yes he did, until like I said, he ran into a man who was younger and faster. He might not have been stronger, but he was younger and faster, and according to Mike he just about took Mike’s head off.”

“Huh.” Simon thought about that. A man who called Emperor Gustavus by his first name used to fight like Hans did. His mind swung in circles as he tried to grasp that. “Was he a world fighter?”

“No!” Chieske laughed. “Mike was never that good. But even now, when I’m sure he’s slowed a step or two, I wouldn’t want to face him. The point is, your friend Hans won’t always be able to fight like this. There will come a time where, even if he doesn’t lose, he starts getting hurt. That will be the time when his friends will need to talk him out of fighting. Friends like you, maybe.” The up-timer gave Simon a sobering look.

Simon didn’t want to think like that. He wanted to think that Hans would always win, would always come out of his fights with barely a mark on him. But Lieutenant Chieske’s words crawled into his mind, settled in the back of it and wouldn’t leave. He looked away, then made himself look back to the policemen and nod.

Faint expressions of surprise and respect crossed their faces, and they nodded in return as if to an equal. With that, they took their leave and left

Simon looked at their backs, disquieted. After they rounded the corner, he turned and went into the bakery. He said nothing, just went to where the broom was stored and started sweeping. A few minutes later, Frau Zenzi came into the room.

“Oh, good, Simon, you’re here. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yah. I came in after the policemen left.” He continued sweeping while he talked. “Frau Zenzi?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know those two policemen?”

“Oh, yes, for some time now.”

“Are they good men?”

Frau Zenzi stopped what she was doing and straightened up. “Yes, they are. They saved my Willi.” Willi was the blind boy that Zenzi and her husband had adopted several weeks ago. He usually worked in the back of the bakery. Simon remembered some kind of to-do over his coming to them, but none of the details would come to mind. “They protected him and brought him to me. They come often to see Willi. They are good men, for all that one of them is an up-timer and the other one is the son of a patrician family.” Her voice was rock solid, so much so that you could have used her statement for a foundation stone. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” Simon replied. “It’s just that they keep coming around my friend Hans, and I cannot figure out why.”

“Hans. Is he the man that meets you outside the shop some nights?” Her tone was disapproving.

“Uh-huh.” Simon kept his head down as he swept.

“Simon, he looks to be a hard man, one who knows things and people that you should not know.”

He stopped and looked her in the eye. “He is not like that, Frau Zenzi. He is a good man. He has a job and he works hard at it. He’s got a crippled sister at home that he takes care of. He takes care of me, too. He is not an evil man, or wicked.”

Zenzi’s expression was still doubtful. “If you say so, Simon. But mind you, if you ever need someplace to come, if trouble comes, you come to me.”

Simon ducked his head again. “Yes, Frau Zenzi.”

She stared at him a while longer while he swept, then left the room. When he was done and had put the broom away, she gave him a loaf of bread, tilted her head with a wry expression, and patted him on the shoulder without a word. He left the bakery wondering what that was all about.

****

Byron looked down at his partner. “Any chance the boy could tell us anything?”

“Could, maybe,” Gotthilf replied. “That’s if he knows anything at all. He appears to be a recent acquaintance for Metzger, after all, and why would Metzger tell a young boy like that anything? But if the boy does know something, whether he would say anything or not is another matter. He seems to be very attached to Metzger, and I doubt he would say anything without talking to him first.”

“Okay.” They walked along in silence, eyes moving this way and that, watching the street around them. “But we’ve got to get a break somewhere. If we don’t find a lead soon, the captain’s going to tell us to move on to another case.”

“Yah.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 37

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 37

Chapter 21

          “Good morning, Frau Simpson,” the man waiting in her parlor said as Mary Simpson entered the room. She made a lightning assessment with a single glance, a skill that had served her well since early in her days in Pittsburg. The man was of middling height, middling years, middling size, dressed well but not with ostentation.

          “Good morning, Herr Schardius,” Mary responded. She waved to a chair opposite the small settee she preferred for her seat. “Please, sit with me. Coffee will be here in a moment.” She could hear Hilde coming down the hall with the tray.

Hilde entered the room and set the silver coffee service on the low table in the center of the seats. Then, after looking to Mary for direction, retreated to a corner.

Mary leaned forward, poured the coffee, and offered a cup to her visitor. “What can I do for you, Master Schardius?”

“Perhaps it is more what I can do for you, Frau Simpson.” He took a sip from his cup, smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “I understand from some of my friends and associates that you, or rather, the Royal and Imperial Arts Council, intend to produce a new opera soon.”

“As it happens, your friends and associates are correct; we will be staging a new opera entitled Arthur Rex.” Mary set her own cup down and steepled her fingers below her chin. “Kappellmeister Schütz is writing it even now. He says he will be done soon, so we are preparing for the production.”

“Good.” Schardius looked into his cup for a moment. “I am here to offer to underwrite a portion of the production; a quarter at least, perhaps as much as a third.”

“Good Lord!” the exclamation slipped from Mary’s lips. “I mean, we are very thankful for the offer and certainly appreciate it, but it is most unexpected.”

“As it happens,” Schardius gave a thin smile, “I appreciate great music. I spent some time in Venice a few years ago, you see, where I was able to hear Monteverdi’s works in the Cathedral, and occasionally at some noble’s house. I even managed to hear the first performance of Il Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda.”

Mary was impressed despite herself. “I envy you that, Master Schardius.”

He shrugged. “It was good, and it certainly instilled in me a hunger to hear music of that scale. It is a hunger that, until recently, has mostly gone unfed.” Mary raised her eyebrows, and Schardius nodded. “Yes, the music that has been presented during the last two years by your band of musicians from and through Grantville — that has fed the hunger, yet at the same time raised it. I have seen almost every performance, great and small, and I want more, both in amount and in kind. So here I am, willing to pay for what will feed my insatiable appetite.” Another shrug. “Business has been good, this year.”

“And what do you want for your support, Master Schardius?”

His eyebrows rose for a moment, and his head tilted a bit, as if he were considering her seriously for the first time. After a moment, his expression evened itself out again, but for the sharp glitter in his eyes.

“As I said,” Schardius replied, “I am hungry and thirsty for great music, so I would expect to be allowed to observe rehearsals.”

“I think not,” Mary said. “The director would never stand for it.”

“Twenty percent,” Schardius offered.

Mary shook her head.

“Twenty-five.”

“No.”

“Thirty percent,” Schardius said, and a hard tone had entered his voice for the first time.

God, Mary thought, he’s serious about this. And I can’t afford to lose that much revenue. Surely Amber will understand that.

“You will not sit on the stage or in the wings,” Mary said as gracefully as she could. “Only in the audience seats or one of the boxes.”

“Agreed.”

“And you will not interfere with the director, or her instructions to the cast.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing so. I simply wish the pleasure of observing. I think we are witnessing a new moment in the arts.”

Mary could hardly quarrel with that, since she thought the same herself. No one in Europe, not even in Italy, has ever seen the sort of opera — grand opera, it was rightly called — that was about to be performed in Magdeburg.

“Very good, Master Schardius, we will accept your generous offer.” She stood and held her hand out.

He came to his feet, and took her hand in his. “Have your man of business send an accounting of what is needed to my office at the Schardius corn factorage and warehouse. I will send the money as soon as I can after I look it over.”

“Thank you.” Mary thought that he might be a bit surprised when it turned out that her “man of business” was Lady Beth Haygood.

“And with that, I must return to my office. Today promises to be a busy one for me, but I did want to speak with you today.” Schardius turned away, then turned back. “Oh, will Frau Linder be one of the singers in the opera?”

“Well, casting has not been done yet,” she said, “but I would be very surprised if she isn’t.”

“Splendid!” Schardius said. “I have been told she’s a marvelous singer. I look forward to hearing her.”

Mary smiled in return. She had long experience with patrons of the arts. Even the most hard-bitten businessmen and financiers could turn into fan boys when presented with attractive female performers. Occasionally that could become a bit of a problem, but it was usually harmless enough. And there was no denying that such enthusiasms tended to open wallets still wider.

She rose to her feet. “Hilde, show Master Schardius out, please.”

****

          Simon was developing a reputation as a reliable messenger and delivery boy. His new clothes made him a bit more presentable in the eyes of the businessmen of Greater Magdeburg, and he found himself in some demand. Even so, he never neglected Frau Zenzi. Every day he would appear at the bakery’s door not long before sundown to do the sweeping.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 29

This is the last chapter that Ryk wants snippeted.

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 29

Chapter 29.

          A smell of caution and deviousness preceded the voice, so Wu was already turning in that direction when Oscar Naraj, dressed in one of his more conservative white suits, spoke. “Good morning, Captain Austin. You seem to be going out early.”

          “Ambassador.” Ariane nodded to him. She smells a lot less cautious around him these days. I really have to remind her that he always smells like he has something planned! “And you’re looking rather dressed up. Going somewhere yourself?”

“In fact, I have what should be an all-day meeting with a number of moderate-sized factions, including the Tantimorcan, Dujuin, and Tensari. There will be considerable dancing… in the metaphorical sense. Perhaps in the actual sense, as well.”

Oasis joined them, looping one more hair-tie into place around the fourth of her ponytails. “That would be fun.”

“If you’re sure it won’t distract you from your duties,” Oscar said, but in a tone that was only half-serious. “Even the entertainment may be part of the business.”

“Oh, I understand that, Ambassador — and you have my word I’ll always be watching.”

She smiled at Wu, who smiled back, but felt a little uneasy. After DuQuesne explained what had happened… I am sad for them both. I know she still likes DuQuesne a lot. And it’s also sad for the real Miss Abrams; she’s herself… but not.

“Good luck,” Ariane said. “The Tantimorcan are apparently some of the best shipbuilders in the Arena.”

White teeth flashed in the dark face. “I was very much aware of that, and I hope to capitalize on their current alliance with Orphan to make closer ties. The Tensari are potentially more interesting in a cultural exchange sense, which is useful for establishing deeper connections to people throughout the Arena. What about you?”

“Sethrik is going to show me one of their ships today,” she answered. “I have to hand it to Ambassador Ni Deng,” she said, and bowed to the feathery-haired woman as she caught up with the other two. “I wasn’t sure we wanted to spill those beans to the Blessed, but she was right about the result.”

Oscar chuckled, and Ni Deng looked down modestly. She does smell pretty proud of herself. “I did tell you she was quite good at this sort of thing. After her talks — and a few of mine — with both Sethrik and Vantak, we were quite certain that the last thing the Blessed want is for our connection with Orphan to become much closer. Letting them ‘accidentally’ discover that the Liberated is giving us a small but significant number of vessels? I was certain it would push them to try to convince us that the Blessed could do much more for us.”

“And you were dead right,” Ariane said. “Thank you, Michelle.”

“My pleasure… Ariane.”

Ariane hesitated before moving, and Wu sensed she had made a decision. “Oscar, we really have accomplished a lot since we got here, I think, and despite the original… issues between us, we’ve been working well enough together. Do you think that we can simply keep what works, now?”

Oscar Naraj hesitated; Wu smelled a lot of conflicting emotions, finally firming into some kind of resolve. “May I speak entirely frankly, Captain Austin?”

“Please.”

“Captain, you are quite correct that we have accomplished a great deal so far. And I will certainly agree that one of your major points — that anyone who is to be the Leader of the Faction of Humanity must truly understand the Arena — was entirely valid. But –”

“Why did I know a ‘but’ was coming?”

“Because you are quite aware that this is a job for which you are utterly unsuited,” Oscar replied bluntly. “We have gotten this far to a great extent on luck — something you have admitted freely. The future of the human race cannot be left to luck, or to the fact that you have that charming ‘straight-shooting’ reputation, Captain. This sort of thing is a profession, and you need professionals in charge — for the sake of our entire species. I hope that you will agree to this and we can choose an appropriate successor.”

“Like you?”

“I would certainly like to believe I am a prime candidate,” Naraj said. No, thought Wu as his posture and smell shifted a bit, you’re absolutely sure you’re the right guy. Phfah! “I have now had months in the Arena, I have come to understand a great deal about the political and social dynamics that drive it, and the Factions are beginning to recognize me and speak with me as a representative of Humanity.”

His voice and expression were sympathetic. “Captain — Ariane — I know how you must be terrified that the next person will mess up everything. And for an unprepared pilot, you have done extraordinarily well in taking on this immense challenge. But I think you need to accept that you don’t have to prove anything any more.”

“What?” Her voice was incredulous, but Wu caught a whiff of uncertainty. She… really isn’t sure she’s the right person. Which kinda makes me think she is, but that probably doesn’t make sense.

Ni Deng started to say something, then closed her mouth, let Naraj continue. “You brought us into the Arena, Captain. You pulled off several miracles to get back. You’ve come back, you’ve solidified our relations with multiple factions — with my help, and that of your original crew. And I know that every day you’re worried you, or someone under you, will do something to ruin it all. And you don’t have to have those worries any more.”

His voice was gentle, earnest, and Wu felt that at least some of that was honest. “You don’t have anything more to prove to the world, to the Arena, or for yourself. You have done the job, and done it much better than anyone could ever have expected. Now let someone else pick up that burden. We will need you, Ariane, in your original field, as a pilot. Unless a faction like the Blessed truly allies with us — and possibly even then — we will be at war with the Molothos soon enough. We will need commanders, pilots, people to help us fight that war. People like you could be the Admirals and Captains of our fleet, the fleet that is being delivered right now.” He glanced up. “I’m not pressing you to do anything now, Captain. Just… think about it, please. Don’t shut out the truth because we started out on a poor footing — partly my fault, I admit.”

“I… I will think about it, Ambassador.”

“Then that is all I can ask for now.” He bowed and the three headed out the Embassy doors; the quick glance Oasis gave over her shoulder told Wu that she wasn’t buying the whole speech either.

Ariane stood still for a moment, and Wu could sense the conflict in her. He touched her arm. “Hey.”

She jumped. “What… sorry.”

“Don’t let him bother you.”

“He might be completely right,” she said, and headed for the door. He followed. “But … thanks. And I’m sure not making any decision like that by myself. If I did… he would be right.”

Once out in the bustling crowds of the Arena, she cheered up, and that made him happier too.

Having been there twice already, Wu knew the way to the Docks, which made it a lot easier to watch the crowd around them. This was always the hardest part of watching over someone; being in large crowded areas you couldn’t control. But scanning the crowd, he saw nothing suspicious. Now that he’d been here a while, he recognized a lot of alien body language and could sort out most basic moods from scents easily. Lots of people notice Ariane, but I’m not seeing anyone that looks hostile.

Suddenly Ariane shifted direction slightly, and he followed her to one of the big Powerbroker areas. “Powerbroker Ghondas! Nice to see you again!”

The images he’d seen hadn’t gotten across the sluglike creature’s full size and mass; Ghondas probably weighed close to a ton.

The four-pointed head sagged and rose in acknowledgement. “Ariane Austin of Humanity. It is well to see you again also.”

“I wanted to introduce you to my bodyguard, Sun Wu Kung. Wu, this is Ghondas, one of the most senior Powerbrokers.”

He bowed deeply. “It is an honor!”

“Greetings and welcome to you, Sun Wu Kung.” The head sank and rose again, and turned back to Ariane. “Do you have need for our services this day?”

“Not today. I was wondering if you have seen Orphan of late.”

“About five days ago, the Survivor stopped to re-charge Zounin-Ginjou and left immediately. He has not been back since.”

That fits, thought Wu. That would be when they headed back for the second half of the fleet. That means they should be back here any day now!

“Thank you, Ghondas. Well, we have an appointment, so we’d better get moving.”

“Good day to you, then.”

The Docks were busy — dozens of ships being serviced, thousands of tons of cargo being moved, and hundreds of species of people running, jumping, oozing, or otherwise moving around. I don’t even recognize a lot of these! Wow! There’s so many new things to learn!

Ahead, the tall green and black form of Sethrik became obvious. “Captain Austin, Sun Wu Kung, thank you very much for coming. I greet you in the name of the Minds and the Blessed.” He gave a pushup-bow and leapt easily to his feet. “Please, follow me.”

They walked nearly a mile down the Docks; Sethrik was obviously not rushing them and would often point out details of the vessels they were passing, and Wu realized that the Blessed leader was enjoying himself. He smells… pretty much relaxed. Happy. He’s been slowly getting more like that for the last few weeks.

“I am truly glad that we have this opportunity,” Sethrik was saying to Ariane. “It is … often difficult to guess what the Minds will do under given circumstances. Not, of course, because they are themselves unpredictable or arbitrary, but because they tend to think so much farther ahead, and take into consideration so very many factors that even one such as myself simply cannot grasp the whole of their strategy. Thus it is quite gratifying that they have responded to the situation as I hoped.”

Ariane smiled, and her mood had clearly lifted as well. “You really hated the way we ended up in conflict, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely detested it, Captain.” His smell reinforced the statement.

Finally Sethrik stopped and gestured. “Allow me to present to you Thilomon, one of the Minds’ finest flagships in the Arena.”

To Wu’s eye, Thilomon was not as pretty as Zounin-Ginjou. Thilomon was a ship of lines, angles, few smooth curves. But he had to admit the lines were clean, sweeping forward and back like the shaft and head of an arrow, with symmetrical lines here and there indicating weapons emplacements, defenses, hatches, and very different rippling lines for the guidance sails. He thought that Zounin-Ginjou was also somewhat larger, but it was really hard to tell; both ships were very big.

For a few minutes, Ariane and Sethrik stood looking at Thilomon, Sethrik narrating a long list of features which, honestly speaking, Wu didn’t really care about. He spent his time surveying the crowd. A Tomekeir caught his eye; the tall, three-legged creature looked very like the one he thought had orchestrated the duel he’d gotten caught in. Wonder if he’s up to anything now…?

“But come, let me show you the inside. We have of course not yet refurbished it for human needs, but I am sure that from the point of view of your researchers there is much to learn from seeing our construction.” Sethrik began to lead the way up the boarding ramp, Ariane following. Wu followed closely; Thilomon was a nice bulwark behind his back, so any real threat, if any, would be on the Dock.

The Tomekeir seemed to be looking at him, but then shifted gait and continued up the Dock.

The distraction was almost fatal. Wu caught the motion from the very corner of his eye — high up, one of the loading cranes on the other side, flash of light –

He lunged backward, shoving Ariane — and with her, Sethrik — inside Thilomon‘s airlock entry, outside of which they had just been standing.

Something blazed off the edge of the hatchway, leaving afterimages, a scent of heated metal and burned composite, and a black scar. That might have gone straight through Ariane if I hadn’t…

“Stay hidden, Captain!” he shouted, and bounded down the rampway. Another streak of light, this one aimed at him, scorched the deck. Behind him, he heard Sethrik say “Close the doors! They cannot shoot through the hatch!” and heard the sound of the lock door sliding shut.

Good. One less thing to worry about.

The sniper was trying to take aim, and Wu’s eyes could make out that it was a Genasi, same species as Tunuvun. But it’s not Tunuvun, I can tell that.

The energy rifle fired and missed again; Wu had read the posture, seen the faintest tensing, jumped just as the trigger was pulled. Ha! he thought, now to the base of the crane, grabbing, scrambling up. Take more than that to –

The Genasi threw away the rifle into the empty space beyond the Dock and flipped something else down with his other hand.

Net! Spun as he threw it, opening just as it’s reaching me –

But if you reached and twisted and spun just right, you could catch a net like that, and he did, and threw it back up.

The Genasi, who had been preparing to leap down, was suddenly taken aback, tried to shift direction, but the net caught him, tangled his legs and tail, and then Wu was on him.

Wu rammed the alien up against the reinforced metal of the crane. “Who are you working for?” he demanded.

The eyes shifted slightly over his shoulder, and then the creature laughed.

Oh, no.

He whirled, dropped fifteen meters down the crane, caught himself, jumped the rest of the way to the Dock, even as Thilomon‘s umbilicals let go and her engines roared to life, shoving the great ship away from the Dock.

A trap. A sucker-bait trap, with something to pull me away from her! I’m so stupid! So very, very stupid! DuQuesne should never have trusted me, I’m an idiot, a monkey who should never have come down from the trees!

Even as he was berating himself, he was streaking across the Dock, bowling aside others in his haste, then clear, running up the gangway, faster, watching the huge ship moving away, no time, too far, but I can’t give up –

With a final desperate lunge, Sun Wu Kung launched himself into space off the end of the gangway.

I’ve missed. I’m too late, he thought, as he began to curve down, his forward momentum not enough to reach the huge ship before the tug of gravity pulled him below Thilomon.

But then gravity disappeared. He was streaking forward, still moving slightly down from the gravity around the Dock, and the wind was whistling around him, slowing him, but Thilomon was getting closer, closer –

– He reached, his claws stretching out, out –

– And closing tight on the hard, tough metal of one of the rearmost guide fins of Thilomon.