1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (32 page)

Simon closed the door to
Das Haus Des Brotes
behind himself as he stood on the top step. He heard whistling, and looked up to see Hans leaning against the next building over, hat tilted back on his head and hands in his pockets. Simon tucked his roll into his pocket and trotted down the steps to meet his friend.

“So, is the new ring finally ready?” he asked, eyes alight with eagerness.

Hans broke off his whistling. “Yah.” He nodded.

“And are you on the list, the…” Simon searched his memory for the word, “…the program?”

“Yah.”

Simon grinned. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Hans grinned back, and pushed off the building. They had taken a few steps down the street when Simon stopped and said, “Wait!” Hans looked on in puzzlement as Simon looked up and down the street. After a moment, the boy shrugged, reached into his pocket to tear a piece off his roll, and bent to lay it on the ground right in front of the wall of the building.

“There.” He stood and brushed his hand off on his pants leg. “Now we can go.”

Hans grinned for a moment, then turned and led off down the street again. “You know, you care more about that dog than you do for people.”

Simon caught up to the big man and settled into place to Hans’ left. That left his crippled arm between them, and kept his left arm to the outside. He never really thought about it when he did it; that was just his preferred way to travel with company. He tucked his good hand behind his belt and swaggered a bit.

“Not more than for you and Ursula, and not more than Frau Zenzi and her husband.” He shrugged again. Well, maybe Pastor Gruber, too. “At least Schatzi’s never tried to hurt me.”

“Rough day?”

“Yah.”

Hans grunted. After a few steps, he said, “Sounds pretty lonely to me.”

Simon swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

“Yah.”

Hans reached over and wrapped his arm around Simon’s shoulder. Simon leaned into it, savoring the wordless contact.

They reached the intersection with the road that led to the bear-baiting pit, and Simon started to turn into it.

“Hoy!” Hans called as he continued straight through the intersection. “This way, remember?”

“Right.” Simon wanted to smack himself for forgetting they were going to the new location, but he focused instead on catching up to Hans. “So, are you ready for this fight?”

“Yah.” Hans looked over with a wide grin. “Very ready. It’s been too long since the last one. I’ve been about to tie myself in a knot for the last few weeks.”

“Yah, I know.”

Simon ducked as Hans took a slow swipe at the back of his head. That big strong hand just barely ruffled his hair; he was thankful that it was just in jest. Having seen Hans fight for real, he knew that a real blow from the fighter would have left him crumpled and broken.

They bantered back and forth as they walked to the new site for the fights. It was a bit farther out from the Old City than the bear-baiting pit had been. The owners of the land the pit was on had sold it when someone had offered them more for the rights than they would ever see from the various fights that got staged there. That had put the fight promoters on the hunt for a new site, and it had taken a while to first find it, and second, negotiate for the rights to build a ring. Then they had to build it, and getting the funds raised for that hadn’t been the easiest task in the world, either.

Although Hans had seen the ring, Simon hadn’t yet, but he knew that even though they called it a ring, it wasn’t round. Another weird thing that up-timers did, he supposed.

“And there it is,” Hans said as they crested a bit of a rise. He pointed to the ring, which sat between the small hillock they stood on and another one on the other side.

There was a roof of sorts over the ring itself. Hans started down the slope. Simon followed in his steps. As they drew nearer, he could see more details about the ring: rectangular, almost square but not quite; sturdy posts in the corners, three courses of heavy ropes suspended and stretched along the sides between the corner posts, floor painted red.

There were already people milling around the ring. A genial outcry began when they spotted Hans descending the hillock.

“
Stark
Hans!
Stark
Hans!”

Hans waved at them as he drew closer. Simon could see the big grin on his friend’s face when men stepped up to him and slapped him on the back or grabbed his hand to shake it. They finally made it to the side of the ring, where they were greeted by Todd Pierpoint.

“Hans! Good to see you, man! Come this way.”

The promoter guided them to a bench in a roped off section of seats. “This is where you will wait for your fight. We have three fights tonight, and you’re the main attraction, so you’ll fight last.”

“Sounds good,” Hans said as he took his seat at the end of the front row much like Simon imagined a king would seat himself on his throne; slowly, and with deliberation. Simon sat to Hans’ left almost as an afterthought. Herr Pierpoint’s down-time partner Tobias called for him from the opposite end of the ring, so he left them to their own devices to answer that call.

After a few minutes, two other fighters made their way to the ropes and joined them on the benches.

“Where are the other guys?” Hans asked one of them.

“Down at the other end,” came the response with a jerk of a thumb.

The next little while was amusing to Simon. The crowd around the ring was growing larger by the minute, and almost every man who joined the throng made his way by the roped-off area. Most just looked at Hans and nodded. Several spoke; a few offered their hands. It was almost as if Simon’s imaginary king were receiving the worship of his subjects; at least, that’s what it seemed like to Simon as Hans smiled at all and sundry. If the bench they were on had had a back, Simon was sure he would have leaned back and stretched his legs out.

Simon also found it humorous that few of the passers-by seemed to notice the other fighters.

At one point there was a lull in the traffic, and Simon nudged his friend. When Hans leaned over, Simon said, “Just remember they’re all pigeons or crows,” at which Hans’ smile got larger, “and either way that means they’re hungry. They all want something from you.”

Hans sobered and he looked down at Simon. “Why are you so cynical, boy?”

Simon reached over with his left hand, pulled his limp right hand out of the coat pocket where it had been resting, and held it up between them. Hans’ eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he got the point. His lips tightened and he looked away, but then his gaze returned to Simon’s face and he clapped his hand on Simon’s leg. “Happens you’re probably right, lad, you’re probably right.”

“Yah.” Simon didn’t say anything else, just tucked his useless hand back into its nest and sat staring at nothing, eyes burning but cold at heart. It really had been a rough day.

It wasn’t long after that that the evening’s program began. Herr Pierpoint jumped up on the edge of the ring, bent and stepped through the ropes, then reached over them to take a short rod connected to a wire from his partner Tobias. He held the rod up to his mouth, and began speaking.

“Good evening, and on behalf of TNT Promotions, welcome to our new facility.”

Simon jumped. It seemed like a giant was shouting at him from all directions. He craned his neck around, trying to see where the sound was coming from. Hans pointed at a black metal horn thing hanging from the edge of the roof. Once Simon realized that sound was coming out of that, he next realized there were four of the horn things; one hanging from each side of the roof. He looked at Hans.

“They’re called speakers,” Hans said. “Up-time stuff. They use electricity and make sounds loud, or louder.”

“Oh.”

What would the up-timers think of next?

* * *

“You’re late,” the man Ciclope now thought of as Georg Schmidt hissed. “And where’s your partner?”

“I got your note this morning,” Ciclope said, “but we couldn’t leave the project until close to evening. We have to keep them thinking we’re workers they can rely on, remember?”

The note had directed them to come to an out-of-the-way nook between buildings near the market area where secondhand dealers of everything gathered. They were to bring their “exchanges” with them.

“And I had to send Pietro back for the merchandise. You don’t think we’re stupid enough to carry it around, do you? Especially after the way you browbeat us the last time we met…Herr Schmidt.”

The other man froze for a moment, thereby confirming Pietro’s research.

“What…what do you mean? That’s not my name.”

Ciclope chuckled. It was remarkable how such an innocuous sound could at the same time have such an evil tone to it.

“Oh, come now. Surely you didn’t think you could keep us in the dark forever. You are Herr Georg Schmidt, brother-in-law of Mayor Otto Gericke, bürgermeister of Old Magdeburg, successful merchant—and the man who hired us to come and commit murder and arson on your rivals.”

Schmidt flushed dark red and seemed to swell up. A long moment passed while he looked around, but then settled when he realized no one was close enough to have heard Ciclope. “All right. So you know who I am. Now what?”

“Oh, no change. You tell us what you want done; you turn us loose to do it.” Ciclope watched relief move across the other man’s face. “Except…”

“Except what?” Schmidt bit the response off.

“Except you pay us twice what you said you would for the paper money.”

Schmidt’s eyebrows drew together in a fearsome frown, and he tried to stare Ciclope down. But Ciclope had out-stared better—tougher—men than the merchant more than once. Schmidt finally folded. “All right,” he said in a surly tone.

* * *

Gotthilf looked around the crowd at the new fight location. It was already being called an arena, although to him it looked more like a barn without walls. The crowd was really thick tonight; he and Byron were having trouble making their way through it.

“We’ve got a good program for you tonight,” Herr Pierpoint’s voice boomed out from the speakers. “Three fights, every one of them between modern-day gladiators.”

Byron had managed to get to the edge of the ring and catch up with Tobias, Pierpoint’s down-timer partner. Gotthilf caught up with them just as Tobias realized he had company. The promoter nodded to them, but his attention was mostly still on watching his partner in the ring.

“TNT Promotions?” Byron asked.

Tobias grinned. “Tobias and Todd. His idea.” He jerked his thumb at the ring, where Pierpoint was still talking.

“Ah.” Byron pursed his lips. “I was expecting some kind of joke about explosive fights or bombshell contests.”

Tobias snickered. “He is saving that for the broadsheet advertisements that will start going out next week.”

Gotthilf suppressed a groan. Up-timers seemed to have a predilection for low humor that equaled if not surpassed the worst of down-time excesses in that area. Puns in any language or style just caused him mental indigestion.

Pierpoint finished introducing the fighters and referee for the first fight, ducked through the ropes, and pointed to the bell man. The bell clanged, and the fight was on.

* * *

Simon and Hans watched the first two fights from their seat on the bench. The first one was a five-round contest that wasn’t much of a fight: two skinny youths standing in the center of the ring throwing haymakers at each other and dodging with little attempt at blocking or any other technique. Hans and the remaining fighter muttered to each other all the way through the first round, but by the end of the second round they were grinning at the two hapless fighters, all the while making snide comments to each other that Simon sometimes had trouble understanding. When one of the fighters actually managed to knock the other down, they both stood and cheered, laughing.

At the end of that bout, the other fighter on the bench shucked his jacket and shirt off while he was waiting for Herr Pierpoint to finish announcing the winner of the first fight and then introduce his fight. Hans helped him on with his gloves, then held up a fist.

“Good luck, Gus.”

The other fighter tapped Hans’ fist with his own.

“Thanks, but hopefully I will not need it.”

With that he stepped up to the ring as his fight was announced.

Hans leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the bench.

“You know him?” Simon asked.

“Yah, Gus is a good guy.”

“You ever fight him?”

Hans chuckled. “Once. It lasted two rounds. Ever since then Gus has stuck with fighting guys his own size.”

The second fight was on the schedule for eight rounds, but it ended in the fourth when Gus knocked out his opponent, who had proved to be somewhat better than the tyros of the first bout—but not much. He ducked out of the ring hardly breathing hard. Hans held his fist up again, and again Gus tapped it.

“Good fight,” Hans decreed.

“Every win is a good fight,” Gus grinned.

“Yah.”

Hans stood and began taking his own jacket and shirt off. He draped them over the back of the bench, then dropped his hat on Simon’s head. Simon looked up at his friend from under the brim of the hat and held up his own fist.

“Luck.”

Hans tapped fists with him. “Luck from my luck. I’m sure to win.”

Gus returned the favor as he helped Hans with his gloves. When they were fitted to Hans’ satisfaction, he alternated pounding his fists into the opposite palms, standing and waiting for the announcing of his fight.

Hans didn’t have to wait long. It was only a minute or two before Herr Pierpoint was announcing the last fight of the evening.

“Fighting out of the green corner, the challenger in tonight’s main event hails from the Western Isles of Scotland. He stands five feet eleven inches tall and weighs two hundred twenty-five pounds. He is the best fighter in the Marine guards. Give it up for Anselm MacDonald of Clanranald!”

The other fighter was a bit taller than Hans, Simon saw when he climbed into the ring at the other end, though perhaps not as big overall. His red hair was like a flame atop his head, and when he grinned his front teeth were missing. There was a loud burst of applause and yells of “Go, Anse!” from a group of men in boots and buff coats standing at his end of the ring, and he raised an arm in salute.