1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (36 page)

Kristina looked appalled. “I have to do that much to learn to play the piano?”

Marla shook her head. “No, but you didn’t ask me if I could teach you to play; you asked me if I could teach you to play
like me
.”

She could almost see the wheels turning behind the princess’ eyes. And she could see the moment when Kristina understood the difference.

“You mean that to be really good at it, I would have to work really hard at it for a long time.”

Marla smiled. “Yes.”

Kristina walked over and ran her hand along the side of the piano cabinet. “This is my piano, you know.”

“Kristina,” Ulrik said.

“Well, really my father’s, but Signor Zenti presented it to me because Papa wasn’t here when he brought it down the river from Grantville. So it’s kind of like mine.”

That would have been December 1633, Marla remembered; the same month she had made her “debut” recital in Magdeburg.

She ran her own hand over the keyboard cover. “Yes, Girolamo Zenti did a really good job of rebuilding this piano. It’s pretty cool, actually.” Her eyes strayed to Prince Ulrik. “The framework and the mechanism are all from an instrument that came back through the Ring of Fire, but the cabinet and case, in all its beauty, is down-time work, from one of the best instrument makers alive. Best of both worlds, you might say.”

Heads nodded all around the room, as the point was taken. Even Prince Ulrik pursed his lips and nodded to her.

“I knew Signor Zenti a long time ago, when I was very young,” Kristina announced, running her hand over the side of the piano again. “He was in Stockholm, making harpsichords for my father and mother. I used to go to his workshop and watch. He wouldn’t let me touch anything, but he would talk to me and explain what he was doing. Sometimes he would let me hold his tools. That was fun.”

Marla heard the plaintive note in Kristina’s voice. It dawned on her that being the royal heir to Sweden may not have been the easiest way to grow up, especially in the last few years.

Ulrik cleared his throat.

“Ah, Frau Linder, I understand that you sing, as well.”

“Yes, Prince—”

Ulrik waved his hand. “Just Ulrik, Frau Linder. Save the titles for formal occasions, which…” he looked around to where servants were beginning to clear up some of the detritus of Kristina’s impromptu party, “…this most certainly is not.”

The prince reached inside his jacket pocket and brought out a much folded piece of paper, which he proceeded to unfold and stare at for a moment before he turned it around and handed it to her.

“They tell me you have some connection with this.”

Ein Anruf Zu Den Armen
, the banner read. The ubiquity of the CoC broadsheets no longer surprised Marla, but that didn’t mean she was pleased.

“God, I’m getting tired of seeing this,” she muttered to herself, forgetting for the moment who else was near.

“What was that?” Ulrik asked.

Marla looked up, not exactly flustered but not sure what to say.

“Ah…yes. These are the words to a song I sang a few weeks ago here in Magdeburg. It was an up-time song.” Her voice didn’t quite trail off.

“A song,” Ulrik said. “Would you sing it for me…for us?”

“Now?”

“If possible.”

Marla looked around. Thomas was standing nearby; she beckoned to him and pointed to the piano bench. As Thomas folded himself behind the keyboard, she looked back at Ulrik.

“Yes, it’s possible. Give me just a moment to prepare, please.”

Marla beckoned to Franz as well, stepped away from the prince, and turned her back on everyone long enough to grab the waistband of her heavy sweater and yank it over her head, revealing a snug black turtleneck sweater beneath it. She thrust the heavy sweater into Franz’s waiting hands, yanked her fingers through her hair to try to impart a hint of order to it, and moved over to face the curve of the piano. He wanted this song, of all songs, she thought to herself as she placed her hands along the top of the cabinet. He wanted this song? He’d get it; no holds barred.

“Give me the chords, please,” to Thomas. He obliged her, and she softly sang wordlessly for a few phrases, warming her voice at least a little. Fortunately—or at least, semi-fortunately—the demands of the song were more emotional than technical. And right now, she had enough of an edge on that she wouldn’t have any trouble pushing the song through.

Holding a hand up, Marla turned and faced those who had drifted over and gathered around the piano. It was mostly the politicians, but there were a few of the servants in earshot.

She dropped the hand, and Thomas began the introduction. Came the moment, and Marla began to pour out her voice, and her power, and her edge, and her soul. Not like she did the night she sang it in the Green Horse…different, somehow…but still way more than she had ever done with any other song, even Master Carissimi’s “Lament for a Fallen Eagle.” And today she had a visible focus.

“Do you hear the people sing…”

* * *

The music staggered Ulrik. Short, not flowery or ornate, it seemed barely worthy of the description “song”…until one considered the voice, and the message.

A most remarkable voice, he thought to himself as he struggled to be objective. But the words; ah, the words as sung by that voice—razors, every one of them. He had read the article by that writer, Logau. He now had a new appreciation for Logau’s metaphor of the archer, as he felt at the moment as if Marla were indeed Diana the Huntress, with her eyes fixed on him as her lawful prey.

* * *

For all its power and impact, the song wasn’t very long. Less than three minutes in Thomas’ arrangement, from beginning notes to final chords. Yet, as with all weapons, it wasn’t how big it was that mattered, it was how sharp it was and how it was used. Where previously the song had been aimed at Berlin, today Marla aimed it right at Prince Ulrik. And at the end, she saw that she had reached him. Something—some narrowing of the eyelids or slight drawing together of the brows—something Marla’s poker-playing daddy would have called a “tell”—told her that a touch had been made.

* * *

There was silence after the final chord. Even the irrepressible Kristina was subdued for a moment.

Ulrik looked around, and took in the expressions of those who listened: the sober faces among the leaders; the nods and quiet smiles of pride on the faces of the other musicians; and just for a moment, savage smiles of glee on the faces of some of the servants before they turned away.

He took a deep breath, then nodded to Marla. “I believe I understand why everyone was talking about this in Luebeck. I also understand why my father has ordered three Bledsoe and Riebeck pianos for his palaces.”

He refolded the broadsheet and restored it to his coat pocket. “And you, my dear Frau Linder, sing very well indeed.”

The formidable songstress nodded in return.

“I shall play the flute,” Kristina announced firmly, momentary subduing expired.

Ulrik looked to his charge with interest. “Why do you say that, Kristina?”

“Well,” the princess said in a voice of reason, “I will never be able to sing as well as she can.” She tilted her head toward Marla. “And we won’t be able to carry a piano around with us when we travel, so I will never be able to practice enough to play it well. But I can put a flute in one of my bags and play it wherever we are.”

“Marla can play the flute, too,” one of her musician friends—the short one—said matter-of-factly from where he stood in front of that part of the crowd.

Kristina stomped her foot. “That’s not fair!”

The room exploded in laughter.

* * *

Ciclope looked up with a guttural snarl when someone slid onto the unoccupied stool still sitting at the small table he and Pietro were sharing in the tavern. The stranger, no one he had met before, held up a hand in simultaneous greeting and remonstrance.

“We have a mutual acquaintance,
meine Herren
.” The stranger’s voice was low, both in pitch and in volume.

Ciclope glared at the man, and he could see Pietro aiming a sharp stare from his position as well. If looks were weapons, this idiot would be lying on the floor bleeding from multiple wounds.

Seeing they weren’t going to speak, the stranger continued, “I am an associate of your paymaster.” Ciclope’s mouth shaped the name
Schmidt
, but no sound was uttered.

The stranger nodded. “Indeed.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice even more. “That person’s associates are not certain just how well he has communicated how important it is that your next task be undertaken with, ah, zeal. We think it would be best if the effect were as great as can be accomplished. To that end, we are willing to pay you this additional sum to ‘enhance’ your work, as it were.”

He slid one hand across the table, and when he slid the hand back there was a small purse lying before Ciclope.

“Take that in good confidence that we will approve of anything done to improve the results of your next task. And we will be in touch again.”

The stranger nodded again, stood, and left, leaving Ciclope and Pietro to stare after him with furrowed brows.

Ciclope laid his own arm on the table, and knocked the purse into his lap as he did so. After another minute or so, he said back with both hands in his lap. He opened the purse and dumped the contents into one hand, then rapidly counted them back into the purse. He looked to Pietro.

“Fifty.”

Pietro pursed his lips.

Then Ciclope pulled one of the coins out of the bag and set it on the table between them, screened from casual viewers by one hand. His eyebrows went up when he saw the denomination of the coin.

“Fifty
Thaler
?” Pietro whispered. Ciclope nodded. The Italian grinned, and said, “You know, suddenly I feel like doing a really good job at work.”

Both men laughed.

* * *

Later that evening, alone in his room, Ulrik contemplated the depths of a Venetian glass wine goblet, swirling the rich red contents slowly while he thought about the day. All things considered, everything had gone well. No, they had not gone well; they had not even gone as well as could be expected; they had for the most part gone as well as he could have desired.

He and Kristina were safe in Magdeburg, which had by no means been a certain thing. Flying, after all, was still a very new and, to be truthful, somewhat risky thing in the here-and-now. Oh, the rewards had far outweighed the risks, he admitted, but that was not the same as saying that the risks of their trip had been eliminated.

More than safe, they were welcome in Magdeburg. Which had also been by no means a foregone conclusion.

Ulrik had counted on Kristina being welcome. She had, after all, been the—what was the phrase Admiral Simpson had used?—the “poster child” of the first great flexing of the commoners’ strength after the Battle of Wismar. So her warm reception had been no surprise.

On the other hand, he had been prepared for his own welcome to be scant and cool. It had been a relief that it had been otherwise. Oh, he had no illusions—every one of those leaders and politicians who had been smiling out in the biting cold today had serious reservations about him, and what he might portend. But they were all following Senator Abrabanel’s lead, even the ranks of the Committees of Correspondence behind Spartacus and Gunther Achterhof. They were willing to talk, and reason, and negotiate—at least, as long as he operated in good faith.

The wine was every bit as good as what his father had laid down in his cellars, Ulrik decided after another sip. He wondered how that had happened, after Pappenheim had purportedly not left two stones of Magdeburg touching one another some four years ago.

His mind returned to the thread he had been turning in his mind for much of the evening. Yes, he and the princess might have the—nominal—support of the leaders in Magdeburg. But that support ultimately rested on the commoners, and he now realized that those people were not perhaps as controlled as he had assumed.

Frau Linder’s song still left him unsettled. And he could tell that the song had touched everyone in the room this evening. From leaders on the one hand to servants on the other, everyone had been touched…but the touches had been different. And what he had seen in the eyes and faces of the servants, just for that brief moment, had been chilling.

It would have been a serious concern if it had only been performed here in Magdeburg. But the up-timers had recorded it, and it had been played over the radio, not once but many times now, and Trommler Records was supposedly selling as many records of the song as they could make.

Ulrik’s father, King Christian IV of Denmark, was greatly enamored of the many technological marvels brought back by the up-timers. Many a scholar rejoiced over the knowledge available in Grantville. And many of the radical philosophers wrapped themselves in the egalitarianism of the Americans. But who would have thought that music might shake the foundations of Europe?

Ulrik spent much of the night pondering that thought, and how the radio and the records just might be as much of a social lever as the SRG rifle.

Chapter 41

Ulrik came around the corner and managed to sidestep in time to avoid running into Baldur Norddahl. He and Caroline Platzer, Kristina’s favorite guardian, had arrived a day or two earlier, having had to travel from Luebeck on the ground instead of by air as the princess and her consort-to-be had done. The burly Norwegian was studying a broadside with a wide grin on his face.

“Have you seen this one?” He held it out to Ulrik.

The prince glanced at it.

“Yes. That’s the one that Caroline insisted we keep from Kristina. She said it was a bit raw, even for the current times.”

Ulrik had to admit, though, the drawing of a minotaur figure with widespread horns ravishing a female from behind was certainly attention getting. Clothing in disarray, she was bent over the walls of a city. The label “Magdeburg” pointed to both the city and the woman, making an obvious play on the German word for “maiden.”