1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (46 page)

“Ah, Demetrious,” Byron said in a low tone. “You’ve been a hard man to find lately.”

A wry chuckle sounded from the darkness.

“There needed to be some distance between me and the likes of you. A few of the people in the streets had remarked on how often you seemed to come looking for me.”

“Ah.”

That was not a good thing, Gotthilf thought to himself. If the people of the city decided that old Demetrious was a stooge and informer, not only would his ability to find information for them end, someone might take it into their head to end Demetrious as well.

No, not good at all.

“So, you’re here now. You have something for us?”

“I hear you look for someone new,” Demetrious said, moving closer to them. “Someone perhaps not from Magdeburg, perhaps not even from this part of the world.”

“You hear right,” Byron said. “A one-eyed man, maybe came here from Venice, maybe with another man.”

“Ah,” Demetrious sighed. “Him.”

“Him?” Gotthilf asked. “You know him?”

“I know
of
someone who may be the man you seek.” Demetrious stepped up to them. “There is a man who wears a patch over his left eye who rode into Magdeburg from the south some time ago. This is a very hard man. No one likes him; most fear him, but do not know why. And he has a friend, a companion, who would go out at night from time to time, and always the next day someone in Magdeburg would discover they no longer possessed something that used to be theirs.”

“A thief?”

Demetrious’ shoulders shrugged in the gloom.

“Perhaps. It is but a word, after all, when there is no proof. But that friend has not been seen of late.”

Gotthilf and Byron looked at each other, and shared a surmise.

“There is a man,” Gotthilf said, “who on the day of the great explosion was standing not far from the steam boiler. A rivet or bolt from the boiler struck him in the head like a bullet. His body now occupies a drawer in the city morgue.” It was funny, Gotthilf noticed, how his voice seemed to fall into the patterns and cadences of Demetrious’ voice. There was something about the old man’s voice that was just impelling.

“This man, it is the friend?” Demetrious asked in an off-handed manner.

“Had a knife made in Venice in his pocket,” Byron replied, up-timer speech cutting across the rhythms.

“Ah.” Demetrious rubbed his hands together. “So the one-eyed man is now alone.” That wasn’t a question, Gotthilf noted.

“Unless he’s made friends here,” Byron said.

“Not this one,” Demetrious replied. “He does not reach out, not in friendship.” He rubbed his hands together again. “But you want him?”

“Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “We want him. He may not be the murderer we suspect he is, but either way we need to talk to him.”

“Murderer,” Demetrious said as if tasting the word. “That, he could be.” The informant said nothing for a moment. “I will look for him, but there is risk. You will remember this.”

“You find him and he turns out to be involved in what we suspect he’s part of, and there will be a reward.” Byron was very definite.

White teeth flashed in the dark alleyway.

“A man always appreciates being appreciated. I will find you before long.”

* * *

Hans’ shoulders started to sag. Simon started to panic. But then the big man’s back stiffened, and he looked forward at Recke. He nodded. “I’m ready.” The crowd started chaffering among its members. Simon could hear the bets being made.

Herr Pierpoint spoke up. “Well, I’m not. If I’m going to referee this fight,” the up-timer pointed at Recke, “he needs to understand the rules. And since he’s your man,” Pierpoint pointed at Elting, “you’d better make sure he understands them and abides by them, because I will call this fight in a moment if he breaks them.” The up-timer pulled the two Hannoverians together facing him and starting lecturing them, counting things off on his fingers.

“Come on,” Hans said to Simon. For once the crowd ignored them as they pushed back toward their usual bench. Everyone was craning their necks trying to see the mystery fighter. They got to the front bench by the pit and Hans started taking off his jacket again.

“Hans!” Simon hissed. “What are you doing?”

“Going to fight,” Hans replied.

“Why? You don’t need to do this.”

“Two reasons. First, fifty thousand is a lot of money. It would keep Ursula safe and provide for her for a long time.”

“Okay,” Simon replied. “I understand that. But is that enough of a reason to get yourself half-killed or worse when you could turn down the fight and do the providing yourself?”

“Reason two: Schardius ordered me to lose the fight.”

“What?” Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“He knew this was coming. Think about what he said tonight.”

Simon thought back to earlier in the evening. What had the merchant said?
But all things come to an end, don’t they? And true wisdom might lie in recognizing the end when it comes
. “Oh.”

“I didn’t understand it until the big man came out,” Hans said. “Schardius wants me to lose. He’s going to bet against me and rake in money.”

“Are you going to lose?” Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Hans gave a grim smile. “Not on purpose.” His chest swelled, and he slammed a fist against it. “I fight for
me
. I don’t take orders from anyone here. I won’t lose for anyone, especially the
good master
,” he snarled. “He’s used me for the last time. I want that money, and I want to rub Schardius’ face in the dirt. I’ve done too much for him. No more. No matter what happens, I will never work for him again.” He spat on the ground. “
That
for the old carrion crow.”

“What do you mean, he’s used you for the last time?”

Hans bent over to whisper, “The man who went missing? Who was found floating in the river? His name was Delt. I found him and brought him to Schardius that night. He was angry with Delt for some reason.” He swallowed. “I never saw Delt again.”

“Master Schardius killed a man?” Simon pulled away to look at Hans’ face. The boy was aghast.

“No, but I know he was there. I know what they did.” Hans swallowed again. “I haven’t slept well since then.”

Hans straightened up. Simon was stunned. Hans, his friend, had been a part of that? They stood in silence for long moments.

The crowd began moving back toward them. Hans headed toward the ring. Simon stirred followed, only to be pulled up by Hans’ hand on his jacket collar.

“You go sit with Gus.” He pointed to where the other fighter was standing, waving at them.

“What?” Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I always go with you.”

“Not this time.”

“But I’m your luck!” Simon played his major card.

“And you can be my luck from there.” Hans bent down and murmured, “You will be safer there. I want you out of the eye of Elting and Schardius.”

Simon didn’t have an argument for that. He watched as Hans picked up a scrap of towel and walked off to edge of the ring. For the first time in a long time he felt alone, even abandoned. It was stupid, he knew, but it hurt to watch Hans climb up on the ring apron without him.

Gus came up beside Simon. They looked at each other, and nodded. Simon thought Gus was no exchange for Hans, but he was a face that Simon knew and was therefore a comfort. They didn’t speak, and Gus didn’t try to put his arm around Simon’s shoulder or anything like that, but Simon was glad he was there anyway.

Herr Pierpoint had finished lecturing Elting and Recke, for the big man was following the up-timer to the other end of the ring. Recke took off his coat and shirt. He turned to lay them over the top rope, and gasps and mutters broke out in the crowd.

Simon felt his stomach churn. Recke’s back was a mass of scars. “Oh, that’s not good,” he heard Gus mutter.

“Why?” Simon asked in alarm.

“That man’s been flogged, not once but many times. That means he’s been in someone’s army. To be flogged that many times, he’s either stupid, wicked, or vicious. And no matter which it is, it means he’s dangerous.”

Simon looked toward his friend.

“Hans!” When he looked up, Simon pointed to Recke and shouted with urgency, “Wolf, Hans! Wolf!” Hans glanced at Recke, then back to Simon with a nod. Simon leaned back. He’d done all he could do.

Herr Pierpoint moved to the center of the ring with his microphone. “Good evening on behalf of TNT Productions.” His voice boomed out over the speakers. Simon had finally gotten used to them.

“There has been an unannounced change to our schedule. There will only be one fight tonight, for an unknown number of rounds.” He pointed toward Recke. “Fighting out of the green corner, the challenger in tonight’s main event comes from Hannover, where he is reputedly the toughest fighter in the city. Give it up for Elias Recke.”

There was a smattering of applause, and a few boos, but most of the crowd was silent.

“Fighting out of the red corner,” Herr Pierpoint began while Hans climbed through the ropes, “here is Magdeburg’s resident champion, undefeated in his professional career, with a record of nineteen wins and no defeats. Give it up for Magdeburg’s own Hans Metzger.”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Simon saw Recke looking around with a sneer on his face. Hans, expressionless, simply stood in his corner, waiting. It was very unlike him, he thought.

The noise died away faster than usual. Simon must not have been the only one intimidated by the big man from Hannover. Herr Pierpoint continued. “You both know the rules. We won’t go over them again.” He pointed to Hans. “Are you ready?” Hans nodded. He pointed to Recke. “Are you ready?” Recke’s big head creaked down and up. Herr Pierpoint tossed the microphone over the ropes to Tobias and pointed to the timekeeper. The bell rang. He stepped back and waved the fighters forward.

* * *

Herr Schmidt placed his hands on the table, letting them aimlessly clasp and reclasp.

“We need to change our attacks.”

Ciclope could barely hear the man’s voice. He bent closer to him.

“No more attacks on the project. The
Polizei
, the company, and the Committees of Correspondence will be watching things with very sharp eyes, right now.”

Ciclope snorted. “I won’t argue with that. Besides, with Pietro dead, I couldn’t do another bomb or fire again anyway. That was his skill.”

Schmidt nodded. “Well enough. Are you still willing to work for me?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Ciclope retorted.

“Well enough,” Schmidt repeated. “There is a man…the man I’ve been trying to hurt with what you were doing. I believe it is time to start looking for more direct ways to hurt him.”

“So what’s the problem?” Ciclope sneered. “Kill him and be done with it.”

“All right,” Schmidt said, still in a near-whisper, “how much would you ask to do it?”

Ciclope’s sneer grew. The fool wouldn’t even say the word “kill”—he wasn’t even honest enough with himself to admit he was asking for a murder.

“Ten thousand dollars; in good silver, mind you. I don’t hold with paper money.”

“All right.”

Ciclope was surprised that Schmidt didn’t try to bargain with him. He must be desperate.

Schmidt actually relaxed a little now.

“How will you do it?”

“Well, I’m not going to blow him up, with Pietro dead.” Ciclope took his hat off his head with his right hand while pulling Pietro’s pistol from his coat pocket with his left hand and sliding it under the hat on the table. He tilted the hat for a moment, so that only Schmidt could see the pistol. “But I can take care of him, have no doubt.”

He slid the pistol out from under the hat and put it back in his coat pocket.

“Now, who is it you need removed?”

Schmidt’s throat worked as he swallowed.

“Schardius. Andreas Schardius.”

Chapter 53

From the beginning it was obvious this would be a fight like no other in Hans’ career. The crowd knew it, and their yelling approached the level of a frenzy as the two men approached each other. Hans circled the bigger man slowly, hands up, arms tucked in. Recke just turned in place, flat-footed, fists at the level of his chin.

The action began when Hans stepped in and threw a punch at Recke’s gut. The big man didn’t bother to block the blow but threw a riposte at Hans. He ducked but not enough and the punch glanced off the top of his head. He stepped back and shook his head, testimony to Recke’s power.

The first round consisted of the two fighters feeling each other out. The second started out the same way, but midway through it Recke went on the attack. He smashed a fist through Hans’s guard and delivered a thundering body blow. It was followed up by a punch to the head and one to the chest. Hans was staggered and his defense wavered.

Recke was not lightning fast; nowhere near as quick as Hans. But he was faster than anyone in the Magdeburg crowd would have believed before the fight. The crowd noise faltered as they saw their favorite being stalked around the ring. Not every Recke punch connected, but enough did that Hans was definitely absorbing some punishment. A cut had opened on his left cheek and blood was beginning to trickle down.

Simon’s stomach was churning so badly he thought he was going to be sick. He wished with all his heart that Hans had not accepted the fight, but he knew that Hans being who he was, that would never have happened.

The bell ending the second round rang. The two fighters retreated to their corners. Simon watched as Hans picked up the towel and wiped the blood from his face. He’d never seen Hans cut before. His skin crawled at the thought of it.

The third round began. Now Hans tried to take the fight to Recke. He would dance in and out, throwing mixtures of punches, trying to wear down his opponent. The problem was his punches seemed to be having no effect. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the hits made by Recke. When the big man connected, everyone could see Hans absorbing the jolt.

Fourth round—more of the same.

It was early in the fifth round when Hans finally did some damage. After several attempts at body blows, he unleashed a straight right hand that landed full on the big man’s nose. Everyone around the ring could hear the crunch of the broken cartilage. Blood began streaming from the now misshapen nostrils.