"Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Sonata, Part Two
David Carrico

Movement II-Andante espressivo

Grantville – Monday, January 9, 1634

Franz looked at his traveling companions, and MaestroCarissimi. They were standing outside the office of Lady Beth Haygood, talking and waiting for Hermann. As Marla turned to ask il maestro a question, Franz smiled to himself. He remembered Marcus Wendell's reaction last Friday when he mentioned that he found it odd that an English noblewoman was serving as Frau Simpson's aide.

"Who are you talking about?" Marcus' brow had furrowed, indicating his perplexity.

"This Lady Beth Haygood," Franz had replied. His brow furrowed in turn, as Marcus had burst into laughter.

"Lady," Marcus had finally said, after his hilarity had died down, "is her name, not a title." Franz had looked very confused, he was sure. "Oh, yes, it really is. Americans sometimes name their kids the strangest things. I had a friend in college, a boy from Alabama, whose name was Colonel A. Johnson. He caught a lot of flack from the ROTC guys. Go slip Tom Stone a few beers some night, and see if he'll tell you what his sons' given names originally were." Marcus chuckled again. "Just say her name-ladybeth-really fast like it's one word."

Just as Franz was remembering his friends' reaction when Marla had shared the story of his confusion, Hermann arrived. Shaking off his reverie, Franz said, "Hermann is here, and he was the last. Let us discover what Frau Haygood has in store for us." Opening the door, he led the way into the small room. The woman at the desk, presumably Lady Beth herself, looked up as they trooped in. She was an older woman-older than Marla, anyway. Franz refused to try and guess at her actual age; most of the Grantville women wore their ages well, and he had embarrassed himself more than once when age had entered into conversations.

"Hi, Lady Beth," Marla sang out as she entered and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, Marla." Franz continued to study Lady Beth. He had probably been introduced to her at some point-if at no other time, then during their wedding reception, he was sure-but she was not familiar to him. He saw an oblong face, like so many of the Grantvillers, framed in shoulder length wavy dark blonde hair. She wasn't a pretty woman-with a strong jaw and a strong nose, perhaps the best that could be said was she was attractive-but her blue eyes and warm smile were welcoming on this cold Monday morning.

"So, what's up?" Marla asked. "We're supposed to be on the road pretty quick."

"Well, I think you're going to have to change your plans somewhat." Lady Beth looked around at the group. "Mrs. Simpson told me to work with you to set up some musician recruiting trips to Mainz, Stuttgart and Saxony. However, according to some information that DonFrancisco provided to me this weekend, the Elector of Saxony's orchestra is not in Saxony right now."

Not in Saxony? Franz looked at the others, knowing that he probably looked as confused as they did. "If they are not in Saxony, then where are they?"

"According to DonFrancisco…" Lady Beth picked up a piece of paper and read from it, "… the Elector's musicians, including Kappellmeister Heinrich Schutz, appear to all be in Copenhagen, involved in the upcoming wedding celebrations for Prince Christian of Denmark and Princess Magdalene Sybille, the Elector's daughter."

"Oh," was all that Franz could say. Nonplussed, he looked at his friends. They looked back, equally at a loss for words. They all knew of Heinrich Schutz, who was perhaps the preeminent musician in the German territories, but none of them had ever had any contact with him. If he himself had traveled from Dresden to Copenhagen, then it was certain that no musician of any capability had been left behind.

Surprisingly, it was Maestro Carissimi who broke the silence. "Meister Schutz, you say? But I know this man. Oh, do not mistake me," he hurried on, as the others looked at him. "We have sent letters only. He came to Venice some years ago and spent time with Maestro Monteverdi, who was kind enough to give him my name. He sent letters asking questions, I responded, but never we did meet. A gracious man, a gifted man, but so lonely in Dresden he was, with no one sharing his vision."

An idea flared in Franz's mind like a star shell bursting in the night sky. "Josef! Rudolf! You are from Hannover. Could you make your way to Copenhagen?"

The two brothers looked at each other. Rudolf shrugged. They looked back to Franz. Josef said, "We have never been there, but in Hannover or in Hamburg are plenty of men who have. No doubt we could find our way."

Franz spun to face the Italian. "Maestro, could you write a letter to Herr Schutz, inviting him and anyone else in his company to visit Magdeburg?"

" Si. "

Franz felt a very large smile spreading across his face. "Josef, Rudolf, you will take the maestro's letter to Copenhagen."

"But what of Stuttgart?"

"It is not far from Mainz to Stuttgart; we will go to Stuttgart after we visit Mainz, which will free you to go north. So, while the maestro writes his letter, you shall write one for us to carry to introduce us to your cousin."

Franz saw a bemused expression on Lady Beth's face as she handed pens and paper to various hands. He chuckled a little. "Frau Haygood, we will take our leave soon and let your domain resume its calm."

"Oh, that's okay, Franz. This is a school, after all… turmoil happens frequently. I just didn't expect you to find a solution so quickly, is all."

Marla laughed. "Best get used to it if you're going to work with us much, Lady Beth. These guys don't let grass grow under their feet much."

While the others were writing, Lady Beth beckoned. Franz, Marla, Isaac and Hermann grouped in front of her desk. She handed envelopes to Marla. "There are some vouchers for you to stop at the bank and get some traveling funds. There's also some authorization letters from the Abrabanels that will let you draw on any of their associates if there are any emergencies. Keep track of how much you spend, and be sure that both Mary and I will review the expenses."

Her no-nonsense tone sobered everyone immediately. Marla said, "Yes, ma'am."

Franz looked around. Josef and Rudolf were done with their letter, but the maestro was still writing. A thought occurred to him, and he turned back to Lady Beth. "Ah, Frau Haygood, Johannes Fichtold will probably be traveling to Fussen soon, on business for Frau Simpson."

Lady Beth's raised hand stopped him before he could continue. "Masters Zenti and Riebeck have already been to see me. It's all arranged." She smiled at Franz's surprise. "I don't let the grass grow under my feet, either."

Maestro Carissimi straightened. "It is completed." He handed the letter to Josef. "Another thought occurs to me. If we need musicians, perhaps I should send letters to the Jesuit collegia north of the Alps. My name might capture some interest."

"Please do, Maestro," Franz said. "At this point, I think we might even accept an Englishman, if he could play well." As Marla passed out the envelopes, he said to them all, "Well, my friends, we must be off. Take great care, and in no event be back to Magdeburg later than April 1."

"Last ones back buy a round at The Green Horse," Hermann called out. They trooped out the door in laughter.

Grantville Late January, 1634

"Well," Thomas started, studying yet another list, "Frau Matowski

…"

"Just call her Bitty," Marcus Wendell said. "That's what everyone calls her."

"Very well… Frau Bitty, then… has an ambitious turn of mind, has she not?"

Marcus chuckled. Lady Beth Haygood snorted. "That's our Bitty."

"Oh, come now, Lady Beth," Marcus said. "I'll grant you she's a perfectionist when it comes to the dancing, but aside from that, she's just fine."

"Uh-huh… except that right now she's eating, drinking, breathing and sleeping dance. Between convincing Mary that Swan Lake's not in the cards for 1634 and trying to review every ballet program she has recorded or has ever done or even has notes on so she can cobble some kind of program together, her nerves are worn down so far she's on her last one, and heaven help whoever gets on it."

Marcus grinned. "Speaking of Mary, how did Bitty take the news that you're in charge right now?"

"All things considered, I guess okay," Lady Beth said. "Mary met with both of us, and laid out the ground rules, which didn't take very long. Then she left, and Bitty and I came to an understanding." There was a hint of a grin on her face. "I also told her she'd best be careful about who's around when she refers to Mary as 'Her Ladyship' in that tone she gets."

Marcus looked at her. "There are those who would take offense?"

"Mary definitely has supporters here in Grantville now."

"What kind of trouble could they cause? Could they cut off her funding?"

"Well, I doubt that Mary would be that petty," Lady Beth said, "particularly since she does want the ballet to succeed. But no doubt someone like Laurie Haggerty would try to make trouble."

"Her." Marcus made a face. "She and I had a whole series of 'discussions' about my lack of perception when I didn't make her son Duane the first part first chair horn player in the junior high band. She couldn't believe that I would let little things like whether he practiced or not-not to mention his attitude-outweigh his 'obvious superior talent,' and she didn't have any trouble telling me about it-several times. Yeah, I'd believe most anything you'd tell me about her. But what's Bitty got to worry about with her?"

"Well, apparently they really locked horns during the rehearsals for Nutcracker, to the point that Bitty was muttering about the 'Ballet Mother from Hell.' Problem is, Laurie somehow managed to get an introduction to Mary, and made a slightly favorable impression. So, if I ever decide to leave, Laurie's name just might be on the short list to take over the arts management for Mary in Grantville."

"You're kidding!" Marcus looked aghast. "Aren't you?"

"Nope."

"I hope Mary's got more sense than that." Marcus turned back to Thomas. "Enough about Laurie Haggerty. Let's talk about something important. That's a pretty long list Bitty worked out with me for the ballet."

"That it is," Thomas agreed fervently, as he examined his copy of Bitty's list.

"The bad news is that she doesn't want just straight transcriptions on some of them… she wants some arranging done. The good news is the only things you should have to transcribe from recordings are Intermezzo, Lemminkainen's Return, The Swan of Tuonela, and the first half of Lemminkainen in Tuonela, all by Sibelius. A lot of it is already available to us in sheet music form." In response to Thomas' raised eyebrows, Marcus continued, "I kept all my college text books, including the study scores we used in music history, form and analysis, and orchestration. Because of that, I have miniature full conductor's scores for Borodin's Polovtsian Dances and In the Steppes of Central Asia, Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld, and the Ravel transcription for Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, which contains the Promenade and The Great Gate of Kiev that she wants to use. They just need to be copied out in full size.

"Then for the Light Cavalry Overture by Suppe and Finlandia by Sibelius, the high school music library has transcriptions of those for band. That means we've already got the music, we just need to reverse-engineer the transcribing to take it back to the original orchestration. A couple of my sharper band kids could probably do that."

He looked to Lady Beth. "That is, if Mary's funds will extend to paying them to do it. In fact, they could be a big help in general, even for the stuff that Thomas is doing for Franz, because they could take the full scores he produces and write out the original parts for the players, maybe even copy duplicate scores."

"Sure," Lady Beth said. "I don't see why not. But since they're not doing work at the same level as Thomas, I'm not going to pay them what he's getting, either."

"Sure. That's fair." Marcus stopped, deep in thought for a moment. His eyebrows raised. "You know, it just dawned on me that for this music to be possible this year, she's going to have to raid the band for wind players, and maybe percussionists, too. If she does, those kids are going to have to be paid, and I will expect them to be paid something approaching a union scale."

Lady Beth made some notes. "How many?"

Marcus counted on his fingers for a moment. "Probably about twenty, plus or minus."

She looked at Thomas. "And how many string players was Franz hoping to recruit?"

"He said he would settle for forty-five, but he wants sixty."

Lady Beth made some more notes. She set her pen down, and looked up with a serious expression. "I'd best get a message off to Mary. That amounts to more than she planned on, especially since Johannes Fichtold left several days ago for Fussen to dicker up some violin contracts."

Marcus shrugged. "Well, it may not be that bad. Bitty said one of her kids knew someone who still had their computer, with some kind of software that might allow them to take recordings and massage them into a soundtrack for her purposes, and then dump it to cassette tapes. If that's true, then she can do it with recorded music, which would be cheaper and a whole lot easier."

"I don't know." Lady Beth shook her head. "Mary was dead set on a live orchestra."

"Well, no reason to bring it up until we know if it can be done. It does mean, though…" Marcus turned to Thomas again, "… that those four Sibelius pieces can go to the bottom of your list." He grinned at Thomas' sigh of relief. "I almost hope they can't make the recording, though. Those pieces as the backdrop for Bitty's ballet would be an outstanding concert in its own right. I'd like to hear that, wouldn't you?"

"I might get to," Lady Beth said. Both men looked at her. "Jere's been wanting me to move to Magdeburg, but I didn't want to take the kids out of school here. Well, someone's working on the idea of starting a school for girls in Magdeburg, and it looks like they want me to head it up."

Marcus whistled. "That's going to leave a hole in things here."

"Maybe so. But if I decide to go, they'll deal with it, just like they've dealt with all the other changes. I'm probably going to be traveling to Magdeburg in a few weeks to look things over and talk to people before I make up my mind. If I decide to take it, I'll be gone by the end of March, probably."

"So who will take over as Frau Simpson's voice and hand?" Thomas asked.

Lady Beth made another note. "I don't know. That's something else that will have to be worked out."

Thuringia – Late January, 1634

Isaac touched Klaus on the shoulder. "Stop here." He climbed down from the wagon and caught his bag when Hermann tossed it to him. He looked up as Reuel drew the second wagon to a stop near by. "Just wait for me here, please." Isaac waved at the nearby tavern. "It is no Green Horse, but it will do while you wait. This should not take long. I will be back in time for us to make it to Neustadt before dark." As the others began to dismount, he turned and walked down the streets of Aschenhausen.

The trip from Grantville had so far been uneventful. Klaus and Reuel had somehow arranged for courier duty to the Committees of Correspondence in Mainz and Stuttgart. As it turned out, they were both reasonably competent at driving wagons, which was a good thing, as that was a skill that none of the musicians had managed to pick up.

They had made their way through Halle, Jena, Weimar, Erfurt, Arnstadt, Wechmar, Gotha and Eisenach, as well as various small villages. At every stop they let it be known that a new orchestra was beginning in Magdeburg; one that would be the grandest orchestra in the world; one that would play the grandest music in the world. They mentioned that anyone interested needed to be in Magdeburg by 1 April, and they hinted that silver was in the offing. No one had yet jumped up and run out the door to scurry up the road, but Franz was satisfied that the word was being spread.

Now they were in Aschenhausen, and Isaac was walking down the streets he had run through as a child. When he was growing up, he had felt a pride when he looked at Aschenhausen. The houses of the important men of the town had seemed so large, so fancy with their carvings here and there and their painted doors. And the tavern had seemed so grand, had seemed to bustle all the time. Even after he had

… left… his memories had still made Aschenhausen somehow seem special.

But now… now Isaac was walking those same streets with his stomach churning, almost six years later, having been in the wide world and seen Mainz, and Magdeburg, and even Grantville, the famous and infamous. He wondered if Aschenhausen's streets had always been this narrow, and if the houses had always been so small, and if everything had always been so… dingy.

He took a turn, leaving the main street-such as it was-and moved down a series of narrowing streets and alleys, until he finally stopped before a worn, unpainted door. He stood for a long time, hesitating, uncertain as to what he should do. His mind was whirling, his stomach was trying to climb up his throat. Finally, he slowly raised his hand and knocked. Shuffling steps could be heard, and the door opened to reveal an older man, stooped and gray-bearded. Knowing full well who he addressed, Isaac said, "I am seeking HerrJoachim Arst, the merchant. Are you he?"

The old man blinked. "Aye, that I am. And who might you be, young sir?" For answer, Isaac pulled one of the packages of coffee beans from his bag and handed it to him. Peering near-sightedly at the lead seal on the drawstrings of the package, the old man suddenly looked up sharply, grasped Isaac by the arm and swiftly drew him into the shop.

Holding up the package, old Joachim said, "This says you come from DonFrancisco Nasi. Truth?"

"Yes, Joachim ben Eleazar. I do indeed come from that man." Isaac dug the other two packages of beans from his bag, and handed them over. The old man turned to set them on the counter of his shop, and turned back to Isaac.

"So, you are one of us. Good. I was not sure, since you wear neither the talit nor the Jew's badge." He flicked his own tassels and looked faintly disapproving, which melded into a calculating stare. "I do not think we have met, but I think I should know you." Before Isaac could respond, the old man's eyes opened wide. "It cannot be! You! Here…"

Isaac smiled at Joachim's surprise. "Yes, Reb Joachim. Yitzhak the stranger stands before you." It struck him that his nervousness had dissipated, once he had committed himself to action.

It was some moments before Joachim recovered his composure enough to speak. "Why have you come here? After so long?"

"It is not my doing, RebJoachim. I do in truth serve DonFrancisco, or rather, RebPinchas in this, and he it was who directed my steps here. I am… not sure of his motives, only that he has them."

Joachim snorted. "You may be certain not only that he has motives, but multiples of motives. That one has a mind so twisty that a serpent could tie itself in a knot trying to follow his thoughts." His expression was wry, but the tone of his voice was admiring. "So, for some reason he saw some advantage to sending you to the shop of the poorest merchant in Aschenhausen… besides bringing me a gift of coffee beans that could have been sent by any number of ways."

They stood silently for a moment, then Joachim pursed his lips and blew a burst of air. He looked up. "You have grown, young Yitzhak. Is it well with you?"

"It… is well, now. It was not well… when I left. I wandered, sore of spirit and aching of heart, and eventually ended up in Mainz, where I did indeed find the music that God put in me to desire, and I did indeed learn to play it. I found friends. But after what was said to me here, I… abandoned all outward sign of our people. I… could not bring myself to approach a congregation. And so it was until I moved to Grantville last year."

"Grantville, is it?" Joachim's eyes opened wide again. "So, you have seen that place, have you?"

"Yes, Reb Joachim. I have seen Grantville, and Magdeburg as well. And seeing Grantville, my sense of wonder awoke again, and I reasoned that if the Holy One, blessed be He, could work the miracle of that place, then perhaps He could somehow work another… the return of one from an exile which, if shorter than that of Babylon, was no less bitter."

"And did such happen?"

"Aye. I dared pass the doors of the Sephardic congregation in Grantville, and found that which proved to be the very balm of Gilead for my hurtful soul." As a hint of confusion passed over Joachim's face, Isaac was forcefully reminded that that passage from Jeremiah was not one that was commonly read in the synagogues. "And no less than Reb Pinchas told me with his own lips that I was welcome with the Sephardim of Grantville and Magdeburg, not just as a visitor, but as a member."

"Good." A smile appeared amidst the gray beard, and Joachim's eyes almost disappeared in the wrinkles of his face. "That is good to hear, and an answer to prayer." To Isaac's querying look, he responded, "Each day as I read the Amidah, I would also ask in my heart that The Lord of the World would remember you, keep his hand upon you, and draw you back to His chosen people. Blessed be He who gathers in the exiles."

"Amen." Isaac felt the familiar response come to his lips.

Just as the old man opened his mouth to speak, the door to his shop flew open, and a young woman, hardly more than a girl, whirled in and shut the door behind her, calling out, "Reb Joachim, Reb Joachim, Mama said for you to…" She stopped suddenly, obviously at the sight of the strange man standing in the shop.

Isaac was facing away from the door when it opened, and he stiffened at the sound of the voice. Joachim laid a hand on his arm, and he could feel the tension in the old man.

"Softly, Devorah, softly. You would not want our visitor to think we are uncultured."

"No, Reb Joachim. Sorry, Reb Joachim."

"That is better. Now, I dare say that your mother wants the sewing needles she asked me to get her, nu?" The girl bobbed her head. The old man shuffled behind the counter, searched for a moment, and placed a packet on the countertop. "Here they are." Devorah reached out, and a moment later the packet had disappeared into a pocket. She started to turn and leave, but was stopped by Joachim. "Devorah, give a good day to Yitzhak ben Levi, from Magdeburg, who brought me some of the fabulous coffee that we have been hearing so much about." Isaac schooled his expression to calm, and turned to face her.

Her eyes widened. She dipped her head as she said, "Good day to you, Reb Yitzhak."

"And this is Devorah bat Shlomo, Reb Yitzhak, the eldest daughter of our rabbi."

Isaac gave a very slight bow. "And a good day to you, Devorah. I have heard good things of your family."

She began to blush, and dipped her head again. Uttering a strangled sounding "Goodbye," she bolted from the store.

Isaac turned on Joachim, and hissed, "What are you thinking? How could you do that to her, to me?"

"Calm yourself, young man." Joachim raised a hand. "It has been almost six years. You are a hand taller and at least two stone heavier. She should not recognize you, but you recognized her, did you not?"

In Isaac's mind, the face of the young woman was set beside the face of the girl that had been in his memories for so long, and he felt wonder and joy at how she had grown, and become a beauty. "Yes. .. yes, I did." A moment later, "Thank you."

"They are well, all of them, even the rabbi, although he is changed." At Isaac's look of alarm, Joachim hurriedly said, "No, no, nothing is wrong. But after a… certain event… our rabbi was long cast down in his spirit. Eventually, however, his remaining children gave him ease, and he again found some joy in life. But we all noted, we who remembered… before, that he is a somewhat calmer man, now, less harsh, slower to judge."

Isaac swallowed, then swallowed again. "Those are good words to hear. I wish him only the best in life."

"From your mouth to His ear."

After a moment, Isaac asked in a harsh voice, "Why did you name me ben Levi? I am fatherless."

"Well, it is true that your birth father no longer acknowledges you. However, is not your bloodline descended from Levi through both your mother and father?" Joachim looked to Isaac, who was forced to acknowledge that truth. "Then you are a son of Levi just as much as Moses and Aaron. You can in truth be named Yitzhak ben Levi, can you not?" Isaac stared at him for a moment, feeling a knot in his chest begin to loosen, and then he felt a wide smile spread across his face.

The two men stood smiling at each other what seemed like an hour to Isaac. Finally, he sobered, and asked, "Are they in need for anything?"

"They are not destitute, but neither are they quite comfortable."

"Who is the president of the community now?"

Joachim smiled wryly again, and said, "As it happens, I am."

Isaac dug in his pocket, and pulled out a pouch, which he placed on the counter. "See to their needs, please." As Joachim opened his mouth to object, Isaac raised his hand. "Please. As I am not of that family any longer, this is part of my tzedakah."

"Is this works in secret, then, or may I tell the congregation so that prayers may be offered for your travels?"

"Secret," Isaac said. "Do not tell them where it came from." The old man nodded. "Send word if more is needed. For now, send it to Reb Pinchas, Don Francisco. I will get word to you somehow of where I eventually end up."

"It is good." Joachim set the pouch on the counter. After a moment, he looked up at Isaac, and asked gently, "Will you not go to him? Will you not try to reconcile?"

Isaac flinched. "How can I?" He threw his hat on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair, yanking at it as if he wanted to pull it out. "I am not just herem, shunned-he named me dead! How can I go to him?" The pain in his heart was so sharp he felt as if he had been stabbed. "He said Kaddish, did he not? No, no one told me, but I know he did. He even sat Shiva for me, I wager. He would not be the man he is if he had not performed the full mourning ritual." Joachim said nothing, but Isaac could see the confirmation on his face. "How can I face that? How can I appear before my mother and sisters and brother, only to be turned away? How can I hurt everyone like that?" Slower, softer, he said, "I could not bear it, RebJoachim, to be turned away again. I am sorry that they grieve, but the wound he dealt me is deep… so deep I despair of it ever fully healing… so deep, I cannot chance another."

The old man looked at him, sadness on his face. "It will be as you will it, Yitzhak." Isaac flinched again as Joachim quoted back to him the phrase he had said to his father that night years ago. "You do him an injustice, though, I believe. Rav Shlomo is not the man he was then."

Isaac shook his head, and said in a very low tone, "I cannot… please, I cannot." They stood together in silence for long moments. Finally, Isaac regained his composure and picked up his hat. "I must be on my way. I am traveling with others who wait for me, and we must travel many miles yet today."

"For Reb Pinchas?"

Isaac said nothing, feeling slightly dishonest about letting the old man draw mistaken conclusions. He felt so drained at the moment, however, that he could not bring himself to explain. He moved toward the door. Joachim stepped in front of him, and grasped his arms.

"The blessings of God Above, who held His hand over Avraham, Yitzhak and Yakov as they wandered in the wilderness, go with you, Yitzhak ben Levi."

Isaac was flooded with emotion as he considered everything this old man had done for him. "And with you, Joachim ben Eleazar. And with you."

Moments later Isaac was walking back up the streets of Aschenhausen, hands in pockets, feet automatically following the right path. At last the tavern came into sight, where Reuel stood outside adjusting harness on his wagon team. He called into the tavern. Moments later the others trooped out. While the rest of them climbed into the wagons, Marla came to him and peered into his eyes.

"Is everything all right?"

Isaac smiled gently. "Yes."

The door to Joachim's shop flew open. This time it admitted a short, stout woman who wore an apron over her dress and a cloth that contained her iron-gray hair. She was followed by the young woman who had come to the shop earlier. He was surprised-not that she appeared; he had been half-way expecting that ever since Devorah left-but that she was dressed so… informally.

"Good day, Rebitzin Rivka…"

"Where is my son?"

"Who?"

"Play no games with me, Joachim ben Eleazar." She advanced on him, eyes aflame. Joachim was very glad that the counter was between them. "I may be the rabbi's wife, and you may be the president of the congregation, but forty years ago I gave you a bloody nose and kicked your shins black and blue when you pushed me in a mud puddle. I will do it again here and now if you do not tell me the truth! Where is my son?"

"Gone." God Above, she was in a towering fury. Grown men had been known to pale on the rare occasions that her ire was stirred. Devorah was backed into a corner, wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to stand there and weather the storm.

"I see that, you old fool! Where has he gone?"

"I know not." That stopped her in mid-tirade. "He said he was traveling with others, and that they were leaving Aschenhausen immediately." Joachim watched as the fire of the strong-willed young woman he had known all those years ago guttered out, leaving behind the gray-haired, arthritic matron who was the wife of his rabbi.

"Leaving? But… why? Did he not… could he not…"

"He was traveling on business of someone important." Joachim had his doubts about whether it was Don Francisco, but he let Yitzhak's story stand.

Rivka visibly collected herself, and looked up at him with naked pain shining in her eyes. "Did he not come here to reconcile?"

"No."

She flinched. "Nevertheless, I should not have heard about him from Devorah. Why did you not bring him to us, Joachim? Could you not do that for him, for us?"

"I tried, Rivka." Joachim sighed. "I attempted that very thing."

Now her face whitened. "He will not reconcile? God Above knows that I love my husband dearly, but he is as stubborn as an angry ox, and Yitzhak is his father's son, in that much at least. Will he not at least attempt to reconcile?"

"I would judge, rather, that he cannot." Rivka obviously did not understand. Running his fingers through his white beard, Joachim said slowly, "I believe he loves his father dearly. For that reason, the words that were said that night hurt him very deeply. Now, like a wounded fox, he is curled around the pain and grief and cannot reach out. He is afraid that if he tried, he would be rejected again. I tell you truly, if that happened, I would fear for his life."

Tears filled Rivka's eyes and spilled down her wrinkled cheeks. "All this time, we never heard from him, never heard about him. I was afraid he hated us, and would never return. And all this time he was bleeding from his soul, he was grieving. Oh, my son, my son!" She covered her face with her apron and sobbed brokenly. Her own grief and heartbreak caused Joachim to set aside the tradition that Jewish men would not touch another man's wife. He came around the counter and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Devorah stepped out of the corner and placed her arm around her mother's waist.

Finally the sobbing slowed, then stopped, except for the occasional sniffle. Rivka lowered her apron, exposing reddened eyes and nose. She dabbed at her face, then resolutely faced Joachim, who had retreated back around the counter again.

"So there can be no reconciliation?" Her voice was dead.

"I did not say that, Rivka," Joachim said gently. "I said that he could not begin it."

A light of hope dawned in her eyes. "You think if his father approached him…"

"A possibility only, but the only one I see." Joachim fingered his beard again. "But as you say, Rav Shlomo is somewhat… strong-willed."

The light of hope became a beacon of purpose.

"Yitzhak was born of this womb." Rivka laid her hands on her abdomen. Shifting them to her bosom, she said, "He nursed from these breasts. He is my son as much as he is his father's." She leaned over the counter, fiery gaze locked on Joachim's eyes. " And I will have my first-born back!"

Fussen – Early February, 1634

Johannes Fichtold watched as his brother Hans, having seen to wine being provided to all his guests, took a cup of his own and then came to stand beside him. "Let us not spend time in useless conversation," Hans said. That was so like his brother; if the talk was not about the crafting of lutes and viols, then it was time and effort that was misspent. "You all know that last summer the Italian, Master Girolamo Zenti, came through Fussen on his way north. He placed an order for woods to be delivered to him when he reached this Grantville that we have heard so much about. You also know that Johannes here," who almost staggered from the clap on the shoulder that Hans delivered, "went with him, to learn more of the Italian methods of crafting while working in his service. I am sure that you all wonder why Johannes is back in town. That story is his to tell." And with that, Han sat down.

Licking his lips, Johannes looked around the room at the men seated there: Matthias Gemunder, August Neuner, Ludwig Koehler, Christof Eichelberger. With the addition of his brother, Hans Fichtold, these were the senior luthiers and geigenfabrikants in Fussen. These were the craft masters of the guild. There were other families that made instruments, but the families headed by these men made the best, and everyone knew it. These were the men he must convince to make the instruments desired by Frau Simpson and Franz Sylwester. He straightened his cuffs and pulled down on his waistcoat. Remembering Master Zenti's instructions to stand tall and look confident, he straightened to his full height and did his best to assume that air.

Hans cleared his throat. Johannes, realizing he had been woolgathering, began his speech. "I know that all of you have heard of this Grantville. The rumors of its appearing in the countryside of Thuringia had long been floating here even at the time when Master Zenti and I were here last year, as Hans said. I am sure that you have discounted most of those rumors, as had Master Zenti and I before we arrived there. We were wrong to do so.

"Oh, to be sure, there are no angels walking the streets of Grantville, and those streets are not paved with cobblestones of gold. But the people of Grantville are possessed of mechanical arts so advanced that many times our best efforts seem like child's play. They have other wisdoms as well. You know they have allied with Gustav Adolf, and they are spreading out throughout Thuringia, having become a force even in Magdeburg.

"When we arrived, Master Zenti discovered, to his chagrin, that this was often true of music as well. His companion, Master Giacomo Carissimi-yes, that Carissimi." Johannes paused in response to raised eyebrows. The masters obviously recognized the name of the renowned Italian composer. "Master Carissimi told me that he will be years learning of all the changes in styles and forms, that it will perhaps be his life work simply to amass the knowledge.

"I have seen with my own eyes trumpets and horns that can play diatonic and chromatic tones in all registers. I have seen transverse flutes made of metal that are capable of incredible sonorities in the hands of a virtuoso. And I have seen an instrument called the piano that overshadows the harpsichord and clavichord as the Alps overshadow the hills that cling to their skirts. Master Zenti has dedicated his life to building pianos. I will stay and learn of them with him, to return to Fussen at some point with that knowledge."

"If these Grantvillers are such paragons of artistry," interrupted Matthias Gemunder in a testy tone of voice, "then why are you here?"

"As it happens," Johannes said, glad of the question, "what they know of viols and stringed instruments in general is not far advanced over our knowledge and skills. Which is why I am here." He turned and picked up a leather case from the chair behind him. Extracting a paper, he handed it to August Neuner, the youngest of the men in the room. Unlike the other masters, he did not require spectacles to read. "Master Neuner, would you please read this missive aloud?"

Holding the page up in the best light, Master Neuner began.

"Royal and Imperial Arts Council of the United States of Europe on this 10^ th day of January, 1634.

"To whom it may concern:

"This is to signify that Johannes Fichtold is authorized to negotiate and sign binding contracts on behalf of the Royal and Imperial Arts Council with the Geigenfabrikant Guild of Fussenregarding the design, construction and delivering of instruments, including but not limited to violins, violas, violoncelli and contra-basses.

"This authorization will expire on the 30^ th day of April, 1634."

Master Neuner looked up and said, "It is signed by Lady Beth Haygood." He stumbled over the name. "With an additional title of Attorney-in-Fact, and is witnessed by Master Zenti and by a Master Hans Riebeck."

"Riebeck, Hans Riebeck," Master Koehler said. "I know that name. I thought he was in Mainz."

"He was," Johannes responded. "Last year he left his son in charge of their shop in Mainz, and brought his most talented journeyman and several apprentices to Grantville to learn of pianos and other innovations." That struck a note with the masters, he saw. It was one thing for an Italian, master or no, to chase after what might be a phantasm, but when one of their own hard-headed German brethren began pursuing the same goal, then they must take notice and examine the Grantville issue more closely.

"So," Master Eichelberger said, finally joining in the conversation, the last of the guild masters to do so. "At last we get to the heartwood. You are here because they want something from us, these not-quite-angels of Grantville. Something that we can produce faster or for fewer ducats than they can. So, enlighten us, ambassador."

Johannes did his best to ignore the sarcasm in Master Eichelberger's voice. "Such is not only my intent, it is my charge. I said the Grantvillers were not far advanced over we down-timers…" He paused for a moment as a variety of confused expressions passed over the masters' faces, then realized what he had done. "Your pardon, masters, let me explain. Since the Grantvillers believe they were sent back from the future, they refer to themselves as up-timers, and to we native Germans and our neighbors as down-timers."

"And do they sneer when they do so?" Master Eichelberger's voice was sharp. "As if we are poor cousins, or beggars at the gates?"

"No." Johannes again managed to ignore the tone of the master. "Well, in truth, there are a few who do so, but I would say on the whole I have found them less arrogant than the Italians I dealt with when I first went south to study."

"Hmmph." Master Eichelberger sat back in his chair, only somewhat mollified. "That is not saying much." He said nothing more, and waved at Johannes to continue.

"Um…" Johannes tried to regain his thoughts. "Oh, yes… they are not far advanced over us in strings. Nonetheless, they do have advanced designs for viols. And, as Master Eichelberger has surmised, they desire instruments to be crafted for them according to those 'merino' designs." Too late, he remembered that Master Zenti had directed him to avoid the 'merino' label, judging that it would be confusing to the guild masters, perhaps even insulting if they made the connection to sheep. But in Grantville, the instrument crafters had all used that term almost exclusively when discussing the new designs. It had become second nature to him, so that it had just slipped out now. Johannes berated himself soundly, but was forced to drop the self-chastising when his brother, who had been silent so far to avoid any hint of collusion, spoke.

"'Merino'? Who is this 'Merino?'"

"Sounds Italian to me," Master Neuner said. "Did they steal it from an Italian master?"

Johannes thought furiously, and replied cautiously. "They never told me who this 'Merino' is or was, whether it was someone in their times or someone from our own." That much was true, he laughed to himself, remembering when Friedrich had used the name as a joke, one that turned out to be self-perpetuating. "But they did reveal to me that many of the refinements and innovations in the 'Merino' designs were originally made by Italians." The masters of Fussen reacted in various ways to the thought of stealing a march on some unknown Italian masters: sly grins from some, a couple of knowing nods, but no further comments. Johannes engraved in his mind the thought that he must tell the others in Grantville to never reveal where the name came from. Finally, he returned to the original topic.

"I have convinced them that you can safely craft these instruments and transport them to Magdeburg, despite the… current state of affairs between Bavaria and the USE. And they want enough of them that it will take all of you to satisfy them." Johannes could see the masters glancing at each other, all of them-even his brother-with what Master Ingram called 'dollar signs' of avarice in their eyes.

"Before we get down to details," Master Gemunder said, "what is your percentage for brokering this deal? What will we have to pay you?"

"My compensation is provided by the arts council. As Master Neuner read to you all, I speak with their voice. There will be no additional fees for you to pay once we have settled on the prices for crafting the instruments and transporting them to Magdeburg." Again the masters looked at each other, this time in somewhat astonished disbelief.

"None?" Master Gemunder probed.

"None." Johannes was quite firm.

The looks shared now were somewhat skeptical. Johannes couldn't blame them. It was unheard of for a broker of any kind to not take a cut out of any deal in which he had a part, no matter how small. Nonetheless, his position had been made quite clear to him by Lady Beth Haygood: there was to be no profiteering in this venture, and if he tried it and was caught, he would be booted out of Grantville so hard his feet wouldn't touch earth again until he reached the Alps.

"So," ventured Master Neuner, "what is their commission?"

Finally, Johannes thought to himself. The introductory stage was finished, and now the really interesting part of the evening began. "The initial contract," he said, "is for thirty violins and matching bows to be crafted according to the 'Merino' designs, to be delivered to Magdeburg no later than the first of May. They must be of high enough quality that you would personally sign them. Their quality will be judged by a committee composed of Master Zenti, Master Riebeck, their leading journeymen and Franz Sylwester. Only those instruments which pass their scrutiny will be acceptable under the terms of the contract."

"Who is this Franz Sylwester?" asked Master Eichelberger snidely. "I do not know that name."

Johannes stared him down. "You may not know it now, but you will know it. All of Germany, no, all of Europe will know the name of Franz Sylwester. He will serve as the first dirigent of the world's finest orchestra."

" Dirigent? What is this?"

"It has to do with leading the orchestra in performance. I cannot explain it more than that. You will have to come to Magdeburg in July to see it."

"The contract," Master Neuner interjected. "Let us not forget the contract." He looked around at the others. "I dare say that we can produce that many violins in that time, provided that the designs are not radically different from what we already know." Heads nodded around the room. "So, the question becomes, what do they offer to us to set aside our other work, set aside our designs which are well-proven, and undertake their commission?"

"I am authorized to offer two Amsterdam guilders per violin to confirm the contract and provide for materials. An additional ten guilders will be paid upon delivery and acceptance of the instruments, for a total of twelve guilders per violin." There was a moment of silence as each man converted guilders to the Imperial currency. Eyes lit up, some in anger, some in interest, some just in the fun of the negotiation, but before any of the masters could speak, Johannes held his hand up. "And," he declared firmly, "each of you will also execute an agreement that you will not build instruments utilizing any of the 'Merino' improvements for anyone except the Royal and Imperial Arts Council for a period of six years."

The room exploded-at least it seemed that way to Johannes. Most of the masters were on their feet, gesturing and expostulating at the top of their lungs. The gist of their comments was that if the arts council wanted to rob them, wouldn't it be easier to just send Gustav's Finnish cavalry to sack the town? He did hear one muttered comment that by its tone was probably highly vulgar, although he could not hear the words clearly. His brother sat back down, smiling slightly. Master Neuner had remained in his chair, viewing Johannes through narrowed eyes. Finally, all the others quieted and resumed their seats, albeit murmuring to each other.

Master Neuner cleared his throat. "Personally, for everything that this arts council is demanding, I could not see my way clear to accepting their commission for less than, say, 40 guilders. And I would not grant them more than a year of exclusivity." Heads nodded around the room.

Johannes remained standing to keep the advantage of looking down at them. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from rubbing them together in anticipation. Accepting the challenge, he began the duel.

Grantville – Early February, 1634

Marcus Wendell turned the corner in the hallway and came face to face with Lady Beth Haygood. She was accompanied by a man he didn't recognize, which meant he was a down-timer.

"Lady Beth." Marcus came to a sudden stop. "Just who I wanted to see."

"Hey, Marcus." Lady Beth and her companion stopped as well. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to see if you've heard anything about Marla and her friends."

"Nothing. Where they were going and as long as they've been gone, they're well out of the range of the telegraph now. We probably won't hear anything about them until they're back."

"That's about what I figured," Marcus said. "Just thought I'd check."

Lady Beth smiled. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know." She reached out and placed her hand on her companion's shoulder. "Marcus, this is Max Ohl. He's going to be filling in for me in the office for a couple of weeks. Max, this is Marcus Wendell. He's the band director at the high school."

"Nice to meet you, Max."

"I am happy to meet you also." Max said, bobbing his head. He was a young man, Marcus saw as they shook hands, looking to be about the age of Marla and her friends. His English was strongly accented, but precise.

"So." Marcus turned back to Lady Beth. "Are you going to Magdeburg, then?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving next Monday, be gone for two weeks. They really want me to take this school deal, so I'm going down to scope things out. If it looks decent at all, I'll take it. I want my family back together, and since we'd be starting a secondary school for girls, all the kids would have places in good schools. That was the main reason I held back from moving before."

"Well, travel safe, good luck, and let me know if you hear anything."

"I'll do that."

Aschenhausen – Early February, 1634

Joachim ben Eleazar accepted a cup of wine from Rebitzin Rivka. "Please, sit, RebJoachim." Rabbi Shlomo ben Moishe gestured at a chair. As he did so, the rabbi sat as well. His wife chose to stand, although there was a stool nearby.

As the guest, Joachim knew he was expected to sample the wine and compliment it. Best to get it over with, he thought to himself. Rabbi Shlomo's taste was… undiscerning, to be kind.

As he expected, it wasn't very good. Since he had become parnas, president, to the community, he had suffered from the rabbi's tastes more than once. He suppressed his wince and said, "As good a cup as I have ever had." He made a mental note, as he had in the past, to acquire a few bottles of better Jewish wines to gift to his rabbi.

After several minutes of conversation about topics and issues that the two leaders frequently talked about, the rabbi set his cup on a nearby table, and folded his hands across his middle. At last, Joachim thought, we arrive at the purpose for tonight.

"My wife tells me," Shlomo said slowly, "that you have spoken with one who was once part of our family."

"It is true, I have had speech with Yitzhak, Rav Shlomo," Joachim agreed. "He was on the business of Don Francisco Nasi, Pinchas ben Yudah of the Abrabanel family."

"He has taken service with them, then?"

"Mmm, no, I would say not. Rather, he is briefly associated with them to pursue a common purpose."

"Ah." Shlomo nodded, then hesitated for a moment as a look of hunger flashed across his face. "Is he… well?"

"Yes, he is mostly well," Joachim responded. "He has matured into a handsome young man, tall and straight. He favors you to some degree, but I see traces of your wife's father in his face as well." He paused for a moment, then continued with, "My contacts tell me…" The rabbi well knew who his contacts included. "… that he is known as Isaac Fremdling among the goyim, and has attained some reputation as a musician."

Rabbi Shlomo absorbed the double hit. First, that his son had named himself 'Stranger' to the rest of the world, and second, that music was still such a part of his life. It was the rabbi's objection to his son's passion for music that was the root cause of their estrangement. Joachim saw his face freeze. Nothing was said for a long moment. Finally, the rabbi cleared his throat. "I am not surprised by that." He stared at his hands for another long moment, then looked up at Joachim. "Tell me."

Joachim recounted everything that had passed between him and Yitzhak in their meeting several days ago. He included his perceptions of the young man's state of mind. The rabbi drank it all in, fingering his beard all the while. He turned pale when Joachim repeated the metaphor of the wounded fox which had touched his earlier conversation with Rivka. When the telling was completed, Rabbi Shlomo stared at the opposite wall, a very distant expression on his face, pain in his eyes.

Time passed. At last, Joachim spoke again. "RavShlomo, with all respect, you were wrong in how you handled the situation with your son. It is the nature of young men to be passionate about some things. It is also the nature of young men to sometimes be disobedient. And although the Proverbs of Solomon say to spare not the rod in disciplining the children, it says nothing about wounding them unto death.

"I was there that evening. I recall it well. I recall the president of our community, old Benyamin ben Yohannon, and myself and the other elders pleading with you to not say those words, to find some way to not cast him out so finally. You would not listen to us, and so your first-born has been sundered from your family for over five years. Five years of grief for you and Rivka, and Devorah and Rachel and Reuven. Five years of pain and exile for Yitzhak. Old Benyamin would not challenge you further, so we, the community, supported you through saying Kaddish and sitting Shiva."

Joachim stopped, and directed a stern look at his rabbi. "But now I, Joachim ben Eleazar, president of our community, I say to you enough. Yitzhak has not stayed away because of anger or hatred. He has stayed away because he was wounded to the heart, and so deep and so wide is that wound he cannot find his way over or around it. He must be helped to reconcile, and that help must come from you. As Torah says, 'compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness.' No other can reach him."

Rabbi Shlomo took that all in, unflinching, staring at Joachim. After the speech finished, he turned his head and looked at his wife for a long moment. She might well have been a statue, so still did she stand, so rigid was her face. Facing forward again, he sighed. "I must think on this."

Mainz-February, 1634

"You will come, Georg?" Franz was delighted. Their quest for instrumentalists had so far not produced many musicians who were willing to move to Magdeburg.

After going to Aschenhausen so Isaac could fulfill his charge from Don Francisco, the group had decided to change their itinerary, reversing the order of the cities they would visit. From Aschenhausen, it actually made more sense to proceed directly to Stuttgart, then proceed to Mainz, and finally return to Magdeburg via Grantville.

They had made good time. The horses had remained healthy, and they had only suffered two broken wheels so far.

The stay in Stuttgart had begun well. The letter from the Tuchman brothers had been delivered to their cousin, who was able to provide introductions to many of the musicians in the town. They were well-received, and had demonstrated some of the new music with some of the new instruments, such as Marla's flute and a violin that Ingram had purchased out of Grantville's attics, but no one was willing to commit to coming to Magdeburg, particularly on such short notice.

Slightly disheartened, they had driven up the road to Mainz, counting on making contact with the musicians who had been there when Franz and the others had left. To their dismay, when they did arrive, they found that Isaac's estimate of twelve to fifteen possible recruits was a serious overestimate. Three of the musicians they were counting on had died in the months that had passed since Isaac and the others had left Mainz to travel to Grantville at Franz's invitation. Another had suffered a career ending injury, and three more had left Mainz looking for better circumstances. As they had not been in Stuttgart, Franz only hoped that word of the invitation to Magdeburg somehow found its way to them.

Five of the musicians who had been part of the Prince-Bishop's orchestra when Franz had left were still in Mainz-six, if you counted Rupert Heydrich. Franz tried to forget about him. He was experiencing a recurrence of the nightmares he had suffered after Heydrich had crippled his left hand to remove him as competition. So far their group had not encountered Heydrich, and no one they met mentioned him. Franz didn't know their reasons for not doing so, but he appreciated their reticence nonetheless.

One of the five had given a definite "no." Since he was an old man now walking with a cane, Franz could understand why. Three of them had said they would think about it. That had left Georg Seiler. Franz really wanted to recruit him. Georg played the viola da gamba, the largest common member of the viol family, and the closest thing to a down-time version of the up-time bass. Having a feeling that the low strings were going to be the hardest to recruit, Franz had talked to him several times over the last few days, and finally tonight Georg had agreed.

"Yes, Franz, I said so, did I not?" Georg was blocky in size, with brown hair that constantly hung down over his face. The circles under his eyes proved that he had taken the death of his wife Mathilda of pneumonia during the days after Christmas very hard. "But only if I can ride back with you. I cannot afford to hire a wagon to cart my daughter and my instrument and my other things."

Franz looked over to where six-year old Odelia was showing her doll to Marla and Isaac. She was the very image of Georg's wife. Reuel stood by the door. "We have room, Georg." He looked around the bare room. "When can you leave? How much of this do you wish to bring with you?"

"Give me two days, Franz. I need the time to sell most of this worthless furniture and pay a few debts. I will want to bring Mathilda's bridal chest, and we will pack what few things we want to keep, like her dishes, in that. Other than that, our clothes and my viol are all we have that are worth bringing." Georg hung his head.

Franz leaned forward and placed his hand on Georg's shoulder. "Whatever you want to bring, we will find room for it. You are welcome with us, whatever your reason for coming." Franz squeezed his shoulder, then stood as a sign to the others that they should leave. "We will return tomorrow, to be what help we can." Georg just nodded his head, slumped in his chair.

After they tromped down the stairs of the rooming house and out into the street, Marla took his arm. "That's so sad."

"Indeed," Isaac said from her other side. "Mathilda was a lively woman, one who brought joy to all. And little Odelia bids to be much like her."

"I believe that is why Georg wants to move," Franz mused, "to remove them both from the place where Mathilda lived."

"Probably," from Marla.

"Aye," Isaac responded.

They walked in silence until they reached the inn where they were staying. As they entered, Marla said, "I need to go up to the room. Get me something to drink, and I'll be back down in a minute." Franz nodded. Reuel shadowed Marla to the stairs. Franz turned to the bar with Isaac.

He ordered a beer for himself, and a small cup of white wine for Marla. She preferred to drink no brewed or fermented liquids. Sometimes, however, there were no other choices, so she had learned to drink a little wine since she couldn't stomach beer or ale. Just as they were delivered to his hands, he heard a voice from behind him.

"So. The rumors are correct. The prodigal has returned."

Franz's shoulders tightened, and his head pulled down instinctively. The last time he had heard that voice, it had been hissing in his ear moments after his left hand had been crushed during a brawl at a tavern here in Mainz. It was burned in his memory. It haunted his nightmares. It was the dividing line between his youth and the rest of his life.

Slowly, he turned. "Heydrich."

If Rupert Heydrich had not spoken, Franz would not have recognized him. Prior to Franz leaving Mainz, his memory of Heydrich was that of a slim, reasonably good-looking young man, somewhat vain, who always dressed well, made a fetish of cleanliness, and carried himself with an air. The figure that stood-wavered, rather-a few feet away bore no resemblance to his memories. The clothing was filthy; the shirt was smeared with soot, there was mud caked on both knees, the boots were scarred and worn, waistcoat and hat were missing. His hair was unkempt, his beard was scraggly. But his face was the worst… Franz had been gone for less than two years, and what had been a smooth youthful face looked now as if it belonged to a debaucher of the vilest kind. There were lines graven around the eyes and from nose to chin, seams under the cheekbones, and the bags under his eyes were dark enough to have been painted there.

"Are you surprised to see me, little Franz?" The voice was rougher, but the timbre was still the same, still enough to send shivers up his spine. The vitriol that dripped from it, however, was even worse than he remembered, if that was possible.

"Aye," said Franz. "I had hoped that you would have the decency to avoid me if you heard I was in Mainz."

"Oh, I could not avoid hearing that you had graced our fair city with your presence. There are those in our streets who, upon sighting you, could not wait to rush to my side and spill into my ears the news that, all unbidden and unheralded, you had returned.

"I waited, Franz… waited for you to come to me, to speak with your old friend Rupert, to renew old ties and friendships. But you never sought me out, and I am wounded to the heart." Heydrich theatrically placed one hand above the organ in question. Isaac stirred. Franz grabbed his shoulder, urging him back.

"I remember the last time we talked, Rupert. You seemed to have no use for me then."

"Oh, I was in my cups, Franz. Surely you can't hold that against me?"

Franz would have been stunned by the apparent arrogance, but he could see Heydrich's face clearly, and it was obvious that there was no truth in the man. He held his left hand up between them. "And was this done in your cups as well, Rupert?" There was no answer.

Franz continued. "I despaired of ever playing again, Rupert, to the extent that I attempted to smash my violin. I wandered away from Mainz, hoping that I would die." Heydrich smiled.

"And no doubt I would have, but God in His infinite mercy guided me to Grantville." Heydrich's smile slipped away into his beard like a worm into loam.

"Yes, Grantville, Rupert. I found that city, and amidst the reality of it I found wise men and women of the medical arts who could restore enough use of my hand that I could learn to play again. And I found music, Rupert, music from the future, music grander than any we had ever heard or played for the Prince-Bishop."

Franz felt his voice swelling, felt himself standing taller, staring directly into Heydrich's eyes. "I found a place there, a place that Archimedes himself would envy, a place to stand, where with my friends we will move the music of the world with the lever of Grantville and its archives."

Heydrich snorted. "You rave."

"Do I?" Franz turned slightly and unbuttoned his coat. As he shrugged it off, he saw Marla coming back down the stairs. Shoving the coat into Isaac's arms, he hissed, "Go to Marla. Keep her out of this!" Isaac turned away, and he turned back toward Heydrich.

Under his coat, Franz had slung the case containing his violin and bow to keep it warm. Now he set the case on the top of the bar, opened it, and took out them out. "I will play you a simple song," he said, testing the tuning of the violin, "for that is all I can play as yet. A simple song from Grantville, from the future, and you will understand, I think."

Nestling the violin under his chin, Franz raised the bow and began to play.

Isaac hurried to reach Marla just as she reached the bottom step. He grabbed her arm, and looked to Reuel. "Franz says we must keep her here." Reuel immediately grabbed her other arm.

"What are you doing?" Marla twisted in his grip. "Let me go! What's going on?"

"Shhh!" Isaac hissed at her. "Marla, that is Heydrich he faces! The man is drunk, or mad, or both, and is dangerous as a mad dog. You must stay here, let Franz face him. If you intrude you will distract him, which just might get him killed."

"Listen to him." Reuel surprised him by his support. "I am charged with your protection… I will not let you go there. Keep quiet, and your husband will probably survive. Start fighting or screaming, and he will die for certain." Marla turned white, gulped, and nodded.

Isaac turned to watch just as Franz began playing. It was one of the Irish songs, the one called variously "Londonderry Air", or "Derry Air", but most commonly "O Danny Boy." Isaac had sung it before, and the words reeled through his mind as Franz played.

O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying.

It's you must go, and I must bide.

As Isaac sang the words of the song in his mind, Franz's violin sang the song without words, rich, sonorous, and somehow sad.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow.

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow.

O Danny boy, O Danny boy, I love you so.

Franz sped the tempo a little in the chorus, lifting and swelling the sound as the lines rose and fell, slowing again in the last phrase. Isaac matched him move for move in his mind, thinking in a back corner of his mind that they needed to perform it this way some time.

And when you come, when all the flowers are dying,

And I am dead, as dead I well may be,

You'll come and find the place where I am lying,

And kneel and say an 'Ave' thee for me.

The second verse was so delicate, it was almost musical lace. Franz's touch was so light it belied his frequent insistence that he was still a fumbler, still only hacking at playing because he was not fully rehabilitated.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me,

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be,

If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me,

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Again the sound swelled with the chorus, joyously, triumphantly, cresting in the third line. The tone was so pure, so sweet that chills surged up and down Isaac's spine. Closing his eyes, he abandoned himself to the music, as it began to ebb.

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Franz repeated the last line, slowly, softly, taking the final note up an octave and just seemed to hold it forever, letting it gently fade. As it disappeared, Isaac opened his eyes and looked to Marla. He was unsurprised to see tears on her cheeks.

Releasing the breath that he hadn't even realized he had been holding, Franz lowered his bow. He turned to the bar and set both violin and bow back in the case. Closing it, he pushed it toward the innkeeper, and motioned that he should set it behind the counter. The man nodded, and made an arrested motion with the cudgel in his hand, as if to offer it to Franz. Franz shook his head slightly and turned back to Heydrich.

"Rupert," Franz said. No reaction. "Rupert," he said louder. Heydrich started, and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Rupert, there is such music to be learned, such music to be played, that there is room for the two of us and many more. Can you not feel it? Can you not feel that tonight, perhaps tonight alone, we can make amends and enter this new world together?"

Heydrich said nothing.

Reaching back to the bar, Franz picked up the mug of beer he had ordered what seemed to be hours ago. "Come, Rupert," holding the mug out, "will you drink with me? Can we make amends?" There was silence for a long moment, then Heydrich's left hand snaked out and slapped the mug from Franz's grip. It bounced against the counter, and rolled across the floor.

"Make amends?" Heydrich spat. "Never! You have slandered me, making everyone think that I caused your injury. You belittled me, you took the praise that was my due, you were constantly stealing my place, you… you… It is all your fault!. And now you come, sneaking back to Mainz, seeking to steal my place again, bringing with you Jew Isaac and some slattern. Who is she, some down-on-her-luck whore who can find no one better than a cripple and a Jew?"

Rage flared through Franz. He felt as though every muscle in his body was clenching, as if he was swelling in size to contain his wrath. Somewhat of that must have shown, for Heydrich fell back a step or two.

"What lies between us, Rupert," Franz said in a voice so cold it could have been the winter wind blowing from the mountains of Sweden, "is between us alone. You will not say these things to my wife." As Heydrich's mouth opened, Franz raised his hand. " You will not. " His voice was no louder, but it was so hard it could have cut steel.

Heydrich was silent for a moment. "As you say, it is between us." His voice was shaking.

Franz lowered his hand, and when he spoke again, his voice was normal. "One last time, Rupert. I freely admit that I have wronged and hurt you in the past, just as you have wronged and hurt me." He held his hand out again. "Will you not take my hand and help heal this breach? Will you not make amends?"

For answer, Rupert spat at him

Filled with an unexpected sadness, Franz lowered his hand. "'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' By your own words and actions are you judged, Rupert. As you have rejected, so you are rejected. There will be no place for you in our world. Good-bye, Rupert. I shall not see you again."

Franz started to turn away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Heydrich yank something from inside his coat. Heydrich yelled, "Turn not your back on me, wretch! I will have your life's blood for the insult!" The next few moments were a blur. Franz could sense Heydrich lunging for him, no doubt with a knife in hand. He attempted to jump out of the way. Marla start to scream and the innkeeper began to bellow. His foot slipped in a puddle of beer on the floor from the mug that Heydrich had knocked from his hand earlier. Panic flashed through Franz's mind when he hit the floor-a flashback to the night Heydrich had crushed his hand. There was a loud thump behind him, and he rolled, cradling his hands between his chest and the counter, protecting them, expecting at any moment to feel Heydrich's boots crashing into him.

Nothing happened. The innkeeper stopped yelling. Marla stopped screaming. Then he could feel her at his side, pulling on him, saying, "Get up, get up! Are you hurt?" over and over again. He started to yell for Isaac and Reuel to come get her, to get her out of Heydrich's way, but a different sort of panic shot through him-Marla was in reach of Heydrich! He uncurled and shot to his feet instantly, looking around for his nemesis, and seeing… Reuel, bending over the huddled shape of a man on the floor. An unmoving shape. A shape wearing the coat that Heydrich wore.

Reuel stood, stuck his toe under a shoulder, and rolled Heydrich over. As his face appeared, Franz froze. Marla screamed again. Isaac said something that Franz didn't understand.

Heydrich would torment no one any more. As he would have done, so he was done to. Protruding from his right eye-socket was a knife hilt, blood seeping out around it.

"Never seen anything like it," the innkeeper said, shaking his head. "The drunken fool was holding that little knife ham-fisted, and when he slipped on the beer and threw his hands out to catch himself, he would not let go of the knife. His head came down right on the point of the blade." The innkeeper kept muttering, even as he sent a pot boy for the guard.

Fortunately, when the soldiers of the guard arrived, they accepted the witness of the innkeeper and those few patrons who had not slipped out the back door as to what had occurred. Once they found out Marla was from Grantville, their questions were few and perfunctory.

The sergeant pulled the knife from Rupert's eye, revealing a very narrow and thin blade. "An assassin's toy," he grunted, snapping it in two with little effort.

Waving his men on, the sergeant exited, and the corpse of what had once been one of the finest musicians in Mainz was dragged out the door as if it were unwanted baggage. Other than the pot boy scrubbing the blood and beer from the floor, there was no physical evidence of the conflict that had just occurred.

Franz sat at a table. He was stunned, hands shaking, unable to speak, barely able to think. Marla sat to his left, both hands gripping his crippled hand, a worried expression on her face as she looked into his eyes. Isaac brought another beer from the bar and set it in front of Franz, but Franz was unable to grasp it.

Hermann had come down the stairs to find out what all the uproar was about, and had been demanding an explanation. Isaac finally sat him down and told him what had happened. "Good riddance to bad cess," was his verdict. Hermann sniffed. Then he went back up to the rooms.

Finally, Franz stirred. "That could have been me," he croaked from a mouth and throat dry enough to spit dust.

Marla brushed back his hair. "He never got close to you, dear heart."

"No. You don't understand." Franz was finally able to grab the mug and swallow a sip. Throat moistened, he continued, " I could have been Heydrich! "

Marla looked horrified. "What do you mean?"

Staring straight ahead, as if he were looking down a league of road, Franz said, "We were so much alike… in talent, in zeal, in passion, in goals. We were friends for a while, but then the competition to be best came between us. Neither of us could ever be happy that the other had done well, won some accolade, taken some prize. It poisoned our friendship, and we began to taunt, and goad, and bait each other. I was good at it, and more often than not, I won the battle of words.

"It was on a night of such a battle that he attacked me." He swallowed. "But I had dreamt of doing the same to him, of somehow causing the end of his career by some kind of injury. It was part of why I almost went mad, thinking that because I had been envisioning such things, God had visited them upon me."

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, Blessed be the Name of the Lord," Isaac said quietly.

"And that verse, my friend, is what challenged me, kept me thinking, and walking, and living until I got to Grantville." Franz was quiet again for a long time, but seemed to have shrugged off the shock. He finally looked at Marla with a bit of a quirk to his mouth, almost a smile. "Do you know, it was Heydrich that was responsible for our getting married?" Now Marla looked shocked. "Truly. If he had not done this to me…" Franz lifted his crippled hand. "I would never have gone to Grantville. I would never have met you that night. I would never have heard you sing, or play, or teach, or… anything." Franz paused. Then he spoke, softly. "God used Heydrich to humble my pride, and send me to you."

"Would you do it over again?" Marla quietly asked.

"To come to you?" His smile was blinding. "Oh, without hesitation, love. Without hesitation." She melted against him, holding his arm with two hands.

Silence.

"I wish he had taken my hand," Franz said. "I wish he had accepted my apology… I wish…"

More silence.

"Those who take up the sword," Franz said finally, as if pronouncing an epitaph, "by the sword will die."

Copenhagen – February, 1634

Josef watched as Heinrich Schutz, Kappellmeister to the court of John George, Elector of Saxony, finished reading the letter. He then started over at the beginning, and read it again. Johan assumed it said the same thing the second time as it did the first. Finally, Master Schutz set the letter down on top of the haphazard pile of music atop the table he sat behind, and looked for a long while at where the ceiling joined the wall on the far side of the chamber.

The Kappellmeister was an impressive figure, Johan had to admit. Heinrich Schutz was dressed in black with a broad white collar. He looked every inch the lawyer he had originally studied to be, before taking up music. His face was… striking, Josef decided. Schutz had gray hair swept back from his forehead, a prominent nose and strong chin. He looked to be a friendly man, but Josef knew that to have survived as the major musician of the court at Dresden, there must be some steel in him.

Dropping his eyes back down to look first at Josef and then at his brother Rudolf, Schutz smiled slightly. "So, my friend Maestro Carissimi bids me come to visit him in Grantville. This letter, uncharacteristically short though it might be for one from il maestro , is undoubtedly from him. I recognize both the hand and his elegant turn of phrase. He waxes eloquent on the subject of the music and instruments found in Grantville; from the future, he says. Did I not know him to be one of the soberest men alive, I would say that he sounds as if he fell in a brandy tun, and did not climb out until after he had drunk most of it." He folded his fingers together, and rested his chin on his thumbs. "But, as I said, he is a most sober man, and one not given to exaggeration, so I must give some credence to his writing."

Schutz fell silent, and stared steadily at the Tuchman brothers. The weight of that gaze became heavy indeed. Josef bit his tongue to keep from babbling in front of the preeminent musician of Europe north of the Alps. He felt Rupert shift his weight, and knew that his brother was feeling it as well.

Finally, the master smiled. "Good. You are men of some substance. I like that." He sat back in his chair, crossed a leg across the other knee, and waved a hand. "Speak. Tell me of this Grantville of which I have heard so much, and why Maestro Carissimi speaks so highly of it."

Josef proceeded to do so, but all the while he was aware of that weighty gaze, as if he were a subject of a naturalist's study. He described the music they had studied with Marla Linder, the recordings that existed, the sheet music that they had seen, and the instruments-oh, the instruments! Josef considered himself a plain-spoken man, but he almost waxed lyrical as he tried to describe the brass and woodwind instruments from the future. Finally, he talked about the crowning glory of all they had seen, the piano. At last, Josef ran out of words, and stopped. He almost sighed in relief as that measuring consideration shifted to his brother.

"And you," Schutz asked Rudolf, "what do you have to say?"

Rudolf was silent for a long moment. Josef was about to jab him with an elbow, and sighed when he finally spoke.

"You are in their books, Master." Schutz sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "You lived quite a long life, and the books speak well of you." Schutz's mouth dropped open. "They call you the first great German composer, and the Father of German music." A very far-away look came over Schutz's face. "And it occurs to me," Rudolf said softly, "to wonder just what music such a man would write with the tools of the future in his hands."

Josef was unable to see the vision that was before the master's eyes, but he knew it was there. He had to bite his lower lip very hard to keep from gaping at his brother. Periodically he had to remind himself that although Rupert was a man of few words, that did not mean he did not know how to use them, and most effectively, too. Tonight was one such time.

The master's gaze suddenly snapped back into focus, and he chuckled. "A story most well told, and not the least was the ending. But, outside of Maestro Carissimi's letter, what proof do you have that this is all true?"

Josef nodded to Rupert. It was Rupert who had insisted they needed something tangible in reserve, so to him went the honors of presenting it. Reaching inside a document case, Rupert withdrew a large music book and laid it in front of Schutz, who picked it up.

"Hmm… Die Kunst der Fuge, by Johann Sebastian Bach. I know of some Bachs in Thuringia. Competent musicians, as I understand. But who is this Johann Sebastian, and why did he write of the Art of Fugue? A pretentious title, I fear."

"Just look at it, Master. You will understand."

Schutz did just that. He began turning the pages over quickly, but as he progressed deeper into the book, he began slowing down, until he was spending a minute or more on each page, scrutinizing the music intently. Finally, he closed the book, once more staring at the junction of ceiling and wall across the room from him. At length, he lowered his eyes to the brothers, a very sober expression on his face.

"The Art of Fugue, indeed. And this came from the future?" He shook his head as Josef opened his mouth. "No, I do not doubt you. This… this genius is not in our time. It could not be hidden." Pulling at his goatee, Schutz brooded. He looked back at them. "No, no jest is this. So, the question is, what shall the response be?"

Grantville – Late February, 1634

"Lady Beth!" Marcus Wendell said as he encountered her outside the school building. "I didn't know you were back from Magdeburg."

"Hey, Marcus. Yeah, I got back last night."

"I'm surprised you're not at home, crashed and burning."

Lady Beth snorted. "I'm a little tougher than that, thank you very much."

"So, how was it… the trip, I mean?"

"Once I got to Magdeburg, it was good. I saw everything I wanted to see, and had a couple of really long talks with Mary Simpson. She gave me some good advice."

"And?"

"You're looking at the new administrator for the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls." Lady Beth smiled.

"You took the job! Outstanding! Congratulations!" Marcus grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically. "So, when do you have to be there?"

"This school has to be created from scratch, so basically as soon as possible. I'm shooting to be in Magdeburg full time by the middle of March."

"Ouch! Sounds like you're going to be pretty busy."

"Yep. I've got to sell the furniture and most of our odds and ends, pack up everything we want to take with us, and hand over my jobs." Marcus' eyebrows rose. Lady Beth continued. "Max Ohl will take over my job at the Tech Center full time. He's really pretty sharp. If you have to do anything with him, you'll like him. I'll work with him another day or so, make sure he knows where all the bodies are buried and who to watch out for." She got a mischievous glint in her eyes. "And I got Mary to commit to a replacement for her arts program management stuff."

"Oh, please," Marcus groaned, "please tell me it's not that awful Haggerty woman!"

"Well, actually, her name did come up…" Marcus interrupted Lady Beth with a louder groan, "… but I managed to convince Mary that she really wasn't the best choice for that work."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! All right, already, tell me who it is!"

"Amber Higham." Marcus' relief was almost tangible, and Lady Beth chuckled. "Yeah, I convinced Mary that Amber's theatre background would help her manage the personalities and the programs."

"That it would. Plus, she's good people."

"As good as they come."

Copenhagen – Late February, 1634

Josef knocked on the door, a little diffidently, Rudolf standing behind him. "Come in," he heard, so he opened the door and entered the room, Rudolf coming behind and closing the door. Master Schutz waved a hand at the chairs, not looking up from where he was reading through Die Kunst Der Fuge again. "Be seated, Herren, if you please." Josef and Rudolf pleased to sit immediately, and watched the master as he slowly turned the pages of the masterwork of a man who would never be.

Finally, Schutz closed it and set it aside on the table, which was clear of everything that had cluttered it the last time they had been in this chamber. He sat back in his chair, and laid his arms along the arms of the chair, gripping the knobs at the ends. His presence was austerely dignified, almost regal, and Josef swallowed.

There was silence for some time. Schutz did not speak, and Josef and Rudolf could not bring themselves to break the master's silence. At last, Schutz focused on them, and said, "I have served the Elector of Saxony for almost half of my life-first as organist, then by his grace I was named Kappellmeister. I have written music, led performances and taught his students and musicians for all that time. And he has been a reasonably generous patron."

Josef began steeling himself for disappointment. This sounded as if Master Schutz was going to refuse them.

"He has been generous until recently, that is," Schutz continued dryly. "His recent… reversals… have forced him to adopt measures of economy."

Josef's heart began to rise, and he dared to say, "You mean…"

"Elector John George cannot pay my salary, nor that of my… his musicians." Josef felt a sense of elation at the frown on Schutz's face, only to have it collapse at his next words. "I have been offered a post here in the court of Crown Prince Christian, and I am certain that I would be allowed to hire my musicians." No question this time about whose musicians they really were.

Preparing himself to hear words of refusal from the master, Josef was instead startled to hear, "But…" Schutz said nothing more for several moments, then he picked up Die Kunst Der Fuge again for a moment, and said, "This has awakened a curiosity-nay, a hunger-in me that I cannot resist." A small smile appeared on the master's face. "I would come to Grantville to see the wonders of which Maestro Carissimi tells me, and to finally meet il maestro face to face. And then, perchance, to Magdeburg, to hear this concert you spoke of. How large an orchestra did you say you were trying to amass?"

Josef tried to speak and discovered his throat was almost paralyzed with surprise. He coughed hard, and managed to croak, "Franz Sylwester, our dirigent, wishes to have sixty string players, Master Schutz."

"So many…" A calculating look crossed the master's face, and then a smile of pleasure. "I have never heard so many. I look forward to it. And you may tell your leader that I will encourage my musicians to also come to Magdeburg." His smile widened to a grin with more than a hint of wicked humor in it. "After all, if Gustavus Adolphus has, ah, acquired dominion over the lands of the Elector, then it would be only fitting that he acquire the Elector's musicians as well, would it not?" Josef found himself nodding energetically, a smile on his face the equal of that on the master's.

Schutz lightly smacked his hands on the knobs at the end of his chair arms, and said, "Good! Now, I must stay here until the marriage celebrations of Crown Prince Christian and Princess Magdalene Sybille, the Elector's daughter, are completed, to ensure that the music is done as I specified. It took them some time to find a suitable date with no conflicting celebrations in the church calendar, but they finally decided, and the wedding will occur shortly on 2 March. We will all be required for various celebrations and gatherings after that, but I anticipate that I will be able to slip away perhaps a week or so later."

"Umm," Josef asked, "am I correct that the courts of Denmark and Saxony still calculate dates using the Julian calendar?" He knew the answer; he was setting up a problem for the master.

"You are."

"Master, the Grantvillers calculate dates using the new calendar of Pope Gregory." Schutz's eyebrows rose. "So their dates are ten days ahead of yours. In the new calendar, the wedding will occur on 12 March. That leaves about three weeks for your musicians to travel to Magdeburg in order to be there for the beginning of rehearsals in the first week of April."

Schutz waved a hand. "I can change the schedules somewhat. My men will be there." He smiled. "They will not fail me, not after I tell them what they are going for."