Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI

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.