Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI

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?"