1635: Music and Murder (27 page)

"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
!"

Füssen
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 Füssen 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
Geigenbauer
in Füssen. 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 Füssen 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 10th 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 Geigenbauer Guild of Füssen
regarding the design, construction and delivering of instruments, including but not limited to violins, violas, violoncelli and contra-basses.

"This authorization will expire on the 30th 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 Füssen 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.