The Devil's Opera(100)

Marla wasn’t the only one who seemed to be wearing everything they owned as they stood out in the cold February air. Most everyone in sight seemed to have on as many layers as they could fit into, but no one looked comfortable. Red noses and hands on ears seemed to be the order of the day. Franz felt sorry for the Marine guards in their new and ridiculously elaborate uniforms. He hoped that all the gilt and braid that weighed down their coats added warmth, but from the looks on most of their faces he suspected that was not the case.

But the people he felt sorriest for were the players in Thomas Schwartzberg’s little band—or at least, the horn players.

Thomas had managed to amass a group of fourteen brass players and six drummers; some from the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and some from the community. Trumpets, trombones, the wildly misnamed French horns, and tubas, combined with two snare drums and four tenor drums. Not a patch on the full-blown high school field band that Grantville mustered for festivities and parades, but still not bad. And for all that they were a “pick-up” group, as Marla put it, they had really cohered into a solid ensemble that could put forth an amazing volume of sound.

But today the poor brass men were being tested to their limits. The temperature was well below the point where water would freeze, and there was a bit of a north breeze blowing. There was nothing they could do that would keep the brass warm. In fact, Thomas had fretted over what the cold would do to their intonation and timbre if the parade happened on a cold day—like today, for example. Dane Stevenson and Dallas Chaffin, the two most experienced up-time bandsmen of the group, had just shrugged.

“It happens,” Dane had said. “You just do your best. Don’t bother trying to tune once you go outside. Just blow and go. And trust me, if it’s that cold, no one is going to be listening critically. They’re all going to be thinking about how soon they can get to a warm spot or can get a hot drink.”

“Yep,” Dallas had confirmed. “Been there, done that. Just make sure your players haven’t had too much gin or schnapps beforehand trying to turn their blood into antifreeze.”

The two young up-timers had laughed together after that, obviously sharing a memory of some kind. Franz reminded himself that he wanted to hear that story one day.

The six drummers and two cymbalists, on the other hand, were all smiling a bit. Dallas had had a late brainstorm and come up with several small iron pots which he filled with lit charcoal and placed in front of their feet right when they took their positions. His excuse was that they had to do something to keep the leather drum heads at least sort-of warm, or they might become so brittle in the cold that they’d break when played. Franz wasn’t sure he believed it, but the drummers had all agreed loudly and longly, and as a consequence were all enjoying some slight amount of warmth. In fact, he noticed that the brass players had sort of curled back around the drums as much as they could, trying to pick up some bit of the warmth for themselves.

Thomas Schwartzberg’s head swiveled to the right and cocked as if he was listening to something. A moment later, Franz could hear it, too; the sound of cheering as the vehicles of the princess’ cortege drew nearer. Within moments, the people near him started cheering and waving flags and banners and sashes in the air.

The cars in the procession were moving at a slow pace, allowing plenty of opportunities for everyone who lined the streets to say they saw the princess, whether they really did or not. As the procession neared, Franz could only see various large fleshy men in the princess’ car. That stood to reason, he supposed. Princess Kristina was only nine years old, after all.

The cheering redoubled in volume as the princess’ car pulled up to the area where the greeting committee and the honor guard were standing. The first man out of the car came out of the front door. He was very tall—perhaps even taller than Emperor Gustav—and was very large to boot, to the extent that the up-timer shotgun he carried in one hand seemed almost a toy of some kind. A more imposing, deterring guard Franz couldn’t imagine. He looked around alertly for a moment, then rapped once on the glass of the rear door.

The door opened, and people started clambering out of the rear seat. Thomas turned and faced the band, pulled a baton out of one sleeve, and poised his hand in the air. As one, the brass players pulled their right hands out of their coats where they had been holding their mouthpieces in their armpits to keep them warm, plugged the mouthpieces into their horns, and applied them to their lips. All their eyes were on Thomas, who was watching the car out of the corner of his eye.

The first man out was an obvious politician, but not one that Franz had seen before, so he suspected it was someone from one of the northern or western cities where the Committees had a strong presence. The man who followed him out to stand and straighten slowly was dressed in rich—but not gaudy—finery, and looked somewhat rumpled. By default, that had to be Prince Ulrik. Finally, the slight frame of the princess slid across the seat and out the door. When her face came into view, the crowd erupted into cheers. At the same moment, Thomas sketched a four-beat and launched the band into musical motion.