The Devil's Opera(102)
The march was loud, and vigorous. In the music from before the arrival of Grantville, low instruments usually just provided a foundation for the treble instruments to dance above. Franz was intrigued to hear that Thomas had written his march to feature the low brass. They were the ones actually declaring the primary themes, only to be echoed by trumpets and horns.
And the percussion, oh my. Franz had to chuckle at some of the expressions on the nonmusician faces around him. Most down-timers never heard anything more than a small hand drum played by a traveling musician at fairs and markets when the sprightly dances were performed. The sound of rapid, heavy, orchestrated drums was as utterly foreign to them as…well, as an electric guitar would be, he supposed. It was only about four years ago, after all, that he himself had learned about them, and he still had some recollection of his initial reaction to them. “An avalanche of cacophony,” he had described it to his friends…or something like that.
But he set those thoughts aside to listen to Thomas’ march. The low brass combined with the constant rolling patterns played on the tenor drums gave a sensation of listening almost to thunder—a thunder that throbbed and pulsed, a thunder that ebbed and flowed, a thunder that filled the square before the palace, yet didn’t cover up the sound of the higher brass or drive the Magdeburgers out in pain.
The music came to a crashing end. Thomas lowered his baton and looked toward Franz and Marla. They both gave him an up-time thumbs-up, and he grinned in delight as he thrust the baton back into his sleeve and joined them.
The speeches began. Franz leaned over to Thomas and muttered under the louder noise. “Well written, and well done.”
Thomas flashed another grin at him.
Franz learned something that afternoon: even politicians will bow to the weather, if it is severe enough. Every speech was mercifully short, even those of Prince Ulrik and Princess Kristina.
The big surprise came at the end of Kristina’s speech.
* * *
Gotthilf watched as Metzger left the alleyway. He looked over at Byron, and was surprised to see a slight smile.
“What are you grinning about?”
Byron chuckled a bit, even though the smile faded. “We’ve got him. He’ll talk to us.”
“I hope so. You were pretty hard on him there at the end.”
Byron looked at him from under lowered brows.
“He knows what’s happened, and he won’t tell us. That makes him complicit at best, if not an outright accomplice. You know what kind of man he is. Do you think he’d listen to the voice of reason?”
As much as he didn’t want to say it, Gotthilf had no choice. “No.”
“He’ll talk to us,” Byron repeated. “It’s just a matter of when.”
“I hope you are right,” Gotthilf replied. “I really do not want to be in the room with Captain Reilly if they find another floater in the river.”
“Yeah.”
There was a long moment of silence, broken eventually by the up-timer.
“But it could be worse.”
Gotthilf dipped his head and looked at his partner from under his own lowered eyebrows.
Byron pointed south toward the palace. “We could be on parade duty.”
“Point.”
* * *
“I’m having a party, and everybody’s invited!”
There was a bare moment of silence before the cheering redoubled after the princess’ statement. Franz’s jaw dropped, and he looked over at the Magdeburg powers that be, who were beginning to cluster around Senator Abrabanel. He had noted her hanging back, letting all the other notables take the front ranks and present themselves to the princess, her consort-to-be, and to the crowds. After a moment, his mouth closed and he started to chuckle. It was obvious now to anyone with eyes just who held the reins today. All eyes turned to the senator, who started handing out marching orders. Attendant after attendant, most of them young women, left her presence with quick steps, some scattering in different directions but most heading into the palace.
Franz was jolted when Marla grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him through the crowd.
“Where are you going?” he asked in exasperation.
“Inside,” she snapped back, voice still muffled by the scarf.
“What?”
She stopped and turned to face him. “There’s a grand piano in that palace, the one that Girolamo Zenti rebuilt and presented to the princess over a year ago. In the madhouse that’s getting ready to flow into the palace, I don’t expect anyone to be thinking about it. I want in there now to protect it. Now come on!”
Franz now matched his wife stride for stride. Marla’s head was swiveling around, looking through the crowd.