The Devil's Opera(106)
* * *
For all its power and impact, the song wasn’t very long. Less than three minutes in Thomas’ arrangement, from beginning notes to final chords. Yet, as with all weapons, it wasn’t how big it was that mattered, it was how sharp it was and how it was used. Where previously the song had been aimed at Berlin, today Marla aimed it right at Prince Ulrik. And at the end, she saw that she had reached him. Something—some narrowing of the eyelids or slight drawing together of the brows—something Marla’s poker-playing daddy would have called a “tell”—told her that a touch had been made.
* * *
There was silence after the final chord. Even the irrepressible Kristina was subdued for a moment.
Ulrik looked around, and took in the expressions of those who listened: the sober faces among the leaders; the nods and quiet smiles of pride on the faces of the other musicians; and just for a moment, savage smiles of glee on the faces of some of the servants before they turned away.
He took a deep breath, then nodded to Marla. “I believe I understand why everyone was talking about this in Luebeck. I also understand why my father has ordered three Bledsoe and Riebeck pianos for his palaces.”
He refolded the broadsheet and restored it to his coat pocket. “And you, my dear Frau Linder, sing very well indeed.”
The formidable songstress nodded in return.
“I shall play the flute,” Kristina announced firmly, momentary subduing expired.
Ulrik looked to his charge with interest. “Why do you say that, Kristina?”
“Well,” the princess said in a voice of reason, “I will never be able to sing as well as she can.” She tilted her head toward Marla. “And we won’t be able to carry a piano around with us when we travel, so I will never be able to practice enough to play it well. But I can put a flute in one of my bags and play it wherever we are.”
“Marla can play the flute, too,” one of her musician friends—the short one—said matter-of-factly from where he stood in front of that part of the crowd.
Kristina stomped her foot. “That’s not fair!”
The room exploded in laughter.
* * *
Ciclope looked up with a guttural snarl when someone slid onto the unoccupied stool still sitting at the small table he and Pietro were sharing in the tavern. The stranger, no one he had met before, held up a hand in simultaneous greeting and remonstrance.
“We have a mutual acquaintance, meine Herren.” The stranger’s voice was low, both in pitch and in volume.
Ciclope glared at the man, and he could see Pietro aiming a sharp stare from his position as well. If looks were weapons, this idiot would be lying on the floor bleeding from multiple wounds.
Seeing they weren’t going to speak, the stranger continued, “I am an associate of your paymaster.” Ciclope’s mouth shaped the name Schmidt, but no sound was uttered.
The stranger nodded. “Indeed.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice even more. “That person’s associates are not certain just how well he has communicated how important it is that your next task be undertaken with, ah, zeal. We think it would be best if the effect were as great as can be accomplished. To that end, we are willing to pay you this additional sum to ‘enhance’ your work, as it were.”
He slid one hand across the table, and when he slid the hand back there was a small purse lying before Ciclope.
“Take that in good confidence that we will approve of anything done to improve the results of your next task. And we will be in touch again.”
The stranger nodded again, stood, and left, leaving Ciclope and Pietro to stare after him with furrowed brows.
Ciclope laid his own arm on the table, and knocked the purse into his lap as he did so. After another minute or so, he said back with both hands in his lap. He opened the purse and dumped the contents into one hand, then rapidly counted them back into the purse. He looked to Pietro.
“Fifty.”
Pietro pursed his lips.
Then Ciclope pulled one of the coins out of the bag and set it on the table between them, screened from casual viewers by one hand. His eyebrows went up when he saw the denomination of the coin.
“Fifty Thaler?” Pietro whispered. Ciclope nodded. The Italian grinned, and said, “You know, suddenly I feel like doing a really good job at work.”
Both men laughed.
* * *
Later that evening, alone in his room, Ulrik contemplated the depths of a Venetian glass wine goblet, swirling the rich red contents slowly while he thought about the day. All things considered, everything had gone well. No, they had not gone well; they had not even gone as well as could be expected; they had for the most part gone as well as he could have desired.