The Devil's Opera(134)

“You can’t set terms on a fight,” Elting tried to bluster.

Hans’ gaze was steady and cold. “You came to me with this challenge. Here are my terms.

“One—that man,” he pointed to Herr Pierpoint, “is in charge of the fight. His rules apply. And his rulings are final.

“Two—no one in the ring except for me, Herr Pierpoint and your ‘champion.’

“Three—Herr Pierpoint will deliver the purse to the winner of the fight at the end of the fight.”

“Four,” Elting spat out, “the fight continues until one of you is unable or unwilling to continue.”

Hans considered that addition with a tilt of his head. “Or until Herr Pierpoint calls the fight over.”

The two men exchanged nods, then Elting’s face flashed a vicious smile. “Meet your opponent, ‘Herr’ Metzger. Meet Elias Recke, champion fighter of Hannover.” He gave a shrill whistle. From the back of the crowd someone began pushing forward out of the shadows. A murmur grew in the crowd as the man came into the light.

Simon’s first impression was “big.” Recke was a good two inches taller than Hans, his shoulders were a good hand’s span broader, and his head was like a block atop a neck like a tree trunk.

The more Recke moved into the light, the more Simon’s heart sank. His face could have served as a model for Michelangelo’s Judas. Every edge was hard; eyes were set close together and deep-set, with black hair drawn to a widow’s peak over his forehead lending a demonic cast to his visage. The lights seemed to dim as he passed by them.

Recke’s arms were long, his hands were huge, and his fingers were constantly flexing. The thought of those hands gripping him made Simon feel faint.

When Recke stepped through the last of the crowd, he said nothing; just smiled cruelly and pointed one long, hard, thick forefinger at Hans, who muttered, “Now I understand.”

* * *

Ciclope sat at his usual table in the tavern, as far away from the bar and anyone else as he could manage. He nursed a mug of the noisome ale. That same kid with the weird arm had found him and delivered a message from Schmidt that they needed to meet. So here he was, waiting. He ought to be used to that by now, he thought to himself. After all, the man had always made them wait.

Them. Thinking that word was like hitting a bad bruise, only in his mind. He still had trouble dealing with Pietro’s death. It wasn’t that he particularly liked the scrawny thief, but they had been working together for months now, so he was used to him. Maybe kind of like an old married couple, who take each other for granted; not that that was an idea that gave him much comfort. And Pietro was the only person in all of Magdeburg that he had trusted at his back—mostly—as much as he ever trusted anyone.

The ringing had finally left his ears a couple of days ago, and he was walking straight without a constant feeling that he was going to fall. Best of all, his appetite had returned, so he knew he was doing better. Except for the pitiful excuse for ale that was currently slopping in the bottom of his mug as he swirled it. The only thing that would make that enticing to him would be if he was literally about to die of thirst—and then he was sure he’d have to gag it down. He honestly thought that the tavern keeper had managed to liquefy compost and was serving it from his ale barrel.

Someone slid into the seat opposite him. He looked up into Herr Schmidt’s eyes.

The man was still wearing the same ill-fitting clothes he’d worn at every one of their assignations, but he looked different somehow. His eyes were shadowed, and his face had a haggard look to it. He looked about as bad as Ciclope had felt right after the explosion, which was bad indeed.

“Where’s your partner?” Schmidt said in a low voice.

“Dead,” Ciclope muttered.

“The explosion?”

“Aye. We should have been clear of it, but something hit him in the head…” Ciclope shrugged.

“Too bad.”

“Aye.”

Ciclope tensed as Schmidt placed a hand inside his jacket, but he drew it out only far enough to show the top of a purse.

“I have some of the money I owe you,” the merchant said.

“Keep it for now,” Ciclope muttered in reply. “When we leave, I’ll go first, then you can catch up to me and pass it to me then.”

Schmidt relaxed a little and pushed the purse back under his jacket. “I’ll have more for you later.”

* * *

“Lieutenant.”

The barely whispered word floated out from the mouth of the alley. It was evening, and dusk was closing in on the streets. The alley was already enshadowed in darkness. Gotthilf looked, and could barely make out a presence standing in the darkest part of the alleyway.