Gustav held up a hand. “Please, I can see what is before my eyes. She is young, but she has an instinct now as to who she can trust. In the Grantvillers’ future, she lost that instinct.” He shrugged. “But here and now, she has it. And she trusts you. And you have not betrayed that trust, unlike some others.”
The emperor’s face darkened as he referred to the late Chancellor Oxenstierna. Ulrik tensed a little. Like all those who had close contact with Gustav, he had been lectured by Dr. Nichols as to what to expect if the emperor suffered a seizure. He also knew that strong anger had been known to trigger a seizure. Ulrik really didn’t want to have to put Dr. Nichols’ teachings into practice. Gustav took a deep breath and let it out, and Ulrik relaxed as the emperor’s color lightened.
“So,” Gustav repeated. “What do we need to talk about that I haven’t asked?”
That gave Ulrik the opening he had been wanting.
“The people, Gustav.”
“The people? What do you mean?”
For response, Ulrik pulled out the broadsheet with Frau Linder’s song on it, unfolded it, and passed it to the emperor.
Gustav scanned it, then read through it again slowly. He looked up and tapped the broadsheet with his finger. “Much better poetry that you usually see in these,” he observed. “But what is so important about this?”
“That is a song,” Ulrik explained. “It’s an up-time song, translated by a Silesian writer named Logau. But it was sung by Frau Marla Linder, in a public setting.”
Gustav thought back. “I have heard this Frau Linder sing, in the great Messiah performance last winter. She is good, but…” He pointed to the broadsheet. “What does she have to do with this?”
Ulrik almost shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to someone who hadn’t heard it sung in person.
“When Frau Linder sings this song, the music sinks hooks into you, and you never forget it.” Ulrik remembered the expressions on the faces of the servants in the palace on the day of their arrival. “Never.”
He pulled out a clipping of Logau’s column about the January 19th performance in the Green Horse, and handed it to Gustav. This time when the emperor looked up, his face was serious. Before he could speak, Ulrik forestalled him with, “I found that broadsheet in Luebeck, over one hundred fifty miles from Magdeburg, before we flew down in the airplane. And,” he held up a forefinger, “Frau Linder’s performance was recorded by an up-timer, played on the radio at least once, and Trommler Records is selling records with that song on it,” he pointed to the broadsheet, “from that performance.” He ended up pointing at the column clipping.
Gustav was not slow on the uptake. “How many records?”
Ulrik shook his head. “I don’t know. But the rumors Baldur has been hearing indicate a lot.”
Gustav frowned.
“Has this harmed us?”
By “us,” Ulrik figured he meant the Vasa dynasty.
“No. On the contrary, it helped us against the chancellor.” Ulrik gave a mental shrug. Despite his birth, he was committed to the Vasas. He was part of the “us” now.
“So what is your thought, Ulrik? What is your concern?”
Ulrik gave a physical shrug this time. “Your real foundation needs to be the people. And that woman,” he pointed back to the clipping again, “at this moment is the voice of the people. Not of the CoC. Not of the Fourth of July Party. The people.”
* * *
Simon slipped from his chair and carried Ursula’s things over to where she was sitting. He set her Bible and the embroidery in front of her, followed by the bag with the money.
“What is that?” Frau Marie nodded toward the bag with raised eyebrows.
“Her money,” Simon said with a tilt of his head toward Ursula.
“Money?”
Frau Marie’s gaze sharpened and swiveled to bear on Ursula, as did Margarethe’s.
Simon took advantage of their distraction to slip out of the room. He grinned as he passed through the door, but it faded after a moment and he ran to the front door, just in time to see the police cart rolling away at a rate he couldn’t hope to catch.
Well.
If the Polizei didn’t want him to be with them, he’d go look for Hans on his own. So he started walking down the street in the same direction the police cart had gone.
* * *
Gotthilf stared at the three men; one dead, two moaning in pain. Byron was whistling tunelessly beside him, rocking on his feet.
The police photographer finished his work, and Dr. Schlegel did a quick preliminary examination of the body.
“This one died within the last hour or so,” the doctor said. “I won’t know more until I get a look at him in the morgue.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where his assistants were tending to the man with the broken jaw and the other man with the smashed elbow. “Evidence is that they were beaten by someone who knew just what he was doing. One crushed throat and two incapacitating injuries. Remind me not to meet this man.”