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The Devil's Opera(17)



True to his own hard rule, the whistler bent down and rifled the pockets of the two assailants, coming away with three pouches. He sniffed at one pouch. “Hmm. Tobacky in this one, and a fair size wad from the feel of it. I know just where I can sell that for a pfennig or three. As to the rest, I doubt scum like this have more than a couple of coins to rub together, but we’ll check it out later.”

He picked up the knife dropped by his first assailant, examined it cursorily, and tossed it aside. “Cheap crap,” he muttered. He didn’t bother looking for the second knife.

He stood straight and turned to face Simon, who stood ready to duck or jump out of the way. Tucking his hands in his belt, he cocked his head to one side and studied the boy. Just as Simon started to feel uncomfortable at the close regard, the man jerked his chin down in a nod, reached out and clapped Simon on the shoulder. “Well, lad, it looks like you are my luck tonight. I’m Hans. You just come with me, and I’ll give you a fine time.” Hans started off, only to stop when Simon didn’t move.

Simon didn’t know what to do. He was glad that Hans seemed to be grateful to him, but the casually violent air about the big man made him nervous.

“Come on, boy. You don’t have anyplace else to go, now, do you?”

“N-no,” Simon stuttered.

“Then come on.” Hans laid his big square hand on Simon’s shoulder, and the boy found himself coming on despite his uncertainty.





Chapter 7

Hans led the way farther into the rough quarter of Old Magdeburg. Simon was familiar with every street in the quarter. He ran them all at different times. But Hans soon led him into streets that Simon didn’t like to travel at night. They passed by people slumped in doorways. Others staggered down the street, taking swigs from coarse pottery bottles. Simon edged closer to Hans.

After one more turn into another dark street, Hans stopped in front of a door. “This is the Chain. Have you heard of it?”

Simon nodded, stomach sinking. The Chain was perhaps the worst tavern in the city. Fights were a frequent occurrence, and more than one dead body had been removed from the premises. It was said that the city watchmen, even the new Polizei, would only enter the place in groups of three or four. Simon had never been inside.

“Ah, it’s a rough place, right enough. But you’ll be safe with me.” Hans pushed the door open and waved Simon in. Steps led down into a basement. At the bottom, Simon stepped into the barroom, afraid but hiding it from his new friend.

The room was dimly lit from a smoldering fire in a fireplace on the opposite side and a few guttering tallow candles on sconces around walls. The air was smoky from the fire and candles and foul from the smell of too many unwashed bodies in a small space.

Simon coughed from the reek, then stumbled as he was pushed from behind. Hans stepped up beside him and scanned the room. “Barnabas!” he shouted. A man across the room waved his hand. Hans faced him and held up two fingers, to which Barnabas responded with an upraised thumb. Hans clapped his hand on Simon’s shoulder again. “Come on, lad. Barnabas has got seats for us, let us get some drink.” Hans pushed his way through the seated crowd. Simon followed on his heels, as there was no way he could have made his own way through that mass of rough-spun covered backs.

Hans came to a thick board laid across a couple of barrels with a lamp at one end. “Hello, Veit, you old scoundrel.”

“Hans, you lump of walking swine’s flesh. I have not seen you in must be, oh, eight days now. What made you drag your stinking carcass in tonight?

Simon stepped away when the tavern keeper so freely insulted Hans. He wasn’t sure how the big man would respond, but when Hans laughed he relaxed.

“Oh, I need a purgative, so I figured I’d come by and drink some of your swill. That ought to have me puking by midnight.” Both men laughed at that.

“So what’s your poison tonight?” Veit asked after they settled down.

“Genever. The good stuff,” Hans added as the tavern keeper turned back to the high table behind him. A moment later a blue ceramic bottle was set before Hans, stopper and neck wrapped in wax. Veit held his hand out. Simon watched as Hans pulled some coins out of his pocket, and counted them into the tavern keeper’s palm. They both knew the cost of the bottle of spirits, because Veit was counting right along with Hans.

Hans counted out the final coin and reached for the bottle, only to find Veit’s hand on it holding it down. “What’s wrong?”

“Take back that Halle pfennig,” Veit said.

Hans cursed. “You gave it to me, so you ought to take it back.”