“Tobias,” Hans said, “pay up.”
“All right, all right,” the man whined. He pulled a roll of the new paper money out of his coat pocket and started counting bills into Hans’ palm. “One thousand dollars,” Tobias said, putting the now smaller roll back into his pocket. “Satisfied?”
“Yah. Let me know when you have another fight lined up for me, after a week or so.” Hans tipped a finger to his brow as the crowd started clumping around the pit for the next fight of the evening.
Simon tugged on Hans’ sleeve as they stepped away from Tobias. “How much is that in pfennigs?” he asked.
“About ten Groschen, maybe a little more,” Hans replied.
Simon’s head spun. Ten Groschen; one hundred twenty pfennigs. Hans was nearly rich, with what he had won yesterday at the arm wrestling, and now this! Simon had never seen so much money at one time. “How much does the other man make?”
“A half of this, maybe a third.” Hans’ teeth flashed in his beard. “I don’t know. I have never lost.”
There was someone waiting for them as they neared the edge of the crowd.
“A good fight, Herr Metzger,” Lieutenant Chieske said.
“Ach, it was a joke, Lieutenant.” Hans hawked and spat. “That bum could not touch me. If Tobias does not find some better fighters, I will have to find something else to do. There is no fun in defeating the weak.”
“Fun?” Sergeant Hoch asked. “You enjoy beating people?”
Simon bristled at the sergeant’s tone. Hans turned and looked down to meet the shorter man’s eyes. “What I enjoy, Sergeant Hoch, is the contest—the matching of strength to strength, skill to skill, finding the best. Tonight…I take no joy in tonight. I ended the fight as quickly as I could.”
“And it’s to be hoped that fool learns from his bruises and aches and pains not to do something like this again,” Lieutenant Chieske offered.
“Or at least not until he has gotten a lot better at it,” Hans agreed.
“Indeed. Well, good evening, Herr Metzger.” With that, the two policemen nodded and moved on.
“So,” Simon said, amazed at the calmness in his voice, “now what?”
“Now we go home to Ursula and let her know that her brother has won again.” Hans shrugged into his coat. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Byron and Gotthilf turned and watched the fighter and his companion walk away into the darkness. “Sergeant Milich said he’s connected to Schardius?”
“Yah. You think he can tell us what we want to know?” Gotthilf murmured under the crowd noise.
“Maybe.” Byron tilted his head. “But it will have to seem like his idea. If he thinks we’re trying to make him do it, he’ll just clam up.”
“Clam?”
“Okay, you know what a mussel is…”
Chapter 18
Ciclope and Pietro ducked into the tavern. It was filled with smoky haze, partly from the fireplace at one end of the room, and partly from an old man’s pipe. Ciclope had to admit that the tobacco was aromatic—not that he had any experience with it to compare it with. Tobacco was still a novelty in northern Italy, and very pricey indeed.
They bought a couple of mugs of ale, then found an untenanted table in a back corner away from the fire. Without thought, they each sat with one of the corner’s walls behind him.
Ciclope tried his ale, and winced. Not putrid, but not exactly something that he would have fond memories of, either. Ah, well.
“So, when does he show up?” Pietro asked.
“Keep your voice down or shut your mouth. The man will get here when he gets here.”
The fact that he was so short with his partner was a mark of Ciclope’s own nervousness. In truth, he himself was wondering how long they would have to wait. But the answer was the same for him as it was for Pietro; the man would get there when he got there.
Pietro had just returned to their table with their second round of ale when a man wearing ill-fitting clothes slipped into the chair across the table from Ciclope. Pietro started to say something, but Ciclope backhanded him on the shoulder as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Are you the pros from Dover?” the stranger asked.
Ciclope studied him for a moment before responding. Hard to see his eyes under the brim of the hat he was wearing, but his beard was very neatly trimmed and his hands looked rather clean for the kind of man his clothes would normally hang on. And that was the phrase his boss had told him to listen for, idiotic though it sounded. So this must be the new boss, the one that hired them to come to this God-forsaken hinterland of battlefields and howling Protestants.