The Devil's Opera(70)

There was a stir in the doorway, someone trying to go against the flow. Whoever it was managed to penetrate the crowd, until he bounced off of the CoC men.

Franz had just drawn Marla to her feet, ready to take her home. He looked around at the disturbance, and caught a glimpse of a familiar face being pushed away.

“Let him through,” he called out. A moment later, Andrea Abati squeezed through the barrier of muscle and hurried over to take Marla’s hands.

Marla looked up at him—one of the few down-timers who was taller than she—and her mouth quirked a bit, as if she was trying to smile.

“Did you hear me, Master Andrea?”

“I wasn’t able to get inside, but I was able to stand in the doorway and hear you.” He was very serious, and he swallowed before he spoke again. “Oh, child, what have you wrought?”

Franz could see the iron determination on Marla’s face, as weary and drained as she was.

“What I must, Master Andrea. What I must.”

* * *

Franz arose early the next morning. By some miracle of scheduling, Atwood had managed to arrange for a ride on a river boat leaving Magdeburg that day, even though it was Sunday. By the time the sun was shining over the city walls, Franz and Atwood were walking out the front door to catch a cab for the river dock. Atwood allowed Franz to carry the duffle, but the up-timer still insisted on carrying the case with the precious recording rig.

A couple of men leaning against the front of their house straightened as they came out the door. Atwood frowned a bit, but relaxed when Franz greeted them.

“Klaus, Reuel. It has been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“Aye,” Klaus nodded. “Gunther said after last night that we should stand watch again for a while.”

“Watch?” Atwood asked.

“I am sorry, I forgot to introduce you. Herr Cochran, meet Klaus and Reuel, two of the staunchest members in the ranks of the Committees of Correspondence.” Atwood held his hand out. “Guys, this is Atwood Cochran from Grantville, Marla’s good friend.” They smiled and shook hands with the up-timer.

Klaus snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot.” He started digging through his pockets. “Gunther wanted you to have this right away.” He grinned in triumph and produced a much folded sheet of paper from his coat and handed it to Franz.

Franz unfolded it to produce a broadsheet. The caption blazoned across the top read:



Ein Anruf Zu Den Armen



Atwood looked over his shoulder. “I still have trouble reading the heavy scripts,” he said. “What does it say?”

“A Call to Arms,” Franz translated. He gestured to the balance of the broadsheet. “And here are the words Marla sang last night.”

Atwood whistled. “That was fast work, to get this out so quickly.”

Klaus grinned. “Gunther had the press crew up out of bed as soon as he got back to the Arches last night. Told them he didn’t care what they had to do, he wanted this on the streets by dawn.” He chuckled. “They did it, too.”

Franz tried to hand the broadsheet back to Klaus, who held up a hand in refusal.

“That’s for you and Frau Marla, Herr Franz. Gunther insisted you have one of the first copies. ‘That’s little enough,’ he said, ‘for what she has worked for us.’”

Franz nodded his thanks, folded the broadsheet back up with care, and placed it in his own jacket pocket.

“Herr Franz,” Reuel spoke up, “you tell Frau Marla that we heard her sing last night, and we really liked it. But that last song,” his expression became very sober, “that last song was something special. You tell her that for us, and tell her that…just tell her that.”

“I will,” Franz assured him.

“There’s already men kicking themselves that they were not there to hear her last night,” Klaus added.

“Oh, tell them not to worry,” Atwood spoke up with a grin. “I recorded the song on tape, and I’m going to play it on my music show on Voice of America in a week.”

Klaus and Reuel looked at him wide-eyed. “Does Gunther know that?”

Atwood’s grin grew wider. “Since I just now decided to do it, I really doubt that he does.”

“’Scuse me,” Klaus said. He stepped out into the street and whistled shrilly. Another man trotted up from a block away. “Will, you stay here. I have to get word to Gunther.” And he sprinted down the street.

A cab approached, attracted by the whistle. Franz flagged the cabbie down, and he and Atwood clambered up into the wagon with the baggage. The cabbie clucked to his horse, and they rolled off with a final wave to the CoC men.