The Grantville Gazette - Vol. 10 Part 23

Byron's hands snaked out and grabbed the front of Gotthilf's jerkin. He suddenly found himself nose to nose with the taller man, feet dangling inches above the ground. "That boy is a victim." The up-timer's voice was, if possible, even icier than before. "And no victim is ever going to be dismissed as 'just'

anything. Not on my watch. If you don't learn anything else today, learn that."

The up-timer released his grip. Gotthilf landed hard on his heels with a jar that brought aclack from his teeth and set his head spinning. He looked up to be transfixed again by the cold glare from Byron's eyes.

"You've got some Bible reading to do. While you're doing that, I'm going to do some research."

Still a little wobbly, Gotthilf watched the back of the tall up-timer recede down the street.

Willi was two streets over before he was able to dig in his heels. "Erna!" He wrenched his arm out of her grasp. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of trouble," she hissed in his ear. "One of those men was an up-timer."

"I know that. His name is Byron. He was nice."

"Well, I think the man he was with was one of the city watch. He looked like one I saw wearing the sash a week or two ago."

Willi swallowed. "He wasn't nice."

"That's right. And you just remember that. We're going to have to tell Uncle, and he's not going to like it.

Now come on."

"Wait." Willi held out his hand. "Byron gave me this. What is it?" He heard the sound of breath sucked in. "Well?"

"It's a silver pfennig. Uncle will like that for sure. Now put it away and come on."

As it turned out, it was two days before Gotthilf saw Byron again. He spent a frustrating morning trying to locate the Bible pa.s.sage he had been directed to read. Finally he gave it up and went to visit his pastor. The ensuing reading and discussion lasted most of the day. Verse by verse the old scholar walked him through the account, in the process showing him the wisdom and knowledge owned by Daniel, the hero of the tale.

"It is a cautionary tale from several aspects," the pastor concluded. "First, to those who are in positions of authority: it says to guard themselves against temptation, and warns them that if they do succ.u.mb to temptation, nothing they can do will hide their sin. They will be found out."

He turned a page. "Second, to the community: to not be quick to judge without first carefully weighing the facts. Things such as this must be diligently examined, and even the highest ranked involved should be questioned carefully.

"Third," and here he gave a direct look to Gotthilf, "to those charged with these examinations: to be diligent to look for the facts, and not be swayed by opinions or statements from others. It is reprehensible to allow someone to be falsely accused and convicted of a crime."

"That's what he said," Gotthilf muttered.

"He?" the pastor asked.

"Byron Chieske, the Grantville lieutenant I'm supposed to be working with."

This led to a discussion of the events of the previous day. Somehow it didn't surprise Gotthilf to find that his pastor agreed with the up-timer.

"He sounds as if he is a man of wisdom, integrity and insight. I suggest, young Gotthilf, that you listen to him."

"Yes, sir," Gotthilf sighed.

The following morning Gotthilf tried to apologize to Byron for not showing up the previous day.

"Don't mention it," Byron waved it off. "I was up to my eyebrows in looking for an orphanage."

"Orphanage?"

"Yeah. A place where kids who lose their parents and don't have kinfolk go to live."

Gotthilf struggled to absorb another new up-time idea. "We have no such things."

"That's what I found out." Byron shrugged. "So then I asked what happened to the kids whose parents were killed in the sack."

"And?"

"Most of them were placed with kin. If no kin was found, older children were placed as apprentices and younger children were placed with families who would care for them until they were of an age to be apprenticed." Byron looked satisfied, to Gotthilf's eye. "The church kept records, they did. When I explained my concern about Willi they not only opened those records, they gave me a clerk to read them. And here," he reached in his pocket and drew out a notebook which he threw open, "is a list of families who accepted young boys into their foster care about that time."

Gotthilf reacted to Byron's smile with an uncertain smile of his own. "Let me guess: we go to talk to these people."

"Right. Here's the addresses. Let's go."

They turned away from the next to the last address on their list. "All children accounted for and healthy,"

Gotthilf muttered as he pulled the address list out one last time. "We're down to one Lubbold Vogler."

"It's called the process of elimination," Byron a.s.sured him. "You work through all the possibilities until you arrive at the one that fits. So, we've eliminated all the others, we should get our answers from Herr Vogler at this last address."

But the face that opened the door at their knock disappointed them. "No, no Vogler here."

"Did he live here before you, do you know?"

"No." And the door was firmly closed.

They stepped down to the street. "Where do we go from here?" Gotthilf wondered.

Byron looked around with narrowed eyes. "C'mon. And think of a question you can ask." Gotthilf followed him over to an old man sitting on a step, one hand on a cane and another holding his pipe. The up-timer nodded his head to the old man. "Good afternoon,Grovater . I am Lieutenant Chieske, and this is Herr Hoch."

"Fuchs," the old man grunted around the stem of his pipe.

"Herr Fuchs, we are searching for one . . ." Byron turned to Gotthilf, who fumbled the paper out of his pocket. "Lubbold Vogler."

Herr Fuchs took the pipe from his mouth and spat expressively.

"Does he live there?" Byron pointed to the house they had just left.

"Nay."

"Did he live there?"

"Aye."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Nay."

"Did he have some small children?"

The old man finally showed some expression, as his mouth tightened. "Aye."

Byron looked to Gotthilf. He had been smiling at the sight of Byron meeting someone even stingier with words than the up-timer, but now realized he was supposed to ask something. "Um . . . er . . . when did he leave?" He was gratified when Byron nodded in approval.

Herr Fuchs thought for a moment. "Three years ago."

"Did he say where he was going when he left?"

"Nay." They waited a moment, but the old man said nothing more.

"Thank you for your time." Byron held out his hand for Herr Fuchs to shake. "You've been very helpful."

They turned to leave, and the old man took the pipe from his mouth again. "If you find him, tell him I remember he still owes me twenty pfennig. And give him a lick from me for the way he beat those children." He clenched his teeth around the pipe stem again and gave them a firm nod, which they returned.

"Well," Byron breathed. "Well, well, well, well, well." Gotthilf looked up to him as he tried to keep up with the up-timer's long strides. "I do believe we've found our man."

"Found?"

"Well, so to speak. It appears we have a name for him, which is more than we had. Now we just need to truly find him."

"And how do we do that?"

"We go back to the street tomorrow and talk to Willi. One way or another, we'll find Herr Vogler through him." Gotthilf watched as Byron's face turned cold again; colder even than the other day. "And then we'll have a little talk."

The ice in Byron's voice caused the down-timer to s.h.i.+ver.

Gotthilf couldn't decide if Lieutenant Chieske looked preoccupied in the early morning light, or if he was just sleepy.

"Do you have a gun?" Byron asked.

"The musket belongs to the city."

"No." Byron shook his head. "I meant a handgun; a pistol."

"I have a pistol," Gotthilf replied. "One of the new percussion cap revolvers fromSuhl ."

"A Hockenjoss and Klott?"

Gotthilf nodded.

"Got it with you?"

Byron held out his hand. Gotthilf, with mingled pride and embarra.s.sment, pulled the pistol from his pocket and handed it to him. He watched as the up-timer handled it. The young man took a great deal of pride in his new pistol, although he thought it a bit plain. It still bothered him, however, that he had been forced to settle for the silver-chased model with bone handles. His father had made it very clear that their family was not named among theHoch-Adel , so there would be no gilded toys.

"A good weapon." Byron handed it back. "A little too pretty for my taste, though." Gotthilf was unable to keep his astonishment at the up-timer's reaction from his face. Byron laughed, producing by what seemed sleight of hand a weapon from underneath his jacket "Now this is what I would call a good pistol. None of that fancy work on it that has to be kept polished and clean."

Gotthilf stared at the pistol. It wasn't pretty. It was all metal, and looked like a slab with no decorative work on it. No gold or silver chasing, no carved ivory or woodwork. Just pure function-to shoot, perhaps to kill. A chill ran down his spine at the sight of it.

"Keep yours with you all the time now." Byron made his disappear again. "And Gotthilf," Byron started to turn away, "make sure it's loaded."

Erna watched as Willi tried to argue with Uncle.

"But Uncle . . ."

"No, I said! You will not go out, not with those . . . those . . . spies looking for you."

"But . . ." Will started.

"No!" A slap knocked Willi against the wall, where he slid to the floor. "Now do as I say."

Uncle looked at the huddled boy for a long moment, then turned away and left the room. Free to move without the glare of Uncle's gaze being on her, Erna hurried to Willi's side and helped him sit up.

"Are you all right?" She pulled his head around to see where he had been hit. Willi's ear was a bright red, so that must have been where the slap landed. "Are you all right, Willi?" she whispered.

Willi tried to stand, then folded up again. "'M dizzy," he murmured.

Erna helped over to their corner and covered him with their blankets after he laid down. She crouched by his head. "Willi?"

"Mmm?"

"Willi, don't you try to talk to Uncle for a while. He's . . . something's not going right for him. I heard men yelling in the back of the house a couple of nights ago. It woke me up. The back door slammed, then he came into our room and stood by the front door for the longest time."

She s.h.i.+vered, remembering what the light from the other room had revealed. "Willi . . . Willi, he had a gun. A pistol."

"Why would Uncle have a gun?" Willi slurred.

"I don't know," Erna replied, still whispering. "But he does. And it scares me."

"Mmm."

A long moment of quiet pa.s.sed.

"Willi?" There was no response. Erna checked to see if he was breathing. He was, so she guessed he'd gone to sleep or pa.s.sed out. She wiggled around, then sat with her arms around her knees, waiting until Uncle told her to go do her work.

She hadn't been able to tell Willi the most important part. After Willi had been knocked to the floor, Uncle had stared at him, cold and hard. Then he'd put his hand in his pocket and started to take out his gun, only to stop and, after a moment, slide it back in.