Ring of Fire III (48 page)

The room was smaller than he’d first thought. The wall the bed was on was little more than six feet long and the brick side walls stretched no more than eight feet to the wall with the window. There was a door in the wall to his right. The bed itself seemed to be a straw-stuffed mattress over a badly strung bed frame. Near the bed sat a small table with a chair under it.

Some of the odors, he discovered, came from the filthy blanket on the bed. The rest of the smell came from him. His clothes were as filthy as the blanket. Smells of sweat, dirt, manure, urine, and blood blended into an indescribable reek. What he could see of his shirt was stained to match the aromas wafting from it.

Mike felt his upper lip and the side of his face. The only places on his face where he could grow hair were his side burns and upper lip and he’d shaved them both yesterday. His stubble said it had been two or three days since the razor’s touch.

Church bells reclaimed his attention. Through the wavy glass panes he could just make out a bell tower. From the bells he guessed that today was Sunday. Damn! He must have gotten massively drunk to lose three days. He dropped his aching head into his hands and tried to think. He remembered having dinner with Rob and Lannie Clark at their inn. That memory brought up another; he’d left them and gone to the Black Boar, a cheaper inn, where he had a room. He must have started drinking there.

Something about that bell tower bothered him. Something wasn’t right. Part of his brain insisted he needed to pay attention. The Black Boar wasn’t on the town square. It was off on a side street two blocks away and there were several taller buildings between it and the town square. There was no way you could see the church’s bell tower from any of the inn’s windows. He must be in a different inn. But that table and chair next to the bed didn’t belong in any inn room Mike had seen. Admittedly, he hadn’t been in that many inns, but he thought that the smelly bed indicated a really cheap inn. The table and chair were too nicely made to fit with a cheap inn.

Mike stood up, intending to get a better look through the window. The clanking sound came again and his right leg stopped abruptly, throwing him to the ground. Stunned, he stared at the iron cuff around his right ankle. A stout chain stretched from the cuff to an eyebolt set in the wall. He tugged the chain but the eyebolt remained securely set. The cuff was held shut by a large brass padlock. Mike giggled in disbelief. This was like a bad movie, one of those really bad horror movies.

Sounds from outside the door resolved into footsteps and someone talking. Not wanting whoever it was to find him sprawled on the floor, Mike stood up. The first man through the door was large, rough looking, and held a flintlock pistol in his hand. That pistol was pointed at Mike.

“Sit on the bed,” the man commanded.

Mike sat, disinclined to argue. Not that there was any way he could dispute the command. His chain leash was too short, his head hurt badly, and his stomach was revolting again. His mind, though, was working overtime.

The second man through the door was Herr Schuler, who carried a large roll of paper. A third man, a servant from his dress and demeanor, slid through the door and put a tray on the table. The tray held a stein, a bowl of what looked to be thin soup, and several slices of bread. When the servant left, Schuler placed the rolled up paper on the table beside the tray. Several things clicked into place in Mike’s mind.

“Let me guess,” Mike said in a sarcastic tone, “You drugged me, kidnapped me, and imprisoned me because I couldn’t tell you were to find vast hordes of gold.”

“Now, Herr Tyler, you should have been less greedy and more reasonable.” Schuler’s mouth was smiling but his eyes looked cold, snakelike. “Here is your ‘site-plan.’ All you need to do is mark on it where items of value will be found.”

“I told you before, I can’t do that. Your site isn’t a Roman villa.” Mike crossed his arms. His hands were shaking and he didn’t want Schuler or his goon to see how scared he was. “Besides, there’s not much information about the Romans in Germany. There is ‘they were here and there and they built these roads,’ not ‘look here for buried treasure.’ The records just aren’t there.”

“Ah, yes, that seems to be true about the books in the main library. However, my sources tell me that you have special knowledge about Roman villas. My partner has verified this. You boasted about it on a private tour of your diggings at New Hope.”

“If your partner actually talked to Herr von Weferling he’d know that I have a pair of brochures about
one
, count ’em,
one
, Roman villa in Germany. The one Mrs. Clark mentioned. I showed the brochures to Weferling. He can tell you what was and wasn’t in them. The only thing that came close to your ‘marble statues’ was a broken, crudely carved sandstone head of Athena. Oh, yeah, there were a couple of copper coins from later, much later, around the year 1796. No gold, no statues, no silver. The owners packed up all the valuable stuff when they moved out. Anything that the Romans might have left is long gone, sold or carted off by their German descendents. Anyway, your ‘Roman villa’ is nowhere close to the area the Romans colonized.”

The smile disappeared from Schuler’s face. “Don’t try your lies on me, boy,” he hissed. “If there is nothing of value you wouldn’t spend time digging. A wealthy man like Herr Clark isn’t paying you to harvest stones. Don’t waste my time prattling on about your sacred archlogy.”

Mike sighed and tried again. “It’s archaeology, as in the study of archaic things. Your sources in Grantville should have told you that archaeologists don’t dig looking for gold. They dig looking for knowledge from everyday items.”

The goon stepped forward, sneering, and pointed his pistol at Mike’s face. “Give me ten minutes with him, he’ll spill everything he knows.”

“No,” Schuler said firmly, “not yet. I’ll let him think about it for awhile.” He glared. “Sooner or later you
will
give me the information. Or you will give it to Klaus.”

Schuler started out the doorway. The goon picked up the bowl of soup and flipped the liquid into Mike’s face. “Herr Schuler doesn’t like people who don’t do what he wants.” Then he followed Schuler out, slamming the door behind him.

Luckily the soup was only lukewarm. Mike found a relatively clean corner of the blanket and wiped his face. Moving slowly, he rose, pulled out the chair, and sat on it. His chain let him, just. He needed to think.

* * *

Mike had been sitting at the table for an hour or so. His stomach was managing to keep down the bread and a few sips of beer. His head and body still ached but his mind was clearer. Marking up the site plan might buy him a few days while Schuler checked it out. When they found nothing Schuler would probably have Klaus the goon kill him. Or, once he had the marked plan, Schuler could decide that Mike was a liability and kill him immediately. Mike scratched his chin. Not marking the site plan could buy him either a couple of days or an appointment with Klaus the goon. He still couldn’t decide.

The chain and ankle cuff had to go. He shifted his attention to the wall and the mortar around it. The mortar looked new and it felt slightly damp. He kneeled next to the eyebolt, took a length of chain in his hands, and began to jerk it back and forth. A minuscule gap appeared around the eyebolt. The chain was cutting into his hands so he grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around the chain, and tried again. Some time later he leaned back and examined the results. There was a definite gap around the shaft of the eyebolt and with each jerk he had felt a tiny bit of give.

At the rate he was going it could take days to pull the eyebolt out of the wall. Mike didn’t think he had days. He looked around the room. The mortar might be soft enough to dig out but he needed something to dig with. Remembering the spoon that had come with the soup, Mike started to get up. A bit of color under the bed attracted his attention. In a moment he retrieved it.

Schuler was an idiot. Or maybe it was Klaus the goon who was the idiot. Someone had chucked Mike’s backpack under the bed. He dumped it out. The pack had been searched. Mike’s gun and ammo were missing as was his folding knife, but his trowel was there. The trowel’s edges were nearly knife sharp. It would be awkward to use but he had a weapon. Peeling back the Velcro from an outside pocket he found the soft, rolled up leather pouch that held his dental picks. Mike took several deep breaths, struggling not to shout with glee, and then went to work on the padlock.

“Getting the chain out of the wall would be nice,” he crooned to the padlock. “But that leaves me with six feet of chain attached. Hard to sneak away from the bad guys with all that iron clanking. Get rid of you, my lovely, and I’m free as a bird.”

Mike had picked padlocks before. His brother had showed him how years before using paperclips and other bits of stiff wire. The dental picks, as fragile as they looked, were all top quality steel. Normally he used them for delicate excavation work, but they also made excellent picklocks. This padlock was huge compared to the ones Mike had practiced on, but he figured that the principles were the same. After some fumbling there was a click and the lock fell open.

Gently, Mike removed the padlock and opened the cuff. Pain flared and he saw that the cuff had chewed through his sock and into the soft flesh above his boot. He opened another pocket on his backpack, found his first aid kit and cleaned the wound thoroughly. Luckily there was a clean pair of socks in the backpack, so he put them on. His shirt and pants were awfully fragrant, enough that dogs wouldn’t be necessary to track him, not the way he smelled.

There wasn’t any water to wash with but clean clothes from his pack should lessen his stink. When he got out he’d need to find the city guard. With any luck, the clean clothes would make them at least listen to his story instead of tossing him in jail as one more drunk.

Finally feeling halfway decent, Mike stuffed his gear back in the pack. He picked up the trowel, walked to the door and listened. Silence. A look out the window confirmed that he was high up, on a third or fourth story, and there wasn’t a hint of a ledge. He went back to the door and eased it open. The hallway ended to his left in a staircase. Three other doors along the hall stood open, showing rooms like his. Only the room directly across from his showed any signs of recent inhabitation. Below him he could hear muffled sounds of someone yelling.

As quietly as he could, Mike descended the stairs, praying that none of the treads creaked. The next floor presented two doors, both closed and another stairway at the far end. Mike passed on investigating. He wanted out of this house. The next flight down brought him into an empty kitchen. Probably not empty for long, since something bubbled in a pot hung over the fire. Candles hung above a table provided a surprising amount of light.

He froze in place; only his eyes moved, searching for a way out. There should be a door into a yard or alley; he hoped for an alley. His eyes found a door in the right place. More odd noises came from the front of the house. Now was not the time to stick around.

Mike muttered a quick prayer that this wasn’t the cellar door, opened it, and slid through. For a moment he thought he had found the cellar. The alleyway was narrow and the houses on the other side blocked any sunlight. Waiting for his eyes to adjust he tried to determine if anybody else was in the alley. He heard someone enter the kitchen behind him, talking loudly. Spurred into action by thoughts of recapture, he dashed down the alley, and slammed head first into Klaus the goon. The impact knocked Mike down.

Klaus didn’t have his pistol but he did have a knife on his belt. Growling, the goon reached for that knife. Mike smashed his boot into the logical target. The man’s hands flew his crotch and he moaned. Mike rolled away, grabbed the trowel, and staggered to his feet. Klaus the goon was bent over, clutching himself and groaning.

“Nicely done, Michael. Nicely done!” The high tenor voice came from the darkest part of the alley. Reichard Blucher stepped out, grabbed Klaus the goon by the hair, and slammed the man’s head into the wall of the house.

“That will take his mind off his other pain.”

Mike straightened up and gave a sigh of relief. The cavalry had arrived. “Where are Rob and Lannie? Are they okay?”

Reichard smiled. “They’re fine. When you didn’t show up Thursday morning Wilf insisted that they go back to Grantville. We came looking for you.” The big man clapped Mike on the shoulder. He kicked the groaning Klaus. “You’re turning into a regular Indiana Jones, young Michael.”

Wilf Jones walked out the kitchen door and into the alley. He looked from Mike to Klaus the goon and back.

“Glad to see you’re in one piece, Michael. Schuler will be, too. When we didn’t find you in the house Christian started to lovingly describe the ‘death of a thousand cuts’ to him. The head of the Bamberg city guard is in there, suggesting additional, cruder measures.”

* * *

Jo Ann was snuggled tightly against Mike on the sofa, firmly holding his left hand. They were sitting in the Clarks’ comfortable and familiar living room, listening while Wilf and Christian finished up the story of finding Mike.

“Michael saved himself. We just came along and cleaned up the mess he left.” Christian smiled and winked at Mike. “Reichard saw him in action and was impressed with how he handled himself.”

“Aye,” Wilf agreed, “impressed enough to suggest that we take him along the next time we go horse trading.”

Mike blushed, pleased at the compliment and half-appalled at the thought of the kinds of trouble Wilf and his friends attracted.

Jo Ann squeezed the hand she was holding. “Mike’s heard from Jena. They want him to teach archaeology.”

“Well, not really teach.” Mike’s blush deepened as he explained. “I won’t be a professor, more like a guest lecturer. It’s kind of weird. I’ll be a student but they want me to present some lectures on up-time archaeology, too.” The doubts he’d felt earlier were dying down. The letter proved that his efforts to reinvent up-time archaeology weren’t wasted and that there were smart people who didn’t think he was just a dumb kid. Even his dad had been impressed.