Byron's clothes were equally scruffy and unremarkable, Gotthilf noted. In fairness, he had to admit-with reluctance-that the lieutenant hadn't asked him to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. There were enough up-timers inMagdeburg these days, and enough down-timers starting to dress like up-timers, that his worn clothing attracted nothing more than the occasional calculating stare that a.s.sessed the value, then caught sight of Byron's face and looked away.

Although it was broad daylight, Gotthilf caught glimpses of women sidling up to men on the fringes of the crowd, offering themselves as they pursued the wherewithal to buy enough food to stay alive-or enough beer or spirits to stay drunk all night would be more like it. Young though he was, he had seen enough of the streets to have the cynical att.i.tude of one who had observed the worst that mankind could do to itself.

He had no illusions as to whether the raddled harridan he was watching at the moment would choose food or drink when darkness came.

Gotthilf's head turned forward again as another cross-street was reached. Byron stopped, which caused Gotthilf to halt as well. "This the area?" the up-timer asked.

"Yes, Lieutenant." The up-timer's abruptness irritated Gotthilf again, but he didn't let that interfere with his responsibilities. "The people of these streets have little love for the town watch, but such complaints of theft as have made their ways to our ears seem to center near this street."

"And no one has seen anything?"

"Not that we have heard."

"Hmm." Without speaking, the American moved to the west side of the street and leaned against the front of a building, hands in pockets.

After a moment, Gotthilf followed. "The building is in no danger of falling, you know. We don't need to prop it up." Byron's mouth formed a fleeting grin, but his eyes remained focused down the street. "What are you doing?"

"Watching."

"For what?"

"Don't know. I'll let you know when I see it, though."

Gotthilf shook his head, wondering if all the Grantvillers were this crazy.

Willi settled into his corner in front of Zenzi's with a sigh. Erna hadn't come with him. She'd said something about Uncle wanting her to do some work somewhere else today and left before he did. The way had seemed longer than usual without her chattering beside him. He'd had to go slower, as well, but he'd walked the route often enough that his feet automatically took him to Zenzi's.

The rag across his eyes was securely in place, or so his testing fingers told him. Willi pulled his bowl out of his coat, salted it with the couple of quarteredHalle pfennigs like Uncle had told him to do and set it in front of him. He leaned back against the corner and propped his stick against his shoulder, settling in for the day. Pursing his lips, he began to whistle.

Byron felt the pressure of the wall on his shoulder blades as he stared down the street. He watched Gotthilf out of the corner of his eye as the youth looked around in imitation of what Byron had been doing the last few days. His gaze was slow, but Byron thought he was actually starting to observe what he was seeing.

Gotthilf looked back to him. "This is some more of that pattern stuff again, isn't it?"

"Yep. That's what I'm trying to do here, today. Start understanding how this street works. Once we can see that, then we can start looking for the thief, because he'll stick out like one of the emperor's Finns at one of Mary Simpson's parties."

That got a laugh from the young watchman.

Willi heard steps coming from the door of the bakery toward him. He c.o.c.ked his head for a moment, then smiled. "Frau Zenzi." He gave a nod. "Good morning to you."

From the sound of her steps, Frau Kreszentia Traugottin verw. Ostermann-known as Zenzi to one and all-was not a small woman. Her husband, Anselm, was the baker forDer Haus Des Brotes , but she was the one the buyers dealt with. She held her own in exchanges that sometimes were impa.s.sioned and occasionally vituperative. Willi had overheard descriptions of ancestry, personal appearance and habits that, if true, were incredible. And more than once he had heard her take up the hardwood oven paddle and use it to chase would-be thieves or extortionists from the bakery. Swung edgewise by someone who knew how to use it-which Zenzi did-the paddle could break bones and crack skulls.

For all that, however, Frau Zenzi had been nothing but kind to Willi from the first day that he hunkered down outside her shop. Whether it was his age or size or affliction, she had always had a kind word to say to him and would often slip him a piece of warm bread with b.u.t.ter. Once she had placed a sweet roll in his hands. Willi's mouth watered whenever he thought of that day, when he'd had a taste of heaven.

"So, Willi, how are you today?" Willi liked Frau Zenzi's voice. It was deep and warm and furry sounding, but would never be mistaken for a man's voice.

"Today I am fine, Frau Zenzi. And how is your business today?"

"Eh, well, it is not as good as I would like, but it is good enough. G.o.d provides." Willi heard her clothes rustle as she bent down. "Hold out your hand, Willi."

He did so, and felt a cup placed in it. The tang of b.u.t.termilk came to him as he sipped.

"It's not much," she said. "I would have more, but the bread sold out early today, even the rolls that were burned on the bottom."

Willi licked his lips, feeling the thick coating of the b.u.t.termilk on them. He lifted the empty cup and felt it taken from his hands. "Thank you, Frau Zenzi. It was good." He hesitated. "Frau Zenzi? Why do you give this-the bread, the milk-why do you give them to me?"

He felt her kneel down in front of him, then her hand touched his head. "Do you not know, young Willi?"

He shook his head. "'Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.' Those are the very words of Jesu Christus. I don't understand many things about the Bible, or about the words of Luther or Calvin, but these words of Jesu I understand. To the least, I will give. And you, young Willi, are among the least."

She patted his head gently, then stood. Willi's throat felt swollen from the emotion he was feeling that moment. To think that someone did care for him even a little fueled a warmth in his belly that made him forget the cool day.

"Uff." Frau Zenzi sounded disgusted. "Here comes that Durr woman again, wanting us to bake something for her. If ever a name was fitting it is hers, for she is as thin and dry as an old stick."

"She sounds mean," Willi ventured.

"Ha! That's because she is mean, Willi my lad, for all her trying to sound sweet. Well, I'd best go deal with her. Soonest begun, soonest done."

Willi heard her steps move off. He sat quietly in his darkness for a moment, feeling the warmth inside, then resumed his whistling.

Byron pushed away from the wall of the building. "Come on. Let's go for a walk." Gotthilf was beside him as he started down the street.

The pace was more of an amble than a walk. Byron kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he looked around. He decided that most of these folks would have been right at home at an up-time flea market either as buyers or sellers. The energy, the conversations, the raised voices, even some of the gestures were all the same. If the people had been speaking English instead of German, this could have been the Sat.u.r.day morning meeting at the old drive-in theater over byFairmont .

One trade in particular caught Byron's attention. He was looking the right way to see several silver coins exchange hands for a single table knife, fork and spoon setting of stainless steel flatware. The vendor looked nervous when he saw Byron staring at him after the exchange was made.

"Don't look now," Byron said after they were several steps past that point, "but the fellow in the faded green coat may be dealing in stolen merchandise.Don't look," without changing expression as Gotthilf started to turn.

"Why aren't you confronting him?" Gotthilf was scowling.

"Because I can't prove it . . . or at least not yet."

"But you saw something back there."

"Yep. I saw him sell something that could only have come from Grantville." Gotthilf started to turn again, and Byron grabbed him by the arm. "But . . . that doesn't mean it's stolen. Only that it might be."

Gotthilf settled beside him again. "So, you just ignore it?"

"No. Because it might be stolen. So it's our responsibility to look into it. We'll ask some questions in Grantville about what I saw. We'll ask some questions around here about this fellow. We'll start putting the pieces of the puzzle together, and depending on what picture we get we may arrest the guy."

Gotthilf stopped. "Pieces? Puzzle? Picture? What are you talking about? And what does that have to do with stolen property?"

Byron's jaw dropped for a moment. "Um . . . I think we just tripped over an up-time thing." He spent some time describing jigsaw puzzles, until Gotthilf understood the concept. "So, police work is a lot like that process, except we have to make the pieces ourselves."

"I understand . . . I think. But it seems like a lot of work when we could just arrest him now and have done with it. You saw it, you think the items were stolen, the magistrates would probably be satisfied with that."

Byron wanted to smack his forehead. "Gotthilf, it's about the truth. It's about what I can prove, not what I think." He reached into his inside pocket and brought out a piece of paper. "Listen, this is even in the Bible. From Deuteronomy chapter seventeen, verse six: 'At the mouth of two witnesses, or three witnesses, shall he that is worthy of death be put to death; but at the mouth of one witness he shall not be put to death.' That's basically establishing that justice will be based on more than one man's opinion."

Gotthilf still looked stubborn. Byron was glad that he had talked to Lenny Washaw about this stuff. He had had a feeling that having something from the Bible that would support his teachings would impress at least some of the down-timers. He wasn't much of a church-goer himself, but he knew Lenny through his wife Jonni and her sister Marla. Lenny was a Methodist deacon, so he knew more Bible than Byron did, that's for sure. Once he had explained his need, Lenny had come up with several pa.s.sages for him.

"Listen, Gotthilf, have you ever read the story of Susannah and the Elders?"

"No."

"It's in your Bible. Read it. You'll see what I'm talking about."

They continued strolling down the street. Byron had quit talking and was just looking around. Gotthilf was trying to see what the up-timer was looking at, but he saw nothing noteworthy.

His feelings ran through a cycle of confused, irritated and frustrated, over and over again. He thought he understood what Lieutenant Chieske was saying, but it just didn't make any sense. If you thought something was wrong and you knew who did it, everything in him said you should do something about it.

It didn't make sense that you should just talk to people.

Gotthilf shook his head, walking two steps past the up-timer before he realized he had stopped. He turned and stepped back to where Byron had his head c.o.c.ked to one side. "What is it now?"

"Listen."

After a moment Gotthilf could hear it; someone was whistling. Someone was whistling well, although he didn't recognize the tune. Byron had caught the direction and headed toward the sound. Gotthilf trailed in his wake, shaking his head again. Now the madman wanted to see someone whistling.

Byron stopped so suddenly that Gotthilf almost trod on his heels. The whistling was in front of them. He stepped around the up-timer, only to see nothing-nothing, that is, until he looked down to see a small boy seated in front of a bakery, whistling.

Gotthilf had to admit the boy was good. For a moment, he stood there and listened. He didn't think he knew the tune, but something about it . . . He shook it off when Byron knelt before the boy.

"h.e.l.lo." Byron's voice was light, but his expression was serious. "My name is Byron. What's yours?"

Gotthilf noted the dirty rag tied around the boy's eyes and the wooden bowl with several coppers in it sitting on the ground in front of him. A beggar. His mouth twisted in distaste.

"Willi." The blindfolded head turned to look up at Byron, as if the boy could see. "You sound funny. Are you fromJena ?"

Gotthilf was ready to wager there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

"No," Byron responded, "I'm from a lot farther away than that."

"Mainz?" Willi was obviously trying to think of someplace far away.

"No," Byron laughed. "I'm from Grantville."

Willi's mouth made an O. He started asking excited questions, which Byron answered patiently, one after another. When the boy ran down, Byron asked his own question.

"Do you know the name of the song you were whistling?" When the boy shook his head, Byron said, "It's called 'The Rising of the Moon.' My wife's sister sings it a lot at the Green Horse tavern."

"Oh, I never heard the name. That's pretty. I just heard the song when Un . . . when someone I know would hum it."

Gotthilf snorted and nudged Byron with his foot. When the up-timer looked up with a frown, he said, "We have work to do, or so you told me, yet you sit here talking to a beggar who can probably see as well as you can."

The boy's mouth set in a hard line. He reached up to pull off the bandage, then raised his face to them.

Gotthilf swallowed a curse as he stepped back from the sight of the scarred and cloudy eyes.

Byron took Willi's face between his hands, tilting it this way and that to let the light shine upon it. "Can you see anything at all?" The question was asked in a tone that matched his gentle hands.

"Some light, some dark." Willi's voice was low.

"Has it gotten worse?"

Willi nodded.

"When did it start?"

"When the soldiers came." The boy started putting his bandage back on to hide his eyes.

Byron looked up to Gotthilf. The sack ofMagdeburg -four years ago. Gotthilf swallowed in sudden nausea. "Where's your mother and father?"

"Soldiers killed them." Willi's voice was now almost inaudible.

"I'm sorry." Byron rested a hand on the boy's hair for a moment. "Who do you live with now?"

"Uncle."

"What is his . . ."

"Willi! It's time to go." Byron was interrupted by another boy running up to Willi's side. "Come on, you know Uncle doesn't like us to be late." The boy helped Willi pick up the bowl and put the coins in his pocket. "Come on!"

"Wait." Byron reached in his pocket and pressed something into the boy's hand. "Goodbye, Willi. Nice talking to you."

Gotthilf stood beside Byron as the two boys hurried down the street, Willi being led by the other.

"You know when I said I'd let you know when I found what I was looking for?"

"Yes."

"I think I just found it."

"The boy?"

"Yep. Boy that size shouldn't be begging, blind or not. On my watch, you don't abuse or take advantage of kids. Someone's not taking proper care of him, and I think I'll find out who."

"But he's just a beggar." Gotthilf was astounded at the up-timer's thoughts. Astonishment fled in the next instant, however, as Byron turned to him with a transformed face. His eyes were cold. His face was still, as if engraved in stone, except for a muscle tic in his left cheek.

"'We hold these truths to be self-evident' . . ." Byron's voice, cold enough to match his eyes, was obviously quoting something. ". . . 'that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'" After a moment, he continued. "That's from the American Declaration ofIndependence . It expresses our belief that all men are created of equal worth. And that includes Willi."