From a High Tower (19 page)

There were so many people wanting to make the “tour of the camps” that it was not until well after dark that the last of them were escorted out.

Feeling more than a little drained, Giselle sat by her little campfire after the last of them were gone and the camps settled down, not doing anything, not even thinking, really, just enjoying the sounds and letting her mind empty. It was a lovely night, balmy, and there was a nightingale singing somewhere in the distance. People were talking quietly; someone was playing a banjo, though not in an irritating fashion, just tinkling out a little melody.
I didn't realize how tired I was,
she thought. Now that she wasn't explaining things to Leading Fox, answering questions, or doing her turns, her energy had just run out. She was just about to get up and head for her wagon when a voice, a female voice, addressed her in German, out of the darkness.

“That was quite an impressive show, Fraulein Giselle.”

She stiffened.

The speaker stepped into the light from her campfire; it was a young woman perhaps a year or two older than Giselle, blond and dressed in a red cape and a loden-green hunting jacket and divided skirt, exactly like the one that was packed away in Giselle's wagon.

Giselle knew the moment she laid eyes on the stranger that this was an Earth Master. The Earth Energy, golden and vital, was strong enough around her to practically taste. That and the hunting gear could only mean one thing: this was a Hunt Master of the Bruderschaft. And since this young woman knew her by her real name, and not as “Rio Ellie,” she also must know . . . everything. Giselle scrambled to her feet, a cold thread of fear running down her spine.

But the young woman laughed. “Oh don't look at me as if you think I am about to eat you! Tante Gretchen already sent us a full report on your . . . unfortunate accident. The Brotherhood tentatively concurs with what she told us. I'm just here to hear it from you, directly.”

Giselle didn't bother to ask
how
this young woman knew that Giselle and Rio Ellie were one and the same person. Tante Gretchen would have reported her direction, and after that, it was only a matter of asking the Elementals if there was a strong female Air Master about that they did not already know. It wasn't as if she had been trying to conceal her presence.

Giselle licked lips gone dry. “I would rather it . . . wasn't out in the open. Most people don't know about . . .” She gestured vaguely. “Well, only a handful of the people in the show even know about magic in the first place.”

“Of course, and I can understand you not wanting them to know about your misadventure. It could have a negative effect on your new companions. Have you a more private place to talk?” the woman asked. “I'm Hunt Master Rosamund, by the way.” She held out her hand, and Giselle shook it, gingerly.

“My wagon,” Giselle replied, took the time to put out the campfire, and led the way. She had left a lantern burning on a hook beside the door as she always did and brought it inside for light, carefully closing the door, the window over the bed, and the curtains to indicate she wanted privacy.

Rosamund looked around curiously and took the little stool, leaving the chair for Giselle. “This is very nice,” she remarked. “I spent some time traveling in a wagon, but this is much more comfortable. Quite cozy and homelike, and it should be snug in the winter as well. I think I'll ask the Graf if he can find me a gypsy
vardo
after this. It would be more convenient than taking rooms in inns,
much
more private, and given the arsenal I often travel with, it would be much easier than having several trunks to haul about.”

“The Graf?” Giselle asked, putting the kettle on over the spirit lamp to heat for tea.

“Hmm. Yes, the Master of the Munich Lodge, Graf von Stahldorf. I work more with him than with the Bruderschaft, but I was visiting my guardian in the Schwarzwald, and he asked me to come have the needful chat with you.” Rosamund settled herself on the stool, putting back her hood, but not removing her handsome red cloak. “He thought that it needed a bit of a woman's touch, I think. So. Tell me what happened. From the very beginning. Assume that I know nothing. Why were you in disguise as a young man in the first place, and what did you do to catch the Hauptmann's attention?”

Giselle sat on the chair, her hands knotted tensely in her lap, and once again forced herself to recite, as clearly as she could, the entire story. She didn't spare herself, either; she made it very clear that she blamed herself for setting the night-sylphs on the Hauptmann and causing his death.

The stranger's handsome face remained absolutely unreadable throughout the entire story. And when Giselle was done, she sipped her cup of now-lukewarm tea thoughtfully. The light from the lantern fell softly over her face. She looked—like a lady of good birth, an aristocrat of some sort. Without that aura of magic power, Giselle would never have taken her for an Earth Master.

“Well,” she said, finally, “Tante Gretchen was right. You should have strangled that bastard with your own two hands and robbed him before you left. I would have.”

Giselle felt her jaw dropping and stared at her, not quite able to believe what she had just heard.

“Mind,” Rosamund continued, casually, after finishing the tea, “That certainly would have gotten you in trouble. It would probably have involved a trial, at least by the Bruderschaft, to prove it had been self-defense. So it is probably just as well that you didn't.”

“I—ah—” Giselle stammered.

“As a Hunt Master of the Bruderschaft,
and
an Earth Master, I assure you that it is my opinion that this was, at worst, death by misadventure, and that the wretch had probably been a heartbeat away from death by apoplexy for years,” Rosamund concluded. “You certainly may go right on feeling as guilty as you like, but I'm telling you it's not necessary.” She held up her cup. “Now, if you would be so kind, might I have a little more of this truly
excellent
tea while you tell me about the other Air Master here?”

R
OSAMUND
declined to allow Giselle to send a sylph for Leading Fox. “I would not be in the least surprised if you were exhausted,” she said. “Just give me a little bit of information about him, and the others here who know about magic, so I will know whom I can speak freely in front of.”

“There is not a great deal to tell, in that case,” Giselle admitted, and quickly summed up the two others, Captain Cody with his Fire Magic, and Fox with his strange Air Mastery. “The others who know about magic are Herr Kellermann, the announcer and also the business manager of the show, and the true Pawnee. Some of the people playing Pawnee are Mexicans; they know nothing of magic, so far as I am aware.”

“Good, much simpler that way.” Rosamund stood up. “I'm going to wish to speak with Captain Cody, Kellermann and Leading Fox at some length. You are in the territory governed and protected by the Brotherhood. We really do have a right to know what's walking about in our house, after all.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow, as if she expected Giselle to dispute with her, but frankly, Giselle felt simply too intimidated. It was very clear that although Rosamund was only a couple of years older, she was vastly Giselle's senior in experience. Worldly and magical!

“I could go—” she began, but Rosamund shook her head.

“Please, don't bother them now. Let them know over breakfast. Send a message to me at the Golden Sheep Inn. I am at my leisure right now, you folks have a show to run.” She smiled; it quite lit up her face, and Giselle felt herself relaxing a little. “Shall I let myself out?” the Earth Master continued. “It seems silly for you to try and squeeze past me just to open the door in such a small space.”

“Please do,” she said, trying not to sound as intimidated as she felt.

Rosamund chuckled a little, and bade her a good night and good rest.

Giselle sat back down again and poured herself a second cup of tea, feeling even more exhausted than before. Rosamund had to be the most
forceful
personality she had met since Mother died! And it wasn't as if she had tried to be intimidating, either, she merely exuded sublime self-confidence and an aura of
being in charge.

I doubt anyone has ever dismissed
her
as being “just a girl,”
she thought, with more admiration than resentment.
If she had been in my shoes, Cody wouldn't have tried to pass her ideas off as his own.
He wouldn't have needed to. She had no doubt at all that when Rosamund spoke, people
listened.

Was that an aspect of Earth Magic? It might be. Certainly Tante Gretchen had commanded the respect of all those young army lads.

At any rate, after dealing with such a formidable personality, on top of the exhausting day she'd had already, she felt a bit limp. She had a quick wash, and crawled, rather than jumped, into bed.

In the morning, it might have seemed like a dream, if it had not been for the two unwashed teacups on her little table. No matter
how
tired she had been, there was no chance she would have been so addled as to pour herself
two
cups of tea.

She closed her eyes and called a sylph. One flitted in through the window over the bed almost immediately; this was a tiny little thing, with brown wings with orange spots. It hovered expectantly, orange hair floating about its naked little body.

“Would you be so kind,” she said aloud, “As to tell Chief Leading Fox that I will need to speak with him urgently over breakfast? And if you can get Captain Cody's attention, tell him the same?”

“Yes!”
the little thing said gleefully, and darted out the window again.

Goodness. That was a lot of enthusiasm . . .

She got another washup—it was getting warm enough now in the mornings that the tepid water in her pitcher was quite warm enough—and got into her canvas skirt, shirt, and soft Indian boots. After the exertions and surprises of yesterday, she was famished.

Before she had gone three steps, the sylph was back.
“They will meet you at the back table!”
the little thing said, and sped off, without even asking for a treat of magical energy.

The “back table” was the one farthest from the tables where the food was dished out. It was generally the last to be filled, which made it a good place to have a semiprivate conversation.

She hurried off to the mess tent, only to find the other three already waiting there with solemn expressions on their faces. She got her food and joined them, and before she even sat down, Cody spoke.

“So, we intrudin' on somebody's claim, or what?” he asked, looking concerned.

“I tried to explain, but I have an insufficient knowledge of how these things work in the Black Forest,” added Kellermann.

She blinked several times, as she tried to sort out just what Cody was asking. Finally a possible definition for the word “claim”—related to gold and silver prospecting—surfaced in her memory.

“The Brotherhood of the Foresters is something like sheriffs and deputies,” she said, slowly. “It is not that they have staked a claim to an area, it is that they have taken the job of protecting ordinary folk from the bad magic and bad magicians within that part of the country. This is usually done by groups known as Hunting Lodges. The Brotherhood of the Foresters is somewhat unusual in that their area extends to the entire Schwarzwald, not merely one city or town within it.”

“So—like Texas Rangers.” Cody relaxed. “So a gunslinger comes t'town, sheriff comes t'make sure he ain't gonna make trouble, that it?”

“That's close enough,” she decided aloud.
They certainly don't need to know about my . . . misadventure.
“My Mother was known to the Brotherhood, and it was two of their number that taught me to shoot. When she died, I found myself without income to support myself. I was advised to come ask the Brotherhood for their advice, and possibly help.”
True enough, although that came afterward . . .
“I was on the way to one of the Lodges when I encountered the show, and the rest, you already know.”

“So, what's this feller got t'say about you—an' us?” Cody wanted to know.

“First of all,
he
is a
she.
Her name is Rosamund von Schwarzwald and she is . . . very highly placed,” she warned. “She is a Hunt Master, someone who decides when a threat is dangerous enough to warrant sending an entire Hunting Party instead of a single member of the Brotherhood, and the person who would lead that Hunting Party. Other than that, I believe she merely wishes to meet with you and assess you.”

Cody's face registered extreme surprise, Kellermann's only a bit less. Only Leading Fox seemed unperturbed.
“She!”
Cody exclaimed. “You folks let wimmen . . .” He cut off whatever he was going to say. “Huh. Ah guess. When's she wanta meet up?”

“As soon as you have the time. She told me herself that as
we
are the ones with a show to put on, and
she
is at her leisure, you should be the ones to choose the time.” It was both gratifying and a little amusing to see Cody at a loss for once. After having him take credit for her ideas, having to deal with a female who outranked him took the sting out of her wounded pride.

“She's where?”

“The Golden Sheep Inn, in the town,” Giselle told them. “I believe that she can speak with my sylphs; I can easily send her a message.”

Cody rubbed the side of his head, pushing up his hat slightly. “Well. Best deal with this right quick, I guess. After the second show an' tours, we'll come t'her. Figger just after sundown.” He looked to the other two, who nodded agreement. “Don' want t'put 'er off and make 'er think we got no manners.”

“That is probably wise,” Kellermann agreed. “The Brotherhood's word is law where magic in the Schwarzwald is concerned. And to send a Hunt Master . . . you do not wish to insult her.”

Cody took a long breath. “Right. Well, we got a show to put on. Better get to't.”

The four of them made their way from the show enclosure into the town, following the guidance of one of Giselle's sylphs. They attracted curious glances from the townsfolk, since all four of them were wearing their best. Cody was resplendent in his white, fringed doeskin outfit, with a matching hat. Leading Fox was equally resplendent in a costume Giselle had never seen him in before: a beaded buckskin version of Cody's costume, with a colorful blanket, his hair adorned with eagle feathers. Kellermann looked plain by comparison in his sober best suit.

And she—well, she had been torn. Whether to keep up the illusion that she was the American Rio Ellie, or wear the loden-green hunting costume that Tante Gretchen had given her. . . .

In the end, she decided that the illusion was more important as far as the townsfolk were concerned. And as for Rosamund herself, well, wearing her Western gear would make it clear where Giselle's alliances lay.

The sylph that guided them was a night-sylph, an odd one, actually, since this one was fully clothed. She had midnight-blue wings like lacework, a long, flowing midnight-blue gown, and raven hair that streamed behind her as she flew, looking back over her shoulder to be certain they were following. Only she and Fox could see her, of course.

The townspeople did not pretend that
they
were not startled and pleased to see the quartet, although Kellermann was largely ignored. There was no effort at being polite, either; there
was
a great deal of pointing and whispering.

Leading Fox ignored it, striding after the sylph, full of dignity. Cody, however, went into his arena persona: smiling broadly, waving, even pulling off his hat and bowing deeply to particularly pretty women.

The particularly pretty women generally blushed, smiled back, and giggled. The men with them were not nearly so amused, though they took some pains to hide their displeasure.

Fortunately, Cody didn't follow through on any of his flirtatious bows, just kept moving.

The sylph brought them down cobblestoned streets of black-beamed, white-plastered houses and shops. Giselle tried not to look longingly at the shops . . . now that she actually had a little money to spend . . .

No, I must be good. I must save for winter.

They turned a corner, and there, about halfway down the street, was a hanging sign with a yellow sheep painted on it. And painted on the white plaster of the walls were garlands and flowers, and pictures of people eating and drinking.

The sylph flew up and away, no longer needed. Captain Cody eyed the sign, then regarded the painted drinkers with approval. “I think I'm likin' our choice pretty well,” he drawled, smiling.

“Just remember,” Kellermann cautioned. “You'll probably have to pay for what you drink.”

“Killjoy,” Cody muttered, as Kellermann waved at her to go inside first.

Inside, Giselle sniffed the air, then took a deeper breath with approval. She had seen rather too many . . . poorly kept inns. This one, however, would have met with even Mother's approval.

The common room was spacious and clean, with wooden floors, wooden ceilings, and plastered walls with more paintings of happy people on them. The paintings looked old, much older than the ones outside; they were much more stylized, more like the illuminated letters in old manuscripts. Or actually . . . now that she came to think about it, the decorations were almost exactly the sort of thing you saw on elaborate beer steins! Then again, the ones outside were subject to the wind and weather, and presumably every so often had to be repainted. These probably dated from when the inn became an inn. There was a huge fireplace in one wall, which probably held enormous fires in the winter. And there was a counter across the back, with big ornamental steins on it and three barrels beneath it.

The furnishings were simple: wooden benches and wooden tables with candles stuck in their own wax in the middle. Many were already occupied with people smoking, eating and drinking. Two pretty young women, both blond and looking like sisters in their black dirndls, white blouses, and red aprons, bustled among the tables laden with heavy wooden trays holding food and drink.