It wasn’t that Captain Cody was worried about her safety . . . it was that he had been worried about audience perception. Evidently, back in America, he would have been drawn and quartered if he had dared to put the safety of a white girl in the hands of an Indian.
Well, that wasn’t the case here. The German audience loved this, that much was clear from the time the first knife thudded into the board.
And when he had finished with his outline, the audience screamed its approval.
Now was going to come the fun part.
All the while this had been going on, Fox’s fellow Pawnee had been “creeping up” on the bandits. The audience could see them, of course, and if the bandits had bothered to turn around, they would have seen the Pawnee too—but of course, they didn’t turn around. Now Giselle had to fight to hide her smile. Of course the audience didn’t expect them to turn around—that would have spoiled everything!
Fox turned to make a threatening gesture at the bandit chief, and Two Crows waved a hand at him. There was an expectant murmur from the audience, who knew this meant that rescue was at hand.
But what they did not expect was that Fox would pull four more knives at once, and send them sailing in rapid succession at Giselle—so rapid that the first was hitting its target as the last left his hand. With four loud thuds, the knives cut the straps binding her to the target! And as the Pawnee swooped in on the bandits, she bent and retrieved a small handgun from the top of each boot and shot the bandit chief, who “died” with a bloodcurdling scream.
The audience roared its approval.
Had one of the knives failed to cut its target—unlikely—she still could have pulled her hand or foot free without the audience realizing the knife had missed.
The bandit camp erupted in gunfire, every man firing at once, just as a string of the Pawnee horses were driven into the arena. Each of the Pawnee performed jaw-dropping running mounts on his horse, including Fox.
She wasn’t capable of that, of course, but she was light and small enough that Fox could stop his horse beside her and pull her up behind easily. They had practiced this as well, and she managed the trick not too ungracefully. Then they were off, leaving the cursing bandits behind, including the miraculously resurrected bandit chief. The bandits ran in futile pursuit. As the last of them vanished out through the curtains, the audience went wild.
That was the last of her official turns. Captain Cody performed his trick riding and shooting. There was wild-horse riding—“bucking broncos,” they were called, and the goal was to stay on as long as one could. All the rest of the remaining acts from the original show were fitted into this final third of the new show, then there was the repeat of the Grand Parade and the show was over.
But her work wasn’t over yet. Like everyone else, she had to rush to her part of the “camps”—in this case a little tent set between the Indian encampment and the cowboys. There she sat down in a camp chair not unlike Captain Cody’s, and prepared to meet the audience.
Or at least as many of them as were prepared to pay the extra for the “special” ticket.
Kellermann was conducting the “official tour,” of course, which meant that only those who were independently minded approached her on their own. There were not that many of those; most people, however excited they had been by the show, seemed to prefer standing behind the guide. When they asked her questions, they did so diffidently, and with immense politeness.
Well, except for the children and young adolescents.
“How did you meet Chief Leading Fox?” blurted one lanky boy at the front of the group, looking as if he was likely to burst.
“Oh, that is a long story, would you like to hear it?” she replied, amused that not one of the group seemed to question the fact that she spoke perfect German although she was allegedly an American.
Then again, it probably never occurred to any of them that she wouldn’t, even though Kellermann had to translate for the others in the show. But perhaps they haven’t asked questions of anyone else.
“Yes, please, Fraulein Ellie!” the lad said eagerly. The adults, just as eager to hear but thinking themselves too dignified to show it, still leaned forward a little.
“Well, my father died when I was only seven. I was the oldest child, and we needed food, so I took his old gun and went out to try and shoot something. I was very lucky that I ran into Chief Leading Fox in the forest before I hurt myself. He did not tell me to go home, as a white man might have. Instead, he asked me why I was all alone in the forest with a rifle that was as tall as I was.”
She paused, and the boy immediately asked “What did you say?”
“I told him the truth, of course. That my father was dead and if I didn’t hunt, we would all starve, because my mother could not leave the babies.” She smiled as the youngster nodded solemnly. “So he said, ‘Then perhaps you will allow me to come along.’ He didn’t say that he would help me, although that was what he did. From then on, until I was as good a sharpshooter as I am now, he met me every day to hunt together. He became like the father I had lost.”
She knew that Kellermann was committing all of this to memory, and would probably use it in the show. She made a note to tell it to Fox so that they had the same story—although his version would probably be better than hers.
A few more people began to ask questions—if the Indians were Apache, or Navaho, or any of the other tribes they had read about. What her home had been like, and had she hunted grizzly bears or buffalo. Did she know Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill, or Sitting Bull?
When they finally moved on—urged by Kellermann, since he needed to move them through in a timely manner—she thought she had satisfied them. And she took the chance when no one was crowding around her to go over into the Indian Village to tell Fox the story she had concocted. He invited her to sit beside his fire with a nod, and she sat cross-legged on the grass and related her story.
I do like this clothing, she thought, and not for the first time. The Western clothing was so much easier to sit on the ground in, and so sturdy she didn’t need to think about grass or dirt-stains.
He was amused when she had finished, and chuckled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. He had a fine, strong face: older than the way she had imagined Winnetou, more like Winnetou’s father. “It is a good tale,” he told her. “And what happened to this mother and your siblings in this tale?”
“My mother remarried a shopkeeper and took the family to St. Louis, because she did not wish to try to keep the farm going,” she decided on the spur of the moment. “Everyone who has read those books is familiar with that city. I remained with the old cabin, now that I was able to hunt and fish and supply what I needed for myself. Then I joined the show.” She shrugged. “We don’t need to get any more elaborate than that.”
“It is best if we do not,” he agreed. “Although you have never told us much of your past, you know.”
“Oh!” she realized he was right. “Well, there is not a lot to tell. My real parents traded me to Mother for food. Mother was an Earth Master; her name was Annaliese Bundchen, and she wanted me because she knew I would grow into magic.”
Fox looked startled at that—the first time Giselle had ever seen him look unpleasantly surprised. It was an odd expression on his generally stoic face. “Your parents . . . did what?” He shook his head. “I have difficulty with this.”
“It’s not common, but it’s not uncommon either; more often an unwanted child is left on a doorstep, or at a convent,” she said, a little bitterly. “But sometimes, if a childless couple sees a pretty baby they like . . . it can happen. But most often, instead of being outright sold or traded, a child is sent off into servitude at a very young age, as young as five or six. Too many children, not enough food, and there are many laws about hunting and fishing, but few about what you may do with your children.”
“. . . and you say we
are the barbarians.” Fox looked as if he had bitten into something nasty. She didn’t blame him.
“On the other hand, I was one more mouth to feed when my father could not feed the children he had, and by that, I mean they were literally starving, in the dead of winter.” It was her turn to make a sour face. “I likely would have died anyway, and possibly my mother and more of my siblings with me.”
Fox shook his head. “We would never permit a child to starve. The parents, perhaps, if they were too lazy to hunt, fish, or grow food, but never a child.”
Giselle sighed. “Yes, but you live in very small tribes, when you compare your tribe to a whole city. You’ve seen what cities are like. People often do not even know one another, and they have few bonds. There is no place to grow food, even if there were no laws about hunting, there is nothing to hunt. If one wants food, one must earn it with labor. But there are more unskilled hands than there are jobs to be done. My father was one of those sets of unskilled hands.”
Fox frowned. “Surely, there must have been somewhere he could have gone if his children were starving.”
She thought about telling him about workhouses—and that you could starve there, too—but decided that was getting too complicated.
“Well, really, although he didn’t know it, my father did me a great favor,” she pointed out. “And . . . instead of dying of hunger, I was taken by someone who, I think, loved me more than either of my parents ever would or could have, given that they had eight other children.” Her voice softened at that last. “I called her Mother until the day she died. She truly was my mother in every possible way.”
Fox was silent for a while. “Then, perhaps it was for the best, after all.” He sat there, deep in thought, while Kellermann brought another group by and she answered questions.
“Well,” he said when they were gone, “I think your story of how you and I met is a good one. It is very much the sort of thing I would have done, I believe. How did you learn to shoot so well?”
She felt her stomach clench up, even after all these years. Too much to want to tell Fox anything about the attack by that horrible young man. “To explain that, I will have to begin with something else. The Bruderschaft, which I should tell you about anyway, since we are in their lands and one or more of them might turn up here.”
By the time she got done explaining about the Brotherhood of the Foresters, and how two of their number had taught her to shoot and fight, they had been interrupted several times by more people touring the camps, had made a mad dash to get their supper eaten, and it was time for the second performance.
If anything, the second performance went better than the first. People were confident now that the changes were going to meet with audience approval, so they threw themselves into their parts with great enthusiasm. Almost too much, but after all, this wasn’t on a stage, it was in an arena, so perhaps at that distance “too much” was just about enough.
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.”
&n
bsp; 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?”
8
ROSAMUND 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.”
From a High Tower Page 16