Blood Red (9781101637890)

by Lackey, Mercedes

  After that the servants brought out more beer and cooked sausages, bread and cheese, and the guests mingled with the Roma. The Graf and the old man fell immediately into a serious conversation all in Romany. Anna went to question the musicians. Dominik and his cousin got into an animated discussion in Hungarian with the three boy acrobats. Rosa found herself drawn, for some reason, to the old woman.

  She wasn’t sure how to approach the lady, until she realized that the old woman’s mug was empty, and that gave her the opening she needed. She secured another mug of beer and a little basket of bread, cheese, and sausage, and brought them to her. The old woman looked up at her with bright, knowing eyes, and accepted Rosa’s offerings wordlessly.

  “Your songs made me cry,” Rosa said, in slightly stilted Hungarian, since she did not know nearly enough Romany to even attempt to hold a conversation.

  “The songs of the Roma are mostly sad, even those that do not sound so,” the old woman said, with a little nod. “The ones that are not sad and full of tears, are sad and full of defiance. We sing to keep from weeping, we laugh to keep from weeping, we dance to keep from weeping. I am Mother Lovina.”

  “I am Rosamund, Master Lovina,” Rosa said, with a little bow of respect. The old woman’s eyes twinkled.

  “You are Master Rosamund, modest one,” Lovina retorted. “Your power is clear to anyone with eyes to see it. And these eyes are still clear, if old.” She peered keenly at Rosa. “You are concerned with the young shifter. Do not be. His people have a reputation with mine, and it is unfailingly good.”

  Does she see my thoughts? How is that possible? Rosa felt a little chill, and hesitated. She thought back on that conversation, on the first evening of this party, with the professor and his students. How they said there were psychical abilities, not magic at all, that could account for things like—seeing things happening from afar, or into the future, or—

  “I am Master of more than Air, my child,” Lovina said, calmly. “I am Master of dook, of drab and draba, and I am drabarni. Many gifts run in the blood of the Roma, you see.” But then the old lady smiled, and shook her head. “And yet, I do not need to walk in your head to know you are concerned with the shifter. It is all there to read in how you look at him, how you hold yourself when he is near. I know your reputation, Red Cloak. You once saved some of my people from a sorcerer who would have made them her slaves. You were younger then.”

  “I did!” Rosa exclaimed, then blushed. “I am sorry I did not do more for them—”

  “They were too busy running once freed,” Lovina replied shrewdly. “We Roma are more used to blows than pats; they were taking no chance that you might prove worse than their captor. But what one of us knows, eventually all of us do, and your reputation as a hunter of the dark is strong with us.”

  She hesitated, wondering if she dared presume to ask more questions, for here was someone who was not related to Markos, but seemed to know of the shifters, his family. If anyone was likely to be unbiased, wouldn’t it be these gypsies? “I—mean no disrespect to you concerning what you say about the shifter, but—”

  “But you are apprehensive. All your life, you have hunted the shifters, and the shifters have hunted you. They knew, from the moment you came into the dark forest, that though you were but a child, you would grow to be a deadly hunter of their kind. That is why they tried to slay you as a child.” As Rosa’s eyes widened that the old gypsy knew all these things without being told, Lovina nodded. “They can scent what you are from far, far away. And the evil ones will try to kill you before you can kill them. Believe me, had this young Nagy been evil, he would have found a way to slay you even beneath the Count’s roof.” She spread her hands wide. “But—you live. You need never fear a Nagy, I tell you this. A Nagy would throw himself over a cliff before he spilled a single drop of human blood.”

  Rosa let out her breath, unaware that she had been holding it all this time. It was one thing to hear such words from Markos’ cousin, who, after all, was strongly prejudiced in his favor. It was quite another to hear them from the lips of a Roma Master, who had absolutely no reason to volunteer them.

  “I thank you,” she said. And smiled. “I must admit, it is a comfort to hear that I am not going to have to keep my guard up against another guest, even if it is one that I probably will never see again.”

  “Ah, now that is unlikely,” the old woman said unexpectedly, and a chill went down Rosa’s spine, as if someone had stepped over her grave. “No . . . your fate and his are firmly entwined.”

  The old woman’s eyes had grown distant, and the chill at Rosa’s back strengthened. “You will be leaving here together, and going into great danger. You, and he, and his cousin. The danger will be even greater than you suspect. I see a terrible darkness, and my sight cannot penetrate it . . .”

  Then the old woman shook her head, as if to clear it. “That is all I can see, young Master. The future is nothing like as clear as those who would flatter young women with sweet words of lovers and weddings would like you to believe.” Then she smiled slightly, and the chill eased. “And even though I see great darkness ahead of you, it does not follow that this darkness will descend upon you. The future is not fated. It can always be changed.”

  She patted Rosa’s hand, and Rosa smiled back. “And even if it is not, you have given me warning and I won’t go into it blindly,” Rosa replied, as bravely as she could manage.

  “Well said,” Lovina applauded. “So. What can you tell me of fishing hereabouts? There is a fine pond in the meadow where we camp, and I am partial to a bit of fish.”

  9

  THE palace seemed very quiet without all the visitors in it. Even though Rosa now knew that the building and grounds literally swarmed with servants, the only ones she could actually see at the moment from her bedroom window were the gardeners. They were putting the grounds to rights after several days of children romping through the garden, the Olympics, the Hunt, the several nights of gypsy entertaining, the masquerade. . . .

  All that had ended with the last of the invitees leaving yesterday afternoon; the professor and one of the poets. Poor poet! It must be hard leaving the literal lap of luxury to go back to a little garret apartment. At least she knew he wasn’t starving; the Graf was kind and generous to his friends, and made sure the young man had enough to live on and even share.

  It is a good thing for him that he is an Elemental Magician, however. He would never have wandered into the Count’s purview if he hadn’t been. Well, he could always move to the Schwarzwald and join the Bruderschaft. I don’t imagine that hunting, tending a garden, chopping wood or any of the other things we do would interfere with the ability to write poetry.

  What did other impoverished poets do? Ones that weren’t in the same position? Become café waiters? Clerks in stores?

  It was a sobering reflection. She knew what her fate would have been, had she not been what she was. Still in a city, and hoping for a husband, or possibly trying to get a position as a nanny, governess, or teacher. Or a nurse? I could have been a nurse, I think. I would be better with sick people than children. There were not a lot of options for a girl who was only the daughter of a schoolteacher.

  She didn’t really want to think about what she would have been like. She’d gotten glimpses, in the village, and on the train on the way to Romania, when she and Hans had traveled in the second and third class carriages. The lives of the girls her age—many of them with children in tow—seemed so confined! Their conversation was all about their children and husbands if they were married. She didn’t really know what the unmarried ones talked about . . .

  Well, there were, maybe, hints in her mother’s magazines and newspapers. There were advertisements for “improving” lectures, lending libraries. There was church work, of course; there was always church work. Would that have been her life? Penny lectures, Altar Guild, charity sewing, the occasional exciting novel fro
m a lending library? Gossip?

  I’d have been living in the city. What would Vati have been doing? Presumably the same as now, a schoolteacher. Not a schoolmaster, surely; he was only a schoolmaster now because the school was so small. When she tried to imagine herself as the teacher’s daughter, it felt as if she was smothering.

  But I would have been used to it. I would have had no notion that anything other than such an existence was possible. Would I have been content? She could not imagine herself contented with such a restricted life, and yet, she could not see that she would have had any other choices. Her father could not have afforded a university education for her. And without that, her choices were few: store clerk, nanny, governess, teacher, nurse, factory worker, waitress, wife and mother.

  She shook the thoughts away. They were, after all, only speculation. She was here, in the Graf’s palace, and she was what she was. Elemental Master. Hunt Master. Respected and listened to, even by men.

  Now the only visitors were herself, Gunther, and the two Hungarians. And now—or rather, in a few moments, after Rosa presented herself after breakfasting in her rooms—they were all about to address what it was that had brought Dominik and Markos here in the first place.

  She found herself eager, rather than apprehensive. Whatever unease had been engendered by Mother Lovina’s precognitive moment was long gone—perhaps chased away by several days’ worth of reflections on what an “ordinary life” would have been like.

  Rosa’s only unease now was that if she got used to all this pampering and rich living, she’d never be content in the Bruderschaft Lodge again. So now was a good time to leave, before she was used to it, and while she was able to think of the hard work of life in the forest with pleasure rather than distaste.

  This morning she, not Marie, had picked out her outfit, her own, well-worn and familiar clothing. She wanted to be Hunt Master Rosa; she didn’t want to be the lace-draped creature that had waltzed in Dominik’s arms and felt like an enchanted princess. She didn’t want to be the delicate girl in muslin who had dreamily discussed Hungarian poetry and music with Markos beside the fountain. She wanted to be the girl she knew when she looked in the mirror.

  So now, she looked in the mirror, and saw just that; Rosa, with her hair braided and anchored firmly on her head, in her no-nonsense loden wool jacket with the modest shirtwaist and a neat green bow at the collar. The Rosa whose mind was firmly on her job, and not wandering away elsewhere to merry eyes and fine speaking voices, and who most assuredly was not wondering what it would be like to be kissed by a man with a moustache.

  Another Rosa would be thinking of the young men instead of whatever peril had brought those young men here. Maybe the store clerk, working in a bookstore and daydreaming over sensational novels.

  That Rosa was not her.

  Until this moment, she had, because it was with the Graf and Gunther’s tacit permission, allowed herself to set aside the concerns that had led Markos Nagy to come a-running to this part of the world. (And why not to Budapest? There was a White Lodge there . . .) It was now time to address those concerns. With a nod at herself, she strode out the door and into the hallway, soft boots making no noise at all on the marble floor.

  Last night, the Graf had suggested they all meet on the terrace, taking advantage of the fine weather while they still had it. Markos and the Graf were there already when she arrived, the two of them in what appeared to be in earnest conversation as she passed the terrace doors. A fresh breeze met her, carrying the scent of late roses.

  “Ah, Rosa, good. I expect Dominik and Gunther to be here at any moment, but we can begin now,” the Graf said, rising and giving her a little bow. That alone told her that rank had been discarded for this conversation, and that meant it was quite serious. Whatever Markos had told the Graf thus far warranted weighty consideration. “Please repeat for Rosa’s benefit what you told me.”

  “It is pathetically little,” Markos confessed, as Rosa took a seat. “And the only reason that I know about this is because Dominik and I went to visit relatives—his, not mine—near Marosvásárhely.”

  “Transylvania . . . again.” Rosa looked sideways at the Graf, who nodded. “I was lately there, as you know. It is a troubled place, and by stranger things than bandits, wild beasts, and revolution.”

  “Well, you see . . . this is my problem.” Markos shook his head. “Let me begin at the beginning. Obviously we had to travel a great distance by horseback to get there. And as you already know from your travels to and within Romanian lands, in those wild mountains, often there is no direct road to get to where you need to go. The same is true in Hungary. We ended up overnighting in the village of Casolt, and we were warned not to take the road to Cornatel, but instead detour to Sacadate—” He laughed weakly, and interrupted himself. “This means nothing without a map, I know. Let us just say it was a considerable detour out of our way. We asked why. We were told that the road was perilous, but when we asked further, we got strange evasions. No one would answer us straightly; no, it wasn’t bandits, they would say. It was not rogue soldiers. And bears, wolves, and wild boars were no worse there than anywhere else. People just . . . disappeared. No one knew why. And when we got the locals deep enough into their cups, we heard that it was not just travelers who had disappeared, that people within and outside the village of Cornatel sometimes just . . . vanished . . . if they were out alone. And that children had been taken from farms thereabouts. When we asked what had happened, all anyone would do was shrug.”

  “True, true!” said Dominik, coming onto the terrace and taking another seat. “So, naturally, Markos being what he is, could not resist shifting and running the road to find what he could find.”

  “It was frustrating,” Markos said. “It was more than frustrating. There is a great deal of the remains of terrible magics in those mountains. Well, Vlad Dracul came from thereabouts, his soldiers actually burned Cornatel to the ground in his time. It is very difficult to separate the traces; there is old magic evil, recent magic evil and old and recent evil of the ordinary sort. They are all layered atop one another.”

  “It is like that in the Schwarzwald,” Gunther observed. “This is why the work of the Bruderschaft is often difficult.”

  “But I did determine that the record of ‘disappearances’ is a very, very long one. It goes back as much as forty years, and the known number of people who have disappeared over that time is at least one every two weeks.” Markos waited for their reaction , and it was immediate.

  “What?” exclaimed the Graf. “But—the authorities—how can so many—”

  Dominik shrugged, his mouth taking on a cynical expression. “Because they were all people who are invisible to great men in cities. Peasants, gypsies, travelers. Peasant children. People who don’t matter. There are all manner of rebels still in those mountains, and robber bands, and it is easy to blame them for the missing adults, and as for the children, well, children wander away, children run away, and there are plenty of wild beasts, holes to fall down, rivers to fall into. In short, no one important has ever disappeared, so the Hungarian authorities do not care. Frankly, if Markos and I had not spoken the dialect so well, we probably would never have been told about it. The local people have given up on anyone listening to them.”

  “So what did you find, Markos?” Rosa urged. “Obviously something that disturbed you.”

  “Blood magic. I think it is new, although it is hard to tell. I never did trace it to its origins. And . . . maybe . . . shifters.” He shook his head. “The trouble is, shifters are seldom that methodical, or, frankly, that clever. The beast overcomes the man, in most cases, and I have never heard of a shifter who was able to keep his presence a secret for four years, much less forty. And where are all the bodies? With that many kills, surely bodies would turn up at some point.”

  “All good objections, to be sure,” the Graf pondered, pulling a little on his chin as
he considered the little that Markos could tell him.

  “And the amount of territory involved—that is an objection too,” Dominik put in. “Are we simply seeing a pattern where there is none? It’s certainly an area much larger than a single shifter could cover. Are we seeing a single cause, where in fact, the authorities are right and the causes are many?”

  “Yet the local folk are convinced it is one cause,” Markos objected. “Even if they couldn’t identify it. And . . . my instincts say it is one cause.”

  “It’s hard to argue with your instincts, cousin, they are generally sharper than mine. Which is why I came with you to plead our case with the Count.” Dominik bowed a little to the Graf. “You were the White Lodge Master we thought we were most likely to convince that this is something that needed looking into. The rest . . .” he shrugged. “We asked for help at the White Lodge in Belgrade, and they referred us to Budapest. At Budapest, the Master shrugged his shoulders, muttered something about peasants with too many children, and referred us to Austria and Germany. They have more time to deal with matters of superstition and legend. They even collect such things, I think is what the Master at Budapest said.”

  The Graf pulled a sour face. “No need to tell me, my young friend,” he said. “As you say . . . to many of my fellow Hunt Masters, no one of any importance has fallen victim to whatever this is, and therefore, it is of no importance to us. An execrable attitude, and one that is echoed in the halls of mundane power as well as magical power. And an attitude I fear will cause us grief one day.” He shrugged. “But, as the linnet said, when trying to put out the forest fire, I am doing what I can. Rosa, my dear, does this sound like something you would care to help these young men with?”