Blood Red (9781101637890) (26 page)

“How do you know all these things?” she demanded, a little suspiciously.

“Because when Dominik went off to study medicine and I came to join him, it wasn't as if I needed to learn a—a trade or anything. We don't need a lawyer, or a doctor—just shift, and almost anything heals, even most illnesses.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “So I decided to study history,
our
history. I put together what I was taught with what our family traditions were, and suddenly a lot of things in the oral tradition made a lot more sense.”

“You're going to make a convincing folklorist,” she observed. “Which is good, because now that we are on a better road we might well make Casolt just after sundown.” She glanced back the way they had come.
Finally
the spires of Sibiu were out of sight.

“I've had some practice; when I first came back home, I went around to all of the oldest people in the clan and collected stories.” He shrugged. “Mostly, you listen and take a lot of notes. If something isn't clear, you ask questions. And if anyone asks you why you are doing this, you tell them
it's because young people don't listen anymore.
That's something that has
always
been true.”

She laughed, and the horse flicked his ears back at her. “Old people like to hear that. That's something that has always been true, too.”

“Oh hey, look!” He pointed ahead. There was a clearly artificial point showing at the top of a hill far ahead. A steeple.

“Basilica?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Saxon church. There are a lot of Saxons hereabouts. You might get more out of the locals if you speak German than if you speak Romanian.”

“Well we can try both.” She clucked to the horse, who seemed a bit more eager to move ahead. Maybe because it was afternoon and he was hoping for a stable.

Sheep, a few cattle, herds of goats. Fewer animals than there would have been in the fields of home. “Why Saxons?” she asked.

“The Hungarian Kings—including dear old Vlad!—invited them to come as mercenaries,” Markos said. “The commanders and officers got land and titles, the rest got land. Thanks to the Turks, there were no living Hungarians or Romanians to claim it, and that meant there wasn't much intermarrying and the old customs were held onto. That was a long time ago, of course, so no Lutherans here, just good Saxon Catholics.”

That could be very advantageous, since living in the Schwarzwald meant Rosa was more Catholic than Lutheran. She pondered all the ways she could use that as they slowly neared the distant steeple, and the sun passed behind them.

It was down by the time they reached Casolt, and they arrived in the village in the blue dusk. The church was high on the hill above the village itself, and unlike Sibiu the houses were painted in many colors and seemed to be wooden. Some had tiled roofs, but most were shingled. As they drove along the main road, with the houses all about them, a few people came out of their doors at the sound of cartwheels, but most probably thought they were fellow villagers, late-come from the fields.

The horse picked up his head and his feet, and a moment later Rosa saw why. There was a tavern or an inn ahead of them, people sitting outside at little tables drinking the
incredibly
potent plum liquor that was ubiquitous in this part of the world. Rosa had already encountered it in Brasov and knew to be wary of it.

Even though the horse was moving faster than he usually did, it still wasn't anything like a headlong gallop, and the people sitting about had plenty of time to take them in, recognize this wasn't a farm cart or a Roma wagon, and call to the people inside to come and look. So by the time the horse stopped, looking about eagerly for a stable, everyone was out and curious. But in time-honored tradition, they waited for the innkeeper in his long white apron to come up to Markos.

“Welcome to Casolt, strangers,” he said. In German.

“Thank you very much,” Rosa replied. “My brothers and I are scholars.” Then she nodded to Markos to indicate he should say something.

But that was when Dominik popped his head out of the door behind them. Exerting himself to the utmost, he described their little group, and somehow, from the bare bones of “we are going to be folklorists,” he managed to construct an entire history for the three of them as Rosa sat there, astonished.

It seemed they were not just scholars themselves, but the children of scholars, and their father was associated with Budapest University. Which presumably accounted for the
extremely
eccentric notion of a female getting a university education and traveling with her brothers to collect stories. Rosa could only marvel; it was a good, strong, simple story, and having him pop out and tell it right now meant he wouldn't have to repeat it. Nor would they, which also meant there was far less chance they would contradict each other.

Dominik continued to elaborate. Their mother had died young, so their father had brought them all up alike. He was not wealthy, so he augmented his income by writing, and particularly wanted to collect tales from around Transylvania so they wouldn't be lost. He couldn't go himself, so he sent his children out. They'd had great success west and north of Sibiu where people were universally friendly and helpful.

Oh that is good, Dominik! That puts them in competition to show us equal or better hospitality.

By this time, most of the villagers at the inn had gathered about them. “We were hoping that either there were rooms to be had, or that we could put our wagon somewhere and sleep in it,” Dominik concluded. The innkeeper eyed them all dubiously.

“I am not sure fine young gentlemen and the lady would care for my rooms,” he said.

Markos chuckled. “We are all hardier than you think,” he said. “We are not soft, even though we have lived in cities! As long as the weather holds, we have traveled for three years now, and camp like shepherds in the hills as often as not.”

Rosa noted he didn't say “like gypsies;” the poor Roma had a poor reputation among village folk. Though it had to be said; there was some truth in the reputation. They certainly did steal whenever they got a chance.

Some clans did, anyway.

Now the innkeeper brightened a bit. “Well, if you would come see the rooms . . .”

“I will,” said Rosa, handed Dominik the reins, and jumped down off the box. The innkeeper led her into his unprepossessing building, while presumably Dominik maneuvered the wagon into a place where it was safe and stabled the horses.

The main room was dark, and held the ubiquitous aroma of meat and vegetable stew heavily seasoned with paprika that she expected. But beneath that, was the smell of cleanliness, which was a good sign, and the place had a good wooden floor, which was another good sign.

There were two tiny rooms, with beds taking up most of the space. But the linens were clean, the beds were featherbeds, and there was no sign of lice or other undesirable bedfellows. So Rosa set to bargaining with their host, and by the time the young men came in with the two small bags they would use for overnight, she had struck a deal.

“Supper then!” the innkeeper said jovially, no doubt very pleased to have his rooms so unexpectedly occupied.
“Sa˘
rma˘lut
‚
e cu ma˘ma˘liga˘
, my wife's specialty!”

Relieved that it wouldn't be
papricas
‚
,
which she liked, but had had far too much of already, Rosa followed him to an age-polished table in front of the fireplace. There was wine—real wine and not
t
‚
uica˘,
the plum liquor, or worse,
turt
which was twice as strong—and a plate of pickled vegetables to eat while they waited. Then came the meal, which was a pork-stuffed cabbage leaf with sauerkraut. Rosa felt right at home; this was nearly identical to things she ate or cooked at the Bruderschaft Lodge, except for the spices. There was a lot more cabbage than meat, but that was to be expected; they were no longer eating at the Graf's table, after all!

When they were done, they went outside to talk to the locals. Here, the talk was in mixed Romanian and the local German, so the village wasn't
entirely
German. Rosa surveyed the tables and benches scattered about the little inn yard, assessing the people who were sitting out there. There was good light from a couple of torches and a lantern hung just at the inn door. Ideally she wanted someone who wasn't sitting and gossiping with anyone else, but not someone who looked disagreeable. Although if she could find a couple of approachable women without any men—they might be a good source of stories. But right under the lamp, on a bench where she could lean her back against the wall of the inn, Rosa found an old lady nursing a small glass of that potent plum liquor and, after getting a nod of permission, sat next to her. She warmed up her shields; an Earth Master was not as good at projecting emotions as a Fire Master was, but an Earth Master could always make herself “feel” cozy and comfortable, and the sort of person that other people would like to talk to. She hoped the old woman was not impervious to that sort of thing. Some people were, particularly unpleasant people and bad-tempered people. The old lady seemed quite friendly and approachable however. And all of the villagers outside the inn had heard their little story, so the ice had been broken.

It was a lovely evening, in a nice little village. Some houses had lanterns out at the front door. Some had a torch stuck at the road. Most had nothing but the soft light of their windows. Some people were sitting on benches by their front doors, but most were making their way here.

There seemed to be a hundred thousand stars out, and it was a cloudless night. Rosa was fairly sure she wouldn't want to be here in the dead of winter, but now, in late summer, it was lovely. There was a scent of all the drying hay on the breeze, and a soft hum of talk from all the people gathered in the inn yard.

The old woman next to her was dressed in what Rosa now realized was the Saxon variation on the local clothing; instead of a white skirt, she wore a black one, with embroidery, a black embroidered vest, an embroidered white apron, and a plain black blouse, with a black bonnet of some sort over her gray hair, and two embroidered ribbons trailing from it, over her shoulders and down her chest. She was a little bent, but not much, and slender. Her face was not very wrinkled, and it was possible to see she had been a great beauty in her youth.

“It's a pity,” the old lady said, without preamble, in German.

“What is a pity, good lady?” Rosa replied. “Oh, my name is Rosa Nagy. Dominik and Markos are my brothers.”

The old woman nodded. “And you are the scholars, so I heard. Your father must be very odd to raise a girl as a scholar.” Rosa stifled a smile; it seemed that the old were universally allowed to be as rude as they liked.

“He is. Very odd. But I like it, and a scholar's daughter doesn't have any dowry so I have no prospects!” she replied cheerfully. “I might as well be useful, and I like traveling and even living in a camp. When my father dies, or grows too old to teach, Markos or Dominik will take his place and I will go out with the other to collect stories. I think only the one that becomes a teacher will marry, so I will probably keep house for the one that doesn't in winter, when we can't travel. Was that what the pity was about?”

The old lady seemed to like her attitude. “I am Frau Schmidt. No, the pity is we have no music tonight. The gypsies are off hunting for a missing boy, who they already know will not be found.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial fashion. “That's not so bad for Casolt. It will be a while before we need to be vigilant again. Months, if we're lucky. If we're even luckier, it will take a gypsy again and not one of us.”

“Vigilant against what?” Rosa lowered hers, too, and leaned toward the old woman—who smelled, oddly enough, of peppermint, and not the cabbage or garlic that Rosa expected.

The old lady shrugged. “Against what no one wants to talk about. Something out there—” she pointed her chin eastward “—likes to hunt people. No one has ever seen it and lived to tell about it. Back when I was a girl, they tried hunting for it, and got nowhere. Now no one tries anymore. We just know it moves around, and once it's taken a person, it moves off to hunt somewhere else. So it can't be a beast, now, can it?”

Rosa pretended to think about that. “I wouldn't imagine a beast would be that clever,” she said, finally. “Does everyone know about this?”

“Most do,” Frau Schmidt said flatly. “They just won't talk about it. I think they are afraid that if they do, the thing will come hunting for them, or someone in their family.”

“And you aren't?” Rosa dared.

The old lady laughed. “I've outlived my whole family, and the thing never comes into the village, so I am safe enough. I rent out my farm to Iliescu's boy and his wife, I have my little garden, I don't need to leave. When I die, the boy hopes I will leave him the farm so he treats me fair, and brings me good things. As long as he keeps doing that, keeping me happy and comfortable as if he was my own boy, I'll leave him the farm, and he knows that, and I know that he knows, and he knows that I know that he knows, so we are all settled.”

“You, Frau Schmidt, are a very wise woman,” Rosa declared, and the old lady laughed. Rosa had the feeling that hardly anyone ever talked to Frau Schmidt, but that she
listened
to everything, so it seemed that Rosa had found a good source of information. “You get the income, you get good things to eat, and you know the farm will be in good hands, even if they aren't of your own blood.”

“Oh, Iliescu's boy is near enough. Cousin of my mother. That will do, since the farm came to me as my dowry. My little cottage I live in now was Erik's from his parents. They lived in it until they died. We kept it up and never sold it, and when Erik left for the next world, I let Iliescu's boy rent the farm from me, and I moved there.” That set Frau Schmidt off on a detailed rundown of the pedigree and degree of relationship of everyone in the village. From there, she dove with great relish into village scandals. Rosa listened with amusement and interest, because, from investigations in the past, she knew this was part of the bargain when you got things you could use. When you found the person in the village who knew everything, the price of learning what you wanted to know was to listen to everything. Rosa was the perfect listener for someone like Frau Schmidt.
All
of the village scandal could be laid out like a feast before the two of them, without worry that the wrong story would get back to someone who could make trouble out of it. So Rosa
ah'd
and
oh'd
and
tsk'd
at the right moments, while the village's recent and current history was unveiled in all its tawdry glory.