what looked like a fine specimen of knockwurst and got a generous slice of rye bread before it all vanished. She was very, very hungry at this point, and feeling the beer, and very much wanted something to soak it up before it really got to her head.
As darkness finally fell and the great bonfire near the Maypole was lit, she began thinking about getting to her horse. And that was when she felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder, and all the chattering in the vicinity suddenly stopped. She froze, her insides growing cold. This . . . was not a well-wisher. The eyes of her fellow feasters told her that much.
“Gunther von Weber?” rumbled a deep voice from behind her.
She turned in her seat, and saw that the person who had seized her shoulder was dressed in an army officer’s uniform. She didn’t know enough about such things to judge what his rank was, but there was a great deal of gold braid on his shoulder, and several medals on his chest. A man of considerable girth, with a shaven head and a square, red-flushed face that looked altogether too much like a boar’s, he looked as if his spike-topped helmet was too tight for his head. With him were four more soldiers. She blinked at him in confusion. What could they possibly want with Gunther?
“Sir, I am, and might I ask what your business is with me?” she said, cautiously.
“I will be asking the questions!” the man snapped. “What is your age? Where are you from?”
“Twenty—” she replied without thinking. “The nearest village to me is Leinsdorf—”
“Ha!” the officer barked, as if he had caught her in something. “Well? Is he in the Leinsdorf rolls?”
A fifth fellow moved into the light from the torch nearby and leafed through a large leather-bound book. “No, Captain.”
The hand clamped down harder on her shoulder, and the captain shook her, rattling her teeth. “So, boy, why aren’t you on the rolls?”
Startled, too startled to think first, she blurted the first thing that came into her mind. “What rolls?”
The captain’s eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth. “The military service rolls! The ones you were supposed to sign when you became sixteen!” The captain actually sounded offended that she didn’t know—or—no—he sounded as if he didn’t believe that she didn’t know, and was angry. His next words confirmed that. “Don’t pretend you don’t know!”
Well, of course she didn’t know . . . but he clearly wasn’t going to believe her. Not only that, but before she could say anything else he had hauled her up out of her seat and propelled her into the custody of his four men. Before she knew it she was being frog-marched into a building, hands bound behind her in irons, and directly into a small room with a desk with a lamp on it and an iron-framed bed just visible behind a folding screen. Two of the soldiers shoved her against the wall opposite the desk and left, closing the door behind them. The captain sat himself down behind the desk and opened another book, taking a pen out of an inkpot, as the soldiers closed the door.
Well, this is a fine fix. She was more irritated than angry at the moment. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a perfectly good way to get out of this mess. It would just mean she’d never be able to come back here as Gunther and take part in shooting contests. That was annoying. She’d probably have to find an entirely new district and make up a new name, perhaps even dye her hair.
“Captain—” she began.
“Quiet!” the captain barked. “You’re being enrolled in the Army, boy, and from this moment you’ll only speak when questioned! Now. Full name.”
Giselle sighed theatrically, and he looked up at her sharply, anger written all over his face at her presumed insolence. “My name is Giselle Schnittel,” she replied flatly. “And you are going to find a difficult time explaining why you inducted a woman into the Army.”
At first, his mouth dropped open and his piggy eyes bulged in shock. Then his face reddened with even deeper anger. “What do you take me for, boy?” he shouted. “Do I look like a fool to you?”
She allowed her voice to drift up into a girlish lilt. “And do I sound like a boy to you?” she retorted. “I’m poor. I need money. Shooting contests are an honorable way to get it, but they