A Dubious Peace

by Olan Thorensen

  “So far, we haven’t had a reason to produce much mercury, but we’ve enough for thermometers and the mercury fulminate project. Do you want to see how we make the fulminate?”

  The enthusiastic tone of Yozef’s last words was unmistakable.

  Well, thought Mark, if Heather is a music nerd, then Yozef is definitely a chemistry nerd.

  Knowing the fulminate was available satisfied Mark’s interest. Neither was he enthused about being around it during production. Facing a human enemy was more to his liking than being around something you couldn’t predict when everything went south. Yozef might be a good chemist, but what about the staff? What he did know was the established proclivity of the compound to explode. However, he was here to smooth things over with Yozef.

  “Yes, I’d love to see how you do it.”

  “Great. Let’s go to the mercury workshop.”

  Yozef led the way down the hall and out the rear of the building. Fifty yards away sat what appeared to be a large cinder-block structure, half of which was without a roof.

  “The workshop is divided into sections,” Yozef said, “depending on projects and the steps in processes. We make the fulminate in a space with no roof but under a shade. That also means the weather has to cooperate, and the lack of a roof ensures the effects of an accidental explosion can go up, instead of being contained and affecting adjacent spaces.”

  Mark’s interest in a demonstration slid another notch or two downward.

  “Unfortunately,” said Yozef, “there’s no production run scheduled for today, but I’ll go through the procedure so you’ll get the idea.”

  “Uh . . . yes . . . too bad,” said Mark, relieved.

  Inside, Yozef moved to a bench with an assortment of empty and filled glassware on shelving.

  “I’ll simulate the synthesis.”

  Yozef pulled down several beakers and stoppered bottles labeled nitric acid, ethanol, and distilled water. From a cabinet to one side of the space, he pulled out a stoppered bottle half full of a silvery substance that moved sluggishly. The way Yozef handled the bottle indicted a weight heavier than water-based liquids. He lined up the glassware and explained while he simulated mixing.

  “I won’t give the volumes or weights unless you’re interested.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Mark said. “I’ll get the drift.”

  “Okay. So . . . we start by mixing mercury with nitric acid and stirring with a glass rod.”

  Yozef mimicked the actions, then looked around.

  “I don’t see the micro-stove we use. Someone must be using in one of the other areas. That’s okay. What we do next is heat the mixture until the mercury dissolves. You’ll know that when the solution turns green and boils. Then we add ethanol very slowly. Red and brown fumes come off. They’re toxic and flammable, so another man works the bellows you see to keep air moving away from the workers.

  “After half an hour or so, the reaction is complete, as shown by the fumes turning white. Then water is added, and the mercury fulminate crystals are filtered from the liquid and washed several times with water to remove excess acid. We test when the washing is sufficient using a crude litmus test. A native plant has flower petals that change color from acid to base.”

  Yozef grinned and said, “Voila! That’s about it. The crystals are dried and stored in a bunker outside.”

  “Have you tried making percussion caps yet?”

  “We tried for a while a few years ago, but I dropped it when we weren’t getting anywhere. There was also too much else going on.”

  Yozef smiled. “I started up again once we got the chemistry institute going. Another one of my leaps of faith. I figured with you here, we’d eventually be working on breech-loading rifles, but first I thought we’d look to converting the existing flintlocks to percussion caps. We’re still working on the caps. Making the copper cups to hold the percussion mixture is straightforward, but we’re still experimenting on what to mix with the mercury fulminate. We need to reduce the sensitivity enough to make the caps safe to work with. We should have it licked in the next month.”

  “Sounds good,” said Mark. “I wouldn’t have had a clue how to make the fulminate.”

  What he didn’t say was that he thought they’d be better off forgetting the conversions and waiting for breech-loaders. Mark hadn’t told Yozef he had planned to start a breech-loading project as soon as other projects were underway.

  “One of the original group of Munjor immigrants is a natural-born chemist, whether he knows it or not. I’ve let him work on the fulminate, even while he’s still taking the basic lessons.”

  “So, I guess I hear the non-Caedelli are turning out okay?”

  “Yeah. We have two Fuomi among those more advanced.” Yozef smiled. “I’m pretty sure one is supposed to be a spy on all my projects, but he’s turned into a true chemistry believer. I’ve a sense the new Fuomi ambassador is displeased with his reports. Who has time for spying when it’s hard getting the spy out of the laboratory?

  “As for the future, yes, I’m hoping that once there’s a bigger core of teachers we can absorb some of the better minds from both Landolin and Iraquinik. Gaya, the Munjor ambassador, has already promised to see that his kingdom is scoured for a dozen young minds who are willing to come to Caedellium. The first one was among the new chemistry students. Such immigrants wouldn’t be just to study chemistry but also for mathematics and physics. I may call on you for practical applications of physics. Also, now that you’ll be getting a tour, I’ll write up an outline of what’s going on and see if you have suggestions.”

  “No problem. I’d be glad to help,” said Mark, though he couldn’t imagine how he would have any time away from all the planned and future projects.

  “So, how about the rest of that tour you promised?”

  CHAPTER 21

  ODYSIUS VISITS MORELAND

  The afternoon air was chill but not quite enough to require more clothing or a blanket. Anarynd rocked with Xena asleep in her lap. Yozef had Odysius in an adjoining rocker.

  “I wish I didn’t feel so out of place during these visits,” said Anarynd. “Abbot Abelard writes me regular reports, so I know what’s happening. But I’m still nervous about Odysius and me spending a month in Moreland again, though I’m sure it will be better than last year.”

  Yozef gave her the same words of reassurance he had on multiple occasions since the Moreland Clan had offered to make Anarynd’s first son the Moreland Clan’s hetman heir.

  Anarynd had agreed after talking with Maera and Yozef. The two parties settled on conditions. The mother and child would spend one month a year in Moreland Province until the heir was old enough to make the journey alone. They would be accompanied in the first year or two by Yozef—a condition shortened to two sixdays after he became Paramount and had too many other obligations. The child would be educated to Yozef’s satisfaction in consultation with Abbot Abelard, and at a time to be jointly decided by Anarynd, Yozef, and the Moreland council, the boy would formally change his name from Kolsko to Moreland. The final condition was that future successions would not follow primogeniture—the eldest son automatically becoming the heir. Similar to Yozef’s insistence on the Paramount succession, the Moreland hetman would choose future heirs from several candidates, and they would be confirmed by the boyermen.

  When Anarynd gave birth, it was to twins, a boy and a girl, Odysius and Xena.

  “I’m afraid we can’t delay any longer, Ana,” said Yozef. “The last excuse was already pretty flimsy. We owe it to them not to make it seem like we’re deliberately avoiding the visit.”

  “Even if you are,” said Maera, who had just walked into the room.

  “That’s not fair. At least one of you should be on my side,” Anarynd complained ruefully.

  “You know we are, dear,” said Maera, “but duty is a fact of life when you’re both the mother of the future Moreland hetman and the wife of the Paramount. I was accustomed to duty when I was growing up as
the eldest child of Hetman Keelan. It’ll just take more time for you to get used to it.”

  Anarynd sighed. “I’ll admit dealing with all the formalities wasn’t as bad as I’d feared the first time, but last year I was sorely tempted to banish my family from Moreland City. Well . . . maybe not Aunt Glynas and my brother Iwun. But my father and uncles . . . argh! I even thought about asking Yozef to do something about them. Banish them to Nyvaks. Make them ambassadors to the different Iraquinik kahsaks. Anything to get rid of them. Make them disappear somehow.”

  Anarynd flushed and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean that! He is my father, and The Word tells us to honor our parents.”

  Maera patted Anarynd’s arm. “We know you didn’t mean it, and there’s nothing sinful about thinking your father is . . . as Yozef would say . . . a real shithead.”

  Anarynd giggled. “Oh, Merciful God. He is certainly that. I have to remember The Word tells us to think of what the other person’s life must be like for them to be who they are.”

  She looked fondly from Maera to Yozef. “And to remember how blessed I am.”

  “So, shall we figure on leaving for Moreland after Godsday?” said Yozef.

  Anarynd groaned. “That’s only three days from now! I can’t be ready that soon.”

  “Nice try,” said Yozef. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the new clothes.”

  “That’s Maera’s doing,” said Anarynd. “I have plenty of good clothes. Many times more than most Caedelli women.”

  “Anarynd . . . ,” Maera held off her reproach.

  “I know, I know. Every other woman isn’t the mother of the future Moreland hetman and the wife of the Paramount.” She’d repeated Maera’s words in a pedantic rhythm.

  “I’m not pushing the departure time so quickly on purpose,” said Yozef, “but we need to get it over with. The next couple of months look like they’re going to be too busy for me to be with you as we agreed to in the succession document. As it is, I have a hard time fitting it into my schedule. Fortunately, we have the rail system now, so the seventy miles between here and Moreland City only takes about seven hours. I’ll go with you for the first sixday; then I have to be back here to meet with the four hetmen about fishing rights. We already postponed the meeting several times. This is the only time all four could be here, especially Feren. He didn’t specify, but he insisted his clan duties only allowed that date. I think he’s still miffed that a rail line isn’t planned to reach Farkesh in the near future.

  “Anyway . . . I’ll be gone from Moreland City for five or six days, then back to be with you and Odysius for another sixday.”

  “And when Yozef has to leave the second time, I’ll come to stay with you for the next two sixdays,” said Maera. “That way, you’ll only be in Moreland City alone with Odysius for two sixdays.

  Three days later, a two-coach train left Orosz City heading southwest toward Moreland City. All parts of the train had fresh coats of paint, and the matching eight horses easily pulled the weight. Prominently waving atop the second coach was the Caedellium flag—a green background, a circle of white stars representing the clans, and the central, larger star symbolizing the unity of the Caedelli people. Similar flags flew throughout Caedellium, some flying by themselves, others flying above or below the clan flag on the same pole, and some flying on a separate pole adjacent to the clan flag. What was different about this flag was the gold trim signifying the presence of the Paramount.

  The second coach contained Yozef, Anarynd, Odysseus, and two regular guards, Toowin Kales and Arlen Pawell. Toowin had been with the Kolsko family for several years, but Arlen only two months. He was the youngest son of the Pawell hetman, twenty-two years old and a veteran of fighting the Narthani. His father brought him to provide evidence of the clan’s loyalty to the Paramount and help quell lingering resistance to Yozef’s ascension.

  Completing the party was Sylia Orkwyn, a sixteen-year-old Oroszian along to help Anarynd with Odysius, and Haramontronadil Suprathalusian, an ex-Narthani slave who spoke fluent Suvalu and whom Yozef referred to as Harry Supra. He’d been owned by a Narthani trader and had traveled with his master for many years. Yozef had reluctantly concluded that he needed to learn yet one more language. The suggestion for Yozef to get a tutor had come from Savronel Storlini, the ex-Narthani serving as an adviser to Balwis Preddi. Mark made a stronger case for learning Suvalu than Yozef could counter. The growing number of foreign missions from the Iraquinik Confederation and the Landolin Kingdoms necessitated a common language. The easiest and most diplomatic solution was to use Suvalu, the trade language. Though not widely spoken in the western landmasses, there were tradesmen and scholars from all the realms who knew the language. Yozef had already resisted learning Fuomon or Narthani. He solved the growing problem by simply stating that future Caedellium correspondence and meetings with the Paramount would emphasize using either Caedelli or Suvalu.

  Unfortunately, that meant Yozef had to learn Suvalu. Mark assured him the language was relatively straightforward: no unusual sounds, no irregular verbs, and no article plus noun declensions. Yozef had squeezed Suvalu lessons into his already crowded schedule. The wiry, dark-skinned man whose name Yozef couldn’t pronounce often accompanied Yozef on his travels and at other times when he made room in his schedule for tutoring.

  Synton Ethlore was also along, but not in the coaches. He rode with a thirty-man dragoon escort. The rail line paralleled the main road between Orosz City and Moreland City and the telegraph line. Synton wasn’t happy with sections where all the escorts were on one side of the train. Sometimes the terrain restricted horses to one side, and in a few places the road separated from the rail line by up to several hundred yards.

  “What the fuck’s the use of pretending we’re security if we’re not around you when everyone knows your travel plans!”

  “Things are quiet in this part of Caedellium,” said Yozef, “and there’s only a few places where you can’t guard to your heart’s content.”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly where somebody would try something!” exclaimed the unmollified Synton.

  Ethlore had lectured Toowin and Arlen on keeping a sharp lookout, then huffed off.

  Yozef had grinned at Anarynd. “There are far worse things than having a guard and friend worried about you.”

  All along the seventy-mile trip, people stood and watched from their homes, farms, ranches, hamlets, and villages. Most cheered and waved. A few stood silent. Yozef brushed off the latter as simply undemonstrative, though he suspected Synton watched those carefully.

  Word had gone ahead, and five miles from Moreland City, they were met by an honor guard of forty dragoons of the reorganized Moreland militia, commanded by a farmer’s son. At Yozef’s insistence, leadership positions were no longer filled according to social rank or wealth. The mandate had caused an uproar among the affected families until the Moreland Grand Council fined one prominent family one-quarter of their holdings as punishment for fomenting disorder—a decision backed by the Paramount.

  Since that episode, people’s overt displays of discontent dampened enough that Yozef and the Moreland High Council, led by Abbot Abelard, believed the Moreland Clan was firmly a Paramount supporter.

  “Where’re the musicians?” asked Toowin, smiling. “You’d think a troupe of singing horses was coming to perform, instead of just the Paramount.”

  Arlen Pawell frowned, still scandalized by the informality around Yozef.

  “They’re not for me. It’s the future Odysius Moreland they’re paying respects to.”

  The referenced heir detached briefly from Anarynd’s left breast, farted, and resumed his latest repast.

  Abbot Abelard met them at the train station . . . along with Yozef’s estimate of five to six thousand Morelanders. There was no brass band, but the assortment of Caedelli instruments playing an uncertain number of melodies served the purpose.

  Christ, thought Yozef, I hope Heather can influence them to become
accustomed to playing one tune at a time.

  “Welcome, Paramount Kolsko,” greeted Abelard. “Welcome, Anarynd Kolsko-Moreland. And welcome to the heir Odysius Kolsko-Moreland.”

  At last year’s visit, Yozef had suggested they go ahead and reference the heir by the compound name Kolsko-Moreland to make the transition to Odysius Moreland less jarring. It also happened to be the same as his mother’s family name.

  “We’ve built a platform to show off the heir to more people on his arrival, Paramount.” Abbot Abelard gestured to a structure adjacent to the train station.

  They climbed the steps to the platform fifteen feet above the ground. On top, they looked out over thousands of faces. In turn, everyone in the crowd now had a clear view.

  “Uh . . . Paramount, if you don’t object, I believe it would be best if I held up the heir.”

  Anarynd looked questioningly at Yozef, who nodded and said, “It will emphasize that Odysius is the heir if the head of the Grand Council shows him off.”

  Anarynd handed Odysius to the abbot, who faced the crowd and held the child high. Odysius took the transfer calmly enough, even tugging on the abbot’s beard. It was only the roar of the crowd that startled him. Before he wound up to properly voice his displeasure, Abelard quickly shifted so that the heir’s face could be seen by spectators from all sides and then returned him to his mother.

  Abelard gestured for the crowd to be quiet, said a few words, and introduced Yozef.

  Good grief, thought Yozef. The abbot may be old and frail-looking, but he’s got a voice like a foghorn. Maybe it’s from all those years of preaching in the main cathedral.

  More cheers followed, though not as many as for Odysius. Yozef didn’t mind. Odysius was the symbol of peace within the clan. No matter what the Moreland family factions thought, most Morelanders were happy to avoid discord.