Woes and Hose

by Igor Ljubuncic

  He didn’t want to think that.

  “We have a chance to disrupt the order of power in Monrich. If we relieve Ostfort, our own troops will assume control of the palatine. Then, with Prince Dietrich in our hands, and Salabia and Korav cut off from the Monrich influence, King Ulaf will be forced to negotiate a difficult peace with Enissia. He will have been humiliated.”

  “King Ulaf will have to let Eva go,” Battista added.

  “Yes,” Vincenzo lied, keeping his face passive. King Ulaf would not only have lost a royal hostage, his son would have become one. A double victory. The uprising in Korav and Salabia would be a certainty, and Vincenzo wouldn’t even need to pretend he wasn’t involved this time.

  The Monrich ruler would have to beg Vincenzo for permission to ride through Ostland, and if he dared the sea, he would be fended back into his harbors. While the king was distracted, the tribes to the north could use the opportunity to attack Crumnau and Weissgau. And Vincenzo would help Gevine realize its ambitions, too. It would be the downfall of Monrich, and the rise of Enissia. Best yet, if King Ulaf exhibited any signs of aggression toward Enissia, Vincenzo would threaten the life of his only heir. Vincenzo knew that as much as the king disliked his fat, cowardly—but only—son, he still needed him alive.

  Before that happened, there was much work to be done.

  “I must ask you to finance merchant ships to ferry the troops north. We will require mercenaries.”

  Lord Casteliani was still frowning. “What has King Ulaf done so far? And Prince Dietrich?”

  “Nothing yet,” Vincenzo spoke. He wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed Ostfort was frozen with fear. The army was exhausted from their campaign in Korav, and the troops in Loblank were dithering, undecided between keeping the borders safe or rushing to Dietrich’s aid.

  Herzog Sigismund could be a useful asset, Vincenzo thought suddenly. A man slighted by the king, and his power taken away and given over to the cowardly prince. That could trigger some less than utterly loyal emotions.

  As the idea crystallized in his mind, Vincenzo was convinced it would be successful. The only haste was in freeing Eva. He had to make sure Ostfort held until he could intervene. One thing deeply worried him, though.

  Prince Dietrich.

  I must call off the killers.

  But how? He had asked Sheriff Fabio for secrecy. And that meant he had no easy way of contacting the man and giving him new orders. The more he tried to intervene, the more he risked his position. Even Prince Dietrich might decide to hurt Eva if he learned her father had sent killers after him.

  Prince Dietrich…the source of all his troubles.

  The coward had surprised everyone with his actions.

  Apparently, Dietrich had led troops in a number of battles against the Koravs and survived at least one assassination attempt—nothing tied the murderer back to Vincenzo, and he had not heard any news from Sheriff Fabio, which was alarming and reassuring at the same time. That wasn’t befitting his reputation as a fat, indulgent craven. But the information was reputable.

  It also meant there might be other assassins after Prince Dietrich.

  Vincenzo wasn’t sure if he liked this new prince. But at the same time, it gave him some hope, because he preferred Eva to be the hostage of someone who might actually fight against the northern tribes, rather than surrender or flee. That might give him time to organize his own attack.

  Unless…an assassin killed the prince first.

  He shuddered.

  “What is your request, My Lord the First?” Battista Nacar said.

  Vincenzo steeled himself. “Seven hundred thousand silver for an army of twenty thousand for four months. You will send your cogs to every port in Belgor, Nibus and Valta. I want every hired sword that can be found to board the decks and sail north for Gradt.”

  That frown just wouldn’t go away, Vincenzo noted in annoyance. Luckily, Eva’s former husband-to-be was rolling his eyes, doing numbers and contemplating the favors he would earn back once the war was concluded. He still expected Eva to marry him. “We will need at least a hundred ships.”

  “This will severely disrupt the trade, My Lord the First,” Giancarlo protested, his face even more peasant-like than it normally was. With the grape harvest coming in, and early preparations for the celebration of the Saint’s Day under way, wine commerce was expected to bloom. Loading cogs with soldiers rather than barrels would hurt the master’s profits.

  He expects me to pledge my hand to Loretta, Vincenzo thought. He wants to force the marriage, right now. “If we let those northern savages overrun Ostland, there will be very little trade to the north or east in the coming years,” he said as calmly as he could, trying not to imagine Eva dying a nameless victim in the burning streets of the subjugated city.

  “We must not—cannot—let Ostfort fall.”

  Silence.

  The fat man took the initiative again. “I have eight hundred confederates in my service, my lord.” He shrugged, a ridiculous gesture. “Most of them were dismissed from Angoma after the war last year, so they must be eager to prove themselves in battle. I could also recruit at least a thousand from nearby villages, and I can spare three hundred of my own private guard.”

  Quite a bit of guard for a merchant. “Your dedication to Enissia is touching, Master Nacar.”

  The flattery finally riled Giancarlo into acquiescing. “I have recently spoken to the Gepeni captains anchoring in the city, about the exclusivity of trade in whites and reds for the coming season. They are highly eager to earn the rights for the Casteliani brand. As an act of goodwill, I am certain they will agree to help in this endeavor. This gives us an additional thirteen wide-berths for this campaign, My Lord the First. We can immediately dispatch them, including the two sloops they have for escort and protection. That’s capacity for two thousand men, right away. I am sure we can arrange for additional vessels within a week.”

  “The pirates can always be persuaded to change allegiances,” Battista supplied, almost too innocently.

  “My own garrison is at your disposal, My Lord the First. It is not as impressive as that of Master Battista, but I have more than a hundred soldiers trained in marine warfare and marksmanship,” Giancarlo countered. The thin man wouldn’t let the big merchant best him.

  Vincenzo smiled. Finally, he could afford it. He banished all bad thoughts from his mind and focused on action. “I will need deposits.” Battista bobbed his fat jowls. Giancarlo nodded grudgingly. “Good. That is settled then. I shall write to the banks in Belgor and Nibus then?” The sky would be flocked with flizzards later that morning.

  Lord Casteliani was holding a gold pen in his hand, having smoothly retrieved it from an inner pocket of his doublet. “I shall assist you, My Lord the First.”

  Vincenzo decided to let the man have his tiny victory. After all, he was going to bed his daughter tonight, and if she happened to end up pregnant, the taint of honor would be entirely hers.

  It doesn’t matter. As long as I can bring Eva safely home.

  Bidding farewell to Master Battista, he led Loretta’s father back to his study. Side by side, they began writing their letters to the men with coin and power in distant cities. For a man with such peasant-like looks, Vincenzo noticed, Master Casteliani had an exceptionally fine script.

  There was one letter Vincenzo didn’t pen yet. He wasn’t sure if he should write it. A new set of instructions to Sheriff Fabio, asking him to protect Prince Dietrich. Once he sent it, he would be forever implicated. But not sending it could mean Eva’s death. She meant everything to him. But then, he hadn’t become First Citizen by indulging in sentiment and weakness.

  Planning a war campaign spanning a dozen countries was easy. Being a father was not.

  CHAPTER 22

  Dad or Alive

  “Despicable is the man who must beg for honor.”

  —GAUTIER, A FARANC MONK, 4TH CENTURY

  21st Day of the Month of the Linden

  Duke Ett
ore put the letter down.

  He cursed under his breath and winced, remembering how Nana Vita would give him a good smack with her wooden ruler if he misspoke.

  This was a second appeal from Prince Dietrich, asking for urgent assistance—a third from the Monrich crown. The first had been from King Ulaf, asking him to commit naval forces against the Korav fleet. Then, Prince Dietrich had written, asking him to send food to Ostland, so his son-in-law would have troops to lead a military campaign into Korav. Dutifully, Ettore had dispatched a pair of three-mast galleons east, and then organized nineteen ships of first-harvest wheat, three ships full of olives, and sent an overland caravan with two thousand pigs. The nobility of the land had contributed their courteously reserved share to the procession, so their names would be mentioned in good favor before King Ulaf. The enthusiastic people of Sacony had helped where they could, forming their own little train of supplies, with poultry, goats, and prayers. For good measure, Ettore had sent a hundred troops, too, mostly his auxiliaries.

  Now this…

  He believed this to be a test from the Monrich ruler, a true trial of loyalty.

  But even if this wasn’t one of King Ulaf’s games, Ettore would still gladly send all the aid he could.

  Because his little Amadea was in Ostfort, surrounded by all those heathen Barvans.

  Only Sacony couldn’t spare troops.

  There were rumors of the Tufamid getting restless again, and spies reported movement in their ports on the island of Car-adin. The scars of scorched earth and razed villages had still not fully healed across the duchy, and now, Ettore was being asked to provide soldiers and guns, neither of which he could spare.

  And his first daughter’s life was in mortal danger.

  Ettore was not a happy man.

  His power had eroded in the last half a year. His relationship with the Salabian and Korav baans was tense, strained, and he was forced to ignore them, lest he provoke the Monrich king. That didn’t make his life any easier, with Paraskeva complaining about his lack of courage and loyalty.

  The one thing he didn’t lack was silver in his mines, but he wasn’t sure how to put it to good use. After the fiasco with the Fearless Brigade, mercenaries avoided him. The shipbuilding of his navy was finally picking up pace, but Admiral Zanobi was never satisfied, and he demanded more craftsmen, more wood, more oars.

  Staring at the letter was not going to help.

  He had to act.

  But how?

  The Assembly of the Lords was never going to agree to his demand. They vividly remembered the trample of foreign hoof and boot on their estates, they remembered Sacony’s defeat. As one, they had retreated to their manor houses, licked their wounds, nourished their private armies, and they bid their time, waiting for him to fail.

  Ettore didn’t have the luxury of time to fail.

  His little pumpkin was trapped in Ostfort, with that cowardly excuse of a husband at her side.

  Like his lords, Ettore remembered the attack and treachery committed by Prince Dietrich, the blood and screams inside the Slender, the invasion of his home, the destruction of his art and honor, the helplessness and the appeasement, the quiet suffering he had to abide while King Ulaf dictated all the rules.

  Duke Ettore was not happy.

  He demanded satisfaction. He had to somehow restore his honor.

  A fleeting moment of glee replaced by a gulf of panic. That was his reaction to reading the missive from Ostfort, borne under the wings of a large emerald green flizzard with a big scar in its right wing, itself a survivor of a siege or a falcon attack, it seemed.

  Ettore wished he could let Prince Dietrich starve to death while the tribesmen pounded the city walls and lobbed stone and fire into Ostfort. That would teach him, the coward and the liar that he was.

  Not with Amadea locked inside.

  Not when she could be carrying the royal heir—his own grandchild.

  Worse, to top his humiliation and terror, he still hadn’t managed to secure a husband for Dolorita. King Ulaf was procrastinating, refusing to produce a suitable replacement for the dead count. Other rulers shunned him, thinking him weak, a mere puppet. His bloodline wasn’t safe.

  If I send my army and save Prince Dietrich from destruction, my favor will rise. King Ulaf will be forced to reckon with me, and he will have restored his faith in my ability. Dolorita will have her own man, and the ties with Monrich will be strengthened beyond breaking.

  Most importantly, Amadea will be safe.

  But how?

  Abandon his defenses? Send his forces north and expose Sacony to a new Tufamid threat? Was the risk worth it? King Ulaf would surely rush to his son’s aid. He too must be concerned with his bloodline, and with his only male child—and the heir at that—facing death, the Drechknights would assemble, ride into Ostland and defeat the enemy. It was a matter of time, not actions.

  So maybe Ettore should delay his help? Signal his best intentions, make sure the king was pleased, then dispatch only token forces, and keep the ships in the docks for another month or two? Could he gamble with Amadea’s life as the bet?

  His situation was quite precarious.

  He had dismissed his White Guard after their treason last year. That left him with a half-trained city watch, old veterans and an odd hired sword considered too greedy or fickle even for mercenary corps. Now, Prince Dietrich was asking him to send all of them north. Once he did that, any one of his lords could march into Angoma, and all he’d have to stop them was the Saint’s love and his own silver-hilted ceremonial sword, a family heirloom from four generations ago.

  He suddenly felt breathless. It was too stifling inside.

  Some time later, he stood on the balcony where Prince Dietrich and his sweet Amadea had married last year, gazing across the sea. He heard the ascending room come to stop, the door latch fall open, soft footsteps, and he knew it was his brother-in-law. Taddeo was probably the only other person in the duchy more helpless than himself. His humiliation as the commander of Sacony’s forces had been complete.

  “Your Grace.”

  “Taddeo, I don’t know what to do.” Ettore extended his hand.

  The captain frowned and reached for the letter held tightly in the duke’s fist, rippling in the afternoon breeze. He read the message, and the creases in his forehead deepened.

  “What do I do?” Ettore pressed.

  Taddeo gave the letter back. If he had a brilliant plan on how to recruit twenty thousand troops and have them board the ships in the harbor within an eightday, his face did not show it.

  “If I do nothing, I condemn myself and Sacony. If I commit everything I have, I bring ruin to my own doorstep. The lords will descend on me like a pack of vultures. They will tear me apart.”

  “Amadea is in Ostfort, Your Grace,” the captain reminded him, pointing at the rolled sheet of paper.

  Ettore slapped the balcony wall top. “I know that, Taddeo. I know that.”

  “Then we have no choice. We must dispatch the troops, Your Grace.”

  Ettore smiled. He wished he could sometimes have his brother’s-in-law simplistic view on life. But he couldn’t expect a commoner-made-esquire to fully understand the intrigue among the nobles. “Even if my lords agree to cooperate, whatever troops they can spare will probably fit on ten good ships. Prince Dietrich will not be relieved. He will be insulted.”

  “We must recruit more men, then, Your Grace.”

  “If only it were that easy. What news do you have of the Tufamid?”

  Taddeo squirmed. “Unsure, Your Grace. There has definitely been more activity in their ports in the past several eightdays, and the coast fort in Malpez had sighted the enemy caravels within a league of the shore. But they might just be exercising their sails after a long and blustery winter.”

  “There is no such thing as a benign Tufamid,” Ettore warned. “They are heretics. They cannot be believed to want anything good. They are bent on destroying our culture, and our faith.”

&
nbsp; The captain shrugged. “The mercenaries then. We must hire them again.”

  Ettore chortled. “After last year? They will just ignore my letters.”

  “They cannot ignore your silver, Your Grace. Double their pay if needs be. Think of Amadea.”

  The remark angered Ettore. But he knew Taddeo only wanted the best for his pumpkin. And he was desperate to prove his worth again.

  “There are thousands of mercenaries across the sea. The winter is over, and they must be eager for war while the days are long and warm. Hire them, Your Grace. Don’t think of the past. If you can show your strength in Ostfort, you will—”

  “I know.” Ettore cut him off, feeling annoyed. “I don’t need you to remind me of my weakness.”

  “Apologies, Your Grace, I did not mean to—”

  “Leave it.”

  Taddeo swallowed. “What about the Gepeni, Your Grace?”

  Ettore realized he was counting the ships in the harbor. “What about them?”

  “They have the finest crossbowmen in the world, Your Grace.”

  Ettore snorted. “In an age when armies fire arquebuses at their enemies from two hundred paces away.”

  “But their soldiers are highly disciplined and highly trained. And I am sure they will gladly agree to send reinforcement, especially if you promise them favorable access to our ports, Your Grace.”

  Ettore briefly thought of the First Citizen Vincenzo, his tacit ally in the past months. A man whose daughter was also in King Ulaf’s hands. The Enissians were desperately trying to grow their trade at all costs since the last war, and they were wooing the Gepeni like a favorite maid.

  A ship anchoring in Enissia is one ship less anchoring in Malpez, true. It made no sense for the Gepeni vessels to round the peninsula and sail the long way, when they could berth in the west. And after the Orange Truce, Gepenia had thousands of bored, overpaid troops languishing in the barracks.