by Alma Boykin
“And the Sea Republics?” Arpad gave her a shrewd look.
“From what Col. Destefani reports, Lauri will be hard pressed to find ships after what the equinoctial storm did to, ah,” her memory failed for a moment. “The big port, on the Varazano Sea, your grace, the one on the island.”
He creaked out of the chair, lifted a rock off a pile of papers and extracted a battered sheet of faded parchment. He frowned, rotated the page, and nodded. He returned to the table and tossed the sheet at Elizabeth. She caught it between her hands before it could end up in the food. “Morrisport,” Arpad grunted as he sat. “One of the best ports on the Varazano Sea, even better than Amstarla up in the Republics. That is, one of the best unless the wind is from the east and the tides are wrong.”
She glanced at the map, laying it in her lap. “Exactly, your grace. And with the Bergenlands leaning toward neutrality, without his rough-water navy, and given the lure of how well the free cities and principalities have been doing the past few years, if I were a betting woman, I’d wager Count Turandott and General Rohan-Roi will be tramping through the Louvat Valley again this spring.”
“Will they turn north or east?”
Please may it be east, she begged. “That I do not know, your grace. The foreign office may have better guidance than I do. I plan for both, keep one eye south of the Triangles, and pray that the Turkowi don’t do anything stupid.”
“From your lips to Godown’s ear,” the elderly archduke hissed, making St. Gerald’s bridge.
“Selah.”
That evening, as she grazed her way along the food stands set up around St. Kiara’s market square, Elizabeth wondered if the Frankonians would use the Shelly River to go north and attack the Sea Republics. Even the most delightful, spicy ginger-braid she’d ever tasted failed to dislodge the nagging sense that she’d overlooked something in her planning. Lost in thought, she finished the sweet bread and followed her nose to the source of a rich, meaty, smoky scent that wafted through one corner of the large square. Her plain dress and mule mask gave her a refreshing anonymity in the crowd, and no one pestered her as she got her purse out. Apparently others had the same idea, and she found people three deep around the stall.
“I’ve never had shahma before,” a young woman in a blue and white mask complained, giving a serving of skewered meat cubes a very close inspection.
“You’ll love it, sweet,” a young man assured her before pulling the top cube off his own skewer with his teeth and devouring the bite.
Another young man, wearing a fantastic set of deer-antlers on his half-mask, bowed to Elizabeth. “Have you eaten shahma, m’lady?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, several times. Most as sausage.”
“Ah, then you must try this, m’lady! Allow me,” and before she could protest he squirmed his way into the thicket of bodies around the stand. He emerged a few moments later brandishing two skewers. With an elaborate flourish he presented her with the steaming meat.
She gave him a little curtsy and accepted the proffered gift, then got out of the way of the people still waiting. The young man joined her in the quiet pocket beside St. Kiara’s statue. With great care she used her teeth to tug the first bite of meat off the skewer. It was very hot, and she sucked a little air to keep from burning her tongue. Oooh, this is wonderful! What could it be marinated in? Ginger and fanleaf, but something else, something rich. The flavors blended too well for her to tell, so she just savored the luscious, tender meat. When they had both finished, she offered, “Do you like ginger braid?”
“Oh, yes,” the “stag” replied with a broad smile.
“Have you tried the stall near the old well?” He shook his head, carefully, and on wild impulse she took his hand. “Let’s go.” On the night of the masked dances, the rules of behavior were set aside, so long as all were willing and masked. The young man, in a plain but sturdy coat and heavy trousers, tossed his empty skewer aside and took her arm, allowing her to lead him to the baker’s stall. She bought four more ginger braids, two for each of them.
“These are good, m’lady!” He ate his neatly, enjoying the warm pastry and licking the crumbs out of the paper. Like her, he tucked the second braid into a pocket. “It would be better with hot wine, don’t you think?”
She risked a little harmless flirting, smiling at him. “I don’t know, good sir, but I might be persuaded.” She fluttered her hand as if holding one of the ornate fans the court ladies used.
“Then permit me to persuade you, since even I know that mules must be courted, not coerced.” He winked and took her arm again with an excess of courtly grace, making her giggle. They paraded across the square, pretending to be haughty courtiers. “You know the steps very well,” he observed as they paid for their hot wine.
“My mistress,” she explained. “She’s in court, and wanted to practice the grand entry, in case the Emperor ever looks her way.” She rolled her eyes before drinking more of the steaming red wine.
Her new friend’s eyes smiled as he drank. “My sister dreams of a position as a ladies maid. My mother thinks her foolish. What say you, m’lady?”
“I say your mother is a wise woman, but I’ve heard that Duchess Sarmas is looking for maids-of-all-work.” Elizabeth shrugged. “Don’t know myself, but that’s the rumor.”
Her stag pursed his lips. “Hmmm. The mule duchess?”
“Yes.”
He took her empty cup and returned it to the vintner’s stall. Before she could escape, he took her hand again. “Do you dance?”
I can’t. I’m. No, I’m not, not anymore, she reminded herself. And Lazlo’s not here, and this young man has no idea who I am. “Not well,” she admitted.
He grinned behind his stag mask and tugged her hand. “This way.” They rounded a corner into the smaller fish market square and found a group of musicians playing a round dance. He gave her the most exaggerated courtly bow she’d ever seen. “If m’lady pleases?”
She replied with a curtsey so deep she almost ended up on her nose. “I thank thee, m’lordship.” They entered the ring as it reversed directions and Elizabeth let herself go, not thinking of anything but the music and the laughing dancers around her. Their plain masks and patched clothes told her she’d found the working people, the day laborers and washerwomen. Winter Fair masks erased rank and station, and for a few giddy hours Elizabeth was just a slightly clumsy woman in a mule mask, laughing in the cold winter night.
The warning bells sounded all too soon. If she stayed until the midnight bell, she’d have to shed her mask and ruin the fun. Her swain had found another partner for a couple’s dance and she waited until she saw his antlers on the far side of the dancers, well away from her. Thank you, young man, and Godown be with you and yours. Sure that he couldn’t see her in time to ask her to stay, she walked as fast as was seemly back the way they’d come, skirting the crowd gathering in the market square. Once she reached the high street, she took the ginger braid out of her pocket and slowed her steps, nibbling as she went. Other people were making their ways away from the festival squares, and she drifted with a cheerful, tired group in matching fish masks. She reached the gate of Donatello House just as the midnight bells rang, and with a heartfelt sigh she removed her mule mask. Maybe Lazlo’s right, and I can’t fool anyone, but pretending was fun. Alas, duty calls. She had a great deal of work to do before meeting with his majesty and the inner council.
The empty air on either side of Duke Clellan’s chair caught her eyes as soon as she entered the council chamber later that morning. Instead of the usual even spacing around the table, the new arrangement reminded Elizabeth of lagoms trying to avoid a dardog, giving it a wide berth, much as the chairs gave the first minister’s seat plenty of room. Elizabeth permitted herself a large, brief smile. She’d arrived a touch early, allowing plenty of time for her to sort her papers and organize things before taking her seat. How long has this room been as it is now? At least twenty years, probably longer. Although pictures of Emperor Thomas and E
mpress Agatha had replaced the old portraits of Emperor Rudolph and Empress Margaretha, the room remained otherwise unchanged. Light brown wood paneling, whitewashed to make it even paler, combined with the pale blue upper walls to give the room a larger and airier feel than it’s actual dimensions should have permitted. The illusion was just as well, given the enormous egos and personalities that filled the room, hers included.
Matt Starland arrived just as the servants finished setting out pots of chokoffee and tea, and small mountains of pastries. “Oh ho, anticipating hangovers are we?” She turned and smiled as he bounded in, dropping a book on the table with a dull thump.
“No, just a week of short nights, for those who chose to indulge.” Which includes pretty much everyone here, self included. She poured herself a cup of chokofee and told her hands to stop shaking.
“Including my grandson,” Jan Kossuth sighed. He pulled the chair beside Elizabeth out and sagged into it. “Now he’s trying to find a young lady in a cat mask, someone’s ladies maid. She disappeared before the midnight bells.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “It wasn’t my maid. She’s older than I am.” Settle down, he said cat mask, not mule mask. Although it would be funny to… stop that! This is not one of what’s-his-name’s romances.
As if echoing her thoughts, Matt Starland rolled his eyes. “Your grandson has been reading those cheap romances, hasn’t he?”
“Worse. Turkowi fables from my library.” Kossuth rolled his head enough so he could see Elizabeth, adding, “Parya’s Month of Nights.”
“That would do it,” she agreed. “On a faintly related topic, Jan, how is that Sudfeld stud doing?”
Kossuth shook his head. “Not as well as I’d hoped. It’s the temperament. His get are too nice.”
“Too nice?” Both Elizabeth and Matt blinked, then looked at eachother.
“I want smart, sturdy, fighting horses. I got docile, sturdy, sweet horses perfect for someone’s elderly aunt or young daughter.” He sounded disgusted. Elizabeth almost danced for joy in her seat.
“Would you be willing to sell the stud?”
“That’s why I brought him up here. To get rid…” He sat up straight, and accused, “You’re going to try for sweet mules with the Donatello running walk, aren’t you?” She pointed to her chest and tried to look innocent. He snorted and slouched down again. “Two hundred thalers and he’s yours.”
“Deal.”
Karl Grantholm lumbered in, interrupting the conversation. “Ah, Elizabeth, did you?” She pulled a pink fabric bag out of her document case and handed it to him. “Thank you.”
“You are very welcome. Reverend Mother Alberta blessed it as well.”
His eyes lit up. “Wonderful. Albert is her patron. Did Kiri tell you?”
“No.” Godown works in mysterious ways. A clot of nobles entered the room and conversation turned to other matters.
Not long after, the door opened and a herald announced, “His majesty Emperor Thomas.” The council members got to their feet and bowed as the Emperor, trailed by Paul Clellan, strode in. Clellan, pale as the wall paneling, took his place without meeting anyone’s eyes. His brown jacket and trousers looked nothing like the brilliant colors he’d sported in the past. Judging by the sniffs and nudges, Elizabeth was not the only one to notice Clellan’s new, subdued wardrobe.
“Be seated,” Thomas ordered. Once everyone had taken their places and the rustles and shuffling subsided, he informed them, “The council will be reconfigured in a few months. I want the names of those willing to serve on the larger Imperial council, and information about even minor nobles with special expertise in trade and agriculture. Tivolia will be incorporated formally into the Empire, and Morloke and Scheel will remain protectorates, with their own governors. Oh, yes,” the dark man added, waving his hand in a languid gesture. “The foreign ministry will be adjusted. It seems the Bergenlands favor allying with Laurence of Frankonia.”
Elizabeth had been taking notes about Tivolia and Scheel. Let’s see, that means we will have a direct border on the Turkowi. Oh blast. We’ll need to establish depots in they’re what!?! She jerked her head up, staring at Emperor Thomas. He smiled, obviously pleased to have caught so many people off guard. Paul Clellan studied the tabletop with the care that Elizabeth gave battle maps. A dismayed babble of protests erupted from the rest of the council.
“They what?”
“How dare they?”
“But that’s not what the last report said.”
Thomas raised his hand and half-closed his eyes, stilling the commotion. He learned that from Lewis, I know he did. Archduke Lewis had used the same trick, as had Aquila Starland. “It seems our, let us say observers, in the Bergenlands, failed to note that the Elected Speaker did not speak for the rest of the adult men. Laurence V’s agents have been very persuasive, or so I’m told.” Now he looked directly at Clellan.
“Yes, your majesty, they have been more effective than our agents were in wooing the Burgenlanders.” Elizabeth could barely hear Clellan. The pasty man seemed intent on addressing the inlays in the table.
“The army in the Louvat Valley probably helped the Frankonian cause,” Matt Starland suggested.
“What army?” That was Count Gerald Jones. He ran his hands over each other, a nervous gesture that irritated Elizabeth every time he did it.
“According to reports from Col. Destefani in New Dalfa, Prince Rohan-Roi brought troops into the Principality of Louvat shortly before harvest, for, what did he call them?” Starland flipped through two pages. “Late season exercises in terrain use and end-of-season training, according to the Frankonian ambassador to the Sea Republics.” He looked up, his expression grim. “They are still there, in winter quarters.”
Elizabeth sat bolt upright, teeth clenched. Oh, road apples. That’s what I’ve been missing! We never considered Laurence pre-positioning his army. St. Gimple of fools, but I should have thought of that. My staff should have thought of that. Elizabeth pulled a map out of her document carrier and unrolled it. “Blast him to…” She caught herself thinking aloud. “Your pardon your majesty, gentlemen.”
“You have an observation, Duchess Sarmas?” Emperor Thomas played with his penknife as he watched her through half-closed eyes.
She studied the map. “Yes, your majesty. By overwintering in the Louvat Valley, Prince Rohan-Roi is in a position to move either up the Shelly River to the Sea Republics or into the Bergenlands. Or he could swing northeast, around the Bergenlands toward Herbstadt, and then come at us.” She ran some numbers in her mind, tongue between her front teeth. “He’s cut three weeks off his march time, your majesty, at least.”
Theobald Gerald Peilov, Matthew Starland’s much-younger uncle, protested. “If he’s invaded the Louvat Valley, then he’s already at war.”
“Duke Clellan?” Thomas sounded almost gentle, despite the iron under his words. Elizabeth shivered. He’s not happy with Paul. I wonder what else Paul got wrong?
“Frankonia annexed the Louvat Valley because the last heir of the family resigned his claims and joined the priesthood.”
Elizabeth’s lips curled into a silent snarl of rage, but she stayed quiet. You… hypocritical ass, Lauri! How dare you use Godown as your private dumping ground for unwanted nobles. A little voice warned, Be easy, he could have killed the boy out of hand like his grandfather would have done. Like your great-grandfather did.
Jan Kossuth’s dry voice cut through her inner curses. “I take it the boy had a sudden awareness of his vocation and pled for admission to the priesthood despite his young age.”
“It seems so, yes,” Paul Clellan agreed, eyes still on the table.
Emperor Thomas pointed to Elizabeth. “Duchess Sarmas, what are you and your staff’s plans?”
She pulled out the appropriate page of reminders. “We’ll wait to see what the Bergenlanders do, of course, your majesty, and what the foreign office recommends. As we all know, commoners are fickle creatures and they may well take Laurenc
e’s gifts but vote for neutrality. That said, I anticipate, if the Frankonians move east or northeast, we’ll call up Peilovna, Donatello Bend, Albinez, Eulenberg, and Jones, with,” she looked up. “With Grantholm and Midland as second line. Kossuth and Starland, Montoya and Bierski will stay in the south and east, as usual, under Matt Starland’s command, should the Turkowi decide to take advantage of Laurence’s aggression.”
“Of your unpreparedness, you mean,” Clellan snapped, the first life he’d shown since taking his seat.
Count Gerald Jones sniffed loudly. “Sarmas, everyone knows the Frankonians will come through the south again, to recapture Florabi.”
“Then they’ll starve.” She stared at Jones. “Do you want to hear why?”
“Yes, I do,” Emperor Thomas replied.
“Your majesty, gentlemen, Laurence’s forces in the south are understrength. They suffered almost twice the personnel losses we did. They lost most of their artillery. Between us, we stripped the area between Florabi and Saarlaur down to bare rocks.” She counted off the arguments yet again. “Anyone fighting down there will have to bring everything, and I do mean everything, short of air and water with them.”
Count Midland raised a finger. “You’ll need to bring water, too. The snows do not seem to be getting south of the Bergenlands this year, what little snow there’s been. I read the latest reports from Tivolia last night.” He looked around and caught the dubious looks from his colleagues. “Some of us are old enough to know better than to stay out past midnight on the last night of Winter Fair.”
You’re younger than I am, she groused at him.
Jones slapped his palm down on the table. “That is all well and good, Duchess Sarmas, but facts have never stopped Laurence. He’ll come from the south to redeem his honor and glory.”
Matt Starland leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, snorting with derision. “He would, if Prince Rohan-Roi were in charge down there. He’s not. Rohan-Roi and Javertt are in the north. Turandott is in the south, and the entire planet knows Turandott’s skills with logistics and his offensive spirit.” The sarcasm in his voice made several other men frown.