by Alma Boykin
A mad scramble ensued, followed by the appearance of a very nice meal. Alsice served the men, then ate almost as heartily. She’d put on a little flesh since her rescue, and curved in all the right places and ways. And she seemed interested in Pjtor’s own interests, unlike Tamsin and almost every other woman he’d met.
Well, first came the boat, then summer’s wars and a few other things. He would have to return to Muskava in order to accept the fur and gold tribute, and to attend the anointing of the new archbishop. How long did it take the leaders of the church to select someone? Granted, they were as worried about the reforms and the heretics as he was, probably more so, but still. Two months should have been enough prayer and contemplation. Pjtor gulped the mintwater, a sort of summer tea, and watched the light dancing on the Drow River. The sun felt like a blessing, warm and welcome on his shoulders and back, balanced by a touch of breeze. Down the long-grassy bank of the river, a flash of silver and darting movement caught his attention. A fish jumped, landing with a splash that made Alsice giggle. “Someday you will have to see the flying fish,” Geert said, winking at Pjtor.
Alsice blinked light green eyes at Geert. “Truly, Master Fielders?”
He raised one hand, as if making a vow. “Truly. They are in the southern waters and leap from the water, soaring behind ships, then dropping into the water, sploosh,” he mimicked the movement with the hand. “Blue and silver with little blue-grey wing-fins.”
“Aye,” Pjtor grunted, affecting a Dalfan accent. “And in stormy weather, if there’s rain and wind enough, they fly beside the ships for half a glass or more of time. The rain lets them breathe and the wind helps them stay aloft.” And women with tails instead of legs wave at sailors from floating rocks, too. Or so Michael Looven swears he heard from a sailor he trusts. Which shows what happens when you trust a sailor.
“Nay, Pjtor Adamson,” Geert protested. “Not so long. A quarter to half a glass, not a full turn of the glass.” He shook his head, then added, “Unless a wave has turned your ship upside-down and Godown’s letting St. Issa tease you.”
Alsice looked from one man to the other, confusion and suspicion both on her features, torn between believing them and the growing sense that they were having fun at her expense. “Perhaps, imperial master, Master Fielders, Godown will grant for me to see with my own eyes these flying fish.”
“All things are possible if Godown wills,” Geert intoned.
“Ameen,” the others intoned in response.
By later afternoon the servants and peasants had lifted the shed off the boat. Pjtor rolled up his pants legs and supervised the careful removal of the little boat from the shed, then stood in the very chilly river and pulled one of the ropes guiding the small craft around to the improvised dark wooden dock. The other dock had washed away with the spring rush, as usual. It had been two years since he’d been able to come out to Hornand and sail, and as he and Geert suspected, the boat leaked, but not as badly as he’d feared. He’d already ordered new sails and rigging because mees always got into the sails unless you locked them in metal boxes. Alsice had brought sewing with her in her saddle bags and worked on something up on the bank as the men inspected Swift One. Pjtor looked at the woodwork and frowned, shaking his head. “I cannot believe I did that.” He crouched lower and inspected the uneven plank and the patched knothole. “Ugh. Master Van Daam would beat me with that stick of his and make me sharpen tools and plane wood for a week.”
“Aye, my lord, and then assign you to teaching tow packing and proper blending of tars for another week.” Geert shook his head. “A few more years and you will have seasoned wood enough for good, stout ships that last. But that takes time.”
I don’t want to wait three years. I don’t have three years. Maybe in the future, but not now. Pjtor wanted the boat repaired yesterday, wanted his navy built yesterday, wondered again why other people could not see and keep up with his needs. He swore under his breath and patted around in his tool-chest until he found what he needed and resumed work. The peasants had the tar-pot ready and he started the messy, smelly, and vital job of stuffing the smaller leaks with tarry bits of unwound rope, filling in where the wood had warped or shifted. They had not found any rotten spots yet, but he knew how to mend those too. He just did not want to do it. He wanted to be on the river, sailing.
He was tired enough that night he did not call Alsice to his bed. She’d retired early, pleading “woman’s things” and he considered asking what, then changed his mind. Some concerns belonged to women, some to men, and Godown had made them separate for reasons best left unquestioned.
Two days of hard work followed by a Holy Day left Pjtor vibrating with the need to go sailing. The weather behaved, with a light wind from the north to push him upstream and the current still strong enough to bring him back. He and Geert went out, and Pjtor managed not to tip Swift One over and did not get hit by the boom, although it came close. They sailed into Lake Morava, tacked back and forth, then docked. Pjtor almost relaunched the boat before he remembered not to jump ashore. What one could do from one of the heavy gunships did not work so well with a light sailing craft. He heard his first sailing instructor, a retired sailor named Gerald Allen, growling, “For every push there is a back-push. You jump forward and she’ll slide backwards, and you’ll take a bath, Pjtor Adamson.” And he had, twice in fact. The lake was still cold this early in the summer, and Pjtor did not care to repeat the experience.
He enjoyed eight days of drilling with his soldiers and messing about in the boat before the first couriers came from Muskava and the army. As when Pjtor had been a few years younger, Geert sat in the room reading a book or answering his own correspondence as Pjtor read the dispatches and messages. Strella passed on news from court, young Pjtor’s latest progress with his lessons, and news from the Homefold in Muskava, including rumors of a new problem within the church, this related to the monasteries. Pjtor started to growl and changed it into a cough. He stood and walked over to the stove, shook out and loosened his hands, then returned to the desk. “Where in the Holy Writ does it encourage every able-bodied male to take monastic orders?”
Geert blinked and took his long-stemmed pipe out of his mouth. “Nowhere, my lord, as best I can recall, but I’m not a scholar of the Writ.”
Pjtor could not think of any place, either. Calls to piety, and to charity, and to seek the will of Godown and to obey His teachings, yes, and warnings about the wages of sin and of bad behavior, and of not doing one’s best to serve Godown in whatever capacity He had given to a person, and of the roles of men and women, and the spiritual equality of all, but nothing about healthy young men taking up lives of not working. Well, not necessarily not working, but of withdrawing from their duties to NovRodi. He needed soldiers and farmers, and had precious few of both, in part because of the Harriers’ raids, and in part because of the monasteries. “There are no monks in the Sea Republics, are there?”
“No, my lord, nor in the eastern empire and none in the Thumb. Men enter the priesthood, and women join communities of the Sisters of Service, but there are no monasteries such as are found here. I’ve heard, ah—” he stopped.
“Yes?”
The tall, pale man shifted in his seat. “That is, I’ve heard that at the time of the Great Fires, there were a very few groups of men and women who sought to live outside of society, either for religious reasons or other causes, but they all disappeared after the Fires, either pulled into society or killed off in the chaos. But that is second hand at best, my lord, from someone who had a relative who worked in one of the libraries and archives in Aa’sterdee.”
Pjtor’s mind shied away from the thought of monasteries and convents that had been destroyed in the Great Fires. They must all have been heretics, or they would have been sheltered by Godown. Yes, that made sense. A monastery of heretics? Ugh, Pjtor could imagine what sort of punishment Godown would inflict on him if tolerated such a thing. Hmm, how do you tell a true calling from someone taking adva
ntage to avoid family or other duties? Women are not supposed to enter the convent until they’ve born a child, preferably three, with a few exceptions like Sara. But why not men?
He must have spoken, because Geert snorted and chuckled. “Because it is far, far easier for us to sire offspring than it is for women to bear them. Can you imagine what the young men would do if the church said they had to get at least two women with child before they could enter the clergy? How many would have sudden attacks of vocations, and then just as suddenly decide that they’d been in error?”
Pjtor studied the ceiling beams, taking careful note of the patterns painted on the spaces between the rafters. Since he had the right to bed almost any woman he chose, a right that he’d not really taken full advantage of, Pjtor could easily imagine the trouble that might ensue. Might? Would ensue, with men convincing girls that they were really doing Godown’s will by laying together and the fathers who could not really challenge because who is to say what Godown speaks into another’s heart? No. Absolutely not. “Godown preserve us from that very idea.”
“Selah.”
He’d need to find someone who could go through the oldest records, from the few scraps salvaged after both the Great Fires and the Harriers, and see what they could find. It might be that he had no way to stop men from entering the monasteries. But Pjtor suspected that Godown would not frown too harshly on weeding out the few who lacked a true vocation.
He returned to work, breaking only for the midday meal. Pjtor hated the work of governing, but he forced himself to go over everything. Then he suffered no guilt when he ignored it the next day or five. He noted another report from Strella, this one about the household of the palace and the estimated date of the arrival of the fur and gold gift. Pjtor read the army reports with greater care, going slowly to make certain he understood everything. He was not truly a soldier, could not be. He’d fought and been blooded but until he had another heir, preferably two, he dared not risk going into battle again. That had been pounded into his head over the winter by Anderson, Paulson, Green, and less firmly by Geert. “At least wait until your son is old enough to escape the summer flux and the winter cough, my lord. Or your women may hand him over for you to care for, with both ends running and no clean clothes.” Pjtor had no idea what one did with a sick child, or how to clean up after one, and decided that he’d rather not know.
He sat back and glared at the ceiling, angry at the army and the Harriers and the weather and everything. “Blast it, that’s not supposed to happen.”
“The Harriers arrived with cannon, warhorses, and a flying machine?”
Thanks be for none of the list, Pjtor thought with a grimace. “No. Dry storms, grass fire, and the Dawn is running low this year, so they cannot bring as much by ship as planned. And some of the former Chosen Guards have abandoned the frontier forts and joined the Harriers, or so it seems. None have been heard from since they headed south.”
Geert took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “They abandoned their families.”
“Yes. Some of the women took other men as husbands after petitioning for release from vows. The local priest did not object.” Pjtor knew why: the women could not support their assigned lands and families without men, and the garrisons had more men than women. Plus any man who converted to the worship of Selkow lost all rights under the law, including marriage right. Pjtor made a note that any who were found were to be executed. They’d betrayed his trust once: they’d not be given a second chance.
The earth-wall was well underway, but the horse soldiers were having trouble finding fodder, and as feared, the long supply line to the fortress on the lake upstream of the Sweetwater Sea meant that they had difficulty keeping the men fed, clothed, and armed. The Harriers seemed to be shadowing the army supply trains, picking off one or two wagons at a time, trying to kill the oxen. Without oxen they could not move the wagons and had to abandon them, destroying whatever could not be loaded onto the other vehicles. They’re trying to bleed the army to death just as they’ve bled NovRodi for hundreds of years. And the men of NovRodi could not fight the Harriers using their own tactics, that the foreigners now serving Pjtor all averred, and Pjtor knew from experience. They had to take land and hold land, denying the Harriers’ access to the enormous pasture that was the southern grass plains. Once they could grow more food and feed more beasts and people, he’d have more men for the army and his navy, and could push the Harriers that much harder.
It all took time and he had no time. Pjtor wanted it done years ago, it should have been done years ago except they’d lost a decade to Sara’s foolishness. And he needed a son. Well, that he was working on, and a most pleasant exercise it was indeed. With that thought he returned to the last of the messages.
Just before midsummer he returned to Muskava, along with Geert. Alsice remained at Hornand. She had been feeling ill in the mornings, and begged permission not to travel just then. He granted her request, in case her sickness was not simply from bad food or unfamiliar water. The crops along the road to the capital seemed in good condition, the heads of grain swelling and fading from deep green to rich gold as they should, and no hail yet. The calf, foal, and lamb crop also seemed good, and Pjtor took it as a sign that Godown was pleased with his efforts so far. His good mood faltered a bit as they passed one of the gibbets, now empty, where the last of the Chosen Guard and the rebel lords had been hung. Well, Godown willing that had been the final rebellion against Pjtor. Geert took his leave before they entered the first gate, going to his own residence in the foreigners’ district. Pjtor sent him off and rode into the city, taking the salutes from the soldiers watching the road. In theory, no enemy lurked close enough to cause trouble. Grigory had thought that as well, until a bloodied and furious Pjtor had burst into a banquet, turned the table over into Sara’s lap and had informed them of a Harrier raid within sight of the city walls.
Two layers of storm-silvered wood and grey stone encircled the city of Muskava, while rivers on two sides helped keep the water sweet and attackers distant. Distant most of the time, Pjtor thought with a grimace of memory— in Pjtor’s great grandfather’s time the Harriers had attacked the city and been driven off after getting almost to the palace. The outer wooden walls stood on stone, dirt formed a solid barrier between the outer and inner wall, and offset gates forced any attackers to slow and gave the defenders a chance to rain arrows, rocks, and less gentle things down on their heads. But if an attacker got inside the wall . . . Well, Pjtor sighed, he’d lose most of the city. Wooden houses and churches burned very easily, and the roads offered no good way to stop the attackers. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the faint traces of the original Lander settlement in the straight streets and open squares. Wall Street had once been a wall before Muskava grew south, away from the rivers, and a trace of the old ditch remained “outside” the old wall. At the north end sat the palace fortress, still on Lander foundations now hidden underground.
As he rode, Pjtor looked around. The people seemed well, what he could see as they fell on their knees or bowed so low their noses almost touched their knees as he passed. No one had accosted him crying for—
“Oh great imperial master, hear the pleas of your miserable servant,” a woman in patched clothes begged. She knelt in the roadway, not exactly in the middle but still in the line of traffic, her hands upraised. He slowed the horse, then stopped.
“What is your cry, child of Godown?” I hope it is nothing complicated. I’m not in the mood.
“Oh merciful imperial master, my husband died in the winter. His brother seeks to reclaim my widow’s portion, leaving me with nothing for my son and two daughters.”
“What are the ages of your children?”
“Eight, three, and one, imperial master.”
Pjtor stroked his mustache and frowned. “Who was your husband and of what church do you belong?”
“Ivan Borislov, imperial master, and St. Landis-on-the-Market.”
A courier h
ad been riding with Pjtor and Pjtor turned in the saddle, beckoning the boy. “Can you read and write?”
“Yes, imperial master.”
A servant brought Pjtor’s saddle kit and he scrawled a quick note to the priest at St. Landis. “Take this, and the woman, to St. Landis-on-the-Market. If the priest is away, find him or his superior, give him this message, and stay until he agrees to it. Get his answer in writing.” Pjtor used the ink-seal he kept for quick army messages, and handed the page to the courier. “Your brother-in-law is to leave you your widow’s portion as well as child funds. The law is clear on that, and the priest is to ensure that he upholds the law. Go with the courier.”
“Thank you, oh great imperial master! May Godown bless you for your mercy and justice, oh anointed of Godown.” She touched her head twice to the dirt, then got to her feet, still bowed, and backed out of the road. As she did, he could see the baby-sling across her chest. She was not as old as she had first looked, and Pjtor made a note to tell Strella so she could see if the woman had sustenance. If not, she might do for a wife for one of the peasants down in the south, or as a servant. With three children she should be able to find a man easily enough.
Servants waited at the gates to the palace. Pjtor dismissed the soldiers and dismounted. One boy took his horse, almost lifted off his feet by the large beast when it tossed its head. Another offered him water to rinse his hands. That was a hint and Pjtor did as suggested. When he reached the doorway, Strella waited with bread and salt. Behind her he caught a glimpse of a priest’s robe and Pjtor wondered what it meant. She bowed low, “Imperial master, your servant greets you in the name of Godown. Be welcome.”