by Alma Boykin
He handed to the plans to a waiting servant, walked back from his private view and mounted his horse. He liked large, black horses, and had imported several from the Sea Republics and Hämäl at great expense. All had survived the voyage and their get did wonders for the NovRodi stud. Some of the nobles had imported work horses and donkeys, with similar excellent results, although a few of the crosses proved very disappointing, or so he heard. Pjtor left animals to other people. Ships and men and his cities demanded enough of his attention and energy. He turned the stud around and rode side-by-side with Alsice. She’d been crowned empress, the first in several generations, and served as his deputy and chief advisor for certain matters. Her calming manner and skill at soothing tempers and feelings helped keep things quiet at court and elsewhere. He’d given her permission to deal with small grievances and needs, with her own scribes and funds for good works. As the rode, she sighed. “I wonder if there is something in the water in Frankonia that leads their kings to such rashness in their early years.”
“Geert claims there is, although he thinks the family needs to marry away from the capital more often as well.” Pjtor had not believed Geert’s words at first, but his agents had found a reliable history of Frankonia and sent it to Pjtor. He, Geert, and Alsice had all shaken their heads at the contents. “And here I thought that our villagers and some court families needed to marry out more often,” she’d tisked.
“Indeed, my lady,” Geert said. “There is a reason the church refuses to allow cousins to wed, and why the Diligences are so important and are kept for several generations, even in the larger cities.” Pjtor had decided to introduce the Diligence to the church in NovRodi at some point, and Staadtfather Robert agreed that they would be a tolerable innovation, “a codification of tradition, now that more priests are new to their parishes and less familiar with the local family lines.” I wonder how the kings managed to avoid being put under a ban, given how close-bred they are. There is a difference between maintaining a family property and being struck by Godown for putting wealth before safety. The history book described five generations of first cousins, and rumor whispered even closer in one case, although the book’s author called that a “scurrilous lie.” The heated denunciation suggested to Geert that the rumor had been true, making Pjtor wince. Rumor or truth, the boy who would have been Laurence VI had been named unfit to rule by his father and the church. Instead, one of Laurence V’s acknowledged bastards’ legitimate sons had been named heir. His first act, with his grandfather’s permission, had been to declare NovRodi outside the fellowship of countries and her ships and coastline fair for raiding and settlement, since NovRodi “lacked people and governance both.”
Even Young Pjtor had agreed that François III should have stayed on his own side of the White Sea. That had been two years ago, and Pjtor shook his head as they rode. “Perhaps it is something in the air as well as the water, because it is said that the southern part of Frankonia is trying to break free from François’s rule and form a separate country under one of old Laurence’s other bastard’s sons.”
“Whatever it is, my dear, they seem singularly lacking in sense. Which is too bad, because I do like the sweet wines from near Sarmas.”
“You also like the patterned silk they make,” Pjtor accused. She blushed a little but did not contradict him. “And I agree, Colplatschki would be much better off if, oh, they helped the Easterners against the Turkowi instead of sailing all the way across the White Sea to bother my peasants and fishermen.”
After they’d ridden a kilometer toward the new palace, Alsice said, “Speaking of fishermen, Adam will be back tomorrow, according to the mirror messages. Assuming no storms come up or other difficulties.”
“Good. Lord Alicorn’s daughter will be presented in a few days, and I want to see if they are compatible.” Adam would marry whichever girl Pjtor selected, but Pjtor did not intend to force the boy to be betrothed to someone he detested. Not that the betrothal would be consummated for at least another two years, granted, but both fathers wanted their offspring settled as soon as was reasonable. That Young Pjtor refused to agree to a match irritated his father greatly and served as another reason for Adam to pair off. If another year passed without the older boy getting betrothed, Pjtor would order him to pick from the best candidates or be disinherited. Enough was enough.
“I hope they are. She is a quiet, steady girl, a bit like Strella and Klara that way.” Alsice pointed with her riding stick, “Is that where the new St. Olga will be?”
“Yes.” Officially the church would be dedicated to Godown Lord of Harvest, but it had been pledged by several minor nobles after Godown turned back the wind and stopped an especially terrible fire on the southern grasslands, south of the farm line. Large stretches remained in grass as pasture for the herds and flocks. Because not enough people had moved south to break the land yet, fires remained a serious concern, and that one had devoured tens of kilometers of grass in only three days, driving animals ahead of it and threatening the Great Road as well as the new city on the Sweetwater Sea. Just as all seemed lost, Godown turned the wind from out of the north to out of the south and southwest, forcing the flames back onto already-burned ground and stopping the fire. Lord Alicorn said that in some stream valleys the air had smelled of roast beesolow for several days more, before rain and snow had washed the air clean and settled the ash into the ground. Pjtor thought that much free, pre-roasted meat sounded delightful, at least until he considered what would happen after the dead carcasses thawed and began to rot. Alicorn also reported that the man known only as Landis had fled to the ruins of the Lander city and refused to set foot outside the wall until it rained again. Alicorn and Pjtor had pardoned him for not assisting, given his fear of fire. He’d died not long after, exhausted by helping map and explore the new western lands. He’d been far older than Pjtor had guessed, or at least had looked older. The horrible scars on his face and upper body from the Harriers’ torments probably added several decades to his calendar age, Pjtor thought. St. Olga now had several new churches in the south, in thanks for her assistance with escaping from the flames, and the same nobles had offered to build her a shrine here, in New Rodi. Pjtor had agreed to the request.
“Let’s see, Master Geert says there are four ships behind him with goods and fish. The new lake in the west is really just an old lake that now has water in it again. Apparently the river moved after the spring and refilled it. Klara has decided that she likes apples again, Issa has teething fever which should surprise no one.”
Pjtor glanced over at her and smiled. “Especially not you.”
“Most certainly not, which is why he will be weaned to the milk sack sooner rather than later!” Pjtor had heard the yelp when Alsice discovered their son’s first tooth. To add insult to injury, Issa’s teeth seemed to be sharper than average, or so his mother and the nurses all swore. “I believe, should Godown grant us more children, I will find a wet nurse.”
Pjtor raised his free hand. “So long as the child is not harmed, that is your choice. The Homefold and nursery are yours.” He turned his head to look at a new building, allowing him to ignore her stuck-out tongue. Godown made men to protect and provide for women and women to provide shelter and comfort for men and children. Pjtor trusted Godown’s wisdom in that implicitly.
“Ah, my lord husband, there is also word from the army.” She hesitated, waiting for him to reply.
“Is it something I can read for myself or a spoken message?”
“Both, my lord.”
That means it could not be trusted entirely to a courier. Or is so delicate that Poliko does not want anyone else to know. It would have been easier if Alsice had possessed enough reason to understand that Poliko’s personal flaws vanished in the light of his strengths and skills as a soldier, but she remained blinded by her first experience with the man. Well, she was a woman, women were like that. “I’ll read it and decide what to do as soon as we get back to the palace.”
Not the old, dark, cramped, low-ceilinged palace of Muskava, though. No, Pjtor thought as they rode into New Rodi, at least he had a palace worthy of the term, one with light and air and space and freedom for him to move, without any dark corners for lurking. The old lords’ stink did not taint his new residence. The building sprawled, fifteen rooms long and three high, fifteen rooms deep along the outer walls but not entirely solid. A large open space in the center allowed more light and air during the long summer days and twilights, and provided space for outdoor gatherings in summer. Pale yellow and light blue plaster softened the cream-colored stone, and one large window per room told passers by of Pjtor’s might and wealth. In deference to tradition, a corner shrine to St. Boris and another to St. Molly graced opposite corners of the palace. The chapel within the walls resembled Godown-of-the-Waves and the image of St. Issa had been a gift from the patricians of New Dalfa. Staadtfather Robert tolerated it.
Servants took Pjtor and Alsice’s horses. He changed boots and went to his office, one on the upper floor where he could see the ships and his harbor. Papers and a courier waited for him. “So what news,” he asked as he strode in.
An hour later by the water clock, Pjtor finished listening and reading. He dismissed the courier, stood, and stared out the window into the distance, looking past the harbor and the new city and even the distant clouds, as if he could see into Frankonia. It would be easier to get my son to obey than to get the Frankonians to act like civilized people. Perhaps being defeated three times by a woman drove them insane? No, probably more like that family that thanks be to Godown died out after old Lord Nilgal forced them to move to different villages and sold two of their service contracts a hundred kilometers away. I remember even Sara and Grigory were appalled at what the priests and Nilgal’s manager found. The stories about the village of fools all named John Johnson Johnson are supposed to be stories, not family guides. Geert had probably been right about the Frankonians. The rumors about Young Pjtor and Frankonia . . .
No, that much Pjtor knew were lies, no doubt sown to cleave the two apart and destabilize the empire. It would not be the first time. But that ancient saying about where one found smoke, one should look for fire also held merit. Pjtor preferred not to use any of his watchers if he could avoid it, because men once corrupted could be turned even more easily a second time, but he needed facts to clear the smoke.
The Harriers were regrouping, but well to the west, or so it seemed. The army’s scouts and a few brave souls mapping and claiming land upriver from the empty Lander city had found signs of horsemen and small herds, and the remains of butchered beesolow, but no Harriers. The nomads seemed to be staying away from the men of NovRodi, which suited Pjtor quite well. They could all ride into the Split Sea and drown themselves and he would not shed a tear. Perhaps they had gone to beg aid from their Turklavi masters? That idea, suggested by Lord Jan Alicorn, did worry Pjtor but not excessively. If the Turklavi were the same as the Easterners’ Turkowi, and if they did come to the aid of the Harriers, then Pjtor would fight them and defeat them. Captain Anderson, General Green, and the other foreign military men who had served Pjtor, and still served him, insisted that the army of NovRodi be ready to fight an enemy armed with gonnes and cannons and other modern weapons. Just because the Harriers had not chosen to use them did not mean they never would. “After all, Frankonia gave the Turkowi bastards cannon to use against the Easterners, and instructors who taught the monsters how to use them. Why not do the same over here?” General Green had not been entirely persuaded that it would happen, but it made sense.
And now rumor had it that Young Pjtor had friends who had friends in Frankonia. His father shook his head and played with one end of his mustache. And rumor has it that west of the great mountains, by the Split Sea, are fabulous white horses with horns on their forehead, and that the islands south of the Spice Kings’ lands have fish-tailed women living near their shores. Of the two he thought the horned horses were more likely, given some of the things the Landers had brought to Colplatschki before the Great Fires. No, my son is a fool, too much like his mother’s father for his own good or for the good of NovRodi, but not a traitor, not until I see proof with my own eyes and hear him confess from his own lips. All young men are fools, but he does not have the luxury to stay one for much longer. Godown be praised, I have other sons.
He returned to his desk and looked at the map the courier had brought. The burned fishing village was not a rumor. The men had been out in their boats and the women and children had gone inland, tending gardens and animals where the land was not salt-weakened. Whoever had attacked had burned the village, destroying what supplies and fish-drying racks they could find. They left claim markers, or what Lord Broislov took to be claim markers. Instead of words the stakes bore a pattern of three colors and a white flower like that on the flags of the Frankonian ships. Broislov had passed the stakes on to the army. The fishermen scouted the coast after they confirmed their families’ safety and had found a campfire and signs as if a boat had been beached and then re-floated just upstream of a creek-mouth a few kilometers south of the village. Since the men had been fishing to the north, they had not seen the fire themselves.
Pjtor looked from the message to the map. Where had the main Frankonian ship hidden? Little in-shore boats did not cross the White Sea, even in summer. Pjtor’s eyes traced the coastline from the village south, noting the spot where the fishermen found the campfire, and then farther south, several kilometers, to a headland that jutted into the sea. He remembered hearing Landis and Broislov speculating about it, because nothing grew on the tongue of dark stone. Three kilometers inland a slight rise formed a rough half circle about a kilometer or two long and perhaps ten meters high, like a dirt bank beside a trench, with the black stone pointing from a low spot in the hill toward the sea. Broislov had told Admiral Paulson that he thought it would make good harbor, aside from the lack of fresh water to the north, south, and west. And the northern forests would be wonderful farmland aside from the ten meters of snow, two months of not-winter, and lack of drainage.
If Pjtor were a Frankonian captain, he’d hide there and send boats out to scout and get water. He’d be sheltered from the wind and tides in the cove and natural breakwater, no one farmed or lived nearby, and NovRodian patrols tended to ignore the area for that very reason. Could it be someone else? Of course. Was it someone else? Not likely. Why would the Harriers go to that much effort, riding overland from the far western side of the Sweetwater Sea to burn a fishing village and then disappear? Pjtor made a note on a wax-board that the mirror-towers needed to expand to the south along the coast as well as along the roads and rivers. But what did the Frankonians want? They’d burned a summer fishing village and left what seemed to be a form of claim stake. But no one would believe their claim, and Pjtor’s army would run any settlers right back into the sea. His agents in New Dalfa had already protested François III’s argument that no one lived in or claimed the lands of NovRodi.
Pjtor scribbled a few notes, sent an order to the army’s communications’ clerks, and wrote a short, coded message to a certain individual along the Great South Road. Then he turned his attention to other, happier things, like the plans for the Great St. Issa. As soon as the last materials had been gathered, work would begin on his flagship. Pjtor had already sharpened his tools and given his orders.
Geert answered Pjtor’s question the two days later. They had a long-standing agreement. The day Geert got back to his family and the following day belonged to him unless he brought critical messages of some kind. He sent word to the palace once he was ready to speak with the emperor. At first Pjtor had champed with frustration at the delay. Being married to Alsice had opened his eyes to why Geert needed a day or two at home before seeing anyone officially. It was a privilege Pjtor granted no one else, but then no one else was Geert, just as no one else had been Captain Anderson. Pjtor had accepted tongue lashings and dressings-down from the older soldier because Anderson knew his business
and because he kept his mouth shut. He’d died in his sleep three years ago the coming winter, catching everyone off guard. At the gathering after the funeral and liturgy for the dead, Paulson and Michael Looven had been comparing notes and trying to decide how old Anderson had been. “Well, I still say he shouldn’t have given up liquor,” Paulson had stated at last with a firm nod of his head. “I’ve seen where milk comes from, and everyone knows what fish do in water.” Even Pjtor had laughed. He’d respected Anderson for keeping his vow never to touch liquor even as he questioned the man’s sanity. But then Pjtor could drink anything short of a beer-mug full of blue-apple spirits without getting truly drunk, and did so at least weekly.
Geert appeared at the palace carrying several parcels, a stack of map books that he left with the clerk for the navy and merchant captains’ library, and a number of official letters from various governments and princes. He wasn’t exactly an ambassador, but Pjtor trusted him more than anyone outside the imperial family, and more than some of his more distant relatives and former in-laws. The blond man now limped a little, thanks to an accident on board ship during a storm some years before. Pjtor kept forgetting that Geert had at least a decade on him, probably more, but the years were only now beginning to show. He stood in the doorway and bowed, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Come in, come in,” Pjtor growled. Something about the mast fittings just did not look right, and after more under-his-breath snarling he dropped the stylus and leaned back. “Whoever came up with this steeply raked mast is either a genius or an idiot. I’m leaning toward idiot.”