by Alma Boykin
“When?” That was the question they had to answer. If Frankonia was serious about attacking NovRodi and trying to take a chunk of Pjtor’s lands, when would they come?
“Not next week, imperial majesty,” Green chuckled, and Basilius nodded his agreement. The old soldier picked up a silver and gilt rod and pointed at something off the map, in the south. “If they do decide to attack, they will establish a depot on one of those islands, or so the books claim would be wise. And I suspect they do not have enough supplies to feed an army on board ship for the time it takes to cross the sea, then to feed them once they get here. Unless you can live on grass and fish, there is precious little to eat down here until you get well inland.”
Pjtor played with the end of his mustache. That made sense, assuming the Frankonians had the same limitations as everyone else. “So no sailing until after winter.”
“No, my lord. The winds won’t allow it. As the storms move north in winter, the winds go calm down here and it takes too long, especially with an army on board ship. What a lone trader can tolerate and stock for an army can’t,” Geert said. “Not until after St. Basil’s day at least.” That gave them several months to prepare.
“And if we can trap them off-shore it would be even better, imperial majesty,” Basilius said. “Stop them from even putting a foot ashore and end their claims cold.”
“Aye. Stopping them off the coast of Frankonia would be ideal, but I suspect some elsewhere would take that amiss,” Pjtor snorted.
Geert and Young Pjtor nodded. “It is said, honored father, that tales circulate that ships of NovRodi have captured and looted ships of Frankonia. Nothing firm my lord father, but Lord Alicorn’s nephew visited the Thumb last season and said that market tales hold us to be sea raiders as well as land-greedy.”
Would that my ships could strike that fast. Pjtor’s navy grew, but turning peasants into sailors proved more difficult than was turning trees into ships. The rumor that crossing salt water separated a man of NovRodi from Godown had proved especially bad for recruiting, and peasant men had fled into the woods to avoid the recruiters that year. Pjtor would personally whip the man who started that tale through the streets of New Rodi and Muskava if he ever found who it was. “The coast is too long to patrol easily, and storms will be a problem. I want to start at least two more ports, deep-water ports. What about the mouth of the Klaar?”
Green shook his head and Basilius pointed to the spot. “The river is too shallow, imperial majesty. It looks far deeper than it is, and we have yet to find a main channel. Something made it scatter sand and choke, even though it looks perfect on the map. In late summer a man can walk across the mouth.”
Well, damn. “And we do not have the great digging machines of legend to assist us.” And I’m not going to drown service-slaves trying to dig sand to make the channel deeper, at least not yet. “What about . . .”
Young Pjtor grew more restless as the discussion continued, until shortly before the first time-candle burned out, he said, “Honored lord father, why not let them have land?”
The older men stopped and turned to look at him. “Excuse me?” What did I just hear?
“I—I said why not let them have land? They are overcrowded and desperate, my lord father, and does Godown not say that it is a great blessing to help those in need?”
Pjtor straightened up and folded his arms. Geert stepped a little closer to Pjtor, probably so he could hear better. “Why do you want the Frankonians to take control of a portion of what will eventually be yours to rule?”
“Because they need room, my lord. Alicorn said that he heard from someone who visited one of the Frankonian cities that people had to live in houses four and five rooms high, trapped by the walls because they had no place to go. I’m sure that Laurence V and François would not try to settle people here unless the need really was great.” He swallowed and Pjtor watched the lump in the boy’s throat run up and down. “They are not like the Harriers, my lord father. Why can’t we give them what they need, help them?”
“Because Alicorn is a fool if he believed that Frankonia and the rest of that part of the world are running out of room,” Pjtor snapped. “They are crowded compared to us. But so are the Sea Republics and Vindobona and the free cities of the Empire. Leave the walls of the cities and they are only a little more populous than we are.”
“Aye, my lord prince, and you cannot trust Frankonia. People seeking peace do not burn fishing villages or attack mirror towers,” Geert said. “Nor do they attack their neighbors to avoid paying for things. I lived through the Frankonian war, my lord, I know what they have done.”
“But that was thirty years ago! Things are different. A new generation is on the throne, my lord father. It is better if we do not fight, but act in peace.”
“No it is not. When you are older you will learn that there are things worse than war,” Pjtor said. Fool boy.
“Like falling down because Godown has cursed you? Like burning books because you do not like what is in them?” Young Pjtor started shouting, red-faced, eyes bulging as he pointed at his father. “Like killing your father-in-law and exiling your wife for no reason but that Godown is punishing you for not being a good ruler? I’m older than you were when you came to power, Father, I’ve fought more with the army than you have. I know what NovRodi needs and I don’t fall down, piss myself and drool because—”
Pjtor lunged at his son. I—Will—Kill—You—For “Grrraaaah!” No one spoke to Pjtor Adamson that way! No one! Red filled his vision and Pjtor struggled to grab the boy, to break him, to teach him proper respect. Something held him back, something kept his arms back. Pjtor lunged again, dragging the weight with him. “Let me go, damn you.” Pjtor fought, trying to twist loose of the hands, to tear free and reach the insolent boy and punish him as he deserved for that insult. “Let me go!”
“No, Pjtor,” Geert panted in his ear. “No, not until you calm down. Godown never forgives kin-killers.”
“He is no blood of mine who would give everything I’ve won to the foreign bastards.” Pjtor relaxed, then lunged again, dragging Geert across the floor. “Let go or I’ll kill you too!”
Where was the bastard? Pjtor strained, trying to see where the coward hid. Then he realized the door was open and the other men had left. “No!” He twisted, getting one arm free, and punched Geert in the face. Geert ducked back, avoiding the worst of the blow but releasing Pjtor. He turned and charged for the door. I will kill the whelp. Something grabbed his waist and legs, dragging him to the floor. He reached for his knife, twisting and clawing to break loose again.
“Pjtor, no!” A woman screamed, and soft, clutching hands tried to take the knife from him. “No, love, no stop,” she sobbed. Alsice hung on his arm, holding it to the floor or trying to. He threw her off but she came back, throwing herself across him. “He didn’t mean it! Whatever he said he didn’t mean it, please, for the love of Godown Pjtor, stop.”
The two of them, Geert and Alsice, kept him from following. Pjtor wanted to kill them too, but couldn’t. They held him down. “Damn it, man, think,” Geert panted, face red with blood from over his eye. “Yes, he’s a fool. And he’s just like you were twenty years ago, my lord. But he can’t control himself yet.”
“He’s gone, Pjtor. Listen to me,” Alsice begged. “He’s gone, fled as if dardogs hunted him. Please, my lord, imperial master, stop.”
Pjtor lay on the floor, panting. He let them talk him into stopping, thinking. I will not tolerate that insolence. What kind of stupidity filled his head to be so blind?
“Pjtor, I’ll go after him, Looven and I and we’ll teach him about what Frankonia really is. Promise me you will not kill him,” Geert begged. “Don’t leave the empire without an heir.”
“Adam is too young, so is Isaac, and no one will listen to me if something happens to you, Godown forbid,” Alsice said, tears running down her face, cap missing and clothes torn. “Please, imperial master, lord of NovRodi, don’t leave your peopl
e without a wise leader and shepherd.”
“What does the Book of the Shepherd say, Pjtor?” Geert hissed. “Will you risk Godown’s anger by trading safety for pride and wrath?” Geert’s Dalfan accent thickened. “Aye man, kit yeer brain back aboard ship and furl sail, ye greet loomp ov foor ‘n tallow.”
Pjtor clenched his teeth, breath hissing in and out. “I will not kill him, not yet. But Godown as my witness if he does not repent and beg forgiveness I will drive him out of NovRodi, east west north or south matters not.”
“Heard and witnessed,” the others chorused. Alsice buried her face in his coat, weeping still, and Geert got to his knees, then backed away. It took him three tries to stand. Pjtor pried Alsice off and rolled onto his side, then got to his feet and stood. “I’ll go after him,” Geert repeated.
“Not until you clean that blood off,” Alsice sniffed. “Or Margit will think you two have been carousing and she’ll scold both of you.”
“Godown forefend,” the men said. Pjtor took a deep breath. “You may leave, Master Fielders.”
“My lord.” He bowed from the waist and departed.
I will not kill Pjtor, holy Godown, but it is the five-tailed whip and exile if he does not repent and beg forgiveness. I cannot tolerate insolence, over-confidence, and stupidity combined.
Two weeks and a major storm passed before Pjtor heard anything more from his son or his friend. He still had trouble imagining Alsice attacking him the way she had. She wasn’t that strong, and she did not seem especially fond of young Pjtor. That night he’d found her in the small chamber he’d given her to hold receptions for the wives and daughters of the men in his court. She’d been sitting in a chair in a dark corner, curled in on herself and weeping. He dismissed the maid and walked into the dimly lit room.
“Alsice.”
She slid out of the chair, crawled toward him and threw herself onto his feet. “Forgive me, imperial master, please forgive me, o generous and merciful master, forgive your unworthy slave.” She sobbed, hair and clothes askew, as pitiful as she’d been when he claimed her from General Poliko fifteen years before.
Dear Godown, does she fear me that much? Yes, she did, because under the law both she and Geert should be executed for laying hands on Pjtor’s person. And technically, as a former battle captive, she had no rights of any kind and he could do with her as he chose, unrestricted even by the law governing abuse of wives and children. Law be damned, she’s my empress and the mother of my children. I still want to kill Pjtor, even though I swore not to, but I did swear. He turned around and shut the door then came back. He crouched down beside her, knelt on one knee, and worked his arms under her torso, lifting her partly off the carpets. “I forgive you, Alsice.”
She put her arms around his neck, still sobbing. That gave him better leverage and he took a stronger hold on her and lifted her to her feet as he stood. She staggered and he caught her, then held her against him as the lamp guttered and burned out. You are a brave woman, my lady, and I admire you for it, even if your mercy is gravely misplaced. Godown is a lord of wrath as well as of mercy, and so am I. As she calmed down, he led her to the door, opened it, and let her maids take her to prepare for bed. He made a hand sign to one of the older women and she nodded her understanding: they’d put a little something in her tea so that she’d sleep.
He did not sleep. Instead he drew up plans for a new ship, a coastal craft, fast but well armed. This time I will get that raked mast correct, blast it. He needed something that could maneuver in tight spaces and calm waters . . . calm waters . . . something like a row boat but much bigger and with guns? That meant he’d need men to row. Where would he find spare men? Pjtor made a few notes but set them aside and returned to his initial ideas. Raked mast and large ship did not seem to be working, at least not as he sketched it. He ground his teeth and tried several more times before he hit on a combination that seemed to be what he wanted. Yes, he could have ordered his men to do it, but old Master Van Daam would have his hide if he couldn’t design and build a proper ship himself.
The storm that blew in from the sea the next day perfectly matched his mood. The cold wind howled in from the east and south, driving grey and white water up into the canals and harbor with enough force that as the tide rose, the water did too, backing up the river as waves broke on the seawall and the spray froze, coating things in strange gritty white shapes. Snow churned on the howling wind and Pjtor wondered where his son, Geert, and Michael Looven were. Out of the storm, if any of them had the slightest bit of sense. Pjtor warmed his hands in the heat pouring out of the great tiled stove in the corner of his office, admiring the green and white tiles with their ship pictures on them, then returning to work. The reports from the south had come in, as had the first counts of harvest and of the timber cut for the year.
Eight days passed, then nine. The weak sun slowly melted the frozen spray and the sea and river returned to their banks, although not without claiming their tithe in lives and land. The pale grey skies made the pastel colors of the new city sing, and Pjtor gave thanks for the sight. And for the absence of dardogs. They had not found the new city yet and if they did, he did not intend to allow them to get close enough to carry off children. Pale blue skies returned and along with them, the cold. The sea seemed to ease the cold a little, or perhaps it was just Pjtor’s fondness for the sea and the city that made it seem warmer.
And a message arrived, formal, bearing Young Pjtor’s signature and seal and requesting a brief moment of his father’s time. Pjtor considered and granted the request. Two more days passed before the gangly boy appeared in the doorway, subdued and quiet, dressed properly as befitted the heir to the Empire of NovRodi. Pjtor waited. The servant on duty bowed very low and ventured, “Most imperial master, the young master wishes to enter your presence.”
“He may come.”
Young Pjtor advanced five steps and bowed almost as low as the servant.
“You may rise.”
Silence. Pjtor waited, watching the boy.
“Most honored father—” He hesitated, then started again. “Most honored imperial father, I apologize for my rash words and thoughtless speech. In my frustration I allowed emotion to overcome me and I offended your person and your office. Please forgive my haste and folly.” The words did not quite run together in the boy’s haste, but his father could tell that Young Pjtor’s nerves were about to get the best of him.
Pjtor clenched one hand under the desk, out of the boy’s sight. His anger returned and he considered boxing the fool’s ears. He was much too much like his maternal family. Then Pjtor recalled his promises. “What have you learned since your—departure?”
“I—I learned that Master Fielders and Master Looven spoke truly when they said that Frankonia had no need for space for her people, most honored imperial father, and that, if anything, the records understate the, um, unwisdom of some of Laurence V’s policies. To attempt to assassinate then-Duchess von Sarmas in order to assuage Laurence’s pride was—” He shook his head. “Even the Harriers would not stoop to that.”
If only because they have not figured out how to do it, Pjtor snorted. “I see.”
“And I was wrong to speak of your, your, um, your—”
“My infirmity.”
The boy seized the word with both hands, so to speak, and sounded relieved. “Your infirmity, yes, most honored father. I was out of line and such matters are not to be discussed in front of servants or others.”
“That is correct.” Pjtor considered his son. “Come here.” To his credit the boy approached Pjtor’s desk. Pjtor looked him over once more. “I forgive you. But you will dismiss your court and join mine, and you will be presented with several possible bridal candidates this spring. You will select one, or one will be chosen. And you will never, ever speak of my—infirmity—again.”
Young Pjtor bowed. “Yes, honored father. Thank you.”
“Where are Master Fielders and Master Looven?”
“Mas
ter Looven is at the chancery looking for information on the man rumored to be the new minister of the navy for Frankonia. Master Fielders,” he looked down and wiped his palms on his trouser legs, as if they were wet. “He is ill, very ill, pneumonia he caught in the storm.”
Pjtor’s rage flashed white hot and the arms of his chair groaned as he clenched his fists on the wood. “Thank you for informing me. You are dismissed.” If you do not get out of my sight, I will beat you as I ought to have two weeks ago.
His son bowed and departed.
Slowly, over the next few weeks, winter locked the port at New Rodi closed. Ice spread and thickened to the north and east, making it too dangerous to put out to sea much beyond the harbor. The sight of large chunks of white-grey ice bobbing or grinding together on the green-grey waves deterred even Pjtor, who admitted that the sea had bested him, at least for the moment. He pushed Broislov and other eastern lords to finish a new investigation of the coast, to find a place where he could have an all-year harbor. He also ordered the men to look for signs of Lander roads, but quietly.
The darkness of midwinter passed before Geert Fielders recovered enough for Pjtor to visit him. He’d sent his own churigon to see to the man, and had also sent fuel and food in order to ease the family’s shortages. Why did he not tell me they had so many debts? Pjtor fumed as he looked at the stack of bills. Because he thought he could pay them all, and because he did not want or dare to tell me that when he was doing my business he could not do his own as well. Geert had not earned enough on his trading trips to pay his private bills in NovRodi, only his business bills, and now owed a number of people the equivalent of half the cost of a fitted-out warship with fifteen-kilo guns. “Did Margit Fielders say anything to you?” He asked Alsice one night.
“Not exactly, love, but I noticed, well, I thought I recognized that material in one of her dresses. I suspect she’d remade it and added some trim from something else, in order to hide their problems.” She snuggled closer, resting her head on his chest. “I should have said something but then she tends to buy fabric and store it away, so I was not certain.”