by Alma Boykin
He sighed. And Geert would never have said anything—that wasn’t how he handled his personal affairs. Well, Pjtor had paid the family’s debts and more. That eased his conscience a little, although Young Pjtor remained solely to blame for Geert’s illness, in his father’s view. Damn it, but Geert should have spoken, especially if his wife and children were having to make do! They were Pjtor’s people and if they suffered, it reflected badly on Pjtor personally.
When he finally visited Geert, Pjtor spoke not a word of what he’d done. Gleanings twelve, verse six said “When you give, give in secret and Godown who sees will reward you in secret three, five, even unto tenfold. Give in the open and the praise of men is all that Godown shall allow you.” The house, larger than the family’s old home in the foreigners’ district in Muskava, faced a quiet square. The fronts of the buildings had been decorated with cream-colored trim around the doors and windows, and each side of the square used a different main color, pink to the east, yellow in the north, pale green in the west and an orangey-yellow on the south side. Geert’s faced south and also sported a small painting of St. Issa beside the door, nothing excessive but certainly different from the other three facades. Pjtor’s sleigh-coach stopped and the footmen hopped down, opening the door and lowering the step for their master. Someone, probably Margit Fielders, had kept the short walk and five steps leading to the door clear of snow and ice, and as soon as he set one foot on the lowest stone step, the door opened.
Anne curtsied low, exactly like her mother down to the little lace trimmed cap on her head. Young Geert had remained in New Dalfa, learning the merchant trade there, but Jan, five years old and very serious, bowed as well. He had his father’s coloring, as did Anne, both fair haired with pale eyes. Martina, the second daughter, curtsied as well. She looked enough like Pjtor, with dark hair and a sturdy frame, to inspire much gossip even though Geert and Margit both averred she looked identical to her paternal grandfather. Pjtor would never lay a finger on Margit Fielders, much less try to seduce her. He preferred his ladies quieter and less likely to attack him with a fishing spear if he tracked muck into a room, something Geert swore Margit’s mother had done to her father and older brother.
The narrow entry hall, where a maid took his coat and hat and a manservant cleaned his boots, opened into a light, airy reception chamber. A bed had been made for Geert and Margit stood, surprise on her face, then curtsied low. “Imperial majesty, please, I apologize. I did not realize—”
Pjtor waved off her apology. “I did not send word in advance, Mistress Fielders. Please, be seated. And you may use my lord.”
“Thank you, imperi— my lord. If you will excuse me, I need to heat Geert’s medicine.”
“Of course.” She bustled past and he caught a glimpse of attractive calf in a twice-mended stocking. That would not do. Pjtor went to the side of the bed. Geert, always pale, now blended into the bedding and had lost much of the round from his face. “You have a strange way of requesting time away from court, Master Fielders,” Pjtor said, trying to cover his dismay.
Geert snorted and managed a partial smile. “It seemed easier than filing a formal petition, my lord. And I was hoping for lovely nurses, like in the story of St. Basil’s sick sheep, but my wife cancelled the request.”
That made Pjtor smile and he decided that Geert was on the way to recovery. Pjtor found a chair that would support his weight and sat, carefully. He liked the room, with its ship models and a picture of a ship at harbor. “Tell me, does hot salibark taste as bad to you as it does to me?”
The vigorous head nod made Pjtor’s smile wider. “I tried to get rid of it, my lord. She fastened the window shut. And moved the nightsoil box out of reach.”
“That was cruel.”
“Not as bad as the onions, my lord. Hot onion paste to loosen my chest and clear my cough. I think it scared my body back to health.”
Probably not as much as a hot dung poultice would have. Which may be why I do not seem to get sick anymore. Pjtor wondered if the Landers had developed their magic healing tools in order to avoid dung poultices. He would certainly have been inspired to find a different way to drive the bad djerms out. “I do not understand why the bad air and miasmas from standing water and corrupt flesh cause illness but the poultices are supposed to heal.”
“That, Pjtor Adamson, is because like cures like. Although only within the body. Falling out of a tree a second time will not cure a bruised head.” Margit had returned, followed by a manservant. The two did something to the bed and raised it, locking it up so that Geert now sat almost upright. It seemed to be a ratchet-type mechanism and Pjtor wanted to take the furniture apart right then and there to see how it worked and had been assembled. Margit must have seen his fingers twitch, because she warned, “My lord, if I return and find my husband laying on the floor and the day-bed in pieces, I will—” she shook her finger before turning to get a steaming mug off the tray a maid brought in. Behind her back both men made faces.
Geert downed the brew without gagging, which was more than Pjtor had managed to accomplish. “And here,” Margit presented her husband with a bowl of something far more appetizing. Two more maids brought in a much fancier serving set and chokofee for Pjtor, along with a platter of the small pastries called kookees from New Dalfa that he so enjoyed. Margit took a seat on the other side of the bed and worked on a piece of sewing as the men ate. Pjtor told his conscience that he was a guest and the Fielders followed a different custom and under their roof breaking the lesser fast of St. Olga would not require as much penance, if any. Because he knew that the kookees had butter in them, and probably other good things as well. His conscience did not bother trying to argue the matter and he had a few more, just to be polite.
He did not stay long because he could see that Geert needed rest. Two weeks and more of illness drained a man down to the core, and for once Geert truly looked the decade older than Pjtor that he was. Pjtor excused himself, the couple protested, and he insisted. Margit followed him to the sleigh. “Imperial majesty, thank you for your time and,” she gulped, eyes suddenly full of tears. “And for the assistance. Your generosity to foreigners such as my husband is, that is, ah, Godown bless you, imperial majesty.” She curtsied again.
He raised her. “Mistress Fielders, your husband’s service to the crown and to my person deserves proper reward. It is a very poor master who does not see to the needs of his people, as Godown has charged all of us to do. Should an expense come that you cannot resolve easily, inform my lady.” He locked eyes with the woman, reinforcing the order. “Godown be with you.”
“And with thy spirit.”
He returned to the palace with a clearer heart, and decided that truly, kookees did not break the fast. And he’d only had a few, to go with the chokofee. And those had been very small, not enough to assuage hunger. No, kookees did not count.
“You are not surprised, my lord husband?” Alsice stood behind Pjtor on the crown deck of his personal warship as he watched the other ships of his fleet parading past under the sweet spring sky.
“No.” Disgusted with François III, pissed at his assumption that we are not civilized men, amazed at the puppy’s arrogance, and angry at being distracted from more important matters, but not surprised. No sooner had winter’s sea storms begun to fade than the first Frankonian ships appeared off the eastern coast. One of the books Geert and the others had brought back for the new archive in New Rodi mentioned the old practice of gathering a number of ships together in an “harmahdah” and attacking as a group, breaking through the opposing fleet that way and allowing troop transport vessels to get safely to land.
Granted, those had referred to star-crossing vessels, but Admiral Basilius and the others saw no reason why the same thing would not work on the seas. “Think of the little ones as scouts, imperial majesty,” General Green had suggested. “Then you have your musketeers and cavalry following to act on what the scouts find.”
Alsice made an interested noise. He
glanced behind and saw her looking to the left, to port, and frowned. What was that little thing? Then he realized, and blinked, then started to smile. “So they did get her finished and rigged out. Well, well, I owe Geert a silver piece.” The small two-masted craft darted between the much larger warships, working the wind and galloping along, as much as a sailing boat could gallop in the current winds. “That, my lady wife, is a messenger ship, a new one.” The masts both tilted aft at a rakish angle, rather like her hat, with triangular sails that caught the wind easily, driving the little ship. The crew had sorted out how to handle her, and seemed to make full use of the ability of the sails to pivot and shift more than a full-rigged ship could. Pjtor had given up on raked masts for warships. Anchoring the masts, calculating the forces and the rigging . . . they did not work well past a certain size.
“It’s a sweet little ship, my lord.” She giggled a little behind her hand. “Is it a girl ship?”
He started to glare at her, then realized that she was gently teasing him. And compared to the great warships, the courier vessel was indeed dainty and delicate looking. “If you wish it to be, my dear.”
He’d achieved a miracle, with the help of Godown and much gold and many lives. Frankonian vessels still outgunned his, and had better powder if rumor held true, and sailed with far more experienced crews. But Pjtor had new ships, his men knew the coast, and perhaps had a few surprises of his own up their sleeves. He wanted to fight himself, as he had on the lake above the Sweetwater Sea, but knew in his heart that he could not. The risks were too great. Should Godown allow something to happen to him, his sons were not strong enough to rule, not until he saw young Pjtor safely betrothed and the girl with child. He still wanted to sail across the sea and give Frankonia what they deserved, but no. He’d also had to consider a different complication—if colony ships followed the military fleet, what to do if the colonists actually landed, but the Frankonian navy lost the battle?
That all assumed that the Frankonian bastard had not dispatched ships to the south, landing in the Sea Kings’ territories and coming overland. Pjtor’s generals had already begun moving men and supplies south in preparation for such an event, however, as well as to be ready in case the Frankonians came ashore. In the process, they had to leave the western side of the empire very lightly garrisoned, trusting Godown to protect them. Pjtor kept his unhappiness with that idea to himself. He trusted Godown, but knew that Godown preferred for men to do their part first. And Godown had already granted Pjtor a near miracle already. Pjtor did not feel comfortable asking Him for much more.
Ah, his beautiful ships, slowly sailing past on a glorious soft spring day. The sunlight shone on polished brass and gilded trim, on clean sails of linen and plant-wool. The ropes and cords of the rigging looked taut and well turned out, masts straight and hatches latched tight to keep water out of the gun ports. Each crew had a mix of foreigners and men of NovRodi. Pjtor did not want to hire so many outsiders, but he could not afford to have full novice crews either. As it was he’d pledged the next two years of gold and furs, as well as any loot from sunken or captured Frankonian ships.
The parade pleased him immensely. Pjtor had driven NovRodi out of the forests and back into the world. Thank you, Godown, for this gift and for the gift of time. They’d had fifteen years to prepare, to learn how to fight more than just horse nomads. He hoped he’d made enough of that time. On impulse he reached for Alsice’s hand and pulled her close, then kissed her hand. She blushed. So different from Tamsin, so brave and yet so womanly was his empress.
Two days later he met with Basilius, Green, Geert and a few others. Young Pjtor had departed, rejoining the army in the south. The two remained wary of each other, and Young Pjtor had already refused two of the offered bridal candidates. Pjtor agreed with his son’s first refusal. Dear Godown, what in the name of all that is wise was Lord Martino thinking to even present the girl? She belongs in a convent or locked in the homefold. Why did he even let her live this long? She’s pretty, but she’s no more than a baby inside her head. Ugh. He shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair and dismissed the matter. Today he had more important things, especially now that the hangovers from the celebration two days before should have cleared. If not, I do not want to see evidence of them.
Geert arrived first, leaning on a heavy walking stick with a silver knob on top, a much plainer version of Pjtor’s own. He had yet to fully recover his strength, but the churigons assured Pjtor that time, warm sunlight and good food would fix everything. “Enter,” Pjtor called, not bothering to look up from the chart spread across almost everything on the table.
“Ah, the new version, my lord?”
“Yes, without the currents drawn in. Those just cluttered everything.” And half of them are imaginary because the clerks have no idea what oceans do and how water moves. Not that most of us are much better. The captains swear they can tell me what and when, but not why. It did not matter, really, but Pjtor wondered once again if it was the same water in the White Sea that just washed back and forth, or if new water came in and went out somewhere. The rivers flowed into the sea and the sea did not overflow, and then there was rain. Where did rain come from, besides clouds? How did water get into the sky in the first place and what made it come down again? Everything came down, that was true, but why? Was it pulled or pushed?
“Ahem.”
What? He looked up and found servants and others waiting for his permission to come in. “You may enter.” A servant brought a stool for Geert to perch on while the others stood, as did Pjtor himself. He’d had the table made especially tall for that very reason. “What news?”
Basilius looked at some pages that he’d brought. “The last mirror messages, imperial majesty, report no sign of the Frankonians yet. Both along the coast and from those ships watching the likely routes from the Trio Islands. The yellowtail fishing is quite good, however.”
Green wrinkled his nose. “So are the silver oilers, imperial majesty. I expect lamp oil prices to drop soon.”
Only Godown would have seen fit to make a fish that burned like candles, Pjtor thought. “Is the absence of Frankonians good or bad?”
“I would call it good, imperial majesty, because it gives us time to prepare and to learn. And perhaps, if I dare to venture imperial majesty, it could be a sign that Frankonia has decided to drop her so-called claims to NovRodi.”
Green, Geert, and Pjtor all made rude noises. “Possibly, imperial majesty, but not likely. Laurence created an army in order to use it. François has built up the navy and will use it. Perhaps against the Sea Republics again, which is what they are preparing for, but also possibly against you. He might try both.” Green looked to Fielders.
From his stool Geert made a complicated hand motion. “As you say, General, Admiral, imperial majesty, possible but he would have to act against eight city-states, each reinforcing, and against NovRodi. Now, if he intends to capture merchant ships, then yes, he could attack both in the same sea lanes, but that would be an error. All merchants now have teeth, sharp teeth.”
“And that would invite the Easterners to attack him because of their treaties with the Sea Republics,” Pjtor reminded them. “Granted, Princess Elizabeth and her husband have gone to Godown, but their students cannot be that incompetent. And the Sea Republic generals studied under her as well.”
“Imperial majesty, I suspect something simple, like prolonged bad sailing weather, is keeping the Frankonians away for the moment,” Geert said. “Steady wind from the west or south would pen them into the main ports and slow things even without a storm like that last one we, ahem, enjoyed.”
“An excellent point.” The last storm had tossed waves over the walls of the port-fort at one point, and left fish in the main square of New Rodi, to the amazement of passersby and the intense joy of every cat in the city. Pjtor would prefer Godown steered the rest of those away from the coast. “So, in addition to various plans for the season, I wanted to show you this.” Pjtor move
d what had appeared to be a stray page of something else off the chart, revealing a new port.
“What?”
“Imperial majesty, where did that come from?”
“Is it Lander? Or one of Godown’s miracles?”
“So that’s what Broislov was gloating about,” Lord Mandrovic said, round face animated. “Your pardon, imperial master, but I’d wondered what he kept going on about.”
“He’d best stop gloating or it may vanish once more,” Pjtor snapped. He still had trouble believing what the storms had revealed. “But yes. Basilius?”
“Imperial majesty. My lord, sirs, what you see is the long lost Lander port, or at least a bit of it. Why it vanished I will not presume to speculate, but during the St. Basil’s storm some fishermen got caught at sea. They could not make it to the estuary, and Godown in His mercy directed them to this place. They found a safe harbor and good water, and signs of Lander construction, including the remains of a very long breakwater, at least a kilometer long, that runs under this peninsula or perhaps spit is a better word, since it is so narrow.”
Everyone studied the chart. As Basilius said, north of the port, the coast ran almost due north-south, with the spit also following the line of the shore. But inland of the spit, the shore cut back hard to the west, then curved more gradually back to the southeast, forming a large inlet and long, relatively wide natural harbor. Although it was not entirely as Godown had made it, because under the spit—a long wall of some kind, possibly Lander, possibly like that odd wall to the south that emerged from the half-circle hill. Inshore someone had marked a site for a settlement and full port, with the name “Basilton.” Pjtor preferred Port St. Basil, but would confer with Staadtfather Robert about that in a few weeks. The fishermen had found a small stream of good water, trees, pseudo-deer and no sign of settlement. Pjtor wanted a city there yesterday, but agreed with Broislov that they needed to wait until the Frankonian threat had weakened or been turned back at the very least.