Golden Summer (Colplatschki Chronicles Book 10)

by Alma Boykin

  “If I might venture an idea, imperial majesty,” Geert said, rubbing under his nose.

  “Yes?”

  “I suspect that the mouth of the inlet seemed to be closed when people sailed past earlier, and that the storm scoured it clear, or clear enough to sail in. Once that starts, or so the old harbor masters say, then the tides and rivers will open the bar the rest of the way. Likewise if a storm closes it enough, then more and more sand and dirt collect and the harbor disappears again. I have not seen such a thing for myself, but I did not venture away from charted lands, imperial majesty.”

  “How so ever it happened, we now have it, and we can use it, if Godown grants us a way. I have given orders for Broislov to begin a village at the mouth of the stream and to survey for a port. And to build a mirror tower.”

  Talk shifted to other topics and the meeting passed smoothly. Now that he no longer had to deal with the nobles’ council aside for hearing petitions and minor matters, Pjtor could govern so much more easily. Oh, he kept them so the old men had something to do and so he could remind them of their place, but they no longer governed as they once thought they had. Those lords who had skills served him on their lands or in his government, leading ministries and answering to him alone. It required more attention on his part some days, but things happened so much faster than they had in Sara’s time, or in his father’s day, if the records were correct. And why not? He’d driven the Harriers out, he’d created a fleet, he’d done all the work to pull NovRodi together and into the world. He and Godown.

  But first Pjtor needed to go to Muskava, and to the convent of St. Annie and Godown of the Plains, a new house south of Muskava on land claimed by the imperial family as their own. As he rode into the old city, Pjtor remembered why he hated it so. The walls closed him in, trapping him with the people and the nobles. It felt crowded and dangerous without room to move or breathe. The sense grew worse as the crowds thickened, people lining the road, bowing and holding up pictures of the saints to bless him. He’d already sent word that he would hear petitions the following day, so at least no one rushed out of the mass of people to grab his stirrup and plead for aid.

  He found the palace as he had left it, full of old men and old memories. The ceilings felt lower than before, or was that just him? Probably just me, since I can still pass through the doorways without hitting my head. Nowhere else was safe, though. Was that why his son preferred Muskava? Because he felt protected and sheltered like a woman? No, he probably liked simply because his father disliked it. And because Tamsin and her family had preferred the old ways. Blood called to blood in the end, and Pjtor hoped enough of him flowed in his eldest son to dilute the taint of the mother. Not entirely tainted. Tamsin tried to do her duty, and Godown closed her womb for reasons of His own, perhaps because of her father’s error and not her own. He wondered if she were still alive. He’d forgotten about her, although Alsice always sent her a blessing on her saint’s name-day. Pjtor shrugged.

  The next day he spent five hours by water clock hearing petitions and granting them, passing them on to others better suited to deal with them, or denying them. After the last commoner left, he sagged, tired and irritated. He wanted a steam and a large meal, in that order. Pjtor heaved himself out of the throne, wincing at the creaks from the wood and from his joints. He’d sat for too long and he did not like to sit. He needed to move, to walk, to ride, to sail. He waved off the service-slaves and strode out to the private steam-house. As he’d hoped, he found hot rocks and fresh water waiting. He stripped, tossed fresh needle branches onto the rocks and poured a little water on them. Hssss steam billowed up, filling the clean wooden chamber with the smell of wet and sharp things. Pjtor relaxed, adding a bit more water to the rocks and then drinking some. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the moist heat. A faint scraping sound made him open his eyes and he saw a tray with fresh hot rocks had appeared, along with another bucket of water. Hssss.

  He stayed until he could stand the heat and wet no longer, then stepped into the cooling room and allowed the attendant on duty to rinse him clean. Pjtor dried and dressed, then cleaned the steam chamber himself. That was the duty of each user, to keep the bath clean and ready for anyone who followed. The peasants told stories of a spirit, perhaps one of Godown’s messengers, perhaps something else, who punished those who failed to do their duty. One tale Pjtor had heard involved St. Landis himself visiting a farm and finding a slatternly mistress of the place and a dirty steam house. He had cleaned the steam house, used it, cleaned it again, and left, taking the blessing of Godown away with him. Weeds and poverty had gobbled the place and the wretched woman died of hunger. Which Pjtor might do if he did not find a proper meal waiting in his quarters!

  After three more days meeting with nobles, hearing petitions and confirming matters of local interest, Pjtor and his soldiers rode farther south, to the new convent at the edge of the plains. The trees grew thinner as they rode, until at last, after three days of travel, they emerged in the true open lands. A new brick and wood complex stood as a sign of the power of Godown and His anointed ruler. A pattern of waves and stars in blue paint graced the outer walls, and the gates stood open. Pjtor stopped at the gate and dismounted. His men would camp outside the gates and had brought supplies. He could enter, because he was emperor and because he had come to witness a woman relative’s passage from the world outside to the world of Godown’s service.

  “You are certain,” Pjtor asked Strella that evening. They sat in the receiving room of the guest quarters. She’d arrived a month before, beginning her transition from the Homefold of the palace to the life of a cloistered sister. He searched her face for signs of unhappiness but could not see any.

  “Yes, my lord, I am certain. You no longer need me in the Homefold, now that Alsice has grown into her duties. And in truth, honored brother, the dispute between you and your son tears me. It should not,” she raised one white hand, stilling his protest or objection, “but it does. And Young Pjtor has said that he does not intend to keep his consort in the Homefold if she chooses otherwise. I doubt she will be as inexperienced as poor Tamsin was.”

  They both sighed. “No, she will not. The three remaining candidates are all capable of learning and will not require as much guidance and assistance as Tamsin did. Her father was cruel.”

  “Yes, he was. It is one thing to be protected and sheltered, but another thing entirely to be deprived of the knowledge and skills needed to do one’s duty, be it to the emperor or to a smaller household.” The heat in her voice reminded him of why they got along so well. “Good riddance to old Boison.” She shook a little all over. “Well, now I have something to repent for.”

  “For speaking the truth? No, I understand.” He sat quietly for a long minute. “You will not change your mind and come back to New Rodi with me?”

  “No brother. I’ve been outside, and in your court, but I need walls and order. That is where I am called to serve.”

  And I of all people am not going to change her mind. Not that I could. She’s as much a force of nature as the storm waves are when she is determined to do something, or to not do it. I remember the knife and the meat spit. She’d killed someone, of that he was certain although no one ever told him and she had not mentioned it. “Then you have my full permission and blessing, Strella Klara Nancy Svendborg. Godown guide you, and I covet your prayers.”

  “You shall have them, brother, and thank you.” They stood and embraced for the last time as brother and sister. She sniffed. “And Alsice needs to use less cedar wood when she packs your clothes. You smell like a clothes-chest.”

  “That’s because the shirt did come out of a clothes chest in Muskava, oh sister mine. Alsice has given up trying to keep my clothes in order.”

  “A wise woman indeed. I’m glad Godown sent her to you.”

  “So am I, sister mine, so am I.”

  What had come so easily in the quiet of the receiving room at night was much more difficult the next morning. Pjt
or stood behind a gate with a few other witnesses as Bishop Andre accepted Strella Klara Nancy into the sisters of St. Klara. Two of the brown-clad women raised a large piece of cloth and Pjtor heard singing, and the sound of shears. When the cloth came down, his sister now stood, barefooted and bareheaded, clad in a plain brown dress and holding a plate with her long braid on it. She approached the altar and bowed three times, then laid her braid on the altar, giving herself to Godown. Andre, with the help of two sisters, covered her cropped hair with a white and brown head cover, twisting and folding the stiff cloth just so. Strella backed up, then lay face down on the stone floor of the church as the women sang the hymn, “Hear your daughters, mighty Godown.” To his surprise Pjtor’s eyes filled with tears when the bishop sang, “As all who die in Godown rise to live in His paradise, Strella Klara Nancy Svendborg is dead. Rise, Sister Toni Klara, and take up your new life in Godown’s service.”

  A very subdued Pjtor rode south and east that afternoon. The men travelled until they could no longer see the convent, and then until they found water. That night Pjtor said the bead prayers, asking Godown to be with Sister Toni and NovRodi as they sought a new way.

  Three more weeks passed before Pjtor reached the sea. Storms and a detour around an unmapped swamp slowed his progress. But they did find a few beesolow to augment the rations, and hints of a Lander road, although Pjtor wondered. It ran straight and passed around the worst of the swamp, so he used it, whatever it was. The surface seemed to be a little of the miraculous black stuff he’d heard of, with a great deal of dirt and other material on top. Whatever it was, it helped him make up some of the lost time.

  This is a wonderful site, Pjtor thought as he looked at the scene. The water came from a spring, not the swamp, and the inlet seemed wider than the map had suggested. Much wider, but still sheltered, and several kilometers long. For an instant Pjtor considered moving New Rodi to the spot, but decided against it. It would be even harder to reach inland from here than it was from New Rodi, and this was far south of the fastest shipping routes from the Sea Republics. But he liked it, liked it very much despite the lack of trees. The fishermen had found some earth coal, which made food taste bad if you cooked directly on it, unlike wood, and could not be used for smoking fish.

  “The Frankonians are coming, imperial majesty,” Major Alyxon reported. He’d stayed in the army and now returned to Pjtor’s personal guard as a messenger and courier. “The fast spy ship brought word two days ago that at least ten ships with Frankonian colors had left the Trio Islands coming this way.”

  But were they coming toward this place or somewhere else? We need to trap them or stop them, but how? If we could lure them in here and cut them off, destroy the ships, but then if there are settlers we must deal with them. Godown give me wisdom, please. And soon.

  Damn, he wanted to be out there, he wanted to sail against the Frankonian bastard. And patience, too, please, holy Godown.

  Crack! The stiffeners holding the portable field table together gave way as Pjtor’s fist came down full force. The surface parted and the halves fell onto each other, dropping maps and markers to the floor of the command tent. The message clenched in Pjtor’s other hand crackled as he crushed it. “Blast that man,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Everyone had backed up several paces, giving him room. “Blast him.”

  The Frankonians had indeed watered and refitted in the Trio Islands. Worse, they had shifted around the ships so that the settlers and their small livestock now took up space on the warships. That was good because they’d be in the enemy’s way in a fight, slowing them. It also meant that they’d die when he sank the warships. “This is on his head, not mine.” He looked around at the anxious faces of the captains and others gathered in the tent. “François chose to put his people in danger. We will do what we can to keep from killing them, but do not shift your fire or hold back. We warned them, they insist on fighting, and it is on his head as their ruler. Is that clear?”

  A chorus of relieved, “Yes, imperial master” filled the tent. He’d sent a messenger in a fast ship, disguised as a fishing boat, to warn off the Frankonians. They’d killed the courier and tried to sink the ship, but it made better use of the wind and escaped. Pjtor dearly wanted to sail right back out and fire a cannon into the lead ship’s hull himself.

  “Keep shadowing them, and be ready to sink them as soon as the opportunity allows and Godown wills. Go.”

  They all bowed and departed, leaving him with the remains of the table and the mess. “Damn it, who made this crap?” He picked up the halves of the table before a service-slave could and flipped them upside down. The support piece had been too loose and not long enough, allowing the thing to flex and break the cross piece. “By St. Sabrina’s shimmy, I could make something better in my sleep. Blagh.” The leg joints also looked poorly fitted, even allowing for the need for portability. He could fix that with some thin bits of wood to shim in and lock the joint, and if he ran a new crosspiece and pegged it then it wouldn’t—

  He shook his head, set the pieces down and reminded himself why he was sitting between a marsh and the sea, waiting for trouble. Service-slaves removed the offending table and an orderly collected the maps and markers, moving them to a different, equally flat surface. It was a pity the bomb ships did not work well on the open sea, Pjtor thought. That would take care of the problem rather easily. Aside from having to get so close that they’d be in easy range of the enemy’s guns, of course. So, what to do?

  That is not yours to decide, he reminded himself. It is for Basilius and your captains to decide, because they are on the water. Where he wanted to be, but could not. Pjtor had to content himself with watching from the shore or close to it, on his personal ship. It only had four-kilo cannons and deck gonnes, but it was his and it was fast and nimble. And you can’t get hit by the boom, unlike his last trip on Swift One. He’d barely ducked, and had gotten brushed hard when he misread a wind shift as he rounded the end of the port-fort. The error had been embarrassing. Now he wanted to take his ship, Imperial Sea, and join the fun. No, not fun, but the action. He made himself remember the men injured and killed in the lake battle, wounded by shot and by splinters torn from the wooden hulls by Turklavi cannon balls. They had not died easily, and several lived as part men, missing arms or legs, or both, blinded, deafened, and some drowned. He preferred to forget that part of sailing, instead recalling watching the Turklavi ship burn, the slap and song of canvas in the wind and the sound of the hull pushing through the water, the guide fish swimming beside the big trading ship on his voyage to New Dalfa, the follower birds haunting the wake, and St. Issa’s fire dancing in the masts and rigging, proof that Godown had chosen to let them live through the storm.

  Pjtor would have been quite happy had Frankonia not decided to put his navy to the test. But weapons were for fighting and he would have failed Godown and his people if Pjtor did not protect them from all invaders, Harrier or otherwise. He still had trouble understanding why François III claimed that the people of NovRodi were not true followers of Godown, especially since the church in NovRodi was far closer to the original Lander practices than were the people in the east. He shook his head. Godown probably did not really find the absence of colored glass windows and the use of the gates of grace to be sufficient grounds for denying one group or the other salvation. Worshipping a female deity and making human sacrifices, on the other hand . . . Ugh. Why did they not perish in the Great Fires, hmm, if indeed tongues of flame touched the ground and burned the unfaithful as St. Mou’s followers claim? The one he’d asked about that had not come up with a good reason and had found an excuse to leave not long after.

  So, now he waited. He hated waiting.

  Two days passed and nothing came from the fleets. Pjtor inspected his soldiers, met the first of the army that had come to provide a second line of defense should the navy fail to block the Frankonians, explored, and searched the horizon, looking for hints of ship. He did not go to sea. If he did, he would
sail out to find his fleet and take command. He knew himself well enough to fight against the temptation. Instead he looked at the charts and tried to imagine how he would use the different ships and winds and if the Frankonians came like this would he try that formation or another one, and what if they had the windward, or could he cross their line, and what about? He wished Geert had come, but the overland journey would have overtaxed him, and Pjtor needed someone he could trust in New Rodi, assisting Alsice. She was, after all, a woman and needed a man to confirm her orders and recommendations.

  Late on the morning of the third day the wind shifted, coming out of the southwest and gathering strength. No one expressed much surprise when towers of storm cloud began building inland that afternoon, and the men worked to secure the tents and small structures, trenching and relocating to higher ground when necessary. First feathery, thin streamers, then sheets of white threw a veil across the sun and an occasional cold puff of wind suggested that the late afternoon might be damp and noisy. When the wind faded and died, and the sky darkened, Pjtor confirmed that everything had been tied down or otherwise stowed and ducked into his personal tent. Heavy ropes anchored it into the ground and weights kept the door flaps closed, as did ties on the inside. Too bad Alsice wasn’t here or he’d take advantage of that as well, but she wasn’t—and bedding a camp follower? No.

  Crack BOOM! The storm wind hit just as the lightning arrived, and Pjtor wondered if the horses and other animals would stay corralled. If not a lot of men would be walking and looking for livestock. His orderly ducked as rain began pounding on the outside of the waterproofed outer-layer of the tent. Pjtor rolled his eyes and went back to trying to read the report in front of him. The temperature inside the tent dropped but no water appeared to be coming in, so Pjtor continued to ignore the commotion. Godown had not granted him the power to command the storms, so why should he bother trying? BOOM! Gush. He put out the lamp and went to sleep. There would be sufficient to do come the dawn.