by Alma Boykin
The losses made Pjtor blink, but then if they’d been packed together on the decks to be out of the way of the gunners, any splinters or damage would have done terrible injury. And what had that book said, that in one battle on the home world, the losers suffered over seventy-five percent losses and that had been considered average for that kind of fight? Yes, and then on Deepak’s World, there’d been another fight between some replica ships that was supposed to be mild and a quarter of the crews were injured by real damage from too-heavy blasts, even without cannonballs.
“Our losses?”
Not-Jones turned a page in the ledger. “Ah, let me,” he peered at the page. “Three hundred injured, forty-one badly, seventy-seven dead. St. Boris may not be repairable, imperial master, especially not if a sea storm comes up before her crew can get the hull damage better repaired.”
Basilius waved the bandaged arm, catching Pjtor’s eye. It looked as if he’d lost the hand and part of the lower arm. “Yes, Admiral?”
“Imperial Master, pardon my forwardness, but we have no priests with us. Could you, of your mercy, say the liturgy for the missing dead while you are with us?”
A shiver went down Pjtor’s back and he caught himself as he reached back to smooth the hairs on his neck. Dear holy Godown, no priests? How did that happen? I will speak with the church council about this. He hummed a few notes of the “Invocation of Godown of the Stars” so he would not forget, then said, “Yes. I’ll stay overnight, and will say the liturgy at sundown. Call the ships together, as much as possible.” He trusted his memory, plus he had a prompt book on board Imperial Sea because he never knew, after that incident at Three Rivers, when he might have to lead a liturgy. He could not consecrate the elements of bread and oil, but he could do everything else short of granting private absolution.
And so it was that as the crimson ball of the sun touched the far western edge of the world, Pjtor stood on the crown-deck of Imperial Pjtor, facing the rest of his small fleet and their prizes. He’d made certain that the word had passed to all, and what he could see of the other ships showed people crowding the decks and well up into the rigging. I hope no one tries to do the bows and prostrations from up there a strange bit of his mind whispered. He took a deep breath, made Godown’s sign, and sang, “Blessed be God-down.”
A ragged chorus came back from over the water and from the men behind him, “Blessed be God-down.”
“Blessed is Godown and all His works, praise His name.”
“Prais-ed be Godown.”
“Let us give thanks to Godown.”
“It is right and out duty to give praise to God-down our creator.”
“It is right and our bounden duty every and always to give praise to Godown, maker of the sea and stars, who separated the worlds from the stars in the endless deeps and called it good.” Pjtor took a quick, deep breath and continued, “Godown, lord of all stars and worlds, of seas and dry lands, hear our prayers for those who have gone from us and who are no mo-ore.”
“Godown hear our prayers,” the company replied.
The first stars had begun to dot the sky and the sun was a memory by the time Pjtor finished the liturgy. It was one of the longer of the non-feast liturgies, including lists of battles otherwise long forgotten and saints Pjtor had never heard of, plus a form of St. Michael that left the church scholars as puzzled as anyone. It was also one of the few “new” liturgies composed since the Great Fires, dating to the Harriers and the time when people could not spare even a few minutes to try to bring the bodies of the fallen back for proper burial. Priests also offered it for captives believed killed and “those known but to Godown.” He’d never thought about the line concerning “the day when the sea shall give up her dead,” but it suddenly made terrible sense. It did not refer to people washed downstream in floods, but to those who died in battle or in storms. What was that hymn he’d heard a bit of in New Dalfa? The one with the strange—Oh yes! “Eternal Godown strong to save/Whose hand has touched the flowing wave,/ who tells the stormy wind to cease/ and ocean depths their bounds to keep./ Hear us as we call to thee/for those in peril on the sea.” That’s it, the one that supposedly came from the homeworld.
After he finished, he wondered what the Frankonians thought. Well it did not matter, did it? Or perhaps it did. Barbarians did not offer prayers for the unknown dead. Which led to the problem of what to do with the prisoners. Pjtor returned to Imperial Sea and lay in his bunk in his cabin, thinking about the possibilities. The sailors could be offered slots in his navy if they were willing to give up any oaths they’d sworn to François III or his grandfather. The soldiers likewise, although Pjtor had some doubts about the wisdom of that. Returning them to Frankonia on a ship from one of the city-states of the Thumb might be better, assuming he could find one that would take them. That was the understanding between land combatants in the east, and seemed like it would work in this case. Although since he was the aggrieved party, maybe he should keep them, use them as a crew on that rowing ship he’d considered? That was a thought.
The settlers, however, posed a different problem. He needed people and Pjtor wondered if he should see about the western lords taking them, using them as service-slaves on the land. They’d be far from any contact with Frankonians, and he was not killing them out of hand, which was another option. But would putting them to work strengthen any Frankonian claim to NovRodi, since technically there would be Frankonian settlers on the ground? What does it matter? No one recognizes Frankonia’s claim, and they might as well be all dead under the laws of NovRodi. And if the Harriers carry some off, since the Harriers are allies of the Turklavi who might be Turkowi, and Frankonia has helped the Turkowi, it would serve them right. A little voice nagged Pjtor, though, and he rolled onto his side, jamming the pillow harder under his stiff neck. The people, civilian settlers, were not Laurence V or François III, and what the kings did the people might not agree with. Should he punish them for their overlord’s folly? Why not? he could not find a good reason either way, and decided to sleep and worry about it tomorrow. The soft motions of the ship made sleep easy.
The next day Pjtor returned to the new inlet and land, with the fleet following a day behind, slowed by the ships under tow. As much as it pained him, Pjtor decided that St. Boris would have to be scrapped. She’d sprung more leaks overnight, and while she could make it to the inlet, he did not think she’d live to return to New Rodi. Instead he’d keep the Frankonian ships that were worth keeping, repair and refit them for his use.
He’d also decided what to do about the invaders. Any who insisted on returning to Frankonia would be shipped back on Sea Republic ships, a few per ship so they couldn’t do anything stupid. Those who chose to stay would swear allegiance to him and be sent west as service-slaves under five or ten year terms depending on what skills they had. Families would stay together, but the Frankonians would be scattered between several different holdings and villages so they could not work together against him. That seemed to be the best solution. And if François tried to claim that it was evidence of Frankonian land claims, Pjtor would point out that prisoners of war had always been resettled when possible, since shipping them back in leaking and dismasted ships was to cruel even for the Turkowi. Only because they probably have not thought of it themselves, if what I’ve heard is true.
Once ashore Pjtor wrote out his orders, including a note to the church council about the need for sea-going priests in the future. He could not allow his men to die without consolation and pardon if at all possible. He sipped a little pfeach brandy, leaned back in his chair, and considered the world.
It was good. Not perfect, because then his son would be obedient, a sailor, and married, but good.
“Imperial Master, we have nothing.”
Pjtor blinked at the archivists and church scholars gathered in the lesser receiving chamber in the palace at New Rodi. “Nothing? Nothing in all the archives and books?”
Father Boris and Master Polikarpf both shook th
eir heads. The priest explained, “Nothing like this has happened in the civilized lands, and there are no laws or precedent in church teachings for the treatment of such people. For those who convert from unbelief, yes, but not believing captives who are not soldiers.”
“The same is true in the books of law and history, either of NovRodi or those from the foreigners, imperial master. No one has attempted what François III did, imperial master, or at least not that was recorded in what we have access to.”
Which tells me it never succeeded if anyone did it, and so no one bothered to make notes since everyone had died or been killed. Pjtor leaned back a little in the great silvered and gilded chair, resting his hands on the snarling cat head and guide-fish carved in the ends of the arms. “Very well. Thank you for your work.” He smiled. “Since this is new, I shall set the pattern for others to follow.” For once NovRodi is not catching up with the easterners. How delightful! “Staadtfather Robert agrees that unless François III sends payment to redeem his people, it is within my rights and within Godown’s laws for them to work off their debt. So they shall.” He’d already decided and set the process into motion, but having support from the church helped.
He dismissed the men of books and waited, fingers tracing the fine carvings on his throne. The cat for the mountains and the guide fish for the sea, NovRodi controlled both and he controlled NovRodi, by Godown’s will. Pjtor allowed himself to savor the moment again, even as icy rain pounded the windows and the wind moaned around the building. The harvest had been disappointing, but enough surplus from the previous year remained to see the people in the north over through to spring. And the first grain form the southern lands had arrived, gracing the altar of Godown of the Seas for the liturgy of Godown’s blessing.
Bang, bang, bang, a servant in blue and brown uniform banged a large staff against the floor three times. “The men of the settlers request an interview of your mercy, imperial master.”
He’d summoned them. “They may enter my presence.” Pjtor remained seated as four soldiers of his personal guard, men almost as tall as he was, entered first, followed by a dozen of the surviving settlers. When two failed to kneel on their own, the soldiers saw that they did so. Pjtor watched and waited, observing the men and one woman. She claimed to represent all the women, something Pjtor doubted. Several of the Frankonian wenches had already taken NovRodi husbands, or been taken as wives by his men. After letting the quiet last as long as he had patience for, Pjtor said, “It has been decided. You will go south and west, to the new lands on the edge of the great western plain.”
The oldest-looking man, with grey hair and hands twisted by joint rocks, protested, “Imperial majesty, we are free men and women, promised land here. We paid passage and have land right.”
“If this were Frankonia, that might be true. If we lived before the Great Fires, it might be true. But neither of those are true. You came to NovRodi as invaders. I am permitting you to work off your debt. After the end of your contract, should you desire to stay and take up lands within NovRodi, you may do so, Godown willing. Otherwise you may return to this city and purchase passage back to Frankonia or elsewhere. That is the contract.”
“Can we claim the land we work, um, imperial majesty?” The question came from one of the younger men.
“If your lord permits it. It may also be that you decide to go elsewhere to take up a holding.” Or that your contract is sold away from the frontier, although not for two years. I need you bent to my will and trained in our ways before you are permitted in more civilized areas.
The woman spoke up, glaring at Pjtor. “What is this about women not having land right and law right?” One of the soldiers moved to punish her for her disrespect but Pjtor waved him off.
“You will find that life for women is far harder in NovRodi than in the east. Because you are under the protection of your husband, brother, father, or lord, your rights come under theirs with certain exceptions. You do not have to concern yourself with fighting or defense, aside from the homefold and that only in truly dire circumstances. All are equal in the eyes of Godown, but the law is for this world, not for Godown’s paradise. And I suspect, once you speak with the women of the frontier, you will understand most clearly why this is so.” Although, if she did not by now, she likely never would.
His eldest son had dared to suggest letting the Frankonians live by their own laws, if the lords permitted it. Pjtor had not struck him, but the wall of ice between them grew thicker. The boy would not learn! Godown turn him to the right path before I have to disinherit him and send him into exile. Except François had made that dangerous as well, damn him. Pjtor did not want to have to execute his son for stupidity.
The Frankonian woman started to protest but the others shushed her. They remembered what had happened the last time, when Pjtor had been forced to punish one of their number of disrespect. The young man had recovered but apparently his mind never quite returned from where it had gone. “You have seen copies of your contracts and understand them?”
“Yes, imperial majesty,” the oldest man said. “We do not agree, but we understand the contracts.”
“Then you may go. As soon as the weather clears, you will leave for the south, so you can find your places in time for spring and the planting and work season. Godown be with you.” They rose, bowed, and shuffled out, not happy. He did not care. He had more important matters to attend to.
The storm cleared the next day and he went down to the shipyard. The autumn storm seemed to have done no damage, and he inspected several projects under construction, including the work to convert the Frankonian vessels for NovRodi use. “I can see why they are not considered a great sea power,” Geert Fielders observed as the two men looked at some of the material that had been removed. “I could do better, and I’m not trained as you are, Pjtor Adamson.”
Pjtor picked up the offending section of deck planking and twisted it. The wood creaked, then shattered. “And I suspect that the shipwrights lined their own pockets nicely. Perhaps I should send some bits back to their former owner with a note that he needs to have his shipyard audited.” He smiled at Geert, who chuckled.
“I suspect, my lord, their former owner will not be as appreciative of your concerns as he should be. That should have been at least two centimeters thicker.”
“Well, it explains why the deck gave way under the gun.” Pjtor shook his head. “Master Van Daam would beg permission from Godown to return to this world just so he could beat my head with his walking staff if I tried something that stupid. No wonder the ships leak.” Without strong enough ribs and decking, they flexed and bent in high seas, loosening the caulking and hull planks and allowing water in. And to collapse under a twelve-kilo cannon? He snorted again. “If the rest of Frankonia is run like the shipyards, I can see why no one desired overmuch to return.”
“Hmm.” Geert said no more. He and Pjtor had collided on that topic and neither would change their minds. Pjtor tolerated the difference, coming from a foreigner as it did. Pjtor led the way to the next dock, detouring to check on Swift One in her snug shed, safe for the winter. He stroked her deck, caressing the marks his tools had left under the paint and clear finishes. The mast and boom, unstepped, lay on metal hooks on the wall, and the sail had been packed away in a large, cedar-lined metal box to keep the meez out. Geert thumped the top of the chest. “A silver piece says the meez find a way in, just to irritate you, Pjtor Adamson.”
“A silver says they do not.” The men had made the wager every winter for the past fifteen, and at the moment Pjtor was ahead thirteen to two.
Something in Pjtor’s chest fussed and he coughed, the coughed again. “I should have stayed away from the tar pots,” he complained. The miasma was making his chest feel tight.
“Two words will cure that, my lord.”
“Oh?” Cough cough.
“Onion plaster.”
Pjtor took a breath and nothing happened. He inhaled more deeply and nothing caught or bothere
d him. “Indeed, it works all too well.” After a few minutes of watching the men work, Pjtor said, “I’m going out tomorrow, weather permitting, in Great Cat. Care to come?”
Geert considered the invitation as they walked. He’d suffered a spell that summer that left his right arm and hand weak. “Thank you, my lord, but I believe I will have to decline. Anne’s ‘possible’ is coming over to ask for permission to court.”
“And you need to inspect him?”
“No, my lord, to protect him from my lady, I do believe. I heard flying pottery yesterday afternoon just after Anne gave her mother the word.”
Anne is a touch young, but then courting takes longer than betrothal. And any man who takes Margit Fielders on as a mother-in-law deserves to know what he’s in for. She was a wonderful woman and Pjtor still preferred Alsice.
“Shall I send guards to assist you?”
Geert laughed, as he was supposed to. “No, my lord, I do not believe that is necessary. I still remember how to use a gaff hook.”
“But so does Mistress Fielders.”
“Point, my lord.”
Great Cat sang as she cut through the waves. The wind had freshened since they left the main harbor and the sails and rigging whistled as they cut the chilly air. Pjtor laughed, relishing the spray and the sound and the motion of the ship. She was a large boat, really, with two masts and a crew of thirty-five. The bright green sails stood full as the brisk wind from the north chased the ship along the coast. Pjtor wanted to go to the new fort and mirror tower being built at Cut Cove, a snug, fair-weather put-in for smaller ships. The shoals and sandbars made it a bit tricky unless the helmsman knew the area well, meaning any foreign ship that tried to land would likely run aground and founder, leading to trouble. A ship from A’Asterdee had almost been caught the year before, but anchored just far enough out in the cove that they didn’t have any trouble. Great Cat could just get in and out, at least at the moment, assuming the shoals had not moved. It would be easier at high tide, of course, but Pjtor wanted to sail now, while the weather remained good. Good for northern waters after the fall shift of the sun, he allowed, still smiling at the spray and the song of the wind in the rigging.