by Alma Boykin
The ship took in sail as they drew close to the cove, preparing to turn. “The wind is backing, imperial master,” the helmsman observed.
“Aye. We may overnight more than once.” So what? He had no pressing business to attend to. Young Pjtor had narrowed his choices down to two girls, both acceptable to his father. Now, if he would just stop dithering, pick one, get betrothed and sire a child! Pjtor looked up and sighed. “No, that’s not how you do it!” He reached into the rigging and climbed up to the main spar on the main mast. “Like this,” he grabbed the reef point and tied it properly. “Keep water out, don’t make a pouch to hold water in.”
“Yes, sir.” The sailor ducked and did the next ones correctly. Pjtor checked the ties that he could see and all were properly done. He descended to the dark-painted deck once more. Sometimes you have to do it yourself. Like making furniture, including the new campaign table that replaced the glorified kindling pile that he’d broken.
Great Cat bucked and heeled a little as she turned across the wind, then settled down and entered the cove before the wind turned too much against her. Godown willing, the wind would shift to the south the next day. As it was, he smelled wind from landward and looked up, frowning as the clouds crossed each other. Hmm, that’s not good. Confused winds mean confused seas. Well, he still had no place to be besides his ship. He returned to his cabin to take a nap.
The motion of the ship at anchor woke him, as did a commotion from outside. “Damn it, they’re letting the wind blow them too close to the shoal.”
“Why’d they leave that much sail up?”
“Can any of them swim?”
“If they don’t shift over, they’re going to learn. It’s only six meters there, and not far from land. If they can swim.”
Huh? Pjtor blinked awake. Someone going onto the shoal? He pulled on trousers and a jacket and went on deck.
Heavy grey clouds made the sky look as if it touched the ground around the cove, and the wind had shifted out of the southwest, gusting and swirling over the cliffs on the south side of the cove. A small troop boat, the kind that carried twenty or so men, was trying to get in to the small river and up to the fort, but seemed too close to the shallows. Indeed, as Pjtor and the other men watched, it ran aground on the shoal. “My glass,” he ordered, and a servant handed him his distance watcher. What were they doing? Or not doing, as it turned out. The sailors visible on deck were trying to do something, but the others appeared to be milling around, or kneeling in prayer, and generally getting in the way. Pjtor looked at the problem, the skies, and the wind, and closed the distance viewer. “Launch the small boat and pull them off the shoal,” he ordered.
“Yes, imperial master.”
Pjtor returned to his cabin and had some tea. When he emerged again, the ship’s boat had returned. “Imperial master, we can’t get a rope to them.”
“What?” That was impossible. All they had to do was toss a line to the other boat and pull.
The boat’s man raised his hand as if giving testimony. “On my oath, imperial master, they won’t come to the point of the bow because none of them can swim. They’re terrified, praying to Godown, and the ship sounds like she’s scraping. One of the men said they were taking on water.”
“Take me over there.” Pjtor scrambled down the rope ladder to the bobbing, oared boat. He watched it rise and fall with the waves, counted two and stepped in as it rose, then balanced as it descended again. The six oarsmen strained, and the helm pushed them away from Great Cat. Pjtor got a tow rope ready. It’s not that deep according to the charts, only two meters, and about a hundred-fifty meters from shore. So they could not swim. That didn’t stop a man from grabbing a tossed rope and looping it onto the bow-post. The oar boat came closer and he could hear the men in the transport yelling, and the sound of the waves slapping the hull and the rocks of the shore. He stood, carefully, and tossed the rope. The first time, the wind blew it too far to the side. He pulled it in and tried again, aiming upwind more. It hit the bow but no one grabbed for it and it slithered into the water with a little splash.
“Blast it.” Pjtor crouched, took off his shoes and socks, then stepped off the side of the boat into water so cold it sucked the air out of his lungs. The water brushed his chin but he had solid footing.
“Imperial master!” Pjtor ignored the protest from the oar boat and walked along the shoal to the transport, pulling the rope. Faces and hands appeared over the side.
“Damn it, take the rope and put it on the bow post,” he yelled up at them. An arm appeared and a man leaned down, taking the wet, rough, heavy rope and pulling it up, then looping it around the post. Blessed Toni the water’s cold! He tugged on the rope, pulled harder, and put his weight on it. It remained fast. Pjtor turned around and called “Row!” He pulled as well, the water not quite chin deep on him. The transport shifted a little.
Splash!
Splash splash! “Holy G-g-godown it’s cold,” a voice gasped from behind him. Pjtor looked and saw that three of the men, all tall and strong looking, had dropped into the water from the transport.
“On three, pull,” he ordered, moving farther up the rope toward the oar boat. “One, two, three!” They heaved and he felt the transport moving. Two more men splashed into the water and took places on the rope, and they pulled again. This time the transport moved a goodly ways, and they pulled again, this time steadily, like pulling a wagon out of mud. Just before Pjtor ran out of sandy mud under his feet, the transport seemed to lurch and move with the wave, or so the rope said. He heard cheering behind him. “Keep towing,” he ordered, starting to swim. The others clambered back into their transport and he kept pace with the oar boat. His hands had gone numb. His teeth chattered from the cold, but he kept swimming until the transport was well into the channel and on its way to a safe mooring.
The sailors pulled Pjtor back into the oar boat. The cheers of Great Cat’s crew carried over the water and Pjtor waved, then sat, exhausted. As soon as he reached Great Cat four servants rushed him into his cabin, dried him with heavy towels and blankets, and give him dry and warm clothes, along with hot tea and hot wine. The shaking stopped but he still felt drained. And elated. Heh. Let’s see my son or another man do that. He’d saved at least twenty men and the ship from the waves.
He felt tired the next day, and the cough returned as they sailed back north to New Rodi. By the time they arrived, he’d begun to chill again. He started walking from the Great Cat up the long dock to where his carriage waited. The world spun and he staggered. His chest felt tight and he could not breathe. A faint voice called, “Imperial master? Imperial master!” The wood of the dock was cold and gritty under his hands, and the distance seemed to stretch. Under his hands? Why could he feel wood under his hands? Why was the world swaying?
Someone moved him into the carriage, and he fought for air, trying to breathe. He needed to cough, and managed to, then wheezed, too tired. Cold, he was so cold. Breathing took all his attention, and he thought he heard a woman’s voice, and felt someone carrying him, or was he walking? He couldn’t tell. Opening his eyes made it worse and he concentrated on inhaling, then exhaling, then inhaling again. A nasty sharp smell made him cough, and it helped for a moment. “No, prop him up,” Alsice commanded. “More fire, now. You, bring the blankets, you, get tea and the churigon.” The voices faded in and out and he focused on breathing.
“Love, my husband, my lord, please drink.” What? What’s that? What is drink? he felt something touching dry lips and he opened his mouth. Something warm and meaty but with a foul aftertaste touched his tongue. “This is healing medicine to give you strength. Drink, please,” she begged. He did not need strength, he was Pjtor Adamson, Godown’s anointed. Pjtor drank, but it exhausted him and he struggled to breathe. The air grew hot and wet. The wet helped and he coughed, clearing a bit of his chest. He had no strength left and let sleep steal him away.
He smelled incense and heard prayers. He choked, coughing, and someone helped h
im cough, if that made sense. He drank hot things, shaking with chills, wet again from getting in the water. Strange creatures passed through his chamber, purple horses and a fat beesolow with spines like a prickle-back. A seawolf with flaming teeth and a black and orange hide swam past, singing something rude. Pjtor laughed, then began coughing again, fighting for air, fighting to get free. Someone held him down and he struggled. No! They could not touch him—he was the emperor! His strength gave out and the seawolf laughed and blew pink bubbles.
Someone wiped his face with a cool, wet cloth. He waited, then opened his eyes. The ships and clouds on the ceiling bobbed, then returned to their proper places. He tried to lift one hand and almost managed it. He had no power in his arm. Pjtor blinked and looked. No, it was still attached, and as he watched, the fingers moved when he told them to. But he could not lift his hand more than a fraction of a hair off the blanket.
“Drink, please, my lord husband,” Alsice whispered. With her help he drank, a thick not exactly soup thing. “Adam, go tell the others that his fever has broken.”
“Thanks be to Godown!” his second son called, then ran out of the room, or so it sounded. Pjtor did not turn his head to see.
Alsice rested her head on his chest, her eyes closed. She looked grey, wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, her hair escaping its braids. “Thank you Godown,” she whispered.
“How? What?”
She didn’t move. “The winter cough, my lord. You’ve been hallucinating for five days. All the children are here, as are some of the court. The churigons and priests . . . you scared us, my lord.”
He wanted to answer but needed to sleep. So he did.
When he woke again, it was because someone was cleaning him. Ashamed of his weakness, he pretended to be asleep until they finished and he heard the door close. He heard another storm outside, and opened his eyes to lamplight.
“My lord father?” He turned his head. Klara curtsied and a churigon and two servants bowed. “Food, my lord father.” She got out of the way. He drank more thick soup and drank tea and chokofee with cream.
“You are excused from the fast until the spring, great imperial master,” the churigon said. Klara, now sitting beside the bed, nodded her agreement. “Staadtfather Robert sent permission.”
He drank more tea. “How long?”
“Total, imperial master, over a week and a half,” the churigon said. “Your lady is resting. You need food and drink, but not strong drink, imperial master, to recover your strength. The winter cough is not lightly shaken off.”
I cannot argue with your assessment. Pjtor managed more soup before sleeping. But when he woke he could move his arms and legs, and sit up with a little help. Even better, he could use a bed pan unassisted. He allowed a servant to shave him, just this once, and felt better. But the face in the little mirror was not his. Someone thin and old looked back at him. I was sick. Very sick. I owe a large number of prayers and liturgies to Godown and what is that saint the easterners pray to for healing? Misha? No, I think I’ll stay with Godown and St. Issa. It seemed as if all he did was eat and sleep, but Pjtor ate more and dozed off again.
Soon he could leave the bed, but not far. He ordered the windows opened to air the room and that sea smell gave him energy, for a few minutes at least. He ate real food and napped in his chair. Using a proper night-soil box seemed to be a triumph greater than defeating the Harriers. Pjtor slept again, content.
He woke in sunlight, hungry. He ate, then closed his eyes for a little. He heard slippers on the floor, and crying. Crying? Pjtor opened his eyes. Little Toni rested her head on the side of the bed, weeping. He touched her soft black hair under her little lace cap. “What’s wrong, child?”
She sniffed. “The priests say Mama’s dying. She can’t breathe and she’s too tired to get well even when I asked her. They won’t let me visit her to give her this.” She held up a floppy thing Pjtor recognized as a toy lagom. “Jumper makes me feel better and he will make her feel better but they won’t let me in.”
Pjtor pointed at the manservant standing by the door. “Where is my lady?”
“Imperial Master, gracious lord, your pardon.” He dropped to one knee, head bowed. “She, ah, her imperial ladyship is ill. Shortly after you began to recover she collapsed with exhaustion that became the winter cough. The churigon ordered us not to inform you yet, until you recovered your strength.” The man glanced up, then looked down again as he mumbled, “The younger my imperial master sent word for Master Fielders to come, now that you are out of danger.”
No! Not Alsice, please Godown, not Alsice, please, he begged as he struggled out of the bed. “A coat,” he snarled. Instead the servants helped him dress properly. He leaned on his walking stick, breathing carefully, and started to the door, Toni close behind with her lagom. The door opened and flustered servants and service-slaves hurried to get out of the way. “Where?” he demanded of one.
The woman pointed. As she did, he saw Geert Fielders coming up the hallway. Geert’s eyes went wide and he rushed to grab Pjtor and support him, protocol be damned. “Pjtor Adamson, where are you going?”
“To my wife. She’s sick. Either help me or go.”
Geert fell in beside Pjtor, not touching him but ready to if needed. Toni darted around her father and pointed to a cross hall. The men turned and Pjtor smelled incense and sickness. The combination took him back to Isaac’s deathbed, and to his mother’s chamber in Muskava. “No,” he whispered, “Not again, please.” Not Alsice, please. He needed her. “Open the door,” he ordered.
“Ah, imperial—”
Pjtor raised his hand to strike the man. The door opened. Toni rushed through, and Geert stepped back, giving Pjtor room. He staggered, but recovered and walked in, shuddering at the horribly familiar smells of illness and incense, of a room closed too long with too many people inside. Alsice lay in bed, coughing, sweat drenched. “My lord father!” Young Pjtor knocked the small chair over trying to get out of the way. Pjtor ignored him, eyes locked on his wife’s face. Their daughter tucked the stuffed lagom under Alsice’s hand.
“I brought Jumper so you’ll feel better, mother,” the little girl said. Pjtor rested a hand on her head again. “Why isn’t she looking at me, honored father?”
He swallowed around something in his throat. “She is very tired. I’m sure Jumper makes her feel better.” He turned. “Pjtor,” and he pointed down.
The boy nodded and came over, taking his half-sister’s hand and murmuring something to her. She shook her head so hard she slapped both men’s legs with her braids, then relented and let Young Pjtor guide her out, leaving the lagom behind. Pjtor knelt beside the bed and took a clammy hand between his. She looked like one of the dead, too many dead. “Alsice, don’t leave me.”
No response.
“Alsice, stay, please.” Pjtor whispered. “Godown, please send her back, please.” He’d never begged, not since Grigory and Sara had ordered Alyx killed in front of him and Isaac thirty and more years ago. “Please, Alsice, don’t die.” Tears ran down his face. “Please.”
The fingers in his moved. He rubbed them as she coughed. A maid hurried to prop her up and Pjtor helped, lifting her even though his arms shook from the effort. Alsice coughed, then coughed more, bringing up phlegm. “Thanks be its clear again,” the maid whispered as she wiped his wife’s face and the front of her sleeping robe. Once she breathed easily, Pjtor lowered her back into the pillows.
The fingers moved again, as if trying to hold his. Pjtor took her hand in both of his. Please Godown may she live, please.
“My.” Had he heard her speak? Pjtor leaned closer from where he knelt beside the bed. “My lord.”
“I’m here. Don’t die, please, Alsice, please do not die.” He got to his feet, then sat on the bed and pulled her against him.
“I’ll.” She breathed in and out, in and out. “Try.”
Try is not enough, live. Promise me, Alsice, promise me. Please, please, Godown I beg you, let her li
ve, please. He said nothing, only holding her against him and pleading with Godown.
“Son.”
What?
“Son. Want son, Young Pjtor.” She coughed again and he held her.
“Get Pjtor,” he ordered the maids.
The priest who had been sitting in the corner spoke at last. “My lord, Alsice needs time to contemplate the state of her soul. It is better if you leave.”
Pjtor drew himself up without releasing his wife. “If anyone on Colplatschki is in Godown’s favor, it is my wife. She wishes to speak to my son. She shall do so.”
“Not yours, ours.” Pjtor bent and saw that her eyes were open. “Our son.”
What do you mean? Is she seeing things? Has the fever addled her mind? He squeezed her and felt bone under flesh, no softness at all. Before he could ask, a gangly shape appeared in the doorway and Pjtor waved the boy in.
Son and father stared at each other from opposite sides of the bed. “Peace, please,” Alsice gasped. “My lord,” she worked to breathe, sweat pouring down her face. “My lord, forgive please.”
Pjtor studied Tamsin’s son, his son, looking in his eyes. Not Tamsin’s eyes any more, he realized with a start, but the eyes of a man, his own man. They were red, as if Young Pjtor had also been weeping, or had stayed awake for too long. “I forgive you, Pjtor.”
“Son,” Alsice whispered. The boy, no, young man bent to hear. “Forgive father. Please.”
Pjtor watched his son, their son, struggling. At last he extended his hand. “I forgive you, my lord Father. You tried to do what was right, did what was right, and I didn’t understand. I do, now.”
Do you? Please Godown I hope so. Pjtor held the words to himself and took the sweaty hand. Young Pjtor took Alsice’s free hand and the three were one.