by Alma Boykin
Ann gave her a look of complete shock. “Lazlo Destefani? Quill would… no. Absolutely not.”
“Quill’s not here, you work well together, and you are both of age. Besides, isn’t that what happens in all those books I’m not supposed to have read?”
“Only if he’s the heir of a noble family in disguise. I didn’t read those books either,” Ann snapped.
Elizabeth shrugged. I tried. And you, Aquila Starland, are a twit. Diplomatic and more generous than most in your position, but still a twit. “The Empire is different from Frankonia.”
“And there is no way to fit a larger physic garden within the walls,” Ann declared.
“True.” Elizabeth looked over at the sunlight on the floor. We’ve been here how long? No wonder I feel stiff. “And there’s an overweight mule that needs exercise.” And I think you are reading far too much into Lewis of Babenburg’s behavior. But forewarned is forearmed, no matter his intentions.
“Thanks be to Godown, giver of all that is good,” the priest concluded, ending the longest pre-meal prayer Elizabeth could remember hearing outside of a house of religion. The smell of roast meat wafting through the harvest home crowd made the benediction seem even longer. But they’d gotten everything in or under cover before the first cold, wet storm of autumn could ruin the grain. One man had been injured when the head flew off his mowing partner’s scythe, cutting the man’s shin clear to the bone, and two children suffered scalds after they pulled a pot of boiling water off a table as their mother stepped out to help toss empty grain sacks into a wagon. Elizabeth offered a prayer of thanks, thinking, Unless a nut tree falls on someone, this might be the safest harvest I’ve read about, Godown willing.
In fact, nuts might be a good peace offering to take over the river. Before the river rose again and flooded the wetland forests, the Donatello harvesters needed to go in and beat for nuts. For some reason, things on the manor came in fours: four varieties of apples, four types of berries, and four kinds of nut trees grew well on the property. Groundnuts did not count, since they were really beans, or so the cooks and farmers claimed. Of the tree nuts, Elizabeth preferred the rich paperleaf kind, but she’d eat the others if offered: especially if they were offered in sweet pastry or garnishing roasted meats.
“My lady?” Axel’s worried voice spooked her out of fleece gathering. She needed to make an official speech of some kind before people could eat. She’s already decided to be brief.
“Thank you for your hard work. Godown has indeed been generous,” she told the crowd. “Let us show our thanks to Him by enjoying His bounty.” With that, Lazlo helped her out of the empty wagon, the signal for everyone to relax and start serving the food.
She circulated among the more prosperous farmers and their families, spoke to the men who’d gone to Malfel with her, nodded to the tenant farmers, laborers, and others, and then got out of the way. Elizabeth knew not to allow familiarity. It made other people uncomfortable, especially those who remembered that she had life-or-death authority over their husbands, brothers, and sons. Rather than sitting at one of the tables, she found a shady place where the breeze blew the worst of the dust, flies, and smoke away. One of the washerwomen brought her a plate, and Elizabeth sampled everything. No one seemed deterred by the toughness of the ox, and it did not take long for the piles of meat to disappear. The bones had already been cracked, roasted, and turned into broth. Not a hair of the old beast had been wasted: a thrift Elizabeth approved of.
Elizabeth, Ann, and a few others departed when a group of amateur musicians began playing dance tunes. She caught a glimpse of Lazlo bowing to a giggling young woman, one of Axel’s eligible daughters. It’s not fair. He looks so good in black. Why did she have to be the one who could not wear any color well? Well, she was as Godown made her, and perhaps it was to save her from the sin of unwarranted pride and false vanity. “Did anyone from the Peilov family reply to our invitation?”
“Not that I saw,” Ann told her. “Their manager sent a note thanking us for the harvest help, but Count Peilov has not replied.”
“He’s probably still unhappy about the bridge.”
Ann started to speak, caught herself, and looked up at the shining white clouds drifting overhead. “It is quite possible, my lady.”
Elizabeth decided to ignore Peilov’s possible slight. There was nothing to be gained by not building a proverbial as well as literal bridge between Donatello Bend and Peilovna. St. Gerald-Bridgebuilder was her patron, after all.
Once back at the manor house she pulled out the fine paper reserved for special correspondence and wrote a formal letter to his lordship Count Peilov, thanking him for his efforts at rebuilding the Donatello bridge and inquiring if there might be a date when she could bring him and his lady a token of her gratitude. He’d remarried the previous year, after Maria and Jan’s mother died of complications following a late childbirth. She’d been fifty, too old to bear safely, or so Elizabeth thought. Rumor had it that the older Countess Peilov had also suffered multiple miscarriages over the years. As the ink dried, Elizabeth wondered how Lander women had coped with pregnancy. Perhaps their medical technology had allowed them to have large families easily. Well, things changed and improved, she kept telling herself, including the relations with the neighbors.
An answer to her letter arrived not long after the first snow; a light dusting that vanished into the still-warm soil and drove the shahma flock down from the highlands and back to Donatello Bend. This year the herders cut eight over-age shahma out of the flock, to be fattened until the first good, multi-day freeze. Elizabeth decided that she no longer needed to be at the manor for the slaughter and initial packing, should the day for her visit to Peilovna coincide with butcher weather. She and Master Kim had decided what spices to try on the sausage this year, and that they’d use the same process on the hams as before. She made a note on her calendar and returned to reading about irregular warfare and the best way to fight against it.
On the appointed day she walked into the courtyard to find Snowy and the oldest of the Greyland cross mules waiting for her. She liked the looks of the three-year-old mule. The molly’s legs seemed big for her compact body, but Elizabeth preferred her mules with thick legs. The molly’s medium brown coat, almost the exact shade of Donatello dirt, faded front and rear, giving the molly a nice mealy nose and pale-brown tail. Elizabeth double-checked the straps and rope holding the two large sacks of assorted nuts to the packsaddle. The last thing she wanted to do was gall a young mule, teaching it to fear the packs. Snowy regarded the youngster with disdain. “No fear, Master Snowy,” Arnold Sims assured him, “you’re still your mistress’s favorite.”
“And how could he not be?” She asked, smiling as she rechecked Snowy’s tack, especially the crupper. She hated sliding onto his neck going down the manor hill. “Any problems with the molly?”
“No, my lady. She’s teething, but she’s quiet and used to being led. This will be good practice, especially the ford.” Simms held Snowy as Elizabeth mounted and arranged her skirts to her satisfaction. “Good travels, my lady.” He handed her the reins and the lead rope, which she tied in a slip-loop to the horn on her saddle.
“Thank you.” The air held a touch of frost in it despite the bright sun, warning that the golden days of autumn were coming to an end. Elizabeth nudged Snowy and he set off, the molly following. Both animals seemed eager to be in motion and it was with difficulty that Elizabeth held Snowy down to a brisk walk. “Sorry boy, can’t have you dragging your cousin over hill and dale,” she reminded him. They passed fields of stubble and once or twice she smelled meat smoking. Half the leaves had already fallen and more fluttered and danced on the morning breeze. The molly snorted but did not spook.
Elizabeth anticipated trouble at the ford. She stopped at the top of the bank, letting both animals look at the river and the bank on the other side. It was hard to imagine that this same river had devoured the bridge not six months before. Now the river flowed only k
nee-deep on the mules, another warning of winter’s rapid approach. Elizabeth walked Snowy down to the edge of the water and stopped again. He took a drink and the molly did as well. Elizabeth loosened the slip-loop, in case the molly bolted or froze. Then she ordered, “Walk on.” Snowy clopped into the water and after a hesitation the molly followed, snorting but game. Once on the other side and well away from the water, Elizabeth called, “Good mule! Very good mule,” and pulled the molly’s rope, drawing her up beside Snowy. Elizabeth leaned over and scratched the molly’s crest, then patted her neck.
Two kilometers farther along the road, Elizabeth encountered an escort. At first she did not recognize Maria’s brother, Jan, as he trotted his horse up to her. She’d never seen him dressed all in black, or wearing bits of decorative armor. The molly snorted, drawing close to Snowy as the stranger horse with a fluttering saddlecloth stopped in front of them. “Well met, Miss Elizabeth,” the slender man called, looking down from his Oberland stud.
“Good morning, Lord Jan,” she replied. If he wanted to be rude, she’d not lower herself to his level. “I’ve come to thank his lordship for his rapid work restoring the Donatello Bridge.”
“Indeed? It looks as if you come to trade,” and he pointed to the bulging sacks on the pack mule.
“It is a rude guest who does not bring a gift in thanks for the master’s hospitality.”
“Which makes such a thing even more surprising,” he snapped, hauling the stallion’s head around. “Come.” Jan kicked the poor beast into a canter.
Elizabeth refused to play the game. Snowy and the molly trotted along behind Jan, not bothering even to try and keep him in sight. It was not as if they could get lost. In fact, Elizabeth had shaken her head when she’d first seen a map of Peilovna. The road ran in a nearly straight line from the bridge to the main residence, only curving twice to avoid hills. The direct route seemed un-prudent to Elizabeth, but she’d shrugged. Only if she had to defend the road would it be of concern to her. And then she’d have more pressing worries than a straight road. Jan stopped, allowing the two mules to catch up, and sneered down at Elizabeth. She did not like the pink tint to the foam around his mount’s bit. What kind of a bit are you using? That horse seems too well trained to need a harsh bit. Unless you are scared of him? And if you are scared of him, why are you riding him? Her opinion of Lord Jan Peilov dropped two more notches.
He stayed with her the rest of the way, giving her a running description of the wonders of Peilovna, the age and prestige of the lands, the wealth of his family and their pedigree, and going at length into the fecundity of their livestock. Godown save me from being trapped in a reception room with this man. I hope his wife has more patience than I do, or worse hearing. She nodded, made interested noises at the right places, and ignored the innuendo about “rutting rams.” Instead she made note of the old defenses and of which farmsteads had good, stout protective walls.
Just before midmorning they reached Crownpoint. The name of the fortress predated even the Babenburgs, but the fortress itself dated to after the Great Fires. By now she knew the distinctive rough look of post-Fire construction well and nodded to herself. Crownpoint must have been the one hill that the Landers had not built upon, preferring the flat ground beyond the prominent dome for their settlement. She also noted that instead of gray stone such as used at Starheart and Donatello Bend, black rock topped with a wooden roof surrounded Crownpoint’s residence.
Jan jabbed his spurs into his horse, hauled back on the reins, and forced the beast to rear. Elizabeth’s fingers twitched and her hand moved to her saddlebag, reaching for the pistols that she’d left back at the Bend. You miserable brute! That beast is worth a hundred thalers at least and you’re ruining him. Godown grant that you never come under my command and do that, or I’ll have you bridled and spurred.
Elizabeth stroked Snowy’s neck before resuming her walk up Crownpoint Hill. The fortifications shared the same basic design with many post-Fire sites, boasting a curving approach road, offset inner gates, and murder holes inside the gateways. Times must have been terrible for the survivors to put so much effort and materials into building forts instead of raising food, she mused. Or had the fort builders defeated the food growers? She’d read that the Meenonights, the people responsible for bringing Terran and other livestock and some crops to Colplatshki, had vanished not long after the last of the great planting machines failed. Either way, the Peilov family had held Crownpoint for almost three hundred years.
Elizabeth rode into a garden. Someone had trained fruit trees up the interior wall of the fortress. A meter-deep bed of plants, some decorative, some medicinal, others edible, extended from the base of the wall below the trees. “No, you can’t eat those,” she warned Snowy; turning him so he couldn’t see the lush growth of his favorite sweet grass. “You either,” she added, in case the molly picked up Snowy’s habits. Behind them, she heard the clatter of boots on stone as Jan jumped down from his horse. She looked around and spotted a mounting block. She dismounted with care, keeping one hand on her skirts so they wouldn’t flutter or flap and spook the molly.
“Well met, Lady Sarmas,” a thin voice called. She turned to see a man in his late fifties or early sixties, brown hair shot with gray, limping across the courtyard.
Before she could reply, a groom appeared beside her and reached for Snowy’s reins. “Don’t,” she warned, beginning the familiar routine. “He bites and kicks. This is the first time the molly has been off Donatello Bend. Be very careful. I’m not responsible if Snowy draws blood.”
“You should be,” Jan sniffed. “Your people should have trained the beast better. And you shouldn’t ride it around if it can’t be made to behave, Miss Sarmas.”
“Nor should a horse be ridden with a severe bit if its mouth bleeds so easily, my lord.”
“What?” The limping man glared at Jan. “Is Neger injured?”
“Oh, no, my lord father, nothing of the sort. The lady mistakes berry juice for blood.” Jan took a step back before his father could shove him out of the way. Count Peilov got close enough to the stud to see the bloody foam around the horse’s mouth before spinning around and rushing as best he could back to Jan, shaking his fist.
“You will ruin Neger! I told you twice never to use anything more than a mild snaffle bit, you careless fool.” Jan retreated as the man hissed, “What were you doing with him in the first place? I told you to take Coco. She needs exercise.”
“I, I just wanted to show Sarmas the best Peilovna has, my lord father.” The young man’s bluster turned into a whine that made Elizabeth want to put her fingers in her ears. “I don’t know what happened. I rode him gently. He spooked at the mules, just before we started up the hill, father. It’s not my fault.”
She turned back to the mules, supervising the servants unloading the sacks of nuts. The older man said something, a whine followed, and then she heard two meaty splats, like a hand striking flesh. Several loud sniffs and the sound of boots on stone came from behind her and she forced herself not to look, or to smile. Limping steps drew closer and she turned again. “My lord,” she curtsied.
Count Peilov extended his hand, raising her. “Welcome to Peilovna and Crownpoint, Lady Sarmas. How was your journey?”
“It has gone very well, my lord.”
He smiled. “Good. What have we here?”
“The first fruits of the Donatello Bend nut harvest, my lord. A token of thanks for your assistance with reconstructing the bridge,” and she smiled as one of the men tried to lift the heavy sack and staggered.
“Take those to the kitchen,” he ordered the servant. “That’s very generous of you, Lady Sarmas, and much appreciated. Christiana brought her family’s secret nut recipes as part of her dower.” Peilov stayed well clear of Snowy, but gave the molly a close inspection. “This is one of Archduke Lewis’s mules?”
“Yes, your grace. She’s by a Schulter jack out of a Greyland mare. So far the combination is promising, but the anim
als are young.”
“Indeed.” He stepped back, studying the brown mule’s conformation. “Leg-heavy but not bad.” After the two mules had been led off to the hitching area he gestured for Elizabeth to come with him. “This way, Sarmas.” She followed him through a side-door, glad to stretch her legs after riding for three hours almost without pause.
The wooden floors and dark paneling gave the keep a warm, snug feeling, Elizabeth decided. The count waved at a set of closed, brass-strapped wooden doors. “The main entrance and reception hall. In late fall and late spring it gets cleaned and the floors scrubbed. Tile and stone, all very dignified and boot-proof, but the light color shows everything. The stone is sandy, making things worse. Every generation we threaten to rip them out and replace them, and every generation we have more pressing matters.”
“I understand that the ducal palace of Sarmas has been rebuilt three times, my lord. One story claims that my great, great, great-grandfather took down the lightning poles in hopes of another fire, because he so detested some of the additions made after the last one.”
Peilov laughed, a weak wheeze. “That is supposed to have happened to a bake house here.” They’d reached the end of the hallway and Elizabeth wondered if they faced what had once been an outer wall. The door seemed very heavy. A tall manservant standing beside the door gripped the black metal handle with two hands and pulled back with all his weight. Elizabeth, expecting a squall of stiff hinges, heard only the sound of the servant’s steps. Peilov continued through the doorway and into a brightly lit passage, very much like the glass hall in Starheart. He waved towards the windows in the wall. “Once upon a time the wall held more glass, all the way to the floor, and no defensive wall beyond, so people could see the forest and hills. Then Godown sent the Fires.”