by Alma Boykin
The wedding and banquet went without any difficulties, aside from the usual. Ann had a little trouble with her train until Elizabeth grabbed a corner and tugged it out of the way so Ann wouldn’t trip. Father Arnold managed to remember all of Lewis’s names without too much prompting. And no one got too drunk too soon or made too many ribald remarks during the feast following the service. As always Elizabeth excused herself once the dancing started, taking Ann’s train and veils and cape-let back to the manor house with her. Since Count Peilov was dancing with the bride, Lazlo also excused himself and escorted Elizabeth up the hill.
“Well, my lady, that went well,” he observed under his breath.
“Indeed. At least so far.” She still half-expected the bower to fall over or something equally dramatic. “Perhaps things will resume their usual quiet and order.”
“Aside from barn fires, broken fences, drunken brawls, too much rain, too much sun, and wheat smut, my lady?”
“Precisely, Major Destefani. Precisely.”
4
War and Rumors of War
The warm quiet could not last, and it did not. Elizabeth sat back in her chair and rubbed her forehead, trying to rub away the headache building like a summer storm. “We’re watching the wrong border,” she told the empty room yet again. “Frankonia is not the problem, not if this is true.”
But were the rumors true? She hoped not, oh, she desperately hoped not. But they made so much horrible sense. She wanted Lazlo’s opinion but he’d gone out with Archduke Lewis to study several possible sites for the cannon foundry that Elizabeth still planned to build. “We’re too late, if this is true. This opens so many new holes in the wall.” She reread the letter from Aquila Starland, temples pounding, teeth clenched.
“Your highness, your grace, Colonel Sarmas, I’ll be brief,” he’d begun, addressing Crown Prince Imre, Lewis, and Elizabeth. “There are worrisome rumors coming from Morloke and Tivolia. The ruling duke, Michael Tillson of Tivolia, is very ill, and it seems likely he will not survive the summer. Some form of wasting diseases is supposed to be the cause. Whatever the illness is, Jan of Tivolia, formerly Jan Peilov, is already acting as regent and will inherit the ducal throne.” Which although depressing was not entirely unexpected news. No, Elizabeth growled, it was the next paragraph that chilled her marrow.
“The traveling merchants I’ve interviewed claim that Jan has converted to the worship of Selkow and that if he does not actively invite the Turkowi into the duchy, at the least he will not attempt to stop them if they come through Morloke and Tivolia to attack us. Call me a black fowl, but I am inclined to believe the rumors. More and more Turkowi goods are found in Tivolian markets, and the ferengrazzia against Tivolia have stopped completely. No warnings, no calls for conversion, no raids, nothing. That alone worries me greatly. The demand for goods made in the Empire has slowed due to a new tax on them. The taxes on goods from Sheel and Turkavia have been lifted, and those on Frankonian goods remain unchanged. Possibly because the quality is reported to be poor this year, especially in luxury goods and spices.”
Given the reduced demand for luxury goods within Frankonia, thanks to the war taxes, that makes sense. Export goods have never been of as high a quality as domestic products, Elizabeth recalled. She could not remember what specific items the Turkowi made, other than rugs and patterned weavings, and some perfumes and lotions, and artillery pieces, none of which were exactly every-day purchases in Tivolia or the Empire.
She set the letter down and thought aloud. “Even if the first rumor is just a rumor, that the duke is granting special trade status to the Turkowi is a problem. They’ve taken over Morloke in all but name, or so the refugees told Quill and Kemal Destefani. If Jan has converted, then,” She stopped, frowning and trying to remember. Could he fight against other of Selkow’s faithful? “No,” she said after a few minutes dredging her memory. “No, he can’t hinder them if they are on a religious mission or ferengrazzia. He can abstain from participating, if he can provide a good reason, but he’s not supposed to stop or redirect a ferengrazzia or missionary party.”
As much as she hated to try and think like that, if she had been in Jan’s position, his conversion, if real, made sense. Godown refused to help him regain his inheritance, but Selkow’s followers could give him assistance to gain even more than the estate at Peilovna. If Jan was satisfied with being reigning duke of Tivolia, then following Selkow meant that the Turkowi would not raid his lands so long as he paid Selkow’s Portion and stayed clear of any raids and conversion parties. Elizabeth doubted that he’d lose too much sleep over the Tivolians killed or enslaved by the Turkowi, not given his sense of self worth. After all, Selkow favored males over females. And by taking up the banner of Selkow, Jan put his brother-in-law into a more precarious position in the political games at the Imperial court. No one would doubt Quill’s integrity, but the concerned whispers about him fighting a relative, and questions of his wife’s influence over him, could poison his attempts to get the emperor and council to turn their attention to the eastern and southern borders.
So, the worst case would be if the Duke of Tivolia died and a follower of Selkow took over, threatening the southern border just as Duke Grantholm pulled most of the empire’s resourced north and west. And then what would the council do? Elizabeth’s head throbbed. “I give up.”
She tidied the office, hid Quill’s letters, and retreated to her chamber. Mina knew the routine and soon Elizabeth lay in bed, a cool compress on her forehead and eyes, a small cup of patience-root tea steeping on the low table beside her bed. Elizabeth drank the tea and fell asleep.
“Yes, it is urgent,” she heard Lazlo saying. She blinked, fighting through the sleep-cobwebs and trying to wake up.
“Let Major,” she croaked, then coughed and tried again. “Let Major Destefani in,” she told Mina as she heaved herself into a sitting position.
Lazlo came in and bowed. “My lady.”
“News?”
“Yes, my lady. His grace and I met Duke Grantholm’s messenger on the road.” He crossed the chamber and handed Elizabeth the sealed page, caressing her hand as he did.
“Thank you. See that the messenger takes refreshment and I will meet you in my office, Major.”
“Yes, my lady,” and he bowed again before leaving. Elizabeth wanted to throw herself into the mattress and cry. Instead she got up and changed into something dark and official, put on a dark blue headcover, and took the message to her office.
The missive contained good and bad news. “We’re going to the eastern border of Bergenland,” she told Lazlo. “But only with the cavalry. Grantholm says he has enough infantry and is more concerned with flying raids at the moment.” She handed him their orders.
He read them for himself and sat back in the chair. “No real surprises, my lady.”
“No.” Should she show him Quill’s letter? Yes. “Here’s the surprise.” She pulled it from the drawer and handed it to him.
The color drained from his face as he read. “That is…” his voice trailed off. He set the letter down on the desk between them before meeting her eyes. “Worrisome.”
She raised her eyebrows but only said, “Indeed.” After a few moments’ silence she added, “Logical and, in a warped way, rational, but indeed worrisome.”
“My lady, I hope the rumors are false.”
“From your mouth to Godown’s ears, Major.” She got up and pulled the leger of soldiers and supplies out of the shelf, then returned to her seat and opened the big book. “So, how soon can we be on the road northwest?” They spent the rest of the afternoon going over the logistics of a march to the Bergenlands. As they worked, Lazlo seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable.
At least he asked, “My lady, permission to speak freely?”
“Certainly.” She sat back in her chair as he got up and shut the heavy door most of the way.
He returned and flopped into his seat. “I don’t like this, Elizabeth.”
“How so? The plans or something more?”
“Something more. We’re less than a month from midsummer. This is far too late for us to be able to reach the Bergenland border in time to do anything more than escort his grace’s troops home, unless he’s planning a late campaign.”
She held her peace, waiting.
Lazlo ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, adding at last, “And there’s no campaign season in the south.”
“Oh, there is, but not like there is north of the Triangle Range, I agree. I assume Grantholm plans a late season, which puts us in a pinch for resupply. I shudder to think how many troops we’ll lose to desertion if we have to forage during harvest season. And once the winter rains start?” She spread her hands as he sighed, the gust of breath lifting some of the papers on the desk. “If I were a suspicious person, I’d wonder if someone at court suggested to his grace that they would appreciate getting some of the more forceful opponents to the western operations-focus out of easy communication range.” She doubted Grantholm would undercut Quill Starland if it meant endangering the safety of the Empire, but some of Grantholm’s allies in court suffered no such compunctions.
“And it could be that the rinderpest has stopped the usual providers of cavalry from being able to field more than a cart horse and two burros,” Lazlo snapped, the bitterness in his voice stinging Elizabeth. “You know that the Poloki have closed their northern borders to all livestock and travelers from the Northern Ocean city-states?”
“No. I’d heard that they locked out all cattle, but not that they’d closed them completely.” She felt queasy. “I do not want to take his grace’s stock into an area with rinderpest. I hear the sound of a door closing and locking behind us.”
Lazlo sat back again, propping one foot on the edge of his seat and wrapping his hands around his knee. “I hope I’m wrong, love. I dearly hope I’m wrong and that Grantholm is planning a late campaign to punish Rohan-Roi for his raids last year.”
Now they sighed in chorus. Neither believed it. She decided, “Very well. I think it would not be unwise to leave a secondary set of orders for Axel and Lieutenant, ah, Lt. Sparli. Should his grace Duke Starland need to call up the militia for an exercise.”
He got to his feet and opened the door. “I believe that would be an excellent idea, my lady. The plans you have are the ones you never need.” Lazlo walked around the desk and offered her his hand.
“Indeed.” She took his hand, stroking the back with the tips of her fingers. He put the other hand at the small of her back, steadying her as the chair scooted faster than anticipated. “Can you believe that the Landers put wheels on some of their chairs?”
“That sounds deadly, my lady, especially as conscientious as Mistress Lei is.” He released her hand and stepped well clear of her.
“Boots again?” His longsuffering sigh gave her the rest of the story. “Thank you for the warning, Major.”
“You are most welcome, my lady.”
As Lazlo organized the three hundred cavalry soldiers and their support troops, Elizabeth drew up plans for the infantry to march to Quill Starland’s aid if necessary. Hans Sparli, her infantry commander, did not like the idea at all. “My lady, if he needs us that much, it is more important for us to stay here and defend our families.”
“Sparli, if it reaches that point, it will be fifteen-hundred infantry against the entire Turkowi army, assuming you can draw on Peilovna as well. Stop them before they get here, not after they get here. By then it will be too late.”
“My lady, beggin’ your pardon, and no offense to you, but we need more officers and horses if we’re supposed to join his grace.”
Godown, give me patience, she demanded. “He has cavalry and will have a more than sufficient supply of officers, given the number of younger sons in need of experience and who are willing to serve with him. It is unlikely that our infantry will be called into anything, Hans,” she reminded him. “But if it does, here are your orders.”
The heavyset man grumbled but took the orders. At times she valued his stubborn determination, but this was not one of those times. She spent the rest of the day laboring over maps, trying to decide which route to the Bergenlands was the least worst.
Archduke Lewis walked in as she glared down at her two “best” options. She got to her feet. “Your grace.”
“Be seated.” He pulled the other chair into a position where he could look out the door if he so chose. “When are you departing?”
“Three days, unless Maj. Destefani has problems.” They kept a season’s worth of supplies stockpiled for these very occasions. The women of the manor had been making field bread since the call came, and field bread traveled far too well, in Elizabeth’s opinion.
“Good. I’m taking Ann back to Vindobona in two weeks, Godown willing. If I hear Axel bewailing the weather once more I will dunk him in the Donatello with my own hands.”
Elizabeth managed a smile. Lewis would do no such thing and they both knew it. Axel would be too hard to replace. Good farm and estate managers were worth their weight in gold and Lander antiquities. “I’ll make a note, your grace.”
“Is there something you want to tell me about?”
She’d been debating that very thing for the past day. “Not really, your grace. All the necessary preparations are underway, and I believe that matters are as in hand as is possible at the moment.”
His green eyes seemed to bore into her. “Really.”
“Really, your grace.”
“You’re not upset with me for using you to stalk Lady Ann?”
Caught totally of guard, Elizabeth spluttered a laugh. “Upset with you, your grace? Not at all. If anything I’m impressed with your skill, your grace. I had no idea what you were doing until that morning.”
“Good. I mean, good that you are not upset with me.” Lewis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “A storm is brewing.”
“You sense it too, your grace.”
He snorted, eyes still closed. “Only an oblivious fool can miss it. The situation in Tivolia, the rinderpest in the north, his majesty’s illness, something has to break loose before winter, Countess Colonel Sarmas.”
She could not argue, as much as she wished she could.
“Ann and I will see you off,” he informed her as he got to his feet. “Stay where you are,” he waved, and departed, leaving her to wonder just how bad Emperor Rudolph’s health truly was.
“Godown have mercy on us all,” she whispered.
As they rode northwest, Elizabeth thought about the oddness of her command. Not because she happened to be a woman, although at the moment, as best she knew, she remained the only female officer in any military unit. No, odd because she’d forgotten how long most units took to muster until she read Grantholm’s message. She did not have to send out recruiting sergeants, or buy weapons out of her own pocket (most of the time) or buy horses, oxen, wagons, and basic foodstuffs. The men who lived on Donatello Bend received their land in exchange for military service. Only a few parts of the Empire had such a thing, and although Elizabeth did have to recruit specialists (churigons, artillery men, some teamsters), it cost a great deal less, since the land and the loot paid the bills.
She frowned and Lazlo caught her eye, curious. She swept her stick-hand to the side before resting it and the riding stick on her thigh. “The loot question and the most recent council decision.”
“Ah yes, Colonel. Again, it would be easier in some ways if his majesty encouraged his councilors to observe or speak with, shall I say, experts in the fields under discussion?”
“That is a good term, yes.” She considered the idea. “And yes, it would make things much easier, unless someone observed and then decided we needed less X, or could make do with fewer thalers-worth of something. Like wine. Or medicinal spirits.”
“Or specialists. Because everyone knows sieges happen so seldom, and no enemy will ever come within sight of Vindobona, or Platesford, or Lvarna, or,” he hesita
ted, tapping one finger against his thigh. “Where ever the main Frankonian army is today.”
“Amsport,” she supplied. “Which once again raises the question of what sort of tutors Laurence had, that he thinks he can capture a port city without having a navy of his own.”
“And what will he gain from it?” Lazlo tipped his hat a little and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a habit Elizabeth found endearing. “The merchant princes emptied their warehouses as soon as the army crossed out of Frankonian territory.”
“Stocks of fish, for one, which is a more vital resource than you think, given that two of the last ten years have seen drought and glitterwing plagues.” She would not wish that combination on anyone, even Laurence. “And prestige, at least within Frankonia and in his own mind. He’s been king for, oh, eleven years? That sounds right. Eleven years without proving his martial glory. And remember, Major, that he’s barely older than I am.”
Lazlo thought for a while. “But he’ll still need loot, my lady.”
“Yes, he will, and I suspect we will too, after this year.” She felt Ricardo tensing and glanced over to see four cows emerging from heavy brush beside the road. “Oh joy.” Lazlo promptly dropped back, away from the black horse, as the stallion began snorting and prancing, neck arched, attention locked on the cattle. Elizabeth relaxed, calm as possible, feeling Ricardo’s back humping up under the saddle.
“Mooo!” A creamy brown cow proclaimed from beside the road.
Ricardo spooked, jumped sideways and tried to bolt. She rode through it, wishing again that she’d brought her sidesaddle instead of war and overland saddles. When the cows did nothing more than stare at him, Ricardo settled down, still nervous but not trying to run away. I do wish you’d quit that, she thought at the horse. You need all your energy and condition for battle.