by Alma Boykin
Matthew shrugged. “Lucky them. Maybe their farmers won’t buy it.”
“Or the so-called emperor thinks his shit doesn’t stink,” Carl grumbled from the seat of the wagon. “His nor his jumped-up shit-digger court neither.”
Leo laughed. Matthew pretended not to hear the old man’s grumbling. Just be glad you are on your way out of Morloke City and without Master Frank droning on about everything all day. The gate guard recognized them and Master Cevasco’s wagon and waved them out into the already-warm morning. Once free of the walls, Matthew tipped his head back so he could see the sky from under his hat.
Hot and wet today he thought. White haze covered what he could see through the trees along the road, and when he looked to the side, between the trees and across the fields around the walls, thinning white mist washed to the edge of the ground. A little wind moved the leaves on the tops of the trees, but not enough to make the city banners on top of the grey and brown wall do more than shift on their poles when he twisted around in the saddle to look behind him.
“Storms and wet, and hot,” Carl confirmed with a morose sigh. “My knee says so.” Leo nodded in solemn agreement.
As long as it hits after we make the delivery. I don’t want to be around Master Cevasco if his wool gets wet. Matthew didn’t want to be around Master Cevasco at all, truth be told. He wanted to be with his father, riding and learning the ways of war, not studying bookkeeping and trade laws. But he and Leo were hostages for his father’s good behavior, whatever “good behavior” meant. Next year, after Papa comes back and I get bigger and I can show him how well I can fight, then Leo and I will be able to ride out with him and his men. After all, Leo was old enough to marry and should be fighting, not stuck in a classroom. And Matthew could already read and write and do math. What more did he need to learn?
As they rode, Matthew studied the land, imagining how he would move troops, and what he’d do if the Turkowi or the Imperials attacked. He knew from his father’s letters that you tried to keep the higher ground, and that pikes could hold off cavalry as long as no one broke rank and ran, and that if you could fool your enemy into attacking you when and where you wanted, Godown would be more likely to reward you with a victory. He wanted to talk to Leo about it, and glanced over at Carl. The sour-faced man glared back at him from under his crude straw hat, and Matthew decided against saying anything. Carl was the kind to report everything to Master Frank and Master Cevasco, or to Mistress Cevasco if the boys eyed a girl or “wasted” their few coins on sweets or beer. Mother wouldn’t mind, Matthew grumbled.
They made the delivery without incident and returned to Morloke City at a faster pace despite the sticky heat. The birds flew low above the trees lining the business road, and singing lizards droned from ponds and damp spots, sure signs of rain coming. The wind shifted this way and that, like a girl trying to decide which ribbon to buy. Carl urged the old wagon horse to a fast walk, and grumbled about late summer rains. “Ruin the crops they will, make the wheat water-heavy and nothing but marsh wheat again and that damn quinley. Wash the sweet out of the grapes, too, it will, St. Marko as my witness.”
Leo grinned at Matthew and mouthed something rude-looking. Matthew nodded. Carl wouldn’t know good from bad wine if the bottle hit him over the head and danced on the table in front of him. Mistress Cevasco and the innkeeper at the Grey Mule saw to that, or so Matthew had heard Lt. Klaus whispering to one of the guardsmen.
The white sky darkened to light grey, and the last bit of wind died. “Uh oh,” Leo groaned. “I think the rain found us.”
Carl turned in the wagon seat, looking behind, then around them. The sky grumbled, faintly, somewhere. “By St. Michael-Herdsman, we’re going to get wet, damn it all.” He crammed his hat lower on his tangled hair and hunched his shoulders. They’d gone another kilometer when the first gust of rain-wind washed up from behind them, spooking their horses and making the branches of the trees hiss and sway. “’Tis a bad sign, boys, bad indeed.” He made St. Gerald’s bridge and urged the sturdy gelding to an even faster walk.
The horse responded by trotting. I didn’t think it could do that anymore! Taken by surprise at the acceleration, Matthew and Leo caught up to the wagon after a short distance. They could just see the walls of Morloke City when the rain slammed down onto them, a steady, warm, windless rain that promised to last for hours. I hope Mistress Cevasco got everything inside, Matthew half-prayed.
She had. Inside the front hall, inside the kitchen and dining areas, inside the schoolroom, even inside the attics, where Matthew and Leo found sheets and shirts hanging from impromptu wash lines in their room. “Master Cevasco’s going to be pretty mad,” Leo observed.
He was. “Come with me,” the wide, short man demanded as soon as they finished drying off. Cevasco chased them into his office and slammed the door, making the panes of glass in the window shiver with the force of the wind from the door. “Letters. One from your father’s man and one from your uncle, now Duke Michael von Sarmas.”
Duke Michael? Oh no. “What happened to His Grace Duke—” Leo began.
“The Ironhand is getting his rewards from Godown now,” Damian snapped, muttering under his breath, “and it’s about time, too.” Louder he said, “And your father has done well, and is sending more funds for your training and education. He’ll be here in a month, weather permitting, and assuming he doesn’t die of wound fever.” The round, pock-faced merchant tossed the folded packets of papers at Leo. “Here.”
Leo caught them and passed one to Matthew. He looked at the ducal seal on the outside and felt his temper rising when he saw it had been addressed to his father, but Damian had opened it anyway. Teeth clenched, Matthew unfolded the pages of creamy, thick paper and began reading.
“To Captain Anthony Malatesta, husband of Alice Kiara Von Sarmas and servant of His Grace Edmund Ironhand, greetings,” it began. “It is with heavy heart I write to inform you and my dear sister that our father, Godown be with him, has passed into Godown’s care.” It went on to describe the burial service and to tell Matthew’s father that the old duke had died in his sleep. “By his will and testament, he left nothing but her dower portion to Alice. To your sons Leopold Anthony and Matthew Charles, His Grace left four horses and two parcels of books, in total worth fifteen gold pieces, which will be delivered by his factor in Revanaar to Morloke City. May Godown bless you and them, and give my love and prayers for healing to my sister, your wife. By my hand and seal, Basil Anthony Edmund von Sarmas, by the grace of Godown Duke of Sarmas.”
Their inheritance and their father both arrived a month later. Matthew watched, nose mashed against the classroom window’s bubbly glass, as four men lifted Count Captain Malatesta out of a carriage and carried him into the house on a cool, crisp early fall afternoon. “Leo, Leo, what’s wrong with Father?” he hissed.
Instead, Master Frank’s hand caught his shoulder and spun Matthew around, then shoved him against the wall beside the window. “You’d do better to pray for your brother and mother than worry about your father. He’s with Godown in all but name,” the tutor spat. “The fool.”
“Count Captain Anthony Malatesta is not a fool!” Leo yelled, grabbing the older man and shaking him. “You apologize for that insult.”
Matthew twisted loose from the tutor’s grip, ducking someone’s wild swing. No, Leo, don’t, not now! He knew in his bones that something terrible waited for them if Leo goaded Master Cevasco and the other Oligarchs into anger now. The younger boy lunged for his brother, dragging him away from their tutor. “Not now,” he hissed. “We are the Ironhand’s grandsons. We decide when and where we fight.” He tried to sound big and grown-up.
His older brother shook him off but didn’t go after Master Frank again. For his part Master Frank kept his distance. “Come,” Leo ordered and they went down the stairs, following the bustle to the front guest room.
No one tried to stop them as they pushed past the servants and Mistress Cevasco to reach their father
. Matthew took a deep breath and gagged. Even he knew that sweet-deadly scent—wound fever. He made St. Misha’s sign and forced himself closer to the form on the bed. “My lord father?” Leo asked.
Years later, Matthew understood his father’s pure force of will. Now he looked at a pale, gaunt relic of the big strong man he’d loved and worshipped and wondered how he could have traveled so far. His father’s black hair hung in dirty strings around a pale, thin face. Someone had draped a sheet over the man’s body, and Matthew’s eyes traced the line of an arm that stopped before the hand, and on to a leg that looked shorter than the other. “Father?” Leo asked again.
Count Anthony opened dark green eyes and gave his sons a weak smile. “I told you I’d come back to you and I kept my word,” a faint voice said. “Have you been good young men?”
“Yes, Father,” Leo gulped.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew averred, nodding so hard the room seemed to shake. He heard a commotion at the door and turned to see Damian Cevasco starting to enter the room, then stopping and spinning on one foot to bustle off up the hallway. Matthew turned back to his father.
“Good. You look well.” The dying man stopped for a moment, gathering his strength. “Leo, I need to speak with you. Matthew, if you would please excuse us.” The iron behind the polite request pushed Matthew out of the room. He bowed and tip-toed out. Servants gave him odd looks and a few tried to peer into the room. He shooed them off and for once they obeyed. That or they feared their employer’s wrath, because Cevasco came lumbering down the hall, fire snapping from his eyes.
“Your inheritance is standing outside the door. Your father had better have brought gold with him, because I’m not paying to feed those beasts.”
Matthew drew himself up and discovered that he now could see the top of Master Cevasco’s head. How dare you insult my Papa? He kept his voice low and cold, like Guard Sergeant Orrosco did when he was really, really mad. “My good Master Cevasco, Count Malatesta said he’d bring back gold, and he did. He is speaking with my brother at the moment, and once he’s spoken with me, I’m certain he will want to discuss any business matters you might have for him,” Matthew assured the increasingly surprised merchant. He kept his tone and bearing as formal as he could, as if he were speaking with his grandfather or even the Eastern Emperor. “As you know, Count Anthony Malatesta is a man of his word.”
“Yes, yes, he is,” Damian agreed, shrinking a little into himself. The door opened and Leo came out, gesturing for Matthew to enter. Matthew bowed a little to Master Cevasco and backed, then pivoted and went to kneel at his father’s side.
“I’m here, my lord father,” he told the figure on the bed.
“Good.” His father rested the stump of his wrist on Matthew’s head. “You are a man now, son. You must do a man’s duty for your mother, you and your brother both. And you must learn the art of war, because neither the Tivolians nor the Turkowi will rest quietly for much longer.”
The boy gulped. “Yes, father.”
“Good.” He heard his father breathing, heard the faint rasp under the usual sounds. “I wanted you to have Alice Kiara’s full inheritance, but I only regained half. That goes to Leopold, so I leave you all the books your uncle sent, and fifty more gold pieces. It’s all in my papers, with Lt. Klaus. Trust him as you trust Godown. And Matthew Charles, should you ever need a place of safety, Godown forbid, go to the Empire. Take your books if you can, but go to the Babenburgs. They owe your grandfather—and me—and they recognize gifts that the Oligarchs’ Council often overlooks.”
“The books and some gold, and if I have to, run to the Empire,” Matthew repeated around the rock that seemed to be filling his throat.
“Good boy. Try to keep Leopold out of trouble, if you can,” his father sighed. “He’s too much like his mother that way. She’s a wonderful woman, but Godown gave her a helping and a half of her father’s temper.”
“Yes, sir.”
The stump patted his head. “Thank you, Matthew. Now I need a word with Master Cevasco.” The iron returned to the voice and despite himself Matthew almost smiled. Someone’s going to be sorry they ever looked down on Count Anthony Malatesta.
Matthew got up, bowed deeply, and on impulse kissed his father’s arm just a little above the wrist. “I’ll get him.”
What Count Anthony and Master Cevasco discussed Matthew never knew, but judging by the suddenly improved treatment the man gave his wards, Matthew could guess. I wonder if Papa threatened to thrash Master Cevasco when he gets better? I want to see that. He imagined his father, strong and whole again, beating Master Frank and the merchant like they’d beaten the boys. Maybe he’ll make them go to bed without supper.
Four days later, Anthony Malatesta died of his injuries. “I’m amazed he lasted as long as he did,” the churigon admitted. “Most men would have died at least a month ago, even before traveling so far. He had a good churigon at the battle, whoever he was, and an iron will.”
“Like the old duke’s iron hand,” Master Cevasco grumbled. Matthew, hiding just out of sight around a bend in the hall, listened to the complaints. “Now I have to finish training the brats. At least some of the soldiers stayed around to help the city guard teach the military part, if they don’t drink themselves into the grave before the boys can learn something useful.”
If they don’t drink your wine and beer before you can, you mean, Matthew thought. A hand gripped his shoulder and he smothered a yelp of surprise. Leo pulled him into one of the workrooms.
“Right. Father’s funeral is tomorrow. Where’s Mother?”
“I don’t know, Leo. Master Cevasco wouldn’t answer my questions.”
Leo straightened up, a dark look on his face that made Matthew nervous. “I’ll find out. And then we’ll see who is the man and who the master.”
“Not now, Leo, not now,” Matthew begged. “Please, don’t make the Oligarchs mad yet. Wait until after harvest, when I’ll be of age to help you.”
Matthew made St. Michael’s sign at his brother’s cold, bitter, calculating expression. “We’ll see who is the man and who the master,” Leopold repeated. “Come harvest.”
“Come on, Red, just a little farther,” Matthew urged his horse. The bay gelding shook off the cold rain and plodded along, head low. At least the rain and bad roads slow down the Oligarch’s men, the young man thought. Please, St. Michael, please may we get through the hill without getting caught. Socks, his other horse, now laden with a few books, his clothes, and stolen rations, moved more easily through the mire. He’d never have guessed that the hills between Morloke and the Imperial lands had swamps in them, but he’d found one. Well, anything lower than the Dividing Range turned into a swamp or stream after four days of constant heavy rain, he snarled, angry at the weather and the Oligarchs both.
Damn it, he should have been on a battlefield in Tivolia or fighting the Turkowi again, not running for his life! Matthew barely ducked in time to dodge a whippy needle-leaf branch. Red scrambled for footing, then heaved himself up a small rocky lip and onto firmer ground. The goat or shahma trail ahead appeared to lead over the rim of the hills, which suited Matthew just fine. Master Madau wouldn’t expect Matthew to leave the roads, since he’d never do it himself. And Cevasco was so angry that he probably assumed that Matthew had headed west, to Sarmas or the Malatesta lands in Tivolia. Idiot. Leo was the one who acted before he thought. The memory made his heart sting and Matthew swallowed his anger and sorrow. Damn it Leo, I told you three and a half years ago not to piss off the Oligarchs! The memory of his brother dancing on the rope four meters above the ground, and of the Olgarchs’ satisfied looks, had chased Matthew north. I’ll show them.
That night he found an overhang and camped, risking a small fire so he could dry out enough to not get sick from the wet chill. Matthew made certain that Red and Socks had food and some shelter before tucking himself into the back of the half-cave. Bits of old fires and the smell of sheep suggested that other men used the dry niche on
a regular basis. Shepherds are good. Shepherds don’t talk as long as you are on your way out of their territory and leave the flocks and herds alone.
Matthew poked at the fire, feeding a few more mostly-dry sticks into the dancing yellow flames. Pitchwood burned fast and hot, making a good starting fuel, but now he wanted something slower burning. It had taken some work before he’d found much wood dry enough to burn well. He ate cold camp bread and drank some water, and finally let himself mourn. Why’d you do it, Leo? Everyone knows not to push Madau, Cevasco, and Tibor Jaros like that unless you have overwhelming force on your side or a bottomless silver store. We could be doing something useful now, but no, you idiot. And you’d be alive. Matthew shivered, hugging himself as he tried to remember the good times and to blot out his last memory of Leopold Anthony Malatesta.
After their father’s death, Leo and Matthew had continued learning and training with their father’s soldiers and the Morloke City guard. The spring following their father’s death, once both boys had passed the age of majority, they’d ridden west, into Marteen, the land the count had wrested from the Duke of Tivolia. Matthew understood at once why his father had fought so fiercely for the rich county. Fat cattle, good crops, and prosperous farmers and townsfolk boded well for his and Leo’s future, at least until Matthew could find his own estate. Well, after I re-conquer Scheel south of the Morpalo River, maybe I’ll let one of Leo’s younger sons have a little for himself, if he earns it. Matthew accepted his father’s and uncle’s decision to give most of the land and wealth to Leo. After all, dividing properties led to nothing but poverty, as everyone knew. And the farmers and townsfolk of Marteen preferred to have Count Leopold Malatesta as their governor instead of Duke Misha Tillson, as long as Leo kept taxes low and the Turkowi out.