by Alma Boykin
He’d only learned of the meeting when Leo stormed into their small townhouse, slamming the door open and all but flattening his own valet. “Damn the greedy bloodsuckers to the deepest hells,” he snarled. “What more do they want from me? The rajtan’s golden crown and all the gold on Colplatschki?”
Well, they probably wouldn’t say no if you offered it to them, Matthew thought, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood; this wasn’t the time to mouth off. Only after Leo took off his hat and hurled it into a corner, then threw himself into a heavy chair, did his younger brother venture, “The council went poorly, I take it, my lord.”
“No, it was a model of congeniality and good will,” came the sarcastic reply. “Master Jaros expressed his disappointment that we failed to provide the Council with an appropriate portion of the goods obtained over the course of our travels.”
Matthew felt his eyes bugging out. What? Half the gold and a quarter of everything else, plus not having their caravans robbed or their farmers burned out and massacred isn’t enough? “Well, that’s ungrateful,” he agreed.
“And he, and Master Madau, further stated that we,” Leo pointed to Matthew, then back at himself, “have not shown the Oligarchs sufficient gratitude and respect for their efforts when we were younger.”
“That’s horse droppings!” Matthew caught himself before he said anything worse, in case the walls had ears. “I see, my lord.”
After brooding for a few minutes, Leo heaved his muscular bulk out of the chair. “I believe that a visit to my lands is in order. It would be good to see how harvest is progressing.”
Now, not quite a year later, Matthew realized that Leo’s meeting with the Oligarchs had been the beginning of the end. The brothers had left Morloke City a few days later, taking the bulk of the remaining Turkowi loot with them to Marteen. They’d spent the winter there with Klaus, Roth, and a few other soldiers, planning for the next summer’s campaigns and singeing the fingers of the Duke of Tivolia when he sent two batches of troops to “liberate” part of the harvest. Matthew’s careful inquiries failed to secure the purchase of a mistress, but Leo had started considering marriage, now that he had a reputation and gold. Looking back, Matthew wondered if that was what had pushed the Oligarchs to act: the prospect of Leo making a marriage alliance and producing an heir. Or perhaps not. Greed alone would have sufficed.
When they returned to Morloke City the next spring, a cool reception awaited them. Leo informed the Council of his intention to return to the south, in case the Turkowi had failed to take the previous year’s hint, and had signed a division and contract page with them—a contract the Oligarchs presented to him. When Matthew found out, after the fact, he almost stormed out of Morloke City to go fight on his own. You called me an idiot and yet you sign over four-fifths of any spoils? To be paid to the council before we pay our men? All Leo would say was, “Master Jaros has a most lovely daughter.” After a brief, heated, discussion, Leo informed his younger brother that Matthew needed to remain in Marteen, to keep Duke Mischa’s hands off the territory. That Matthew would not get any share of the summer’s spoils went without saying. Fuming, Matthew had agreed rather than risk alienating his older brother.
As a military expedition, the summer’s venture proved successful in that Count Leopold and his men beat off a small Turkowi incursion and no caravans suffered attack. As a cash-producing venture, the results failed to satisfy anyone. “We won’t make an enormous income, like last year, but we covered all our expenses,” Leo explained.
Something seemed off to Matthew. Not with his brother, no, but with the numbers the account keeper presented. That evening he made himself chew through the pages of valuations and expenses, trying to find what felt wrong. At last, as the candle stub guttered, he realized the problem. He wanted to go charging down the hall and shake Leo awake to demand an answer, but decided against it. Leo remained larger, meaner, and better trained than he was. Instead Matthew waited until after Leo had eaten breakfast the next day and was well into his third cup of chokofee. “My lord, my memory may be faulty, but what share of your earnings did you agree to pay the Council?”
“Four-fifths, in exchange for an expanded line of credit and other things.”
“Is that gross or net?”
Leo glowered at him. “What do you mean gross or net?”
“Before you pay all the bills or after, my lord.”
“Doesn’t matter. We got enough to cover everything.” He waved off Matthew’s protest before his brother could even inhale. “I’m going to pay them today, so don’t worry. Just get ready to return to Marteen. I see no reason to stay here a moment longer than I have to.”
Matthew could well imagine how the meeting had gone. Worries about the encounter had nibbled at him all that morning, skittering around his mind like mice and the little grain-eating lizards that infested poorly made barns and maize-cotes. He expected Leo to come storming in, enraged at the Oligarchs again, or to have someone from the Council appear to inform him that he had to vacate because the merchants were taking the house as payment for what Leo failed to deliver. Instead, men of the city guard had found him behind the house, in the stable, looking over one of the pack mules. “Matthew Charles Malatesta, you are under arrest for theft of goods of a value over five hundred thalers,” the guard captain had announced.
Two black eyes later, along with more bruises than he’d had in a long time and a ripped shirt, the guards threw him into a cell in the cellars of the municipal hall, beside his brother. “What happened?”
Leo shook his head, pointing to the door. “Greedy, lying, bastards,” he mouthed. Not long after, they’d hauled Leo out, leaving Matthew to guess what had happened. You couldn’t keep your temper after finding out that you’d broken the contract, could you?
Worse than that, it proved. “Your ungrateful excuse for a brother not only broke our contract, one he had agreed to in full and signed in front of witnesses, but he dared to attack Master Tibor Jaros,” Damian Cevasco gloated.
That Matthew could fully believe. “After Master Jaros goaded him or before?” Matthew asked warily.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is he committed treason as well a breaking our contract. Think on that, bastard’s whelp,” and the cell door had slammed shut.
Oh, how I thought on that, Matthew recalled as the fire died, both inside his heart and on the makeshift fireplace in the half-cave. Two days later he’d learned of the fatal clause in their father’s agreement with Master Cevasco, one that had been written to keep the Count of Morloke from turning on the Oligarchs, but that—crucially—lacked names or limiting dates. Should the count ever attack one of the Council unprovoked, the life of one of his sons would be forfeit. Leo was now count, and he had no sons, so it was his own life at stake. Why didn’t our father see the hole? Why didn’t he realize that this could happen? Because only Godown could see the future, and because only someone as wily as Master Lucan Astai or Damian Cevasco would devise a contract like that and keep it around for future use. And Leopold Anthony had charged headlong into the trap, one neither brother had ever known existed.
Not me, Matthew had sworn when he learned of the death sentence. You’ll pay for this, which means I have to live. He’d swallowed his fear and pride, forcing himself to act as if he accepted the Council’s decision. Master Cevasco had explained that given his youth and that he had neither signed the summer’s contract nor had he been part of the troop that went south, the Council had agreed to spare Matthew provided he remained in Morloke City and under their control until the next campaign season. He’d agreed, of course, lying through his teeth and promising to stay within five kilometers of the walls.
The next day, a week after their arrest, the Oligarchs had hung his brother from the hoist pole of the largest storage barn in Morloke City, and forced Matthew to watch. His mind shied away from the memory, especially since they’d deliberately botched it, Matthew knew in his bones. Instead of a broken neck, strangulatio
n killed his brother. Matthew cried at the memory despite himself as he remembered Leo, eyes bulging, twisting and fighting at the end of the black rope. They’d forced Matthew to wait for another half hour after his brother stopped moving before they let him go. Master Cevasco later informed him that Leo’s body rested in an unmarked grave, “but in the churchyard, never fear.”
For the next weeks Matthew played his part to the hilt. He wore only a single mourning ribbon and no other signs of his loss. He listened attentively to Master Cevasco and the others, trying to absorb their wisdom and orders, or so he hoped that they thought. He didn’t complain when the Oligarchs’ Council stripped him of everything but the books and two horses his father and grandfather had left. That’s because Leo and I had already hidden the gold, Godown grant him peace. They assumed we’d spent it, like any foolish young man would. Slowly the older men relaxed their watch on Matthew Malatesta. They’d dismissed all the soldiers, even Lt. Klaus, so why worry about an impoverished, friendless fifteen-year-old?
Matthew had bided his time, pretending not to care when they intercepted the taxes from Marteen and added them to the Council’s own treasury. Instead he planned and packed, carefully, only the oldest of the books and only a few at a time. He trained by himself, fighting shadows under the eyes of the city guard and never making any effort to flee. Matthew did spend more time at St. Kiara’s, though, praying both for clarity and for Godown to have mercy on his brother’s soul. He wanted to pray for the ground to open and swallow the Council, but didn’t quite dare. Slowly, as summer ripened into fall and fall tapered into the first warnings of winter, the Council and the hired keepers relaxed their guard on him.
A long Council session and harvest celebration the night before, combined with the first heavy rain of winter, encouraged laziness in all but one. Matthew dressed as he always did and nodded to the sleepy servant who gave him some chokofee. He went out to check on the horses, as he did every day. To his mild surprise, the Oligarchs seemed to have no interest in the valuable horses. This time he saddled Red, put a small packsaddle on Socks, and loaded the books and clothes he’d slowly smuggled into the stables and had hidden in the back of the now-full hayloft. He draped Socks’s load with old sacks, as if he just wanted to protect the tack. Help me, holy Godown, please. Then he mounted Red and rode out, leading the other horse.
“Where are you going?” The gate guard demanded, then ruined his fierce expression by yawning.
“To the riding paddock by the milepost oak,” Matthew had said with perfect honesty. “I want to practice some maneuvers while the ground’s soft. It’s been a while,” he mock-confessed.
“Hmpf.” But the guard let him out. True to his word, Matthew stopped at the paddock and warmed Red up while Socks dozed in the cool damp. After waiting to see if anyone had followed him, Matthew dismounted and dug down into the rain-softened earth with his knife until he found the rock that covered the jar holding the Sarmas gold. He stuffed the gold into his pockets and Socks’s saddle pouches before reburying the jar, to help hide the hole. He mounted again and rode a little more in the paddock. Then Matthew untied Socks from the hitching post and fled as fast as the horses could go up the trade road, first west, then north. As soon as possible, he left the road for a trail that angled northeast.
And now he lurked somewhere near the border between Morloke and the Eastern Empire. Matthew said his prayers and let himself doze off.
Sunlight, the first in a week or more, woke him. He stretched, watered the horses, loaded them once more, and after making completely certain that the remains of his fire were out, he rode down the hill and into the unknown.
“Nice horse,” a well-dressed, older man said, looking at Red. The man had dark hair, thick lips, and jowls.
“Thank you.” Matthew continued his inspection of the saddle. He’d loaded the books on Red, intending to ride Socks, but something about the saddle didn’t seem right. He tugged on the girth and felt it shift more than usual toward the rear of the saddle. “Oh, bugger.” He tipped the heavy saddle on end and discovered the tear in the leather. A rough spot where the wooden tree met the leather had worn the cowhide thin, and the skirt had hidden the problem until now. “Well, at least it’s fixable,” he grumbled, returning the tack to the ground and standing up.
The other man began studying Socks. “He’s whole?” he nodded at the stud.
Duh. With a neck that thick? “Yes, he is.” He needed to find a leather worker here in Evesdale who dealt in riding gear. I don’t want to spend the coin, but I don’t want to break my neck, either.
A boy of about ten or eleven came up beside the stranger. “We have everything, my lord father,” he reported. “And Captain Andrews says he has news about the Turkowi in the Donau Novi Valley.”
That put both Matthew and the other man on alert. Matthew whistled. “Damn, that’s late in the season for them to be on the move,” he blurted without thinking.
“It is, unless they are heading south like they should be,” the stranger agreed. “And you seem a little young to be worried about things like that.”
“Or to have horses this good,” the boy said, sounding suspicious.
Before Matthew could reply, the older man clouted the boy in the ear, hard enough to sting but not to cause injury. “Keep a proper tongue in your head, Thomas Misha von Starland.”
Matthew looked away to hide his grin at the loud gulp and quiet, “Yes, father.” Then his grin vanished and he turned around. “Your pardon, but are you related to His Grace Duke Donald von Starland?”
The man grinned. “I am Don Starland. And these are very good horses.”
“My grandfather, Duke Edmund Ironhand left them to me.”
Starland blanched. He looked again at the brands on the horses’ left flanks and the pattern worked into Matthew’s tack. “You are a Malatesta, aren’t you? One of Edmund Sarmas’s grandsons through his daughter Alice Kiara.”
“Yes. The only surviving Malatesta grandson, Your Grace.”
“The Turkowi?”
Matthew shook his head. “Politics, Your Grace.”
Starland looked from Matthew to Thomas and back. “Have you come to make a claim on my house?”
What in St. Basil’s name is he talking about? Just ignore it. You need to get that girth replaced. “No, Your Grace. I’m trying to get to Vindobona.”
“Interesting.” Starland seemed to be weighing something. “If you can wait for two weeks, you can ride with my people.”
Matthew shook his head a little. “No, thank you, Your Grace. Unless there’s trouble on the road, I need to be on my way after I get my saddle repaired.” He looked around the market, trying to recall where he’d seen the harness maker’s sign. Was it back up the main road, or over by St. Basil-Pastor?
“Ho, nice horses! Where’d these come from, then?” a too-hearty voice called. A big man in brown clothes sauntered up and slapped Socks hard on the rump, spooking him. Matthew bit back a curse and grabbed the stud’s headstall, trying to settle him before he broke loose or kicked someone. “Answer me, boy. I’m the market’s beast master. These look too good for Evesdale.”
“They are his, Pedro,” Don Starland’s cold voice informed the big man.
Pedro whipped around and tugged his forelock a little. “Are they, Yer Grace?”
“Yes, they are. I know the brand from riding with Edmund Ironhand in Tivolia.” Starland senior stalked up until he stood just beside Matthew and rested one hand on his shoulder. “He’s joining me when I go to court.”
“Oh.” The big man seemed to consider things for a bit, then tugged his forelock again and went to harass someone else.
“I won’t say ignore him, young man, but feel free to call his bluff,” the nobleman said, removing his hand. “But after those comments of his, you’d better plan on riding with me.”
The boy, Thomas, bounced a little. “Oh good! I’m so tired of seeing the same people every day.”
Don looked up a little as if
asking for patience, and Matthew coughed to cover a smile at the youngster’s eagerness. “You said you need a leather worker?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Girth’s tearing. Probably from that descent from the hills.”
“Thomas, watch this gentleman’s horses. If Capt. Andrews comes looking, tell him I’m on an errand,” Don ordered. “Come with me.” Matthew shrugged and heaved the saddle onto his shoulder, following the duke across the market, between two buildings, and into a leather shop. “They’ll take care of you.”
An hour later, a rather bemused Matthew rode east from Evesdale, following Duke Don Sarmas, Captain Mark Andrews, and a few others back to Starheart. “What is your name, anyway?” Don had asked once they cleared the town’s walls.
“Matthew Charles Malatesta, Your Grace.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Thomas demanded.
Matthew stared at Socks’s ears until he got his grief under control. “No, not anymore.”
“Thomas Misha, that’s more than enough,” Don snapped as Capt. Andrews scolded, “Lord Thomas, that’s a rude question to ask your father’s guest.”
“Sorry.”
Don stared straight ahead. “I don’t care what your mother says, you are going to bed without your supper tonight. And tomorrow if you don’t start acting like a young man instead of a pigherd.”
Matthew winced at the duke’s comparison. That’s going to leave a mark. Ouch.
Thomas slumped in his horse’s saddle and didn’t say another word until they stopped to water their horses and stretch their legs.
Matthew took advantage of the ride to inquire, “Your Grace, Captain, pardon my curiosity, but what do you know of the Turkowi’s movements?” I don’t care if they’ve burned Morloke to the ground, but I need to find a way to return and protect Marteen if the heretics are this far north.