Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I know how to fight off a raid, and how to ambush people, but not how to fight open battle. And the Rajatan is not going to wait much longer before he tries to swallow the rest of Scheel, and Morloke with it. That leaves Marteen next, before the Turkowi reach Tivolia and the Empire. My father and brother promised to protect the people of Marteen, and I take up that pledge.”

  The emperor nodded. “Very well. You have my permission to remain in the empire and to study in the archives. If Prince Alois wishes for you to remain his guest, you may do so, otherwise you are free to take lodgings where appropriate. You must obey the laws of Vindobona and the empire, and I will not permit you to recruit soldiers while you are a guest of my hospitality.”

  I hadn’t planned to, at least not yet. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And you will need a sponsor to introduce you to court and to our ways. Count Anthony Kossuth and his son, Lord Paul Kossuth, will see to that.”

  The man beside Matthew bowed a little. “It is our honor, Your Majesty.”

  “You still need to take your full title and duties, you know,” Michael said, a little smile on his face.

  Count Kossuth shook his head, also smiling. “And you know why I resist the temptation, Your Majesty. The next generation, perhaps.” The two men sounded as if they were continuing an old argument, like Lt. Klaus and Sgt. Roth going back and forth over who owed whom for the fight in the tavern in Amsport about the time Matthew turned eight.

  “Very well, since you refuse to see reason, Tony, you and Count Malatesta are dismissed. I expect to see both of you at the court session after the next holy day.”

  The men bowed in near unison. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Kossuth backed two steps before turning and Matthew copied him, following the older man out of the large room. They turned right and walked a little way down the busy hallway before Count Kossuth stopped and turned to look at Matthew. “I take it you can ride.”

  “Yes … sir.” Matthew looked at the sword callouses and marks on Kossuth’s hand, the slightly bent legs, and the steady gaze in the grey-green eyes. “I can fight on horseback, and I’m tolerable with a crossbow, damn good with a compound bow.”

  “And you can read and write?”

  “Of course I can. And cipher, enough to do accounts.”

  That did not impress the count, if Matthew read him correctly. “Do you read Turkowi?”

  I’m a warrior, not a scholar. This is stupid. “No.”

  Kossuth nodded, an abrupt, choppy gesture. “You need to learn their language if you want to understand how they fight and why. Once court season wraps up for winter, you’re coming to Kossuthna Major with Paul and I.” Matthew inhaled to protest and the noble cut him off with another hand gesture. “If you want to see how battles are fought, you come southeast with me. Kossuthna Major borders on Starland and the Donau Novi cut.”

  Oh. “Your pardon, sir. I was not aware of that.” I’m not a boy, I just need to learn how to run an army.

  “There’s more to managing a county than just fighting off raiders and collecting taxes, Count Malatesta. And the imperial library is a wonderful place, but it doesn’t have everything, for good reasons.” Kossuth folded his arms. “I owe Don, so I’ll take you on. But if you truly want to learn, you have to earn it. I can’t, and won’t, feed you knowledge.”

  Matthew drew himself up. He is tall, taller than I am. “Sir, if you do not want to instruct me, then please do not feel yourself bound to an undesired duty. I will find another way.” With someone who doesn’t treat me like a child.

  “I didn’t say that, Malatesta. I said I won’t put up with a pampered brat who has delusions of competence. You’re alive, so I assume you have a few basic skills to build on. From there it’s up to you. I’ll see you at the imperial archive tomorrow at the second bell following dawn worship. Good day.” Matthew stared, jaw agape, as the other man stalked off.

  I’ll show you. Matthew turned back the way he’d come, navigating his way back to the main public entrance of the palace. After a moment, he set off for St. Gerald’s cathedral. He’d almost learned the main ways around the city in the past week, but he didn’t trust his memory completely yet. Matthew navigated his way down the High Street, past the lizard fountain, now turned off for the winter (or so Prince Alois said). Matthew ignored the shops for now. He’d spent enough of his precious coin on clothes and repairing his boots and other gear. And on a tithe to Godown. Prince Alois went to the cathedral, but Matthew preferred a smaller neighborhood chapel of St.-Basil-On-Beast-Market.

  Once at the cathedral square, Matthew considered his options. He wasn’t in the mood to pray. Instead he wanted to cut a training dummy to bits. A beggar eased up to him and Matthew scowled. The man startled and skittered off, casting nervous glances over his shoulder and making St. Gerald’s bridge as he did. Good. Leave me alone. Matthew turned north, then east, until he found the archive. From there he turned back to the west, following Cloth Road to where it crossed Northgate. He walked south a little way, then west along Reader Street until he reached Palace Lane and the prince’s townhouse. Once there he let himself in, took the back steps to his room, and threw himself onto the bed, sulking.

  When the next bell rang, he changed clothes and went riding. By now the guard at the northern gate knew him on sight and they waved him out. He joined the stream of soldiers going out to the practice grounds, taking advantage of the decent weather and dry ground. Once the winter rains started, and then the snow, no one in their right mind rode for pleasure. Not that it stops us from training, Matthew grumbled. He dismounted and checked Socks’s shoes and girth, remounted, and once the field cleared, rode the jumps. He’d brought a practice sword borrowed from Prince Alois, and after checking in with the sergeant-at-arms he rode a few rounds against the practice dummies. Matthew felt much better after “killing” three “Turkowi.”

  The next morning he walked up to the door of the imperial library just as Count Kossuth arrived, with another, younger man in tow. “Good. Paul, this is Count Matthew Malatesta. Count Malatesta, my son Michael Paulus Kossuth.”

  Paul stuck out a hand. “There’s too many Michaels in Vindobona and Kossuthna, so I go by Paul.”

  Matthew shook. The elder Kossuth nodded his approval. “The Wisdom is waiting for us.” With that he led the way into the building, through a series of short passages, to a large, well-lit room full of more books than Matthew had known existed. “Wisdom Robert, I have two students for you.”

  A man with black skin and a body so round he made Matthew think of a ball on legs waddled up to them. “Welcome.” The deep voice startled both young men. “Basic logistics, my lord?”

  “Yes. Paul needs a refresher. Count Malatesta may or may not be familiar with the terms we use, so I thought it best to start with the basics.”

  I know how to feed troopers and horses, Matthew grumbled.

  When Wisdom Robert dismissed the young men five hours later, Matthew thought his head was going to explode, it felt so full of new things and new approaches to old things. Wisdom Robert had led the two young men through four thousand years of logistics, or so it felt, as well as having them read several small books and summaries of other, lost works about places and battles beyond the stars. “These are just infantry, since I’ve been told that you are both familiar with basic cavalry use. We have books that discuss using flying machines in combat and for resupply as well, but those do not apply to your situation.”

  Matthew glanced over at Paul. He looked as tired as Matthew felt. That’s a relief.

  “Ugh, I though I’d been keeping up with father,” the younger Kossuth groaned as he heaved the outer door open. “So much for that idea.”

  “I thought Count Kossuth already knew how to manage an army and run an estate,” Matthew protested without thinking.

  Paul moved his shoulders and hands in a combined shrug and don’t-ask-me gesture before following Matthew out into the chilly damp afternoon air. “He does, but he s
ays he doesn’t. So he’s always making notes, reading whatever he can find, talking to Don Starland and anyone else he can corner, trying different things. Some work, some don’t. But that doesn’t stop him. He’s like grandfather was with horses—kept experimenting until he got the mudders we use and sell.”

  Matthew digested the comment as he followed Paul, not really thinking about where they might be going. As a result, he blinked a little when they stopped at a market stall near St. Basil-on-Beast-Market and Paul bought two large sausages-in-bread. “Here,” he insisted, pushing the long bun at Matthew. “Otherwise we’ll be even farther behind.”

  I can pay for my own food, Matthew started to protest, but a loud growl from behind his belt shamed him into eating instead. Paul pointed with his free hand and they walked on, south and west, until they found a long, low building just outside the palace district. Paul stopped at a fountain and rinsed his hands, then drank a little. Matthew did the same. “Never rinse your hands in the main basin. That’s what the little spigots on the sides are for.”

  “And the trough there?” It’s too low for laundry or watering horses. Maybe for rinsing boots?

  Paul smiled. “That’s for dogs and cats and birds, and small children.”

  Well that’s strange. Why waste water on dogs and cats? Matthew was rapidly reaching the conclusion that the Babenburgs and their followers were almost entirely insane. Paul pointed to an open door and Matthew ducked inside. He heard shouts, grunts, and the familiar sound of wooden practice weapons on wooden shields. Practice ground, like the one for horsemen outside the walls, he thought. Indeed, he followed his guide around a corner and saw several groups of men working in a large, sand-floored, open area. It reminded him a little of the walled gardens he’d seen in Scheel, but much larger and obviously designed for work, not contemplation.

  “Good,” he heard a voice say, and followed Paul to find Count Kossuth waiting, along with another older man. The elder Kossuth wore plain practice armor, and judging by the sweat on his forehead had already been drilling with someone. “Sergeant, I believe Count Malatesta is of a size for my spare armor until we can get him something better fitting.”

  The smaller man gave Matthew an all-too-familiar appraisal. “I believe so, my lord.” He took a step closer to Matthew, limping heavily as he did. “Are you left or right handed, my lord?”

  “Right, Sergeant.”

  “Good. I’m tired of southpaws. They ruin the pairings and just confuse things.” Behind him, Count Kossuth rolled his eyes, a little smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “This way, my lord.”

  Matthew soon found himself in practice armor that fit tolerably well. At the sergeant’s direction he claimed an out-of-the-way corner of the practice arena and began stretching and warming up. He started slowly, not pushing anything until he felt certain his unused muscles had gotten all the knots worked out of them. I don’t need a pull or a cramp, not if Kossuth plans to beat up on me. He’s got a surprise coming. I’ve been fighting as long as he has, I wager.

  “Count Malatesta, pair off with Corporal Jones there,” the sergeant ordered. Matthew started to protest but heard Sgt. Robbins growling in his memory, “Don’t argue with the arms master, boy. You’ll never win.” So he swallowed his pride, saluted the corporal, and they began working on the basic, familiar patterns all swordsmen learned. Once he’d begun sweating a little, they went to free work, and Matthew easily left the corporal in the dust.

  “Hng,” the sergeant grunted. “Enough. Good work, Jones. You need to keep your left guard up.”

  “Yes, sergeant.” The trooper panted, then saluted Matthew, who sketched a hasty salute in reply and retreated to do more practice drills.

  The sergeant beckoned and Paul Kossuth walked up and took a defensive stance. “Right. You two, free fight, no groin or head blows. First one to fight dirty gets to deal with me,” and he gave a wide, predatory smile. Matthew decided he didn’t care to find out just how dirty the sergeant could go. He looked like the type who waded into tavern brawls for relaxation. Matthew saluted Kossuth and they began.

  He’s good—a little faster than I am, but I’m better. Paul fought like a fencer, not a sword fighter. Matthew could almost recite the training numbers as his opponent advanced and retreated. He watched, played along for a few rounds, and then struck, cutting low, then swinging up, trying to catch Paul under the arm. Instead Paul blocked him low and leaned forward, aiming for the gut. Matthew retreated, luring Paul forward and off balance, before smashing down. But his opponent dodged again, slithering like a snake out from under the blow and giving Matthew a hard lick on the low back as he passed. The red haze appeared again in front of his eyes, and Matthew snarled. Right, you want a fight? I’ll give you a fight. He went full out against his enemy, pounding until he heard the wooden shield starting to crack. Matthew used his own shield to ram Paul’s out of the way to give him a clear line to his foe’s heart.

  Instead Paul danced again, spinning out of the way as a taller figure stepped into the bout. Matthew growled, retreated a pace, then took the challenge. The newcomer fought with a strangely familiar style—not what Matthew knew but something he’d seen before. The blocks and blows flowed into each other, and the man wielded a slightly curved blade, one designed for slashes rather than Matthew’s thrust and hack. Turkowi! Matthew’s body responded to the realization, flashing into full live-or-die mode. The other man matched him in size and strength, and Matthew poured everything left into the fight just to stay alive. He heard his own panting and gasping as his lungs burned and his muscles trembled from the exertion. Just as his strength started to fade, Matthew saw an opening and took it, scoring on his enemy’s flank. He started to press the attack home when he heard “Kossuthna and Empire!” Something struck his head and he saw stars, then black.

  He blinked to find himself sitting in the sand of the arena. “Wha—?” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

  Two pair of legs stepped into view. He looked up to see the sergeant and Count Kossuth looking down at him. “Not bad, but young,” the count opined, barely breathing harder than he had the day before in court.

  “Young, impetuous, and stupid.” The sergeant shook his head and looked up at the grey sky.

  “What—” Matthew repeated before gathering all his wits and catching his breath. “What happened? You said no head blows.”

  “Stupid but trainable?” Kossuth inquired. He looked down at Matthew. “You tried two groin blows, after attempting to decapitate Paulus. And you got so tightly focused on fighting me that you forgot the second man. That’s a good way to die.”

  Matthew cringed. He knew better, much better, than to do that.

  The sergeant drawled, “Trainable, I believe, my lord. Once he learns to control that temper of his. You seem to have found his sore spot.”

  Kossuth offered his hand, which Matthew accepted a little reluctantly. The older man pulled him to his feet without any apparent effort. “Indeed. You can’t let yourself go berserker without a very good reason, Count Malatesta.”

  “Turkowi,” he panted, “are a good reason, my lord.”

  The head shake surprised him. “Not good enough. But this is not the place to talk philosophy.”

  “No, my lords, it’s not,” the sergeant agreed, tipping his head toward a group of men waiting to use the training space.

  It hurt. Not just Matthew’s head or the other places he began to feel bruises forming, but everything. The imperials had made him look like a fool, and his wounded pride hurt worst of all. Paul just watched him, not saying anything as they stripped off their practice armor and cleaned it, then rinsed off the sweat and sand. Count Kossuth waited for them in a quiet corner. “It’s wine and fruit juice, the last fresh juice until spring, I fear.” He gestured to two empty chairs. Matthew hesitated, not wanting to share board with the imperial nobles who had humiliated him in front of everyone.

  “Sit, Matthew,” Kossuth ordered. “You fought very well, up to the point
where you lost control of yourself.”

  He debated stalking off, then sat. He waited until father and son had served themselves before filling his cup half-way with the cool drink. He’d never tasted wine and juice together, but the flavors blended well on his tongue, the sweet taming the harsh undertone of the red wine.

  “You need polish,” Kossuth stated. “You have the basic foundation, and my compliments to whoever trained you in those basics. They did a good job. But you need to learn to separate yourself from the battle, to fight cold instead of hot. It’s a very hard thing to do, especially for young men who want to prove themselves.” Paul twitched, making Matthew feel a wee bit better.

  “Why polish, sir? I’m not a courtier, I’m a warrior.”

  The border lord ignored his tone. “Because you will have to work with other people, be they common soldiers, the merchant princes of the Freistaadter, or the rulers of Tivolia and Morloke. Smooth manners go a long way to disarming your opponent, charming the ladies, and making diplomacy easier should you find yourself needing to talk to those of rank.” Kossuth’s eyes narrowed and he all but shook one finger at Matthew. “There’s far more to being a courtier than dressing well and dancing gracefully, despite what young Eulenberg might go on about.” His son snorted and tried to hide a grin behind his cup. “Think of yourself as a diplomat for Marteen. If you want other governments to respect your claims, you need to act like a respectable noble, not a common-born soldier-for-hire.”

  Father didn’t bother with that. Matthew took another sip of his wine. Or did he? Matthew didn’t remember, but then he and Leo had seen very little of their father, since he spent a good deal of time away fighting and traveling.

  “Is that why the empire supported Count Anthony Malatesta’s claim to Marteen, sir?” Paul asked.

  “In part. And in part to punish old Duke Tillson for causing such an uproar on the border that it disrupted religious life and distracted the governments of Morloke and Scheel at a time when they really, really needed to be working together to stop the Turkowi. If it had not been for Captain Mike Kidder and his men …” Kossuth left the rest unstated.