Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  “The mayoral council of Revanaar is closing the gates to sheep, cattle, and fleeces and raw hides from Scheel, Magwali, and the Turkowi,” Matthew reported. “They want stock and goods from the north, animals that traveled overland preferably.” Because any sick ones will have died en route, and the Tivolians will have driven the herders right back out of their borders, so the council won’t have to worry about offending anyone’s trade rights. All of which everyone in the room already knew.

  “Interesting.” The old man leaned back in his chair as his aids whispered. “Will you be staying long, Count Malatesta?”

  “A few days, sir. I had hoped to observe the city and perhaps learn a little more about governance and trade. I am young in power, for all that I have a great deal of military experience.”

  That seemed to be the correct response. Patrician Geraldino smiled, revealing missing teeth. “Excellent! Master Belissari is celebrating his daughter’s betrothal tomorrow, and I’m certain he would be delighted to have you honor his feast with your presence.”

  If he wasn’t before, he will be once you get through with him. Godown grant that we’re never on opposite sides of a battle. Any battle. Matthew bowed a little. “Thank you, sir, but I would not want to impose—”

  “Pah.” Geraldino flicked his fingers, dismissing the protest. “There is no imposition when a wise young man seeks to learn from his elders.”

  Matthew bowed again. “Thank you.” Geraldino dismissed him and Matthew returned to the inn.

  Fortunately for his dignity, Matthew’s return voyage, although slower, passed far more smoothly. He and Will Klaus and Kazmer Takacs conferred on board the ship, drawing up their plans for organizing the soldiers they had hired in Kirwali and Ravanaar. Klaus arranged to send a message to Sgt. Byron Roth, to see if they could lure the NCO out of retirement. Matthew made a special offering to St. Gerald and St. Michael once they arrived in Valdoro, and breathed a little prayer to St. Gimple, patron of fools, for the Frankonians’ stupidity. He’d managed to hire almost an entire company intact, thanks to the Frankonians failure to do more than annoy the Duchy of Sarmas the previous campaign season. Despite the ancient barracks jokes, in this case size had not mattered, not when terrain, weather, and intelligence all favored Sarmas. Two of the hired men had heard of his father, and it seemed that everyone had heard of his grandfather. Matthew harbored no doubts that he could rise to match their reputations, provided he lived long enough.

  He also brought back a much more comfortable addition to his living situation: Barbara Lee, the woman he’d glimpsed at St. Kiara’s in Revanaar. He looked over at her as they rode north, part of a trade caravan bound for Marteen. She returned his gaze with quiet brown eyes and a slight smile. She’d accepted his interest, and her guardian had been more than delighted to dispose of an unwanted, dowerless orphan. Matthew appreciated her shapely figure, low voice, and apparently placid disposition. Godown save me from a woman like Master Belissari’s second daughter. She made me tired just being in the same room, and that was before she opened her mouth. He’d heard donkeys with more melodious brays. Not that he intended to marry Barbara, of course, but the prospect of someone to warm his bed in exchange for a minor household position pleased him greatly.

  Another potentially pleasant surprise awaited him in Marteen. Potentially, because Matthew felt a headache building when he saw the delegation of petitioners waiting for him outside his house in Solva. Everyone should be working, getting ready for planting. And if Roger couldn’t take care of them, then it must be a major problem. “Roger,” he called to the man currently managing his affairs and residence. “Show Mistress Lee to my quarters, and Lt. Klaus, Mister Takacs, and the men to the quartering barn for now.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Roger didn’t bother hiding either his relief at Matthew’s return or his suspicions about Mistress Lee.

  “Barbara, I will introduce you to the staff once I’ve spoken with these gentlemen,” he told her. She smiled, nodded, and left without protest, at least for now. Matthew gathered his dignity and dismounted, then strode over to the four men waiting by the mercat cross in front of his residence. “Gentlemen.”

  They bowed. “My lord Count Malatesta,” the sturdiest replied. They all wore plain but very well made clothes, and as they straightened up, Matthew caught a glimpse of fur trim on the leanest man’s waistcoat. Prosperous but not showing off, he catalogued. The callouses on their hands look like farmers’ marks, not merchants’ pen callouses. Hmmmm.

  The house door opened from inside and Roger bowed a little, gesturing with his free hand. “Please join me inside,” Matthew invited. “I apologize for the lack of hospitality, but as you can see I’ve been away.”

  “Oh, no apology necessary, my lord Malatesta,” the heavy man replied hastily, whipping off his hat and giving Matthew plenty of room to pass. “We only arrived this morning.”

  “Good.” Matthew removed his sword belt and handed it to Roger, then settled into his chair. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

  The quartet rustled and the tallest man cleared his throat. “Ah, my lord Count, your pardon if I am direct.” Matthew motioned with his hand for the man to get on with it. “We’re from Rosino, over the river.”

  Matthew called up a mental map of the area. Rosino, that’s twenty kilometers northwest, into Tivolia, in that stretch of really good wheat and maize ground, where all the orchards are. “I see. Do you wish trading privileges in Marteen?”

  The spokesman ran his hat through his hands, turning it by the brim like a millwheel. “Ah, no, my lord. We, that is, the largest landowners and shop keepers and tradesmen, want you to take over.”

  If he’d not been so tired, Matthew would have jumped out of the chair with surprise. As it was he blinked hard, struggling to keep his composure and present a serene face to the men. “I see. You do realize that if I agreed to this highly unusual request, it would mean war between Tivolia and Marteen?”

  “Aye, my lord, but you’re already at war with Tivolia, begging your pardon,” the heavy man stated. “And Duke Mischa’s not gong to notice our departure for a while, least a ways likely not until next spring if we read things right.” He waved toward the other three men, who nodded.

  Oh? What’s wrong with Mischa Tillson? Is his duchess pregnant? Or is someone attacking him from the other side of the Barnhard Pass? Don’t tell me Frankonia’s that strong and stupid both. “Oh? I’d think His Grace would note a change rather sooner, especially on the eastern border.”

  Four headshakes met his gaze. “No, my lord. He’s got his hands full with a split council and a succession fight.”

  Matthew’s head began throbbing, and not from lack of wine. Oh holy Godown, what now? “Succession fight, gentlemen? I had not heard.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the tall spokesman heaved a deep sigh. “Sabrina and Matteo Tillson-Capriotti, Duke Mischa’s sister and her husband, had a son, Francis. He is contesting both Karl and Michael’s claims, and he has arms and backers, including—or so rumor has it my lord—Frankonia and Florabi. Supposed to have an army on the western border, just over the mountains, waiting for Mischa to name him heir. Else he’s going to invade.”

  He vaguely remembered his father’s tales of the last Tivolian succession fights. Godown have mercy on the people of Tivolia, the poor bastards. “And His Grace is taking this seriously?”

  The tall man shrugged and rotated his hat another quarter turn. “He called in a war tithe and he’s talking ‘bout hiring more swords on the market. Don’t know if any of the rest of it’s true.”

  Matthew started considering the matter, then stopped. “Gentlemen, I am flattered by your request. I trust you understand that I can’t give you a decision at this moment?” Roger appeared just inside the doorway leading to the rest of the house. “If you do not have an urgent need to depart, I offer you the hospitality of the Broken Wheel,” the road inn on the other side of the merkat square, across from the house. Roger nodded and disappeared.
Good. Get them space and put it on my bill. “Don’t be concerned about the cost. Since I am delaying you, you are my guests.”

  The four men huddled, conferring quietly. Matthew heaved himself out of the chair and found where Roger had left wine and a glass. He removed the cork and sniffed. Rosy: not my favorite, but better than that nasty white Paul Kossuth likes. Even Count Anthony had no idea how his son could stomach the desert-dry wine. Matthew poured a little and sipped, just enough to wet his throat. He turned back to face the four farmers.

  “My lord,” the smallest, the one with fur on his waistcoat, began. “We have no pressing business elsewhere. If you don’t mind, my lord, we accept your hospitality for the night.”

  “Excellent!” Matthew smiled, relieved. “You will find rooms ready for you gentlemen at the Broken Wheel. If you will come after the morning prayer service, I’ll have an answer for you.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” A serving boy, whom Roger had left behind when he left, opened the door and let the quartet out.

  Matthew flopped back into the chair. The boy disappeared, returning with a bootjack and a pair of shoes. “Yes, thank you.” Off came the riding boots, on went the shoes, and as he left, the boy passed a maid and Barbara coming in. The maid carried a large pitcher, and Barbara bore a tray with beer mugs on it. “Yes?”

  “My lord, I ventured to guess that you would want to meet with Lt. Klaus, Mister Takacs, and your other advisers,” Barbara explained. “Roger said to tell you that the cook will have some light food ready soon and will send it up.”

  “Thank you.” Matthew watched his new acquisition supervise the maid and came to a snap decision. “Barbara, stay here when Klaus and the others come. I want your advice.”

  She blinked and raised one hand to her chest, surprise obvious. “Very good, my lord. But I’m not sure what I can add to anything.”

  “You can keep people calm, and who knows? You might have a useful idea or two. You know women things. I don’t.”

  Barbara gave him another curious look, curtsied and disappeared after the maid. She returned a little while later, now wearing a white head cover over her brown hair. Mostly over her brown hair, he noticed. She’d eased it back enough to show far more than a proper matron or a servant would display. He smiled to himself. Lt. Klaus, Roger, and Kazmer Takacs came in behind her, and at Matthew’s gesture they all sat down at the long table on the opposite side of the main room from his sitting area.

  “Right. The men waiting here are farmers, judging from their hands and shoes. Prosperous ones, too.” He launched without preamble. “They want me to take their lands into Marteen. They’re from near Rosino, twenty kilometers that way,” he pointed. “In Tivolia. They say Duke Tillson won’t notice my ‘extending my protection’ that far away because there’s a succession fight brewing.”

  Klaus rolled his eyes and Takacs groaned, as Roger put his hand over his eyes and said, “Oh Godown bless, not again. What the fuck is in the water over that way, anyway?” Roger uncovered his eyes and continued, “My lord, Karl and Michael with the Empire backing one of them?”

  “Not this time. Go back a generation. Sabrina Tillson-Capriotti’s son, backed possibly by Frankonia and Florabi,” Matthew corrected. Barbara poured him some beer, then let the others serve themselves at his wave.

  “Oh shit, that’ll keep the western border interesting, assuming it’s true.”

  Barbara pursed pink lips. “My lord,” she began, hesitating until he nodded his approval. “My lord, it may be true. My guardian talked about having trouble finding caravan guards for this summer, because someone to the north had hired them, Florabi I think he said.”

  Klaus tapped the table with a crooked finger. “And we got the men we did because they didn’t want to touch anything related to Frankonia, otherwise we’d have had a lot more trouble even though we weren’t hiring seasonal swords, my lord,” Klaus opined.

  “And that matches the jump in horse prices, my lord,” Takacs chimed in.

  Matthew rubbed his forehead. Once word spreads, will the Turkowi push up the coast, aiming to grab Tivolia while everyone’s fighting each other? His gut feeling was yes, but he spoke slowly as he ventured, “You know, it would be a stretch to defend, but on the other hand that gives us a natural border, the Arnoldo River and its hills. As it is we’re open on the west and southwest.”

  Klaus wagged one hand back and forth. “Aye, my lord. And unless something’s greatly changed in the past ten years or so, most of those farms are fortified, so we could work from strongpoint to strongpoint if it came to that.” He sipped a little more beer. “What will the Oligarchs and the Empire say?”

  “The Oligarchs will fume, not that they can do anything about it. The Empire? Probably nothing so long as I don’t challenge Tillson outright. Emperor Michael supported my claim to Marteen and recognizes me as Count Malatesta, with all diplomatic privileges and rank.”

  The others batted the idea back and forth as he weighed matters. Roger waved his hand. “My lord, will you give them tax privileges like we have?”

  “Yes, but not quite as much since I’ll have to fortify the river crossings and they didn’t lose as many crops last year.”

  Roger nodded. “No problem with the council here, then, my lord. So long as we don’t get taxed to pay for their defense, no one should kick.”

  “Thank you. I told them I’d consider the offer and meet with them after morning worship.” Matthew held his tankard over and Barbara added the last of the beer to it. She set the pitcher down and then bent lower to pick something off the floor, giving him a glimpse of breast as her modesty scarf slipped out of place. Hmmm, definitely not this afternoon. In fact, I think it’s time to adjourn. He’d not touched her since they left Valdoro, since he needed to be rested for night watch duty. But not anymore. “Good points gentlemen, and thank you. You may go.”

  Later that afternoon he studied a map that Roger had found. He traced the Arnoldo River and the hills north of the floodplain. They curved to the south before fading into the coastal plain, only to reappear well to the south near New Dobri. Defensible, prosperous, the district would round out Marteen’s western border nicely, giving him a much better perimeter in case someone tried to attack. He drank more wine and snorted. No, someone will attack, either Tillson or the Turkowi, or both. Although I’d put my money on the Turkowi. Mischa Tillson won’t push matters if it comes to that, not if I have troops here. He’s a coward. Matthew made his decision.

  “Thank Godown for His mercy that He gave us time to organize and fortify the border,” Kazmer Takacs, now Count Malatesta’s chief civilian advisor, breathed. He lay on his belly beside Matthew, peering down onto the Turkowi scouts’ night camp.

  “Selah,” Matthew agreed. Satisfied that he’d seen enough he squirmed backward as quietly as possible, easing his way through the damp underbrush on the north side of the hill. And thank You that they didn’t post outer perimeter guards because of the weather. No one in their right mind would be out patrolling in darkness and storms, which probably explained why Matthew and his guards happened to be one hill away from the invaders—that and getting away from the Oligarchs before either Matthew or the would-be merchant princes lost their tempers.

  “Do we kill them, my lord?” Louis Smith asked, so eager he almost vibrated.

  Matthew mounted and turned Spots, leading the men away from the enemy encampment. Once out of hearing and danger, he answered. “No. We need to mobilize and attack while they think they’re unopposed. Crag, go back and watch, see if you can tell which way they’re going tomorrow, and then report to me as soon as you can. Don’t kill any of them, don’t let them know they’ve been spotted. If it comes to that, just leave and report what you see rather than shadowing them.”

  Crag Jorgenson saluted and turned his horse back to the ridge.

  Sgt. Roth agreed. “Aye, my lord. Kill the scouts, even if we make their animals and equipment disappear, and their Captain of Hundreds will get nervous. Ner
vous men watch for danger. We want them slow, dumb, and lazy.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, toward Morloke City. “Like the Oligarchs back there.”

  Kazmer made a sound low in his throat, but when Matthew kept silent, he held his own tongue. Matthew nodded his understanding before turning his attention to watching the road. It would be better for them cut overland away from the Turkowi, but not on a night this dark, in unfamiliar terrain with nose-digger holes and boggy ground. He didn’t care to die from a broken neck, thank you. Civil war lures the Turkowi like spilled grain summons yard fowl. In some ways the Turkowi reminded him of the flying reptiles that feasted on the dead: both were opportunists with no respect for friend or foe. Godown be with us and may our seasons’ labor not have been in vain.

  The farmers from Rosino had been right. Duke Tillson’s abrupt shift to focus on his western border proved most congenial for Count Malatesta. Quiet inquiries with the people living around Rosino confirmed that the majority would not be overly upset to pay a lower tax rate in exchange for better protection, even if it meant working five days a year on the new border defense posts. Those who favored Duke Tillson’s rule found it prudent to stay quiet, or so rumor had it. Public opinion made that silence especially wise after Count Malatesta personally, and very publically, horsewhipped the first (and last) of his hired swords to harass a farmer. Reconstituting a basic militia also boosted his popularity and cut the grumbling. Not that anyone had much spare time to spend complaining, with planting, the first hay mowing, and other farm work that spring.

  As soon as summer’s pause came, Matthew, Lt. Klaus, Roger, and Sgt. Byron Roth called up the labor levy and built the first of the border posts, along the Arnoldo River hills. Klaus had scratched his head when he saw what Matthew wanted. “That’s a lot of dirt and trees,” he warned.

  “It is, but it’s damn near cannon-proof, and even fire arrows or hot-shot will have trouble igniting the logs.”