by Boykin, Alma
The room felt small. Pjtor wanted to go away, to find a place big enough for him to move. He wanted to see more of Solana, to defeat the Harriers, to make the Turklavi go away, to be a grown man. Soon, he thought, trying to look past Archpriest Tan, still leaning across Pjtor, soon. In fact . . .
He shoved his chair back and stood without warning. Tan floundered and fell, almost pulling the table covering off as he did. Pjtor did not offer to help the smelly old man. Instead he ordered Sara, “Stay that the feast may continue with full honor to Godown.” He stalked off, out the hastily opened imperial door, and felt the tip of his hat brushing the lintel as he passed.
Soon, he would be a man. Soon, he would rule.
“You must stop growing, most Imperial Master,” Boris ordered, but only in jest. “Another two centimeters and all the furs in the forest will not be enough to line your winter coat.”
And I will have to have notches sawn into every doorway in the family chambers, let alone the homefold. Or stop visiting Strella, which is probably what Sara wants. No, Sara doesn’t care about Strella, since she will never compete with Sara or marry. I wonder if the rumors are true about Mother and Sara fighting over finding me a wife now that Isaac needs ow! He’d started slouching and the pins jabbed him, hard, and in a delicate place. The difficulty of fitting trousers made the tailors cry, but they dared not refuse even though custom demanded that the emperor wear robes instead of trousers. Pjtor refused to wear robes on horseback, and he wanted out, out, out. Spring called to him and he hated the walls of the inner fortress with a wild passion.
“Perhaps it could be lined with that heavy silk my beloved sister praises so highly,” Pjtor answered his body servant. “Her skirts seem to have enough to make two coats easily.”
Boris looked up, craning his neck. He had crouched down to check the fit of his master’s new boots. “Possibly, most Imperial Master, but not to properly cover your shoulders as well. And I believe the white flowers might give the ambassadors the wrong impression, if I might dare be so bold.” He returned to pushing on Pjtor’s feet.
They likely would, and white smudged. And he’d need to have it trimmed with those skinny little white winter pelts that shed so horribly. Pjtor imagined walking around in a cloud of fur-fog and decided no, stealing Sara’s clothes would not be a good plan. Although she paraded around shamelessly as it was. Why did Archbishop Nikolas not say something about her living in sin with Grigory? He certainly spent enough time warning Pjtor about unclean thoughts and a man’s duty to remain away from women until marriage. Pjtor checked, but he hadn’t started slouching again, so his manhood remained safe from the pins. He wanted out, away, and he was going to take his soldiers and go to the estate, Sara and the council of lords be hung.
The tailors finished and oh-so-carefully removed the trouser pattern. Pjtor pulled on the last pair he had that still fit, careful not to tug too hard. The seams strained as it was. He’d put on muscle in the legs from marching around with his soldiers, regaining what he’d lost during winter’s confinement. The open window let in spring air and he could smell mud and smoke, and heard the creak of wheels and the clang of bells. As soon as Isaac’s betrothal was solemnized, he could flee to the country, to the farm estate at Hornand and do what he wanted. He’d asked Strella if she wanted to come, but their mother had forbidden it. Nancy refused to leave the homefold and would not allow her daughter to go out either, unless it was to worship. If Mother tells me I am just like Uncle Rozim one more time I may track down his slaves and find out just what he truly was like. If everyone is opposed to him, he must have done something right, even if it was just calling Sara’s and Isaac’s mother a fat old cow. Although, I’ve never seen a fat old cow, just skinny old cows, I wonder where we got that idea from.
Boris coughed and Pjtor accepted the hot tea before it grew too much colder. “Thank you.”
“It is an honor to be the emperor’s slave,” and the valet bowed deeply before departing. He and Master Andrej disagreed on so many things that Pjtor’s other servants whispered that perhaps they had once been married to each other and had been reborn. Pjtor knew what the priests would make of that speculation and never spoke of having overheard it. Tea finished and clothes put back on, Pjtor shrugged on a vest and reminded himself not to tug too hard. He’d ripped the seams on a shirt once today. Pjtor waved, dismissing the servants, and hurried to the library. He wanted to look at two of his late father’s books in particular before the tutor arrived.
Books fought Pjtor, only releasing their contents after much struggle and many headaches. Except for a few, including the great book of maps one of the ambassadors had presented his father, Emperor Adam Alexander the Younger. Pjtor ignored the hereditary servants who rushed to open doors, bowing him through the family chambers, past the homefold, and into the imperial offices and library. Isaac never came to the book room, preferring to hear what he needed to know. People called him “Isaac the Simple” but Pjtor knew his half brother was not brain-weak, not entirely. He reminded Pjtor of a horse, steady and useful but easily spooked and distracted, even more than Pjtor himself. But he rarely forgot what he heard, especially if it might prove useful in the future. The library door opened and Pjtor strode inside. Thump. The door closed behind him, shutting out the rest of the palace. Pjtor relaxed and bowed to his father’s stern portrait before pulling the large, heavy, and terribly valuable book out of its case and setting it on a table in the sun, where he could see every detail of the pictures.
He turned the pages with great care, but quickly, lest he get distracted. He needed to look at the great central map, the one that showed all of NovRodi and the White Sea to the east. Ah, here it is. Pjtor knew the colors before he knew the words, and pushed the book farther into a spill of sunlight, then walked around to the other side of the small, sturdy table. He peered down at the pages from the north, trying not to cast a shadow. There was Muskava, and the Ice River that flowed below the walls on the palace and fortress’s bluff. Pjtor followed the river east and north, past the ruins of Lander cities, to the empty place on the map where the Ice River emptied into the White Sea. Why had no one ever settled there? Was it too stormy? Or was that really where the Great Fires had emerged from, had ruined the land and turned it black forever, as Father Arkady once proclaimed. Pjtor had his doubts.
His eyes returned to Muskava and then traveled south, past the last row of hills and out of the protection of the forest, onto the lush grassy plains where the Harriers held sway, at least for now. His father and grandfather had driven them that far at least, and he would do better, perhaps all the way to the Korlin River, south of the Sweetwater Sea and Dawn River. Maybe even to the Great Southern Sea! Oh, Pjtor wanted to catch those lands, the legendary forests of spice wood and incense bushes, where all the warm-tasting spices came from, and the sweet plant with stems so much sweeter than honey. To be warm all winter, to no longer part with so much gold in exchange for the powders that made food taste good . . . his mind started wandering. Pjtor forced himself to focus again. The southern coast, if stories were true, was at least six months’ ride on a good horse from Muskava. The White Sea lay closer. And no Harriers hunted between Muskava and the White Sea, not any more. Unless his sister’s fool of a lover did something stupid.
And to the west? Pjtor knew all too well, just as his ancestors had learned hundreds of winters before. To the west lay death in the form of the great plains, the grass sea, and the Turklavi, those whom even the Harriers feared and paid tribute to in gold and slaves. And farther, beyond an uncrossable range of mountains, another sea, then more grass, and mountains, and then civilized people, believers in Godown, until you returned to the White Sea. Around it all flowed another sea, warm and full of storms, that served Solana as a belt and separated the lands. Pjtor had no interest in the lands south of the Belt Sea. The Landers had crossed it. Godown had removed that privilege, so why should Pjtor bother trying? He had more than enough to reconquer as it was.
W
ith that in mind, he put the book of maps away and removed a different book from the locked shelf. Only he and the archbishop had keys for the shelf, because the books contained ideas too dangerous for the souls of ordinary folk. Or so Archbishop Nikolas swore. He wanted them burned, and Pjtor’s father had refused, as did Pjtor. The volume Pjtor opened could harm no one, the young man thought. After all, generations had studied military tactics and formations, even before the Landers had come to Solana! And the flying machines mentioned at the end of the book? Pjtor snorted. Useless in the cold, he was certain. No, he studied the first sections, looking at the ancient fortresses from Keevyn Roos, and then at the pictures of gonnes, or “guns” as the book spelled it. Pjtor leaned down, nose almost brushing the page, and studied the Yellow Boy, comparing the picture to what he remembered the imperial arms-master had last shown him. It looked thinner, the picture gun, and threw the slug farther while still hitting the target. Pjtor had overheard Grigory talking to Hans, one of the foreign cannon makers, and Hans had said that he’d heard that guns like the thin picture gun existed in New Dalfa and other places east of the White Sea. Pjtor wanted one, a big one, one that would kill a hundred Harriers at once without breaking the hearts of the wagon oxen pulling the weapon. He heard the sound of the door, the main door, starting to open and quickly tucked the book back in the locked cabinet and triple-checked the cabinet door. He did not want to answer to Godown for leading someone to sin if the archbishop was right—his own errors were numerous enough as it was.
Master Andrej shuffled in, closed the door, and peered around, looking for his student. He’d grown short sighted, but still managed to locate Pjtor and walked straight toward him. I can see over his head. That’s different. Pjtor resumed his usual slouch, but could still see the scholar’s skullcap and more. Maybe he had grown as much as Boris thought. Master Andrej stopped and bowed almost as low as the hereditary servants did. “Imperial Master.”
“Please rise, Master Andrej.”
Pjtor imagined he could hear the creaks as the old man straightened up. Well, not that old, really, but as dusty and grey as the tomes of religion in the back of the library that Pjtor and Isaac did their best to ignore. “Have you finished the book about government, Imperial Master?”
Pjtor sat in one of the chairs beside the window and waited as Andrej did likewise. Here the older man held precedence. “Yes, Master Andrej and it, well, I do not believe a ree-poo-vlick makes sense. Did such things really exist?”
“Yes, Imperial Master, but never here in NovRodi, at least, not in the form described in the book. The cities had their own governments, led by men and women chosen by the other residents of the cities, but the farm lords ruled their holdings just as you and Imperial Master Isaac rule NovRodi.” The scholar began counting off on ink-stained, blunt fingers, “One, nothing larger than a city could be managed by free choice, because no one would know anyone else. Two, they did not have as much guidance from the Church as we do, for reasons only Godown knows. Three, more people had learned more about governance, because they had more time to do so, or so the chronicles imply, because the machines took the heaviest burdens. And four, the Harriers did not destroy as they did until the time of your great-great-great-grandfather, blessed be his memory.”
Pjtor bowed his head out of reflex and made the new three-fingered blessing. “Blessed be.”
Master Andrej nodded. “Once the Harriers came, and even before then if what I have read is true, after the Great Fires, the people turned to strong leaders when the councils could not act swiftly enough to protect life and property. Even so, Godown winnowed the people once more, sending the Harriers to drive the few survivors north, out of the plains and into the forests until we learned proper humility before Him.”
Pjtor had his doubts as to just how much Godown had to do with the Harriers versus greed and fear of the Turklawi, but kept quiet. “Indeed, Master Andrej. It is said that NovRodi is too large, her people too scattered to do well without a single lord.”
The scholar wagged one finger. “Do not say that where the council of lords can hear you, Imperial Master. NovRodi needs the men of the frontier, even if they border on heretical at times. Imperial Master Isaac walks a careful balance between the Regent and the lords of council, and it would be wise for you to do likewise. Godown forbid, but young emperors have disappeared or died of odd sicknesses in the past, Imperial Master, when the lords of council felt threatened.”
Pjtor inhaled, catching himself just before he exploded. The room and Master Andrej took on a pink color, as if he looked through a veil of red gauze. Pjtor stood, not quite knocking the heavy chair over, and walked to the end of the room and back twice before calming himself enough to speak. Surely his sister did not have spies outside the window or elsewhere? No, she probably did, or Grigory did, or a servant seeking favor from the regent and her lover or one of the lords of court might be lurking in the shadows. He needed to get out of Muskava. He sat again. “An interesting observation, Master Andrej. But a true ree-poo-vlick never existed here, in NovRodi.”
“No, Imperial Master. What do you recall of the law of governing?”
The bells chimed three times before Pjtor answered all of Master Andrej’s questions. The tutor sat back in his chair, his voice scratchy. “You know all that you should, Imperial Master. There are books you might read if you wonder about Godown’s guidance of earlier rulers, but you know the books of law and governance better than anyone else in court.”
Pjtor slouched lower in his chair. He stopped humming to himself and closed his eyes. Thanks be to Godown. Now he could leave, and he could look at what he wanted. He hated studying the laws. His mind always strayed so far from what he was supposed to be reading. There had to be a better way to preserve knowledge than in books. Maybe if someone read everything aloud to him . . . but then . . . no, Pjtor knew. He had to be able to read. Even the lowest clerks could read, at least enough to read the prayers of the day, if nothing else. Funny, words spoken came so easily but words written made his head hurt.
“Thank you, Master Andrej, you may go.”
The man stood and bowed, head even with his waist. “Thank you, Imperial Master. Godown’s blessing with you and guide you.”
“And also with you.”
After the tutor left, Pjtor unfolded from the chair, closed the window, and returned to his room. His head ached, his stomach growled, and he felt itchy, as if someone watched him. He needed to leave.
A month later, at the peak of spring, Pjtor grinned as his horse cantered to the gates of the great farm at Hornand, free from Sara’s glaring looks and her lover’s sideways appraisals. Isaac now had a wife, freeing Pjtor to do what he wanted. Well, not wife yet, Pjtor remembered as the heavy horse slowed and Pjtor let the others catch up to him. But close enough that Sara had all but thrown coins at her half-brother the co-emperor and chased him out of Muskava. “Soldiers! Always soldiers you want. Take your soldiers, gunpowder, and go.” He had not waited for her to change her mind.
Now he felt free. No palace servants would whisper about him, no Father Miklosh preaching at him without naming names but warning of what happened to faithless rulers, no mother lurking in the homefold, criticizing him. He’d miss the fine food, but he did not care for rich dishes that much, and this early in the season spring all meals remained lean. The air flowed free, the sun looked warmer and more friendly, and only a few bells rang, well distant from the farm chapel. Pjtor tapped his dapple grey horse’s flank with a stick and it snorted and trotted ahead. The earth below them sounded firm and dry, in contrast to Muskava’s clinging grey mud. Birds sang and the trees rustled in a warm breeze, green leaves and white trunks making a dapple of shade. Ahead he could see the stone walls around the main farm building, and the stout stone and wood of the central building and stable block. The barns sat some distance away, harder to protect but less likely to lead raiders to the main dwelling. The shutters that blocked the narrow windows in winter now stood open to allow the
heat in. Red and white in white and green, red shutters and door for luck, white stone walls and the green of the orchards and forest around Hornand, one of the oldest of his family’s properties. The foundations dated to the Landers, or just a little after, when a summer house had been turned into a true refuge, flame and arrow resistant, protection from the Harriers and others. Pjtor suspected that the flames of the Great Fires had not done the destruction, but rather men who took advantage of weakness just like dardogs did.
The sound of hoofs summoned the servants and slaves, who tumbled out of the house, bowing and touching the ground before the emperor of NovRodi. Pjtor would rather starve than sell himself into service, but he never had to make that choice. Some of these man and women had, or their parents had, trading freedom for food and safety. They are born to be ruled, and Godown punishes the unjust ruler as well as the faithless servant. Master Andrej and the others rode up and waited as Pjtor dismounted. He could almost step over the horse, even though he’d ordered one of the draft beasts broken for him to ride. He needed a bigger horse as well as bigger cannon and other things, Pjtor sighed. Was there anything in NovRodi large enough for his needs? The upper servants bowed, foreheads touching their knees, while the lowest servants and slaves knelt, touching their foreheads to the ground.
“You may rise,” Pjtor ordered.
The men and women rustled upright. “It is an honor to be the emperor’s slave,” Radu, the chief servant murmured. “How may we serve, mighty emperor?”
“A sweat bath and supper,” Pjtor commanded.
“It shall be prepared, mighty emperor.” Radu waved one hand and half the grey-clad servitors ran off, some to prepare the sweat bath and the rest to begin supper. Others approached slowly, not wanting to startle the horses and mules. Pjtor watched the soldiers of his guard dismount and lead their horses to the military barn, then handed his own beast over to a service slave and strode through the gate in the inner wall, through the heavy main door, and up to his quarters. Bread, butter, and a tiny glass of spirits-of-wine waited for him, and the house servants bowed. Pjtor ate the welcoming bread, then sat and allowed two of the men to remove his boots. Then they removed his travel coat and fine shirt as well. Pjtor wiped the road dust off himself, then put on the looser country shirt waiting for him. He slid his sock-wrapped feet into bark shoes and walked down the narrow stairs, ducking almost too late. The wood brushed his hair.