Forcing the Spring (Book 9 of the Colplatschki Chronicles)

by Boykin, Alma

  The steam bath felt better than ever and Pjtor savored the wet heat, letting the dirt soak off of him. A maid waited with the fine comb and louse-combed his hair and beard as one of the service slaves replaced the hot rocks and refilled the bucket. Pjtor took a second, shorter steam after he’d been cleaned of vermin, then rinsed in cool water before he refreshed the steam chamber himself. Everyone knew what happened if you didn’t—the dark spirits would ruin everything, slipping choke-needle in with the birch and pine boughs, fouling the towels, making the rocks crack, and rotting the wood of the little house. Even the priests cleaned the steam house themselves, although they said it was because Godown blesses the servant of servants. Pjtor knew better.

  Clean, refreshed and dressed in comfortable, loose clothes, he returned to the farmhouse. He intended to eat his fill, drink a little, and then sleep. No making his head ache with words, no drilling with his soldiers, not tonight. More dark bread, this with hot bits of meat trimmings, waited for him and he ate hungrily.

  For the next few days, Pjtor drilled with his men in the morning, then walked around the inner manor farm, looking at any changes and trying to decide where he would build defenses. Then he and Master Andrej, and two soldiers, went riding, out to the banks of the Drow River. The spring flood was beginning to ebb and Pjtor wondered how many souls the waters had sent to Godown this year. He did not like to eat fish taken during the flood-peak, just in case . . . He stopped his heavy, sluggish horse and peered down the slope. “What is that?”

  “What, Imperial Master?” Andrej shaded his eyes with one hand and looked as well. “It— Hmm. Imperial Master, it appears to be a boat.”

  “Not like the fish boats.”

  “No, Imperial Master, an old boat.” He sounded hesitant. “Not Lander old, Imperial Master, but not what we use today.”

  Pjtor rode a little farther upstream, until he could dismount safely and make his way back down the riverbank toward the boat without risking falling in. He could swim, even though Sara and his mother forbade it, but there was swimming and there was being stupid in fast-flowing, icy water. Master Andrej stayed up on the bank and one of the soldiers remained with the horses. The Harriers and rebels should not come this close, but one never took Godown’s protection for granted. The last raid on Muskava had been the year before Pjtor’s father’s birth.

  To his disappointment, he found a wooden boat, not one of the metal ones he’d read about in Lander books. But what a wooden boat it was! He ran a hand over the curved bit that he saw, feeling how the planks fit so closely together. Even gnawed by the river and battered by age, sections of the side remained so tight that no light got through them. Pjtor tried to pull more of the boat out of the water but the mud and dirt around it held the thing fast. He looked at the curve in the Drow’s flow and tried to guess how fast the river was eating into this bank. Quickly, unless his memory for places was failing him, and Pjtor nodded. Soon it would be easier and safer to look at, and he decided to have Radu order the field workers to pull it out and up where he could look at it. Black paint or pitch covered the wood, protecting it from the water, and it did not feel very rotten, at least what Pjtor could see and feel. “How did it move? I see no oars or rope posts?”

  Master Andrej called down, “By sail, I believe, Imperial Master, but I do not know. Some of the fishermen on the Great North Lake use sails as well as oars.”

  Pjtor spread his arms, trying to measure the remains of the boat. “Not a boat this small, not from the lake,” he muttered. He wanted one. A proper boat like this but for himself. He wanted to learn how to sail, like the men who crossed the great White Sea.

  “I want a boat,” he informed Master Andrej as they rode back to the manor.

  The old man took a deep breath and then let it out. “Like the one from the river, Imperial Master?”

  “Yes, but of proper size.”

  Andrej nodded, squinting into the sun and looking toward Muskava. “You will need someone from the foreign quarter, Imperial Master. It is said that some of the traders from the free cities, the Sea Republics, know how to make boats, or how to repair them at least. There is a man I know, ah, if you will permit, Imperial Master, I will send word and ask if he knows of a boat master from the western shore who might be living in NovRodi with the foreign settlers.”

  Pjtor wanted his boat that very moment, but shrugged to himself. Better to wait than to look like a fool, or worse, to drown and leave Sara in charge of NovRodi. “Do it.”

  “I will write this evening, so the letter will go with the courier tomorrow.”

  For once Pjtor gave thanks for the twice-weekly messengers coming and going from Muskava. He detested Sara’s letters and commands, but if he could get a boat maker here before the fall, well, he’d be very happy. “Good.” And he needed a bigger horse. Did they have big horses in the cities of the Sea Republics like they had big boats? Probably not, since the foreigners he’d glimpsed in Muskava were the same size as the men of NovRodi, although usually thinner. Pjtor’s people tended to grow heavy all over if they could afford enough food, or the harvest was not bad. Well, Pjtor needed a taller horse and a big boat and a way to make it go. How did you steer a boat? Sails needed wind and what if the wind came from the wrong direction? Such thoughts kept his mind turning for the rest of the ride back to Hornand. He would content himself with military activities and try to be patient. Pjtor hated being patient.

  A month after Pjtor reached Hornand, a stranger rode through the manor gates, escorted by teamsters bringing supplies and a courier. Pjtor, drilling his soldiers, caught sight of the unfamiliar face and stopped. The newcomer looked around, curious but not afraid. He rode a non-descript horse with unfamiliar tack, and his clothes looked like those of the ambassadors from some of the sea cities. What is a stranger doing here and why is he without escort? Pjtor forced himself back into the soldiers’ exercise, drilling with pikes and pretending to fire their match-lock muskets. He did not need to get impaled or shot. Only after finishing two more maneuvers did Pjtor dismiss the thirty soldiers to rest. Thirty more men had already been sent to the barracks after drilling in the morning.

  Messages and news from Muskava kept Pjtor occupied for another two hours by sun, leaving him with a headache and in a bad mood. Sara wanted him back in the city. He refused. Isaac remained, the emperor-in-residence, and Pjtor detested Muskava in summer. The river would be starting to sink lower, releasing the stench of the ground as it dropped. The wells dropped too, allowing miasmas to seep into the water from the soil under the city. Soon summer flux would begin stalking the streets and markets. Even the women in the homefolds were not safe from summer’s sicknesses. Pjtor rinsed his hands and face, checked the lock on his box of papers once more, and went outside to look more at his boat.

  Service-slaves had used oxen to drag the remains of the boat to the end of one horse pasture on the main manor. To Pjtor’s great disappointment, the end of the boat still buried when he’d found it had been crushed by dirt, which probably explained why the boat had been left. But he had half of a vessel, which he preferred to no boat. He’d also been disappointed to discover that as the sun dried the wood, it had begun to shrink. But he could still look at it and try to see how it had been made.

  As Pjtor strode closer to the corner of the pasture holding the relic, he heard voices and saw Master Andrej and the stranger studying the boat. The tutor said something Pjtor could not quite hear, and a voice with a harsh, clipped accent replied. “No, not Lander, but probably not too much younger. When did you say your people moved this far north, Andrejli?”

  “A hundred after the Great Fires? Some had come earlier, but the last of us left the southern lands by a hundred years after the Fires.”

  The stranger nodded. “That fits. This looks as if it were made by someone who knew how to use wooden pegs as well as metal nails, and had access to some of the old Lander-style tools.” He stopped and got out of the way as Andrej bowed very low.

  “Rise,
please,” Pjtor ordered.

  Andrej gestured to the stranger. Now Pjtor could see that the man stood as tall as Pjtor himself, but lighter in frame and coloring. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat shading eyes the color of the clear spring sky, and had red cheeks on a square face and a nose that looked as if it had been flattened by a blow at some point. “Imperial Master, Jan Pieterzoon Fielder, called Geert Fielder. Master Fielder is a merchant trader and fought with the free companies of New Dalfa. Geert, his most Imperial Majesty Pjtor Adamson Svendborg, Emperor of NovRodi, defender of the northern lands, master of the great river, prince of Muskava, prince of Karlberg and Plainsview.”

  On a whim Pjtor stuck his hand out, foreign style. Master Geert gripped it and shook. The informality made Master Andrej’s face turn pale, but Pjtor didn’t care. This is Hornand. He knows boats. I don’t care. “You know how to make one of these?”

  Master Geert looked to the side, at the boat, then back. “Yes, Imperial Majesty. I studied boat building when I was younger, before taking up arms against Frankonia. All sons of sea trader families learn as much as we can about all aspects of sailing and ship work, because we may be sent to sea. There is no room for the ignorant on a trading ship, Imperial Majesty.”

  “Call me Pjtor Adamson, or my lord,” Pjtor corrected. “Can you teach me?”

  Geert looked once more from the boat to Pjtor, eyes narrowing. The brim of his hat dipped, then rose as he studied Pjtor. “I can teach, but can you learn, Pjtor Adamson, is the more important question.”

  Pjtor should have gotten angry. He should have ordered the man flogged for impertinence. Instead he felt himself smiling until all his teeth saw sun. This is a man I can learn from. And it will make Sara furious. Even better. “I will try.”

  “Then I will teach. We will need builders, and there are a few in the foreign quarter and at Colromouth, where ships from the east unload. Your woodworkers are very good, Pjtor Adamson,” Geert said quickly, “but this requires tools and techniques different from land-bound woodwork.”

  “How so?” Wood was wood. You cut it, shaped it with ax and knife, or split it to burn unless you had some of that ancient, earth-flattened, pre-charred coal.

  Geert walked closer to the boat and pointed with a stick at part of the side. “Here, Pjtor Adamson, look at this plank.”

  “Pflank?”

  “This thin, curved board here.” The stick traced along the side of the boat and Pjtor crouched down to be at eye level with the thing. As his eyes followed the stick, he realized that the wood was both smooth and curved. “If you remove the nails and caulk, it will stay curved, because the inside ribs are curved.” Pjtor stood and leaned over, twisting so he could see the interior. It was hard because of the shadows and sun dapple, but yes, he could see traces of curved wooden strips running across the inside of the boat. “Those form the frame of the hull and give it steadiness, while the outside wood is strong and watertight.” As Pjtor straightened up, Geert said, “You can build boats with ax and adze, Pjtor Adamson, but not big sea-going trading ships. You need wood both thin and strong.”

  Pjtor drank in every word Geert said. His world narrowed to learning about boats and sailing, and to his soldiers. He read Sara’s messages, put off his mother’s requests for him to return, did remember to go to worship, and forgot about the mess with Sara and Grigory. The streams and small river near Hornand would not do for the boat Pjtor wanted, but Lake Morava, three kilometers away, suited, and by midsummer Pjtor had taken to camping there, watching the men building his boat, and learning how to do it himself.

  This scandalized Sara and his mother, but Master Andrej shrugged and Master Geert nodded with approval. “If you want big, sturdy trading ships, Pjtor Adamson, then it is best if you learn how to inspect them, so you can keep cheating and theft to a minimum. Just like knowing how your soldiers’ equipment works and that it suits them by trying it yourself.” Master Andrej had some books brought to Hornand, books about ships and military matters, including a new one describing forts built to withstand the new giant gonnes the Turkowi used. Master Geert looked at that book and shrugged. “It is said that their gonnes, or cannon as I heard them called, could not help them when the Polaki and Easterners attacked them at Vindobona and drove them back to the Belt Sea, twenty years ago.”

  The comment gave Pjtor pause. “Someone defeated the Turklavi? In battle? With gonnes? The Turklavi have gonnes?”

  Geert took his pipe out of his mouth and waved it a little, pointing the long white stem toward the east. “The ones that have harassed the Eastern Empire do, lots of them. But we call them Turkowi. They worship the goddess Selkow and are a right pain in the nuts. Adding insult to injury, a woman military commander led the Imperial forces at Vindobona.”

  A woman in the army, commanding men? Pjtor felt his eyes bulging and Master Andrej looked as if someone had struck him in the back of the head with a large log. The tutor spluttered, “I—That’s—What kind of woman leaves the homefold and fights?” Revulsion replaced shock on the man’s face. “That’s unnatural.”

  Pjtor’s eyes narrowed. Maybe not. In the books about the flight from the Harriers just after the Great Fires, there are mentions of women fighting when they had to, and stories of Lander women who had fought beyond the stars alongside their men. But things were different then, and after hundreds of years within the homefold, no woman of NovRodi would fight in the army. Pjtor tried to imagine Sara with a sword or shoulder gonne and failed completely. She’d fall off the first horse she tried to ride, since she used a box-saddle as was proper those few times she rode on horse instead of in a sledge or carriage. I’d like to see her try to ride. “The Harriers worship . . . not Godown, but not Selkow, I do not believe.”

  Master Andrej thought for a moment before shrugging. “A different goddess, not Selkow. Supposedly that is why they must pay tribute to the Turklavi but also why they were not destroyed by the Turklavi when they first met. We knew of the Harriers long before we ever heard of the Turklavi.”

  Geert inhaled, blew a long, thin stream of smoke, and pursed his lips. “Very interesting. I’ve never heard of anyone worshipping anyone but Godown, and then the Turkowi heretics.” He nodded a little, then shook his head. “But that will not keep your boats afloat, Pjtor Adamson. It is said that the time of miracles has passed, for Godown trusts us to find our own ways and to listen to Him for wisdom. And tar and tow work better at keeping water out of boats than does prayer, at least when you’re are not sinking or in danger in a storm.”

  Pjtor nodded and drank some of his beer. That matched what the priests said: Godown protected all, but He expected His followers to put effort into things. Then and only then would He intervene if He chose. Pjtor thought Godown had the right idea, although he did wonder if there was a way for someone like an emperor to get a little more direct aid in times of disaster. Or were emperors and kings supposed to listen to Godown’s council and avoid things that led to disaster? Probably. And what was that story, the one about the flood that had come because people got arrogant and ignored the warnings and Godown let them suffer the consequences? No, it was the fire mountain story, supposedly from the southern part of the planet just before the first colonists arrived, that was it. How could a mountain make fire, anyway? Master Andrej coughed and Pjtor caught his thoughts and dragged them back to where they belonged.

  As the days began to shorten once more, the boat on Lake Morava began to look like the boats in pictures. And Pjtor learned how to use a chisel and mallet, how to turn rope into tow and how to caulk, how to plane wood and to see what separated good ship wood from bad. He loved working with his hands, and his mind never wandered when he was using the tools. Just like when he “played soldier,” he focused and stayed on task. Too bad he could not carve wood while meeting with ambassadors or listening to the nobles’ council, Pjtor sighed one afternoon as he made himself read the reports once more. He growled as he turned the page over. Grigory had led soldiers south to battle the Harriers
and reclaim more territory. Sara had given him a victory award. Pjtor wanted to give his head to the fulchers.

  Sara declared it a victory. I’ve read of disasters that cost less in lives and treasure. If this is a victory, what is a defeat? Muskava burning to the ground and all the believers in NovRodi dead or enslaved? He growled low in his throat, quietly, so he didn’t scare the servant waiting for his orders. Allowing the Harriers to burn the grassland ahead of the army was not brilliant leadership. Waiting until the grasslands grew dry enough to burn before even starting south . . . Well, Pjtor had never led soldiers in battle but even he knew better than that. Indeed, adding woe to woe, the rivers had gone dry, forcing the men to drag their supplies overland and weakening the horses before they ever got close to the Harriers. If he were in charge, Pjtor would have flogged Grigory with his own hand, then blinded and beheaded him, leaving the head on the wall by the main gate for all to see. How could Sara bear to have such incompetence in her bed? Pjtor made a face, then turned to the next matter.

  Grigory could wait, would have to wait. Pjtor did not have enough strength, and without Isaac’s support, nothing would happen for at least another year. Pjtor worked on the boat, learned about ships and guns, and avoided Sara and his mother. Once more he invited Strella to come visit, and once more his mother refused to allow her to leave the homefold of the palace.

  Pjtor also had two new weapons to study, much to Sara’s disgust. “Quit spending so much money on soldiers and gunpowder,” she ordered. But she did not try and stop the gold from going to the men in the foreign quarter and the gonne-makers. Now, Pjtor thought, looking on with joy as the afternoon sun heated the bronze of a new cannons. Now we can find ways to beat the Harriers, to destroy their winter towns and keep them from regrouping and rebuilding after they attack us. The cannons needed to be tested, but looked sound. Just in case, though, Pjtor had them hauled well away from the buildings and livestock. He did not need to be scaring the cows and sheep into flight, or stopping their milk.