Forcing the Spring (Book 9 of the Colplatschki Chronicles)

by Boykin, Alma

  Pjtor and Geert and the soldiers with them stood well clear of the smaller of the two cannons as the artillery officer inspected it, making certain the breech cap screwed on firmly and that everything sounded and looked solid and smooth. The soldiers loaded it with a half charge and the casting master touched the end of the match to the hole in the breech.

  Bang! Nothing bad happened. The cannon rolled back a little against the pile of dirt and rocks that served as wheel stops. Geert nodded, then excused himself to go water a tree.

  Boom! The larger cannon fired, also with a half-charge, and appeared to be fine. It loaded from the muzzle, not through the breech, which looked as if it would be a faster way to do things.

  Pjtor crossed his arms and watched the smaller cannon. The men swabbed the inside of the barrel with wet rags and the casting master and lieutenant inspected it again, unscrewed the breech end-cap and confirmed that everything remained sound, then reloaded it with a full charge, screwed the end cap into place, and touched the match to the hole.

  Boom! BANG! Light flashed and an invisible hand lifted Pjtor off his feet and slammed him backwards. His head struck something hard, a flash of light blinded him, and he hurt. Then he stopped hurting.

  At some point he thought he recalled moving, or being moved, and people talking, but nothing else. Then quiet, and he hurt as if he’d been pounded with hammers like a piece of iron. He did not want to move and did not try, instead listening and breathing. His head ached, his face felt tight like he’d spent too long in the sun, and his shoulders and back ached with bruises worse than when he’d tried to fight his entire training regiment one at a time in one afternoon. Pjtor tried to remember what had happened that he hurt so much, but couldn’t. His mouth felt scratchy and bitter. He licked his lips and tasted blood from the cracked skin.

  “Blessed be Godown!” an unfamiliar man’s voice exclaimed. “Water, now.” Pjtor felt someone moving something near his head, but not touching him. “Emperor Pjtor, I am putting a straw in your mouth. You must drink some water. It is safe. Master Andrej has tasted it. Please, Imperial Majesty, drink.” Pjtor smelled water and drank, draining the container. It was refilled and he drank again, more slowly.

  “What,” he had to catch his breath and reorganize his thoughts. “What happened?”

  “Two things, most holy majesty,” he heard Andrej’s voice. “First, the smaller cannon fired without difficulty. But on the other side of the work area, someone tried to load the big cannon while it was still hot. The explosion knocked you sideways into a tree, and then part of a second tree dropped onto you. It cracked your head, a lot of ribs, and badly bruised everything else. It happened a day and a night ago.”

  “The second cannon?”

  “Fit for nothing but scrap, most holy majesty. Geert and the casting master are looking at the pieces to learn what went wrong, trying to put the pieces back together, but the casting master can’t find an obvious flaw yet.”

  Pjtor tried to ask more questions but the words faded away, like fleeing sheep and shahma. His other senses faded as well and he slept.

  Four days later he walked, carefully, with men at either side ready to stabilize him, from the bed to the bench outside the door, in the sun. He could hear more, and his eyes had begun cooperating again, but he still had trouble walking, and he felt constantly irritated and annoyed. But he could walk, and his eyes did work, and he could put words together and make sense. Four of the soldiers would never move again, and two more had suffered crippling injuries. The cannon had been cast with an uneven pour that left a hidden weak area, and the man had tried to put too much powder into it without swabbing the barrel with wet rags. And it exploded. Bits of cannon cut through the trees like scythes through grass, and that had brought the limb down on top of Pjtor’s head. The lump looked a bit like the bell tower beside Godown of the Stars in the village, and he still could not bear to have anyone touch the lump and surrounding area.

  Pjtor’s head ached terribly, but not as badly as before. It would likely take a few weeks before all the parts and pieces worked as they should the mediko warned him. “Head wounds that do not bleed are very dangerous, Imperial Lord,” the soldier-healer warned. “The pressures and bruises cannot leak out, and sometimes build in rather than out. The lump is a very good sign, if I may be so bold, most Holy Majesty.”

  Pjtor did not recall much about the rest of that day, or the days that followed. He did recall the first time he saw the colors, however. He’d been sitting in the sun again, soaking up heat and watching the soldiers train with the new, smaller breech-loading gonne. A shimmer began before his eyes and he felt a strange calm and happily peaceful sensation. The lights, pink and green and the pale blue of the first spring skies, wove a little like the winter sky fires. Then his body sagged away from him and lights snapped and danced before his eyes. Pjtor felt himself slumping forward, and sensed his limbs trembling as his heart continued to beat steadily. The world roared in his ears and he wanted to pray but nothing inside his head worked. Then it all stopped. He felt a little woozy, as if he’d been drinking on an empty stomach, and decided not to try to stand just yet. No one else seemed to have noticed the spell. Hmm, I wonder if that is what the mediko meant about bruising on the inside of my head? Or was he having sun-spells?That could be, and it was very warm. He decided to stand and move into the shade after getting a drink.

  The next day he drilled with the soldiers, carrying lighter weights than usual, and did satisfactorily, at least for the moment.

  The second time he saw the lights, Pjtor staggered, starting to fall as his legs refused to obey him. Geert caught him, supporting him until the weakness passed. No one else noticed and Geert said nothing, although he gave Pjtor a concerned look. As before, Pjtor felt grumpier after the spell. He had more than enough to be unhappy about as it was and the lights and stars might have nothing to do with it. Dear most high Godown, he prayed that night, whatever I did to offend You so badly that You chose to afflict me with Sara, I most heartily repent and promise, should You choose to reveal it to me, I will not repeat the error.

  Despite Isaac’s betrothal and now marriage, Sara remained the leading fixture at court, Grigory hovering close behind and reminding Pjtor a fulcher or perhaps a vulbati, the black, leather-winged carrion eaters. The Harriers had swept north despite Grigory’s “great victory,” capturing at least a thousand peasants from the western districts and carrying them off to only Godown knew what horrible fate, or slavery. No one ransomed peasants, unlike gentry and nobles. The Harriers had crossed the Flint River for the first time in a generation and a half, sending waves of panic as far as Muskava. Pjtor snarled at the whitewashed logs of the ceiling, wishing the fluttermouse chasing bugs could eat Grigory as well. Or maybe a giant web-weaver, did such things exist. If cats on the farm were small versions of the great tan-colored plains cats, the ones that looked like the “bears” in the Lander-age books, maybe there were also giant web-weavers.

  Pjtor had not attended Isaac’s wedding service, but by custom and law the wedding came as a formality once the girl’s fertility had been proven. Nor had he attended the council of nobles that had met just after the first full moon after midsummer to discuss the self-styled True Believers, as the True Spirits had begun calling themselves. Pjtor did not really believe that Godown would smite NovRodi with plagues because some people refused to use the new liturgies, only said “holy holy” twice after the formal invocation of Godown’s name instead of repeating the phrase three times, and used two fingers instead of three for the sign of blessing. After all, Master Geert had not been struck by lightning even though he made a strange hand-sign that he said was the sign of St. Issa the Sailor, his patron. How many saints were there, Pjtor wondered as the fluttermouse made another pass over his bed, so close he could almost grab it. Maybe you could count saints instead of sheep or snowflakes to get to sleep. He snorted a little laugh and closed his eyes.

  Two days later, messages from Muskava arrived al
ong with the first warning storm, the strong hint that summer’s rich days had begun sliding away. The afternoon sun had grown weak, then disappeared as big clouds rose up to the west and north, blue-black and scary. The servant-slaves rushed around, moving animals into protection, bringing any wash indoors, carrying the big trays of drying fruit back inside, putting away anything that the wind might blow. The first trickles of wind had teased, cool and light, then the big gust had slammed into the manor house, rattling the shutters and threatening the roof. No hail fell, but the hard, cold rain might do as much damage to the grain. It lacked two weeks to harvest and Pjtor joined the staff in the manor house’s small, attached chapel, begging Godown to spare the wheat and quinly, the rogen and maize, from hail and black-crown rot. No one, especially not the Emperor of NovRodi, Godown’s hands on Colplatschki, dared risk not praying for the harvest when storms came. How often had his mother and the priests warned him about the dangers of taking Godown’s mercy and generosity for granted? Far too often for him to forget, Pjtor thought as he knelt and led the press of people in the litany for harvest and the litany for preservation from storm.

  Spiritual duty done, Pjtor went to his work room. Geert waited, smoking his pipe and reading a letter, his own prayer book and copy of the Holy Writ on the table beside his chair. I wonder how many people under the roof can read that book, Pjtor speculated, trying to count. Probably four, and Radu would never dare, since the priest here keeps insisting that only clergy can read the Writ without Godown striking them down for impiety. Pjtor rolled his eyes at the thought, although he also made a little blessing sign. Geert stood. Pjtor waved him back into his chair and thumped into his own, very sturdy, new seat with a comfortable leather pad under his rump. “Anything of interest?”

  “Laurence the Loathsome of Frankonia tried to commandeer ships from New Dalfa and Strandvill that had taken storm refuge at Leclar.” Geert shook his head and tapped one finger against the stem of his white clay pipe. “Not only did he violate the sea laws, but he picked the wrong ships to grab, since they had holds full of gunpowder and hand cannons. He sent men with swords and knives against hand cannons. The ships are back at their home ports and Frankonian ships now have to pay a higher dock fee, to cover any expenses their overlord forces Dalfan captains to pay.”

  Pjtor did not like to hear Geert insulting any monarch, including Laurence V of Frankonia, but he could also see the easterner’s point. Even the masters of the southern inlands, the ones who controlled the water route around the Harriers and the Southern Plain, abided by the sea laws. NovRodi did as well, although very few ships came to the country’s shores. The sea laws might as well have been sent by Godown, Pjtor thought, although the sailors tend to act with a directness Godown seems to avoid today. “Anything else?”

  “No, Pjtor Adamson, unless the price of seawolf-ivory interests you.”

  Pjtor frowned. “Is there any other kind of ivory?”

  Geert tipped his head a little and blew a thread of smoke as he thought. “Ah, I have heard of two other kinds, but not seen them. One came from creatures in the southern lands, elkefants the book called them, that grew ivory and shed it every other year, like true-deer do with their antlers. And true-boar, although I think those are all dead. Pseudo-boar are bad enough, Imperial Majesty.”

  Pjtor shrugged. He wanted to see one of the great plains digger cats, although probably not from too close, if all of them were as large as the hide in the Chosen Guards’ commander’s office in Muskava and as mean as most cats. Geert returned to his reading and Pjtor picked up the first letter on the pile, this from Archbishop Nikolas. Pjtor broke the seal and unfolded the thick packet of heavy paper.

  By the time he finished reading Pjtor started to question Godown’s decision not to smite the archbishop the last time the man had ventured out in a storm. Not kill him, Holy Godown, Pjtor half-prayed, just scare him back into proper humility, please. The archbishop wrote to notify his “most wise majesty” that the time had come to root out and destroy the false believers, and that their arguments in favor of their old, outdated, and corrupted ways had failed to move the council of nobles. And those nobles who supported the false believers should be punished. And their lands and property given to the true servants of Godown. Of course, Pjtor snarled inside his head, that would also mean a large portion of those same estates would go to the church. And he highly doubted the holy father intended to plant colonies of priests and monks on the frontier to replace the nobles and false believers that had been “rooted out.”

  Oh, Pjtor had no doubt that Godown knew His own, and that the revision and corrections to the liturgy were indeed right and proper. He’d seen the Lander-era books, even the heretical pre-Lander “beeble” with such strange stories in it that dated from before the last great purification of the Church, back when men had not yet settled Coloplatschki. Pjtor agreed with the reform. It was the reformers he detested, especially Archbishop Nikolas. Nikolas had agreed with Sara about the need to murder Alyx along with his father and uncle and had not condemned Sara’s and Isaac’s family for killing Pjtor’s mother’s brother. He also made far too much noise about the Church being more powerful than the emperor. Oh, he never moved or spoke directly, but after ten years as emperor in name if not in power, Pjtor knew the man’s sticky touch on things all too well. No, Pjtor grumbled, Godown made the Church to see to souls and the emperor to see to bodies and while one supports and helps the other, the emperor does not command the church, although . . . Perhaps, the way Nikolas kept saying that poverty was the same as faithfulness and blessedness, Pjtor should see about helping the church become more holy by taking away some of its lands and treasure. But only if he truly needed it in order to care for Godown’s people.

  Pjtor skimmed over the rest of the report, stopping at the paragraph about the heretics on Lord Tabor’s estate. They what? He reread it, shaking his head. The entire lot had drowned themselves in the Bella River, men, women, and children, when Lord Tarnoii’s men and some of the Chosen Guard had tried to drag them to a church court in a different district. “We shall submerge ourselves in the grace and glory of Godown” their priest had called before they walked or jumped into the flooded stream. Almost a hundred people had drowned themselves. Well, Pjtor thought, blinking, Godown will know them if they were truly His. And if not, well, that is Godown’s to decide, not mine, and not the archbishop’s either. He wants Tabor’s estate, him and Tarnoii both. Or more precisely, they want the wealth they think Tabor has. They do not want the danger and responsibilities of being a noble on the edge of civilization, Pjtor thought toward the episcopal enclosure and one of the fancier estates in Muskava.

  I’ll stay with the True Church but not with the current archbishop. That would be another thing to change. He set the letter aside and decided to open the one from his mother and get it over with.

  “Imperial Majesty, is something amiss?” Geert inquired, using Pjtor’s formal title. Pjtor wondered just how badly his frustration was showing.

  Pjtor opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed. “Not precisely. It seems I will have a wife waiting when I return to Muskava.”

  Geert inhaled, held the breath for a moment, and exhaled. He took the pipe out of his mouth and uncrossed his legs. “Indeed, Imperial Majesty. And what does this wife look like, if I might venture to inquire?”

  “Like a woman I suppose. She won’t leave her father’s homefold until I return to take her.”

  “Hmm.” Geert leaned forward. “Imperial Majesty, pardon if the question offends, but why do the women stay in the,” he spoke carefully, “home fold?”

  Pjtor took a sip of the liqueur-laced tea that had appeared at his elbow, brought by one of the lowest of the low service-slaves. “For protection, physical and spiritual.”

  “Interesting, Imperial Majesty.”

  “And the women of New Dalfa? And call me Pjtor Adamson, or just ‘my lord’.”

  Geert smiled broadly, “The women of New Dalfa are underfoot l
ike cats, my lord. They have almost all the rights of men and go all places except the council chambers and the ship meetings. And there are stories that some of the ship meetings have been held in, ah, houses of affectionate women, and the company enjoyed each other a great deal. Being a married man I did not go, of course.” He winked.

  Pjtor did not get the joke. He was too astonished by women going everywhere and doing everything men did. “Really? You are not joking?”

  Geert shook his head and raised one hand, as if taking an oath. “Godown and St. Issa as my witnesses, if we tried to keep our women confined, they’d probably starve us into submission. And nights would be long and lonely,” he gave Pjtor a knowing look that left the younger man more confused than amused.

  “But, how do you protect them from the Turkowi Harriers?”

  “City walls and guns, my lord, and women who live near the Turkowi lands learn to defend themselves and their homes, at least long enough for the men to return if they are away for some cause. The Eastern Empire even has a woman who leads the army, although it is said she is both a canny commander and too ugly to find a husband, too ugly even to work in a house of pleasure.”

  That’s twice Geert has told the story, Pjtor thought, but I still have trouble believing it, ugly or no. If it’s true, she must be Godown’s special revenge on the Turklavi. I’m not sure I’d want to meet one of Godown’s Chosen in person. His eyes wandered to the map hanging on a gilded rod attached to the wall. He’d never go to the Eastern Empire, so he’d never have to worry about it.