by Boykin, Alma
“So, brother, that is why Tamsin jumps every time you say her name, and why she acts terrified. She is. She’s so scared of not being fruitful that it is probably going to make her barren if she’s not careful.” Strella’s eyebrows came together in a curving V. “She’s fasting and praying so hard I’m afraid it will stop her courses, and then she certainly won’t get pregnant.”
Now it was Pjtor’s turn to feel his face growing warm. Damn it, but he didn’t want to hear that kind of talk from his younger sister! He thought for a little bit as Strella walked to the stove and back, her embroidered red skirt brushing the floor with a soft scuff of sound. Since she was within the homefold’s doors she wore a little blue cap over the crown of her head but not a veil, and he could see a touch of shine on the straps of her overdress, probably beads. She had green eyes to his blue, and stood only 180 cm to his two hundred. That made her taller than Tamsin by a head, and much broader in the shoulder, now that he could compare the two women.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. What to do? “I’m going to invoke my authority as Godown’s anointed emperor and order her to stop fasting. Not to gorge herself, but to stop fasting.” He thought she felt bonier than when they’d first had congress, but had assumed that maybe that was just what happened after . . .
“That would be a good start. No one but the archbishop can gainsay you, and I’ll watch to make sure she doesn’t go too far the other way. And you might try smiling at her, saying nice things to her, giving her little presents to show that you hope she is happy.”
“Um, OK.” He’d ask Boris and Geert. Geert would have some ideas.
“And remind her that betrothals last for eight seasons for a reason. Even I know it is considered, hmmm, worthy of note if Godown blesses a couple with child less than three seasons after their betrothal ceremony.”
Pjtor wondered just exactly what his sister knew about that sort of thing. But servants did talk, and his mother still had dreams of his giving Strella away to someone for an alliance, although to whom Nancy had no idea. Pjtor thought that if Strella was happy in the homefold, he had no problem with her staying there and managing things for him. He had all of NovRodi to take care of.
“I’ll do that. Thank you. Ah, is there anything you need?”
“Strawberries would be nice, but,” she smiled at the joke. Four centimeters of snow had fallen the day before, and strawberry season lay well in the past.
“And sparrow grass at midwinter’s feast, as well?” He teased back.
“Nothing so exotic, oh brother and emperor. Fresh lamb would be good.” They both laughed at the impossible request.
That evening, Pjtor made a point to see what Tamsin was eating. A piece of bread, a tiny serving of redroot soup without soured cream, and a piece of the fish, but no larger than Pjtor’s second finger. “Are you feeling ill, my lady?”
“N— No, Imperial Master,” she whispered, looking at him in a way that reminded him of a whipped dog, terrified of another blow.
“Then I would like you to eat. To fast out of season, without cause, is not as pleasing to Godown as enjoying His bounty while it is present. And bearing children requires strength, strength from food as well as of the spirit.” He kept his voice quiet and soothing, as if he were talking to a nervous horse. Pjtor also signaled to one of the men serving the meal, who added a dollop of cream to Tamsin’s soup, as well as giving her a much nicer piece of fish, in the rich fruit and butter sauce. Pjtor was not surprised when she ate with a will, not gorging but obviously hungry. He also made a mental note to have a word with her priest. He hummed a little to himself, locking the note in his memory. He still couldn’t remember without humming, or drumming his fingers.
When he glanced to the side, he noticed Sara glowering at him over her beer mug. A sudden thought struck him. Had Sara told Tamsin to fast? Fury boiled up and Pjtor caught himself just as he started to stand and confront her. No, Sara did not want him to have a son, but she would not think like that, and neither Strella nor Nancy would allow Sara to enter the homefold. He snorted, calming down. Sara would not stoop to entering that part of the homefold anyway, since her quarters sported more comforts than did his own. For now. He drank his own beer and thought of spring and the boat, and a son.
“If I do not get away from Muskava,” Pjtor informed Geert on the day after the great feast of spring, “I am going to kill someone.” Pjtor inhaled a little from his pipe, enjoying the rare moment of untroubled companionship. The two men sat in the main room in Geert’s house. One of the maids refilled Pjtor’s mug and gave him a cheerful grin and saucy look along with a good view down the front of her blouse and vest. Pjtor appreciated all three.
Geert’s wife Margit laughed. “Not that I doubt your sincerity, Pjtor Adamson,” she said carefully, bouncing a toddler on one hip. “But from what I hear, you will have to get in line, depending on who you wish removed from Godown’s world.”
“I believe he means someone in court, cheeky wench,” Geert replied. “The grocer is safe from his majesty’s wrath, at least for now.”
“Too bad.” She bobbed a curtsy and disappeared to put little Geert to bed for the second time. Pjtor wondered if she would just tie the little boy down with the bed sheet, like he’d done to Isaac once or twice, before Isaac had grown strong enough to use the sleeping cupboard. And had gotten beaten within an inch of his life for it, of course.
“And of what foul crime is the grocer guilty?”
Geert shook his head. “Ran out of potatoes. And wheat and quinly flour both. And then blamed the women for cooking too much.”
Pjtor almost spit out his mouthful of beer. He barely managed not to choke. “And will his business be closed for mourning?”
“Not unless he does it again. Although he has yet to emerge from the barrel he hid himself in, or so I’m told.” Geert chuckled along with Pjtor at the mental picture.
Waves of color began shimmering in front of the heavy wooden furnishings and the white wall across the room. Pjtor set down both pipe and beer as a warm, pleasant feeling overwhelmed him, a sense that all was right with the world and that he basked in a hint of what would be revealed in Godown’s paradise. Without saying anything Geert sent the maid on an errand and moved so he stood behind Pjtor. This time, Pjtor only sank backwards against the chair instead of sliding out of it or falling sideways. Geert didn’t touch him, and once the spell passed, Pjtor shook all over. He had a headache and felt cranky and exhausted, as always. Damn, if only the warm joy came after the attacks! “I—,” he sipped his beer, feeling as if he lifted a warhorse and not a pottery mug. “I wonder if this is Godown’s curse.”
Geert smoked in silence for several ticks of the clock before answering. “Pjtor Adamson, I am not so certain.” He returned to his own seat. “I have met men who were injured in the head during the wars with Frankonia, and some of them seemed to have recovered, but developed shaking fits, or would fall asleep for a few minutes but with their eyes open, then come back or wake up, so to speak. Others could no longer focus, but bounced from idea to idea, body and mind both in constant motion. But I am not a churigon or a priest of Godown, just a sailor and merchant.”
“Interesting, that.” Pjtor tried to recall anyone who had survived a serious injury in the wars with the Harriers. Just thinking about the raiders called up a mental image of Grigory with his new sash and gems of honor for his so-called victory the summer before, and Pjtor’s head throbbed with anger as well as reaction from his spell. He drank the beer, closed his eyes, and counted to one hundred.
“When do you anticipate leaving Muskava, Pjtor Adamson?” Geert inquired.
“I’d leave tonight, but riding in the dark of the moon with dardogs in the area is not wise.”
He heard Geert trying to hide laughter. “No indeed, Pjtor Adamson. Perhaps in a fast sleigh under the full moon with a few hundred soldiers going first and more following behind, but not tonight.” The deadly pack hunters had drawn too close to Muskava’s wa
lls to make nights safe, and they’d tried to sneak through the gates at least twice. The pelts were very warm, but Pjtor wondered if the pelts made up for the missing animals and children. Oh, no children had been reported eaten yet, but the beasts ate a few every winter. Many, many years before, one of Pjtor’s ancestors had stopped the custom of tying condemned criminals out for the dardogs to eat. The animals might well have been created to be Godown’s avengers as some averred, Pjtor thought, but the packs never left once they’d been fed. It was better to give the guilty party to the victim’s family, or to punish them quickly after the judgement had been passed.
“I depart as soon as the river thaws, Godown willing. I have been informed that I should not be present for the birth. That is a woman thing, for women’s eyes only.”
“Really?” Margit sat down beside her husband. “Interesting, my lord. For first births in New Dalfa there is always a churigon as well as a midwife present, in case difficulties arise.”
Pjtor sipped his beer and shrugged his shoulders. He had no desire to be present, and he suspected Tamsin did not care to have him around. She found him confusing and too restless. He thought she was dull, without any interests besides the homefold and Godown. Oh well. The women of the foreign district were far more interesting.
Once it became apparent that Godown had chosen to bless Pjtor and Tamsin with a child, they had been formally married. And Pjtor began having to deal with his wife’s relatives. He and Isaac now had something to commiserate about, although Isaac’s wife had yet to bear a son. She carried again, and Pjtor wondered if Godown would smite him for hoping that the child would be a girl. The Landers had had a way to tell, but the knowledge had been lost. As best Pjtor could understand from what Strella said, girl babies made a different noise in the womb than did boy babies, and the Landers had a device that could hear the differences. It didn’t sound as strange as some things people claimed about the Landers. Pjtor did want some of their weapons, although he still could not believe in the guns that used sunlight to kill people. That had to be wrong, probably a mis-copying of something.
He’d asked Geert, who shrugged. Margit, however, had tipped her head to the side a little and said, “I think they used eelektreeseety and made a light that shone through a stone of some kind. My grandfather was an archivist for the patrician of Hämäl, on the northern ocean, and he showed me pictures in a book, a book about fixing one of those light gonnes. He said the book had been made after the first of the Great Fires, when many of the eelektrick books stopped working.”
Pjtor had been amazed, not just by the information but also by Margit’s knowledge and participation in the discussion. Geert treated her as an equal and Pjtor understood why, or his head did. The rest of him still had trouble imagining women who lived most of their lives outside the homefold, working beside their men. Every visit to the foreign neighborhood felt like leaving NovRodi for a far off land. The first time he’d seen one of the woman cooks chasing someone, wielding a turnspit like a club, he’d almost fallen off his horse with shock. No wonder Geert said he avoided the houses of pleasure, if the women of New Dalfa did that to people who made them angry! The women met his eyes, could talk and discuss like men, and seemed to enjoy being with their men. And with other men, or at least Geert’s maids and several other men’s servants did. Pjtor suspected that if he showed the least interest, several would invite him for a tumble instead of the other way around. But he had no interest in a leman, at least not at the moment. His in-laws and his blood kin were enough trouble.
Geert coughed, breaking Pjtor’s mental wandering. “So, Pjtor Adamson, after the thaw you will return to Hornand. I will be returning to New Dalfa when the ice breaks.”
“My lord, dear,” Margit asked, eyes twinkling, “with both of you gone, who will keep Muskava’s brewers from going out of business?”
Geert reached over and tapped her lightly on her rather long nose. “I suspect there will be enough people drowning their sorrows, or celebrating their joy, at the births in the palace. And old Captain Anderson will be here to keep order.”
Margit stuck her tongue out at her husband and made a rude noise. “Captain Anderson doesn’t drink anything stronger than sour milk.”
“Really?” Pjtor asked.
Geert nodded. “Really, Pjtor Adamson. He told me that he is a terrible drunk, the wild, dangerous kind, and almost killed a man when he was younger. He swore to Godown and St. Gerald that if the man survived, he’d never drink beer, wine, or any spirit again. That was over fifteen years ago, my lord, and he’s kept his word so far.”
Pjtor could not imagine life without beer, wine, or spirits of pflum and pfear. And that ferociously fiery apple brandy that tasted so good and kicked so hard. “I admire his discipline but I question his sanity.”
“I’m told he finds other outlets for sin,” Margit said, voice tight, lips compressed. Then she relaxed. “But only Godown is perfect, and no man or woman is without weakness or flaw. Godown gave us free choice, and if we choose to be foolish, well, thanks be that Godown is merciful.”
A little voice came down the hallway and over the bottom door. “Maaaaaaaaa? Maaaaa!” The door rattled.
“I am tying your son to the bedpost!” Margit got up, opened the door with one hand, scooped the toddler into her arms before he could trot out into the main room, and disappeared. Pjtor had a shrewd suspicion that Godown was a lot more merciful than Margit Fielder would be, especially once the boy got older.
“I’m starting to see why you have the homefold,” Geert said as he shut both halves of the door. “Do you think one could be installed here?”
Pjtor laughed, but quietly. “Your wife would saw her way out before you finished closing the door.”
“Alas yes.”
The next morning Pjtor found Sara and her shadow waiting for him when he finished attending morning liturgy. Several of the Chosen Guard stood behind her, and for a heartbeat Pjtor wondered if they’d come to finish what they’d started ten years before. His heart began racing and he felt himself shifting position just enough to be ready to lunge and grab the closest man’s weapon. All he had was his table knife, and he felt as naked as if he’d left his clothes in his chamber.
She retained enough sense of propriety that she dropped in a half curtsey. Grigory bowed, glaring at Pjtor as he did. You are a fool, Pjtor thought as he waited, a pure fool to think that I won’t remember this. Or are you so confident that you think you’ll never be replaced? Pjtor hid his expression as Sara straightened up. “Greetings, honored Emperor Pjtor.”
Oh get on with it, Pjtor snarled. “Greetings, High Princess Sara. It is good to see you well.”
“And a blessing from Godown that you prosper. How is your lady wife?”
“She is well. The women are with her, since her time is coming near.” He hated the dance of words, hated the feeling of the skin crawling up the back of his neck.
“It is said that you intend to take your, what is it,” her eyebrows rose and she tried to look down on him. “Ah, your . . . regiment and go to Hornand soon?”
“So it is said.”
Temper flashed in her eyes and she glared up at him. “Pjtor Adamson, emperor, your place is here, with your wife. His Imperial Majesty Isaac the Wise prefers that you stay.”
Really, Pjtor thought at his half-sister. And you want me gone, preferably to Godown’s realm. What game are you playing, hmm? “I will ask him, but I am given to understand that his own wife’s condition requires his attention.”
Confusion flashed on her features, and Pjtor caught a look of what might have been fear on Grigory’s dark face before he caught himself. Pjtor hummed a few notes, locking the observation into memory. “But of course the regent will be here, so why is my presence so vital?”
“I—had intended to—accompany General Lord Grigory—as far as St. Sabra’s when he leaves to continue the war against the Harriers.” The words sounded to Pjtor as if they had been pulled from her the way a hunter
pulled a barbed arrow out of a pseudo-deer.
“And Emperor Isaac will be here. He is the emperor, with all rights and powers.” She twitched and Pjtor ground the salt deeper. “Your absence, while inconvenient, should pose no threat to the safety of NovRodi, especially in the company of General Lord Grigory.”
He imagined he could see her hackles rising despite the rich veil of embroidered silk under her coronet. The Chosen Guards sensed her dismay and glared at Pjtor. No, he whispered silently, no, do not fear for her. Fear me for who I am.
“It is better if you stay, Imperial Majesty,” Grigory said from over Sara’s shoulder.
“Why? Do you fear the Harriers might come so far north as to threaten Hornand?”
“No,” Sara snapped. Pjtor added another point to his mental tally. “You spent too much time with foreigners and that toy boat and your toy soldiers. You need to stay here, to do your duty within the walls of the palace.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. Pjtor went still, eyes locked on hers, not letting her look away. Grigory made a noise and the Chosen Guards rustled like dogs sensing their masters’ anger. Sara broke gaze and looked down. Pjtor ignored Grigory, instead studying the soldiers behind him. The men with their long, shaggy beards and hair, their knee-length robes and the stench of winter hanging around them made him long for the clean wenches and sensible garb of the foreigners even more. When I come to power, Pjtor promised, you are gone.
“I am going to Hornand. I will continue visiting the foreign neighborhood and meeting with the ambassadors and others. And I will confirm with my brother emperor that my departure will not cause undue difficulties for him.”