“Uh . . . Paramount . . . Mykroft also noted that they should have kept some horses restrained, in case messages needed to be sent.”
“Good idea,” said Yozef, again smiling. Then he turned to Yulan. “I think the lesson was learned, Hetman. And be assured I have no doubt about your men’s courage or any hesitation about depending on them, should the situation arise. You could probably let the men stop digging for water or gold.”
Yulan grunted. “Oh, no. Let them dig. In fact . . . Santee . . . inform your brother that they are to widen the trench from three hundred to six hundred feet long and make it five feet deep. It never hurts to reinforce for negligence. I don’t think I want to know whether they kept any water with them. There are enough horses carrying water and standing around to keep the men alive until they finish and round up the rest of their mounts.”
The hetman turned to Yozef. “With your agreement, I think we can return to Brudermyn. By the time we get there, it will be an hour or so from mid-day meal. We can give you a better tour of the city, and, on the way back, we’ll divert through a couple of villages to let the people see the Paramount up close.”
“Splendid idea, Yulan, but I would like to see the men back in Brudermyn in time to experience the festivities. I’ve heard Seaborn ale is particularly potent. I assume some will be available? If yes, I anticipate these men might be a bit dry when they return. I asked Maera to arrange for enough barrels of ale for the battalion to recuperate.”
Yulan laughed uproariously. “Not just them. I think I need a stein or two, but not because I’m dry.”
Festivities
It wasn’t a full festival like the five-day event to signify moving from the old year to the new, but many features were the same. Rows of stalls sold products of all types; animals were displayed for sale, barter, or breeding; planned or impromptu musical numbers were performed. Missing were nearby archery and firing ranges. Synton Ethlore was the formal leader of the Paramount’s security detachment. His insistence that no projectile weapons be fired within range of the Paramount was ultimately supported by Hetman Seaborn.
One hour past the event’s opening, St. Eflin’s bells tolled to announce forthcoming speeches. Abbot Rupasz gave a brief prayer, thanking God for all his blessings and for safely delivering the Paramount and his wife to Seaborn. Hetman Seaborn spoke for thirty minutes, giving yet another summary of the clan’s history, the Narthani war, justifications for the need for the clans to unite, and, finally, the history of Yozef Kolsko’s time on the Caedellium Islands, culminating in his acknowledgment as the Paramount Hetman, a step above all clan hetmen.
Yozef had often heard similar speeches. He flinched just enough for Maera to detect when he thought the extolling of his virtues went over the line. She smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t believe Yulan had exaggerated.
Then it was Yozef’s turn for his least favored duty as Paramount. He thanked Yulan for the invitation to visit, apologized for not having come earlier, delivered a reasonable amount of praise of the Seaborn Clan’s people, and closed with his visions of a future Caedellium providing peace and prosperity for all. He correctly believed that the applause and vocalizations after his speaking were noticeably more enthused than after his introduction when they’d arrived at Brudermyn. One thing he was grateful for was not having to take questions. He did not look forward to a day when there would be Caedellium equivalences of press conferences.
Then it was time to allow the Seaborn attendees to have a closer look at a leader they had never seen. Synton wisely refrained from arguing with Yozef about his and Maera’s mingling with the crowd—if mingling was the appropriate description because the four regular bodyguards formed a semicircle around their charges. This allowed people to approach only from the front and under four sets of watchful eyes.
There were a few frowns, though the owners remained in the background without coming close to Yozef, helped by Carnigan to Maera’s left and Synton to Yozef’s right. At first, the crowd was respectful and reserved. As the minutes passed, verbal greetings increased, and the first furtive hand gestures developed into a hand- and forearm-clasping orgy. The increased press of bodies forced the four-man security team to tighten their semicircle. A young woman pushed her way to the front and held out a six-month-old baby.
“Please bless my child, Paramount,” she pleaded.
Yozef’s groan was audible only to Maera. Despite his attempts to discourage people from thinking he had any special connection to God, the rumors that he was a Septarsh, one to whom God whispered, had proved impossible to quash. Thus, he stared at the woman and child for several seconds as he searched in vain for a reason to decline her request. Then Maera intervened.
“What is your name?” Maera asked.
“Yolla Iswyn. Oh, dear! I don’t know how to address you. Please pardon me.”
“Nonsense. You’re Yolla, and I’m Maera. And this person by my side is Yozef, my husband who is enjoying his visit to your clan. He’s also Paramount, but he doesn’t think himself better than anyone else.”
Maera turned to Yozef and hissed quietly, “God’s Mercy. Just put a hand on the child’s head for a moment. She’ll be satisfied.”
Yozef complied, and the woman’s face lit up. She curtsied briefly, disappeared back into the crowd, and was immediately replaced by a long succession of other mothers and their children.
Rescue came only when bells signaled the time for everyone to return to the site of the speeches. By then, the speaking platform had been dismantled, and a simple table with two chairs sat in the same position. The crowd was smaller this time, no more than four to five hundred. Word had spread, but fewer people saw any interest in a game of sa’anolor between the Paramount’s wife and a Seaborn girl. On the table lay a wooden game board covered in white and black squares. On both sides of the board sat two bowls, one full of white tokens and the other of black.
When Yozef and Maera arrived, Yulan Seaborn and a scowling man stood behind the table at which sat a brown-haired girl in a plain gray dress. She looked like she would rather be anywhere else. Yozef didn’t need a detective’s license to figure out which man was the girl’s disapproving father.
Maera sat opposite the girl. “I understand your name is Omelia, dear. My name is Maera. Please call me that.”
The girl blanched. “I can’t do that,” she gasped. “You’re the Paramount’s wife.”
“You can if we’re friends. And I say we’re friends.” Maera turned to Yozef. “It’s all right if Omelia calls me Maera, isn’t it, Paramount?”
“Of course, it is.” He was tempted to tell the child she could call him Yozef but decided that would be a step too far for the poor child. However, he turned to her father. “Ser Starstyn, my wife would like to be friends with Omelia. Is that all right with you as her father?”
The man sighed, and his obviously tense shoulders relaxed. “Of course, Paramount, whatever you say.”
“There,” said Maera, “that settles it. We’re friends now. I’m Maera, and you’re Omelia. Since we’re friends, and I’m the visitor, I’d like to give you a gift.”
From a pocket, Maera pulled a bright red-and-yellow scarf and held it out. Omelia looked sharply at her father. He nodded, having capitulated to whatever would transpire. Omelia took the scarf, ran her hands over the fabric that was probably finer than anything she’d ever owned, and then wrapped it around her neck, the two ends hanging down her chest.
“Are you ready to play, Omelia? If yes, then you can make the first play.”
The girl’s shyness evaporated like a drop of water hit by a blowtorch. With a determined face and without hesitation, she reached into a bowl to her left, picked up a white token, and placed it on a square. The game was on.
There was no custom of the audience remaining silent during any game involving Caedelli. At first, the watchers had remained quiet, trying to listen to the words exchanged around the sa’anolor board. That state changed the instant the first token hit the b
oard. Yozef watched in bemusement as the crowd took up sides in support of the two players—the Paramount’s wife and the local child. In contrast to the onlookers, the custom was that the sa’anolor players did not speak to each other.
Yozef perused the onlookers, his eyes landing on a face and quickly moving to the next—until he came to a face that stared back intently. Yozef’s eyes froze on that face. Suddenly, the man turned away and seemed to vanish in the crowd, despite his height.
Well . . . always a few odd-looking people, Yozef thought. That one made me uneasy, but I shouldn’t look for worries when there’s no reason.
The play began fast, as token after token was placed within seconds of the previous one. However, after half an hour, the time intervals increased as players needed more time to evaluate strategies.
Yozef could see that Maera was getting worried, not in fear of losing but from observing the expressions and body language of Omelia.
Oh, Christ, thought Yozef. I wonder if Omelia has never lost a match or at least not for quite some time. For Maera, sa’anolor is just a game, but for Omelia, I bet it’s a major part of who she perceives she is.
He knew Maera wouldn’t deliberately lose. If Omelia was as good at the game as she seemed, she would detect the gesture. Yet Maera might draw the game out longer than it need be to give the impression of a difficult match.
Just over an hour into the game, Maera brought it to a close after the girl made a move.
“I’m sorry, Omelia, but being the Paramount’s wife means there are duties that I cannot avoid or delay. We have meetings coming up and then an evening meal with the hetman’s family before we prepare to leave Brudermyn first thing tomorrow morning. I’m afraid we’ll have to end the game with a draw. It’s been a fun game. You’re a wonderful player.”
Maera leaned across the board and gestured for Omelia to come closer. “The Paramount will talk to Hetman Seaborn and your father about letting you play sa’anolor more.”
Omelia whispered back. “Thank you . . . Maera. That was a fun game. I thought I had you several times, but you fooled me with your play. I hope we can play again.”
“I do, too. Now let’s stand up and shake hands.”
While shaking, Maera announced her need to be somewhere else and praised Omelia’s game. Yozef then added how Seaborners should be proud to have a sa’anolor player who was among the best in all Caedellium.
Hetman Seaborn escorted them back toward the festival area, leaving Omelia and her father. When they were fifty yards away, Yozef looked over his shoulder and saw a hundred people or more gathered around the two Starstyns.
Four hours later, the Kolskos were once again in their quarters. All their other clothes had been cleaned and dried during the day and were laid out on the bed—open baggage ready to be packed. Maera thanked and dismissed the woman waiting to attend to any late needs, and they were alone again for the first time since that morning.
“Well . . . was Omelia that good, or did you take it easy on her?”
“She’s that good. I could’ve won several times, but by then, I decided to draw the game. She’s already better than all but two or three people I’ve played before. Of course, I don’t know about every other player on Caedellium, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she could be the best player of all. Her problem is that she doesn’t have good-enough players here in Seaborn to challenge her and to learn from. We didn’t have a chance to really talk, but I have the impression she’s a charming child, perhaps a little withdrawn because she feels out of place. We need to try and do something for her. She still too young to leave her family, but eventually she needs to move off Seaborn to a place where there’s more of an opportunity for her to develop her full potential.”
“All right,” said Yozef. “That’s something we can work on, but I think small moves to get her family to accept that she’s different should come first. Maybe this is something we can get Reezo Seaborn to help with. We’ve already agreed he’s going to be a key contact here on Seaborn, even though he doesn’t have as many official duties as his two older brothers do.”
“Maybe Thala, too,” said Maera. “Them being twins already makes people accustomed to seeing them do many of the same activities. We can talk more later, but I’m tired from being on my feet too much today. They’re swelling again.”
“Why don’t you lie down and put your feet up?” offered Yozef. “I’ll do the packing, and you can do the directing.”
“I’ll gladly let you, but how about helping my poor feet?”
He sat at the end of the bed and began massaging a foot.
Maera said, “But I’ve been thinking maybe I should stay in Brudermyn while you go on the tour.”
Yozef looked up, his face concerned. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. It’s just that I didn’t have enough time to meet with people at the cathedral complex. Plus, I’d like more time with Shurla at the library. She’s right. There are some records here that must be among the oldest on Caedellium. A few are so old, the language has changed. It will take us some time to understand enough of what’s in them to know whether they’re important. A few even seem to be in another language altogether—one I don’t recognize.”
He didn’t respond for several moments, but his expression told her he wasn’t enthused by her plan.
“If you think it’s that important, I suppose it’s best.”
“But you don’t like the idea.”
“Well . . . I confess I was looking forward to visiting these sights with you. We get to do such things together so rarely.”
She sighed. “Well . . . I suppose these records aren’t going anywhere. When Shurla tells me what she thinks of them, I could even plan on coming back here in a year or more. The railroad should be working even better by then, so getting from Orosz City to Penmawr will be easier.”
Maera stretched her arms out, and Yozef switched to the other foot.
“How about you keep working on my feet while I think?”
Five minutes and innumerable contented sighs later: “All right, I’ll leave the research to Shula. Just keep rubbing.”
CHAPTER 33
YASTERN VALLEY
The twenty-three-mile carriage trip from Brudermyn to the Yastern Valley took nine hours. The first three miles to the capital’s outskirts were over a hard-packed dirt road covered in crushed seashells. Their caravan consisted of Reezo and Thala Seaborn leading the way on horseback, followed by twenty Seaborn dragoons; the Kolsko carriage, which included Urk Zalzar, bracketed by their four mounted bodyguards; a wagon carrying baggage and supplies; and the twenty Pewitt dragoons at the rear. Both sets of dragoons wore clothes traditional for their respective clans in place of the mottled olive-drab uniform now standardized for the Caedellium military. Further embellishing the gaudy display were clan banners and the Caedellium national flag bordered in gold to signify the Paramount’s presence. Adding to the effect were colored ribbons attached to the coach and the wagon.
“We’re going to look like a damn festival parade,” snipped Synton when the caravan assembled that morning.
“It’s part of their celebration of the Paramount’s visit,” Maera said patiently. “Thala told me that colored cloths of all kinds will be hung along our route through Brudermyn. It’s something that developed since we arrived. She says the people were unsure of how to feel about the Paramount, but we’ve managed to convince them we’re not just another set of presumptive rulers like the Narthani.”
“Now, it’s not that bad,” chided Yozef. “Yeah, they were cool that first day when we got off the ship, but things warmed up quickly.”
“I think Maera charmed them more than you did,” Carnigan chipped in, when he carried the last of their baggage to the waiting wagon. The woman who had fought him for bags after their arrival had deigned to merely supervise this time, though she still scowled at the large red-headed man who had given up the first tug-of-war and carried both her and the bag she
wouldn’t surrender into their lodging.
“Just goes to show they aren’t a good judge of people,” quipped Yozef, before being elbowed by a grinning Maera.
Zalzar gave a running commentary on landmarks as they left the capital and more as they moved into open farmland.
“We are just skirting the largest farming area on our islands. From north of Brudermyn to south of Grastor is fertile land from the mountains to the sea. The other farming areas are separated from one another by the mountains running down South Island’s center. In contrast, North Island is so mountainous, combined with its isolation, which means it has only a few small farming valleys. East Island actually has more farmable land than North Island, but its isolation keeps the population down.”
“I’m surprised the road is so smooth,” said Maera. “Please don’t take offense, but I was expecting a much more jolting ride. I’m also a little surprised it’s wide enough for two wagons to pass each other.”
Zalzar chuckled. “Enjoy it while you can, Sen Kolsko. When we reach the village of Nillor in another two miles, the road will change to more of what you might have expected—narrow and bumpy. We get a strong rainy season several months of the year. The roadbed is elevated a few feet from the surrounding land in many places. That’s because of flooding in the flatlands. Yulan’s grandfather started a major road-building program. Besides the raised road, the soil was compacted by a device currently being used north of Brudermyn. It’s a large wagon holding a crane with a four-foot-diameter flat metal weight that is raised and then allowed to fall onto the ground.
“We had huge piles of seashells that had accumulated over a hundred years. The idea was to crush the shells and use them to pave the streets of Brudermyn. However, that’s all it was . . . an idea. Successive hetmen would revise the idea and then delay or change their minds. Nevertheless, the collecting of the shells continued until Yulan became hetman.
“The roadbed was built starting with a layer of soil and crushed rock coming from a quarry west of Brudermyn. Successive layers were laid down and compacted, then repeated. The final stage consisted of crushed seashells and only slightly compacted. We have problems with erosion, but the people have taken to maintaining these roads as a matter of clan pride.”
A Dubious Peace Page 47
