by Alma Boykin
Lazlo finished his mouthful. “They are the winter curtains, the heavy ones,” he reminded her. “I had everything changed over last week in preparation for moving back into the city.”
“Thank you.” She returned her attention to the hearty meal. By court standards yard fowl and shahma were unspeakably common and the lack of courses suggested dire poverty. By her standards she nearly drowned in luxury. Apparently Master Kim, her cook, wanted her to know just how much the staff appreciated her safe return, because a cheese plate and a sweet course waited on the portable buffet. “I’m not going to be fashionable, love,” she protested as Lazlo added the rest of the fowl to her plate.
“You don’t want Master Kim to feel slighted because food was left, do you? And I must confess, I had a large working dinner with his grace Duke Starland.”
“Then I forgive you,” she smiled, already cutting the luscious meat with her fork. “Even if I have to let out the seams of my court dress.” When they finished, only empty bowls, a bit of cheese rind, and bare bones remained. They walked down to her library on the ground floor, allowing the servants to take away the dishes and supper furnishings. Another unfamiliar servant met them at the library and set out wine, fruit juice, and nuts, and then left.
Elizabeth sank into her chair, accepted a cup of more juice than wine, and stopped. She studied the simple cup, feeling the still-smooth surface. Although scratched into translucency, the tall cup had once been clear and she almost dropped the frighteningly expensive thing in her surprise. “This is plaztik!” She took a very careful sip of the contents before demanding, “Where did this come from?”
“There are four of them, a matched set, and they are a gift. They arrived two days ago from Count Dominic Montoya, who I fear still dreams of taking you as his mistress, since his wife seems unwilling to leave him.” Lazlo’s sour tone matched Elizabeth’s tart scowl.
Elizabeth studied the cup, noting how the material looked in the fading light. Can I afford to offend him? More to the point, can Duchess von Sarmas afford to offend him? “What is Count Montoya’s position on the Bergenlands question?”
“He supports telling the Elected Speaker to, well, to soak his head in a horse trough. Politely, of course.”
Elizabeth drank more and considered the political implications of telling Montoya to take his gift and give it to the Sisters of Service, so they could sell it and use the money for good works. She finished her drink before deciding, “Have my secretary write a suitably gracious thank-you letter. I’ll go through the loot I brought back from Florabi and find something for his wife for the Winter Fair.”
Lazlo nodded in agreement, finishing his wine as well. He helped himself to the nuts, cracking the paperhulls and tossing the shells into the small fire. The flames danced red as they consumed the offering. Elizabeth let her eyelids droop as she sat, content just to be home and to listen to the familiar sounds. The room grew dark as the last sunlight faded and the fire dimmed to dark coals. As her husband lit a candle, she got up and stopped him. “No reason to waste light we don’t need.” He gave her an enquiring look, one eyebrow rising. She reached up and stroked his cheek. Unlike many other senior officers he remained clean-shaven, and the evening stubble tickled her calloused fingertips. He smiled and put out the candle.
Once the servants had retired for the night, Elizabeth joined Lazlo in his bed. Their kisses and caresses quickly grew heated as seven months of separation added to their passion. Afterwards she rested her head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. His fingers played in the short strands of her hair before stroking her cheek and shoulder, and other things. Oh, she’d missed him. I’ll just go back to my bed when Lazlo wakes up, she thought, surrendering to sleep.
She stirred well before sunrise, pulled on her night gown and returned to her own bed, leaving Lazlo sprawled out in deep sleep. She made use of the night soil box and then tried to nap a little longer, drifting into a light doze. She awoke again to the scent of hot chokofee and the swishing flapping sound of fabric being shaken out. “No, not that one,” Mina’s voice said. “That’s for when she’s bedridden. Her grace will want something heavier today.”
“Her grace wears boning during her confinements?” A young, diffident-sounding woman asked.
“No. Ask Mistress Hannah if you must know,” Mina snapped, still quiet. “Go fetch hot water for her grace’s morning wash.” Elizabeth waited until the light footfalls faded into nothing before opening her eyes and stretching.
“Ow.” Her shoulder caught and she stopped, raising her arm up in very small increments until she felt the joint release. She tried again with happier results, and luxuriated in the feel of soft, clean cotton sliding over her skin. Elizabeth debated having her chokofee in bed, but noticed the tiny shake starting in her hands. The shakes get worse before they improve and I do not care to wear my breakfast, unlike some, she snorted silently, pushing back the bedclothes and taking her time to stand up. I wonder why this happens? Her hands always shook the first day or two after campaign season.
“Good morning, my lady.” Mina dipped a small curtsey before helping Elizabeth into her wrapper and fixing the chokofee. As Elizabeth drank, her maid set out the rest of the day’s clothes. “Will you be riding today, my lady?”
“No, although I may visit the stables later,” Elizabeth assured her. Mina nodded and set out appropriate under things, along with thicker socks and sturdy shoes. As she started to open the small chest with Elizabeth’s hairpieces in it, the duchess added, “And no wig today.”
Surprised, Mina looked over her shoulder, eyebrows almost hidden in the ruffles around her cap. “Ah, very good, my lady.” Instead of a wig, Mina selected three head covers for her mistress to choose from.
Chokofee finished, Elizabeth rinsed off again, luxuriating in the hot water and astringent scent of spot-wort soap. Then she dressed, letting Mina fuss with the lacing and hooks on her foundation garment. “Foundations and stays are going out of fashion, my lady,” Mina informed her.
Elizabeth held the sleeves of the shimmy as Mina, with a practiced hand, tugged and twitched the overdress into position. “Good heavens. How is the outer bodice supposed to sit correctly without a foundation?”
Mina clucked her tongue. “The more daring wear a little blouse that comes to,” and she set her hand just below her breasts. “With padding, I suspect.”
“False advertising, then. I thought that was a man’s prerogative.”
Her maid feigned wide-eyed innocence. “My lady, I can’t imagine such a thing!” She added under her breath, “But having seen Duke Clellan recently, my lady, I don’t have to imagine.” She handed Elizabeth a length of lightly starched, pale brown fabric. Elizabeth folded it, draped it over her head, and deftly shaped a modified coif, then pinned it so it would stay in place.
“Oh dear.” Dressed, washed, and ready to face the day, Elizabeth picked up her prayer beads and prayer book. “As bad as old Duke Peilov?”
“Worse, my lady, if you can believe it.”
I most certainly can, she shuddered. “I will take a late working breakfast with Col. Destefani, in the morning room.” With that she left, going down to her chapel to say the morning liturgy and to continue making good on her vow to say a hundred sets of beads in thanks for Godown having granted her the victory at Florabi.
After breakfast Lazlo accompanied her on a walk through the gardens that stretched east almost half a kilometer from the main house down to the small pavilion and stables at the foot of the hill. They combined the garden tour with business and he briefed her on the latest news from the Imperial court and council. “I’ll go back to early spring, just after you and the army went south,” he began.
“Do. I’ve been focused on southern matters and need the bigger picture,” she agreed, pausing to smell one of the last yellow brush-blooms of the season. The scent always reminded her of hot honeycake.
“Two major pieces of news arrived. First, the Bergenlands decided to unite
. They’d been discussing it for several years, apparently, and sent representatives to the Sea Republics to study their governments and taxation systems. Archduke Gerald André assured his majesty that the Bergenlands would form a confederation of some sort.”
“That would be the logical choice, if they have not found a royal to invite in to take over,” Elizabeth observed. She also saw that some of the stones in the wall around the garden looked loose, and frowned. She pointed to the problem spot. “That needs to be fixed.”
“I suspect they did ask a royal, and no one wanted to get caught between the Empire and the Frankonians, but that’s only my guess, my lady, and I’ll have Charles see about repairing the wall.” Lazlo paused, as if making a mental note, before continuing, “His grace the Archduke was rather taken aback when the new ambassador informed the court that the men of the Bergenlands had voted to form a single united state, led by someone called an Elected Speaker. Emperor Thomas seemed less surprised, but as I recall he’s always thought the Bergenlanders were a bit odd.” He stopped, giving Elizabeth an inquiring look.
She shrugged. “I think they’re mad. What works in a city-state won’t work for anything as large and rugged and independent as the Bergenlands. Did they not look at the problems the Poloki have?” She pursed her lips and exhaled a faint whistle. “I have no idea what his majesty thought. He kept his thoughts to himself when they differed from his father, Godown grant him ease.” She and Lazlo both made the curving hand gesture of St. Gerald’s bridge across their chests.
“Amen. So, my lady, instead of seven semi-independent states, one democracy now sits between Frankonia and the Empire, with a few small buffers on either side.”
She detoured to look at the long water-flower pool and he waited until she returned. “So we now have one ambassador, which is not really much of a change, and one state that is going to ally with us.”
Lazlo shook his head. “No, or at least not yet. They are still debating allying with us or the Frankonians, or remaining neutral. The ambassador hinted that their neutrality might be, eh,” he looked up at the clear autumn sky and clasped his hands behind his back. “Shall we say encouraged, my lady? Encouraged by a generous gesture of congratulation to the new state?” He tipped his head down and favored her with a sideways glance.
“Thpppth,” she made a rude noise. “I suppose I should wish them well, but they’re being fools, first to try a democracy so large and second to think they will be left in peace. Frankonia won’t let them and we can’t allow them to endanger our western border with their weakness.”
Lazlo’s grave expression stopped her cold, one foot in mid-air. “The Imperial foreign minister has congratulated the Bergenlanders on the wisdom of their decision and offers the best wishes and support for their future, whatever they choose in regards to alliances, my lady. That is official policy, from his majesty himself.”
She schooled her expression to polite, calm interest. “Ah. Of course they are free to chose their own path,” for now, she thought. “I shall certainly add my most hearty good wishes and prayers for their success.”
“Please do that, my lady, because Duke Clellan supports his majesty utterly.”
They reached the bottom of the garden and Elizabeth turned, intending to walk a full course around the perimeter and then return to the stables. Lazlo remained quiet as she mulled the news. Duke Clellan, son-in-law of Count Jones, a follower of St. Mou and one of her political enemies. Jones, who had served briefly under Colonel Marcy, another follower of St. Mou and a man who had declared her one of his personal enemies. She’d never bothered to return the gesture. She’d lacked time and it seemed foolish, given the needs of the Empire. She and Lazlo had ascended the second of the eleven terrace-like steps on the long slope before she asked, “What is the other piece of news?”
He shivered despite the warm morning sun. “Plague.” Her hand dropped to her prayer beads as he made St. Kiara’s flame with his right hand. “Plague in the northern sea cities. It started, or I should say was first officially confirmed just before mid-summer. It reached the edges of the Poloki lands, two of their trade towns, not long after.”
“How bad,” she whispered, crossing her arms and trying to rub some of the day’s heat back into herself. Lazlo stepped closer and put his arm around her waist, as if steadying her as she went up the shallow step to the next terrace.
“We don’t know, my lady. That is, only a third of the people seem to die in the first wave, or so the reports claim, but what will come after? Especially this winter.”
“Godown be merciful, may this be a summer plague that winter will stop.”
“May He hear and answer,” came the fervent reply. “It starts with tiredness and a cough and low fever. Then dark red spots appear and crust over, the cough grows wet, and loose bowels begin. If it goes farther, the cough turns bloody, as do the shits. After that the person dies, usually no more than eight days after the first signs of illness. Bad air carries it, and maybe other things as well.” They’d reached the top of the garden and started another round. Lazlo released her. “I, I’m hesitant to relay rumor, my lady, but.” He stopped speaking, shaking his head. She waited. They’d descended halfway to the end of the garden before he continued. “There are rumors that the plague is a punishment for pursuing Lander technology and ways, my lady.”
Pain shot through her temples and Elizabeth made herself unclench her teeth and relax her jaw. “Thank you for that news, Colonel. It,” she searched for a word. “It explains things in recent communications that I had found puzzling.”
“You are most welcome my lady.” He waited until they reached the stable to say, “There is one other thing, my lady, but it is not for ears other than yours.”
“Very well. On a lighter note,” she changed the topic, “Gray III is most acceptable. He’s got excellent stamina and is not too smart for his own good.”
Lazlo smiled as he opened the door for her. “You’d prefer it to be otherwise, my lady? Should we tempt him with an old mattress to see what happens?”
“Absolutely not!” She pretended to be indignant. “I spent twenty years dealing with a smart mule, Colonel. More to the point, I’d never keep staff if they had to deal with smart mules.”
A wheezy voice behind her complained, “Your grace, if I have to find stablemen who can outsmart mules, I’ll lose what’s left of both my hair and my wits.” She turned to find Henry Adams, the stablemaster, waddling up to them. He’d survived a fall out of a hayloft that left him with a rolling, painful-looking gait and unable to mount unassisted. He bowed to her. “Begging your pardon, your grace, but if you’ve come to see Maldonado and Schwartz, they’re at the royal stud earnin’ their keep.” Which she knew, since she’d sent the orders ahead of her, along with the horses.
She smiled. “No, Master Henry. I came to see if you had any ideas on deflating dreams of training battle mules.”
His wheezy guffaws answered her question. When he caught his breath, he advised, “Let the gentleman learn for himself, your grace, is my advice.”
Elizabeth followed him into the stable row. She preferred to check on her animals personally, to the extent of testing their feed for quality from time to time. You’re only as effective as your beasts, two-footed or four. She noted Gray III munching on his hay ration, peeked into her warhorses’ empty stalls to make sure they had been cleaned to her standards, and stepped deftly around one of the stable cats. The feline, washing its privates in the middle of the aisle, ignored her. Smells as it should, nothing sour or rank, every animal present or accounted for. Would that all my problems were as easy to solve as stable rot. She and Lazlo nodded to the tiny image of St. Michael-Herdsman perched above the main door beam at the end of the stall row before returning to Upper Bellevue.
2
The Paper War
Two days later Imperial Duchess Elizabeth von Sarmas and her chief aid Col. Lazlo Destefani made their official return to Vindobona, taking up residence in Donatello
House. Only the small permanent staff and a few dray horses remained at Bellevue—Mina and the other regular servants had already left before dawn. Elizabeth scolded herself for envy as she watched Lazlo mounting Bruno in Bellevue’s forecourt. The dark Babenburg-blue uniform that washed the last color out of her skin looked dignified and flattering on him. He wore his graying hair pulled back in a neat tail, tied with a dark blue ribbon. She concealed her scut under a small red-blonde wig. Maldonado, her parade mount, shifted under her and stamped as if sensing her thoughts, and she checked the dark brown stallion. Lazlo glanced over his shoulder at her, and she nodded.
Two of her guards and a standard-bearer rode out first, then Elizabeth and Lazlo, followed by the rest of her guards. Maldonado and Bruno, full brothers, matched their gaits, sounding like one horse as they trotted along the centuries-old highway. Traffic parted ahead of them and a few people cheered. Elizabeth raised her hand, acknowledging the carters and farmers. An Imperial messenger saluted as he rushed past on his way west and she returned the salute. The party slowed as they approached the western gate of the Imperial capitol, joining the line of carts and wagons feeding, literally, into the city.
“State your business,” the gate guard challenged, lowering his pike to bar the way.
“Duchess Elizabeth von Sarmas and staff.” She pulled her black and silver marshal’s baton out of her saddlebag and held it out for him to see. “Returning to make full report to his Imperial Majesty, Godown be with him.”
Satisfied, the guard stepped back and raised his pike. “Enter the city, your grace, and be welcome.”
“Thank you.” She tapped her hat brim with the baton and rode on, through the heavy stone gates. Maldonado’s steps raised echoes in the long, dark passage through the wall. After the near-disaster of the Siege twenty years before, the wall had been repaired and strengthened, and Elizabeth smiled again with grim satisfaction at the heavier gates and recesses where nasty surprises waited for the unwary and unfriendly. Then she sighed. How long before walls are useless except as gun platforms? The Landers could destroy a city while floating outside the sky, and we’ve already developed cannons that can shoot over the walls. What now—roofs over the city?
