by Alma Boykin
The hand motion made the paper in her sleeve crackle and she pulled the page out. “And since the question has been raised, here is proof that I am the legal wife of Lazlo Kirlin Destefani.” Fr. Pascual had obtained a copy of the marriage record from the cathedral.
For the first time, someone else spoke up. Duke Matthew Starland inquired, “Did not my father and Archduke Gerald Kazmer protest your marriage?”
“Yes, they did, and Gerald Kazmer tried to persuade Emperor Rudolph, Godown give him peace, to order us to separate so that I could marry you. His majesty refused to do so.”
Matthew replied, half under his breath but still loud enough for the room to hear, “Thanks be. Sarah is enough of a handful.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Thank you, my lady. I wished to confirm the date of your marriage.”
Duke Clellan stormed up and snatched the page out of her hand. Father André crossed behind the archbishop and emperor to stand beside Clellan, who all but hurled the page into the priest’s face. “Is it legal?”
The sallow priest’s throat apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Yes. It is a legal marriage.” If he’d suffered a bout of indigestion, he could not have looked any more miserable.
At last Emperor Thomas stirred himself. “Sarmas, you still failed to report a Lander weapon recovered from Imperial property. That is a grave offense.”
“Your pardon, your majesty, but what weapon? A box was found under the wall at Bellevue, it is true, but nothing else.”
Clellan pointed to the cloth-draped shape under the judges’ table. “That weapon, in that box.” He sounded triumphant. “Do you deny what you just said?”
“Your majesty, to my knowledge, there are no weapons in the box that was found under the wall.”
Thomas got to his feet. “Open the box,” he ordered Clellan.
The duke, perhaps loathe to dirty his brilliant clothes, or afraid of contamination, pointed to the closest guard. “Drag it out and open it.”
The soldier handed his pike to his fellow and with obvious reluctance dragged the box out so all could see it, removed the cloth, and tried to open it. When the latch refused to move, he drew his belt knife and popped the lock, then opened the wooden top. “Take out the contents,” Emperor Thomas commanded, peering from well behind the table. Several of the nobles moved closer to get a clear view of the mysterious objects.
Out came the white dress and cap, now much cleaner than before but still stained, along with the ledger book, Holy Writ, table silver, and the still-sealed leather bags. The guard cut the ties and opened the pouches. One bag held coins, and the other bits of cheap jewelry, including a wedding necklace. Elizabeth made St. Gerald’s bridge. Godown please be with Lee and his family. And yet people wonder why I have little use for the Turkowi.
Shocked, Clellan blurted, “This is not the box that was brought into Donatello House. The box from Bellevue contained Lander weapons, I know it did.”
Duke Karl Grantholm, old duke Miles’s son, picked up the little cap and shook it out, running thick fingers along the painstakingly stitched ruffled hem. “How do you know this is the wrong box, Paul?”
“Because my agent said so. She saw the box in the stable and…”
“And assumed because it looked old, and she had not seen it open, and because I have a fondness for Lander baubles, it must be something important,” Elizabeth finished. Her voice sounded unnaturally calm to her ears, even over the pounding of her heart. “The contents of the box belonged to Alois Lee, the farmer who rented Hillside Farm number two. He was the renter at the time of the Turkowi siege. According to the records of the royal farms, he and his entire family, and a hired hand, disappeared at that time. No relatives have come forward and the estate was declared closed five years ago. He had two daughters and a son.”
Karl Grantholm stroked the little cap before setting it on the table. “My daughter will be confirmed after Winter Fair,” he told those watching, then walked back to rejoin Matthew Starland and Counts Eulenberg and Peilov. Lewis Midland and Jaz Hoffman moved so that they stood with Starland and Grantholm. Dominic Montoya, already on that side of the room, folded his arms and glared silently at Duke Clellan.
“Your majesty, your reverence, Duke Clellan, Father André, was anything else found in the search of Donatello House that is cause for concern?” There shouldn’t have been, but who knows what they found in Lazlo’s chamber and office.
Emperor Thomas turned to Paul Clellan. Beads of sweat had begun dripping down the older man’s face, and dark patches on his burgundy trousers showed where he’d wiped his palms. “Was there?”
“We, my men, found correspondence with a convent in the Duchy of Kirov, on the Frankonian border, and what looked to be letters in code, but we cannot read them.”
“Lady Sarmas?”
“Your majesty, no one can read those letters. My mother Olympia Sarmas-to, Godown grant her mercy, suffered a brain attack just over one year ago. She can neither speak nor write, although she tries. She is at St. Sabrina of Kirov, in the care of the sisters. My husband and I, through the banking house in Herbstadt, send support for her. Your reverence, your pardon, but I pray for her quick return to Godown every time I see one of those letters.”
Archbishop Laurence tipped one hand up in a gesture of understanding, and she inclined her head to him in thanks. “Your charity does you and your husband credit, Lady Elizabeth. More credit than most know, as I have learned over the past week.” He smiled for the first time since the hearing had begun. “Your servants, soldiers, friends, and strangers have been besieging Godown on your behalf, Lady Elizabeth.” She felt her face grow hot and she bowed her head, eyes on the now blurry floor.
She heard a thump, like book covers shutting, and looked up again as Emperor Thomas closed the farm ledger. “Duke Clellan, it seems you have wasted all our time with these charges.”
Archbishop Laurence braced on the chair arms and pushed himself to his feet. My, he’s much taller than I thought. And bigger. Standing straight, without his service robes, he loomed over most of the men in the room. Father André shrank back. “I am exceedingly troubled that a charge of heresy, a matter for the church, has been turned into a civil matter. I am equally troubled that such charges were brought at all without my having been consulted first.”
He drew himself up even more. “Hear this, Elizabeth von Sarmas, Paul Clellan, my lords: technology should not be used without discrimination. It is like a knife—it can serve a churigon or a thief. Godown sent the Fires because of the Landers’ pride and unwillingness to turn from their sin, not because they used technology per se. That does not give us, His followers, permission to use new devices or old machines without due care for the harm they may do, but neither should we deny the churigon his tools because a thief might steal one and use it to do harm.”
Emperor Thomas nodded in agreement. “Elizabeth von Sarmas, your properties are restored to you and you are free to go. It would please me greatly if nothing of this trial, aside from the verdict, were to leave these chambers. And the verdict is this: Elizabeth von Sarmas is a daughter of Godown in good standing with the church. She is innocent on all counts.” He met the eyes of everyone in the room, and dipped his head to the archbishop before addressing the court again. “You are dismissed. Duchess Sarmas, you will attend me after Winter Fair, and bring with you your assessments for next spring’s campaigns.”
She curtsied very low. “As you command, your majesty.” She stayed down until the emperor and archbishop had both left. Then she straightened up and almost staggered. Ah, I think I need to eat something.
“You’ve managed to persuade them, heretic, but not me,” Father André hissed from beside the judges’ table.
Paul Clellan stalked up to her, panting, eyes narrowed, fists clenched. “Monster,” he snarled in a whisper. “Whore’s daughter.” He stank of fear and his breath made her eyes water. “Watch yourself, Sarmas.”
A large hand clamped down on the maroon shoulder.
“You overstep the bounds, Paul,” Matthew Starland growled as Karl Grantholm tightened his grip. “Duchess Sarmas outranks you even though you are first minister.”
“And even though Sarmas is an ass and doesn’t know her place, you have no call to be intercepting personal letters or searching personal property without the permission of the full council.” Elizabeth ducked out of the way as Jaz Hoffman poked Clellan in the chest with one finger. “Especially with your personal troops and not the city or palace guards. That smacks of something besides the letter of the law.”
Jaz Hoffman’s on my side? Clellan must have burned a few bridges.
“Yes,” Lewis Midland drawled. “We have privileged communication, in case you do not remember, Clellan. Only a royal warrant permits interception, and then only after approval of the council. I have yet to see the request for that warrant.”
Grantholm shook the nervous man, then released him. “A word, Elizabeth.” He drew her away from the growling men surrounding an increasingly damp Paul Clellan. “That box, you said the crown closed the estate?”
“Yes. None of the family has been found, nor have any relatives come forward to make a claim, so the crown closed the estate five years ago. My manager, Charles Simmons, found the box in a hole while trying to repair the garden wall.”
He looked to the box, then back at her. “May I borrow the confirmation dress and cap?”
Totally surprised, she stammered, “Ah, yes, certainly. Let me embroider a pattern on it, to cover the stains, and you are quite welcome to borrow it. If you want, Karl, you and your wife can keep it. I censed and prayed over the box when it was found.”
“Thank you. I’ll ask her. I think,” he stared over her head, looking into the distance. “I think it would be good for something made with that much love, and hidden so carefully, to be used for what it was intended.”
“I think you are right, Karl.”
“And you are going to use Matt’s carriage to go home. It will be safer for you and for Paul.” They looked over to see Clellan rushing out a side door. Fr. André had already disappeared.
She and Father Pascual went first to St. Kiara’s, where she prayed in thanks. Then she collected her things from the convent and retrieved the letter for Lazlo. When Matthew’s arms-man helped her out of the carriage at Donatello House, she found the entire staff waiting for her, along with her officers. She thanked Matthew Starland, waiting until after he left to address the servants and soldiers. “Who told you I’d be coming back?”
Captain Martin answered for them. “The news flew, your grace. We heard it first, and Lt. Neruda knew who to tell at St. Kiara’s to get the word to Mistress Mina and Master David. Someone in the horsemart told Master Adams.”
“Which is good, your grace, because I’ve had at least forty offers to buy every animal that’s ever passed through Donatello Bend or the stables at Bellevue,” the stablemaster informed her. “And that was before today.”
“My lady, you’ll want to wait until the maids and I can go through your chambers. The duke’s men left a mess.” Mina looked like thunder.
A horseman rode into the courtyard, parting the crowd. “Duchess Sarmas?”
“Here.” She walked up to find Archduke Arpad, the last surviving royal uncle, pulling a familiar leather case out of his pannier. She curtsied, “Your grace.”
“My dear nephew sends this back with his compliments.” Arpad’s sigh turned into a cloud in the cold air. “Call on me in three days, unless there’s a storm. I need to beat sense into that boy’s head, even if I dent the crown doing it.” Gape-mouthed at his words, she took the baton case and backed out of the way as he turned and rode out.
Elizabeth closed her jaw and turned to her people. “What are you waiting for? Shoo! If you all come down sick from wet feet, Mistress Hannah will brew something truly noxious,” she threatened.
They laughed, as she’d hoped, and complied. Tired and starving, Elizabeth walked into the house. She left the baton on her office desk and retreated to the solar. She petted the two pfeach trees, sat down, and burst into tears of relief. Oh, Lazlo, beloved, oh, you have no idea how much I miss you.
6
Winter’s Plans
Archduke Arpad did not break the Babenburg crown, as it turned out. “He’s young, and he didn’t learn what his father and I did. Even Gerald Kazmer and Lewis knew better than to bring religion into court games,” he tutted, confirming Elizabeth’s suspicions about the regard Lewis’s surviving brother still had for him: not much.
“Indeed, your grace?” They sat in his retirement quarters in the palace, on the outer edge of the Babenburg family quarters. His wife had died young of childbed fever, and he’d never remarried. His rooms reminded Elizabeth of her bachelor officers’ quarters, but cleaner and much less drafty. Arpad had been part of the foreign service, and like so many diplomats, had brought home mementoes of his service in distant lands and the Imperial Free Cities. Rocks now filled the shelves in his sitting room, or at least those shelves not draped and buried under mounds of letters, books, and other papers. Two especially gaudy rocks formed the centerpiece of the tea table. They’re pretty, but not portable.
He chuckled, a dry, crisp sound like biting into an apple. “Indeed. Not long before our father, Emperor Alois, died, a spat between two of Empress Marie’s women became deadly serious when one’s husband accused another courtier of impiety and of salacious comments about St. Donn. As always word spread and the story grew more unpleasant with each telling.” The rail-thin old man tossed back a thimble-sized shot of double-distilled apple wine, making Elizabeth shudder. “Who follows St. Donn?”
“Well keepers and watermen. Oh, dear.” The watermen do not take kindly to slights against their patron. I’ve seen what they can do with those yokes and bucket hooks. “Dare I ask how bad the carnage was, your grace?”
“No worse than the market riot just before the fire near the old bakers’ square.” He sat back and lit a nicotiana stick. “However, the watermen chose their target with some care, for a mob.”
“Ugh.” She hated dealing with mobs. She’d done it once or twice and never again would be far too soon for her taste. “I suppose that’s why Vindobona is still standing.”
“That particular house is not. Watermen beat the courtier to death, would have killed his wife if she hadn’t found refuge at St. Sabrina’s-in-the-Wall, and pulled the house apart from roof to cellar.” Arpad took a long pull on the burning nicotiana stick, exhaling a stream of white smoke. “This was the second time Father had to deal with gossip-inspired religious riots, and he’d had enough. Father closed the docks for a week, had the head watermen flogged two hundred lashes, and tore down old St. Donn’s, but built a new one outside the walls, on the north side of the city, ‘where the waters are purer,’ he said.” Arpad took another pull as Elizabeth discretely waved away the smoke. “And he forbade any use of religious matters in court. He expelled old Count Jones and Countess Kossuth from court when they ignored his orders.”
“A most reasonable policy indeed, your grace.” Would that your nephew might do the same, she wished. But he couldn’t, not yet, and everyone knew why. He’d become too dependent on Paul Clellan. Emperor Thomas did not want to be his father: no young man did. So he’d rearranged his court, making Paul Clellan his first minister and setting aside men like Matt Starland, Karl Grantholm, and Jan Kossuth. And Elizabeth herself, except he had no choice but to leave her in her place unless he wanted the Frankonians and Turkowi nibbling even closer. Elizabeth suspected there would be realignments and soon, but his majesty couldn’t turn Clellan out immediately.
Archduke Arpad inhaled more smoke. “So, Sarmas, what are you doing for Winter Fair, since your husband is enjoying the bounty of the seas?”
She smiled at the lascivious undertone in his question. “I am putting my library and office to rights, your grace, since Clellan’s men had no idea how to properly search a room. And having learned my lesson some years ago, the staff
are on half-days during the fair. Master Kim, my cook, informed me which food booths are safe and that’s where I’ve been getting my suppers.”
Arpad laughed again. “No horse in shahma sauce, for you?” He clicked his tongue much like Lewis had done. “No sense of adventure?”
“Pardon my vulgarity, but I puked my sense of adventure out in Morloke eighteen or so years ago, your grace. Never again if I can help it.”
He laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. Elizabeth helped herself to another of the chopped-meat sandwiches. She’d skipped breakfast after Mina reported that Master Kim had judged a spiced wine contest the night before. Once Arpad recovered, she poured him more chokofee before topping off her cup. He raised his cup in a toast, and drained it. She refilled it for him. “So,” he began, “where is Lauri the Loathsome going to stick his,” he caught himself. “Nose, come spring.”
“Your grace, I suspect he will feint south, but that his target is north of the Triangle Range.” Arpad raised shaggy white eyebrows and she elaborated. “There’s nothing in the south, not after last year’s campaign. Between us we stripped the land around Florabi to the bare dirt. Despite rumors, I highly doubt that he’ll attack the northern cities, up on the White Sea. Yes, they are weak from plague, but,” she shook her head. “Plague. He’s a fool but not completely stupid.”
