by Alma Boykin
“So is the mast, with all due respect. The rigging looks too close to the base of the mast, but if you walk it farther, Pjtor Adamson, you may run out of ship.” He backed away from the desk and straightened up. “Raked masts of that size and angle do not fare so well in open seas, my lord.”
“I didn’t think so, but it looked like a possible solution. The solution is causing more problems than it solves.” He wanted the ship to carry more sail for more speed, but doing so made her hard to handle and required a more complicated rigging and construction than the size of the vessel warranted. A servant brought a chair for Geert and morning beer and bread with butter and smoked fish for both of them. Geert waited for Pjtor to be served before helping himself.
“So, what news?”
Geert swallowed his bite. “The silver-belly run is really good this year, so prices are down for fish and up for salt and barrels. Sea Wolves were seen as far south as A’Asterdee, so everyone is getting ready for a hard winter with good fishing next year, Godown willing. Which means the captains are glooming around and sighing over their beer about how terrible prices are and how they will go bankrupt if these good catches continue.”
Pjtor smiled. “And there’s not enough room for all the grain and it will rot, and there will be more meez because of all the grain and they’ll get into everything else and foul it and a bad year always follows a good one and the sheep will bloat on the stubble and the price of sacks and barrels is so high that the apple crop will be lost for lack of storage and pfeaches will be made cheap by the excess of apples. And the pfiggies will all taste like apple and the peasants will keep too many over winter because of the good harvest and glut the market next fall and it will all be horrible.”
“Yes, exactly, my lord.” He drank more beer. “On less amusing news, the sea ice is already forming. We cut well south of the usual route and I suspect the sailing season next year will be at least three weeks narrower.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “And the Frankonian ambassadors have been spreading word in every court, council, and place they can find that NovRodi has no grounds to claim anything south of where the Redwater flows into the Dawn, and the crown is arguing that they have a right to claim unused land, even on the other side of the White Sea. One of the books I brought back has the Lander-era laws that they are trying to use.”
The arrogance took Pjtor’s breath away and for several heartbeats all he could do was stare at Geert and blink. “What in Godown’s holy name? Of all the stupid, unjust, immoral, foolish—François must be out of his damned mind, that . . .” Pjtor ran through several descriptions of the Crown Prince’s ancestry, his probability of salvation, his close resemblance to several noxious beasts, and his presumed inability to please a woman, let alone sire offspring. When he ran out of breath, Geert refilled Pjtor’s beer. “He has no claim.”
Geert wagged his hand. “In reality, my lord, you are absolutely correct in that he has no claim that anyone will believe. Your merchants and navy ships are recognized and admitted in all ports but those of Frankonia and her two allies on the Thumb, and even the Eastern Empire supports your claims to the southern lands by prior right dating to the Great Fires. In theory, according to the legal archivists I spoke with, Frankonia does have a claim, or would if they could prove that the laws from the Landing remain in force and that they can appeal to a higher authority for adjudication. By higher authority the laws mean whoever the Landers had sworn allegiance to, not to Godown.” He shook his head. “It took me twice listening to him to understand what Frankonia is trying to say happened and why they think they can take over the southern two-thirds of NovRodi.”
Maybe I should go back across the sea, find where this young bull lives and show him myself why NovRodi is not his to claim. Alsice had already talked Pjtor out of returning to the Sea Republics once, based on Pjtor’s own childhood. “Dear, what will stop the younger nobles and the old ones who still resent you from taking over in your absence and placing young Pjtor on the throne as their token emperor?”
“They wouldn’t dare. The church won’t allow it.”
She’d raised one eyebrow and gave him a “think-about-it” look. “How many armies does the church have?”
She’d had a point. And there are still whispers that I’m not the real Pjtor, that Isaac did not die but snuck out of the palace and has a family and is waiting to return and reclaim the throne and make everything right again, right meaning “my family is back in power and yours isn’t.” The whole thing confirmed to Pjtor just how gullible some people were, and that he’d been right to reduce the power of the nobles as much as he had. And if they were that foolish, how much weaker were the common folk? He took a calming breath, drank some beer to sooth his throat and his temper, and asked, “What does François claim this ancient law allows?”
“May I open this seal, my lord? It has one of the copies of a Lander-era map in it.” Pjtor nodded permission and watched as Geert broke the seal of the archive in—
“Wait, is that Sarmas?” No one else Pjtor knew of used the mountain and cat-head crest.
“Yes, my lord. The pages came through one of your representatives in the Bergenlands through the free cities to the Sea Republics. The Dukes von Sarmas have taken an ancient saying from the homeworld as their motto: touch not the cat but with an armored glove. The cat in question is one of the mountain hunting cats, two meters long, light brown and cream, teeth and claws like so,” he held his fingers several centimeters apart. “Frankonia has been trying to conquer Sarmas for centuries. No one knows why, since Sarmas produces nothing but frost wine, herbs, and soldiers. And miners, but mostly in iron and useful things, not much gold or silver.”
As Pjtor thought about the information, Geert unfolded the map. Pjtor moved the beer glass out of the way and looked at the picture. “This is, ah,” he looked for a date.
“A century or so after either the first arrival or the Landing, my lord. Um,” Geert’s lips moved as he calculated. “A hundred and fifty years before the Great Fires, I think, my lord. I can never remember how it converts. I’m a sailor, not an archivist.”
“Long before the Great Fires, that’s close enough.” Pjtor tried to find things he recognized, besides the sea and the land. “Here’s the Sweetwater Sea, so this must be the Lander city. That makes this the Dawn River, and this one is,” he looked more closely. “A road, not a river.” No wonder he did not recognize it. Did it still exist under the grass? Had it been torn up or burned by the Great Fires? Or had someone dug it up to keep the Harriers from using it? That didn’t make sense, since the Harriers didn’t use— He dragged his wandering thoughts back to the map. “Muskava is here, or is it?”
“It is, just not the way it is today. The key says it is a historic reproduction center, whatever that means, probably some place that made copies of old equipment to replace things that wore out, my lord.” Geert shrugged. “This is interesting. I wonder what happened to it?”
He pointed to a city on the sea, a very large city, about fifty kilometers north of Lord Broislov’s holdings. Pjtor hunted around for a more recent map and they compared. “It is as if the sea bit off the shore and swallowed the city.” Instead of a promontory, that place now had a stream that flowed into the sea and a small cove.
Geert made St. Issa’s sign. “That has happened, or so I’m told, on the northern coast above Stormy Point. There are tall cliffs there, and during great storms, entire chunks fall into the sea after the waves chew them out from below.”
Pjtor shrugged and moved the newer map back out of the way. “This shows roads and a few cities, but no borders.”
“And that, my lord, is why François III thinks he can claim NovRodi. According to what the archivist explained to me, as best the archivists have pieced together, when the Landers first came to Colplatschki, or Solana or whatever they called here, after the initial assignment of land, large parts of the world remained unclaimed. The people who sent the Landers did so because
other worlds had grown too crowded. Because of that a law remained that once they got here, if the same thing happened, people could move from an area on Colplatschki with too many people to one with too few. If fewer than a certain number lived in that region, anyone could claim land if they proved that they needed it and that it had not been set aside for something else.”
Pjtor could see a very large number of problems with that idea. “And so François says that there are too few of us here and too many Frankonians there.” What tripe. And those laws died with the Landers.
“And he says that since this map shows that all of NovRodi was unclaimed and lacked government, there is no reason for him to honor your family’s claims, or anyone else’s.”
Pjtor sat in his chair and leaned his head against the top of the backrest, looking up at the elaborate paintings of clouds and the sea on the ceiling. “If it were not for the burnt village and claim stakes, I’d think he was drunk or had gotten into some of those mushrooms the foresters say make you see spirits and strange animals.”
He looked down again to see Geert setting his beer glass on the serving table with exaggerated care. “My lord, claim stakes and a burnt village?”
“Yes, on Broislov’s land. One of the summer fishing settlements. No one was there when it was burned down, but people found claim stakes with the Frankonian flower and evidence of a boat being put inshore and of a large campfire a few kilometers to the south.”
Geert’s face flushed red, then went pale. “So that’s what that drunk Frankonian in the tavern in KilCumry meant, my lord! He was babbling about the king finding good empty land, and if it wasn’t empty before it would be after his people go there. I just thought he was drunk out of his mind.”
Pjtor raised one hand. “He still may have been drunk out of his mind, Geert. What would a sailor know about the plans of kings, and after how many turns and twists of the tale?” But it makes sense, a terrible sense, and Frankonia still refuses to even acknowledge that we worship Godown, let alone that we are civilized.
Pjtor and Geert sat for several minutes, thinking about the news and the potential problem. At last Pjtor said, “What will come will come, and I had already ordered two more near-shore ships with eight-kilo cannon in addition to the smaller gonnes. One more will not deprive Alsice of her new harvest-festival gown.”
Geert nodded, then rolled his eyes. “Some of the younger set in New Dalfa? They have started wearing skirts that are higher in front that show the knee. Not just for wading for mussels or field work, my lord but at all times. With high collars that open a little like so,” he made a triangle with his fingers, the lower part of the triangle where the swell of a woman’s bust would be. “I doubt it will last past winter.”
“And what does Mistress Fielder say?”
“My lord, I would not use such language in your august presence. But if Anne ever thinks of trying it, I will tan her rear until she can’t sit down.”
Pjtor could see the girl doing just that, and climbing out a window to meet her swain as well. She’d inherited a full portion of her mother’s plain-spokenness and will, and her father’s sense of adventure. Maybe he should see about betrothing Young Pjtor to Anne? Pjtor’s whimsy died. The boy would probably lock himself in a sleeping cupboard out of fright.
“Any other news?”
Geert looked a little sad as he said, “Princess Elizabeth von Sarmas died in early summer. Her husband went to Godown following a short illness not too many weeks after. She had over seventy years and had campaigned last season in the southeast. It is said Colplatschki will not see her like again.” He raised his white-blond eyebrows. “And some hope that the need is never again so dire that Godown must send such a woman.”
“Ameen.” Pjtor did not want to see that bad of a situation either.
“And someone found a new dye for a very special bright blue green that all the women must have, my lord. It costs as much as a warhorse and smells about as bad.”
Pjtor winced and rubbed his forehead. Of course it would. Strella and Alsice and Klara will all want meters of the stuff once they learn of it. So much for my new ships.
Pjtor came out of the spell of Blessed Toni’s Fire in an even worse mood than usual. He felt Alsice’s hand on his forehead and kept his eyes closed. Can’t think. Hurt. Brain hurts. Someone breathing too loud. Make the pain stop. Please.
“What’s wrong with my father? What’d he do?” Young Pjtor’s whining tone grated on Pjtor’s already painful skull and if he’d been able to move he would have hit the boy to make him shut up.
“Your lord father is touched with Blessed Toni’s Fire,” Alsice murmured, pitching her voice lower than usual. “Please leave until he has rested.”
Pjtor heard steps on the carpet. He can’t even walk quietly on a carpet. He’s doing it deliberately, I know he is. I’ll kill him. Hands pushed under his shoulders, lifting him enough so he could drink without choking. “My lord, this is hot salibark with one grain of poppy and wintermint.”
Why wintermint? So it stays down this time. He drank, almost retching as usual. The world spun more than usual, then reversed directions as the hands laid him down. Cool wet touched his forehead, helping calm the pain. The pounding eased just enough that he could breathe without making his head hurt. The cool helped. Alsice’s presence helped more. Pjtor drifted to sleep.
He woke well after nightfall, although night came so early this far north that it might well be late afternoon on the Sweetwater Sea. He opened his eyes, closed them again, waited, then tried once more. The ceiling did not rotate. That was good. The sound of wood popping in the rear-feed oven did not make his head hurt. That was better. He smelled something food-like and his stomach did not churn. In fact, he wanted food, wanted it very badly. He had been preparing to have dinner when the spell took him. Pjtor sat and heard a faint whistle. Alsice, about to slide out of her chair, whistled a little in her sleep. Should he move her to their bed? Not as weak as he felt.
He stood with care, and servants presented him with warm water to wash his face and hands, then served him freshly-warmed flatcakes with cream and spice-simmered apple, sausage in broth, and hot tea. As he ate, several maids eased Alsice out of her chair and into the bed. She did not waken, although she did snuggle down into the feathers. If she had her way she’d probably sleep inside the mattress, and then complain about trying to get the feathers out of her hair the next morning. She still wore her hair in the traditional two braids of a married woman, but had replaced the NovRodi headdress and all-concealing headcover with a smaller headcover when indoors, and a lace cap under a hat when outdoors. Pjtor still had not decided if he would ever forgive Basil von Deiman for bringing Alsice a feathered hat. She’d fallen in love with the style, wore it everywhere and had requested several more, in the process scandalizing everyone and causing sermons against vanity for a year. Hell, a few priests still used her as a bad example, Pjtor snorted. He took care of another bodily need, then returned to bed, sleeping until dawn.
Pjtor felt well enough that morning to inspect his soldiers. Young Pjtor followed along, acting as his father’s aid. He still had not filled into his bones and looked far more like a wader bird than a man, almost as tall as his father but thin like his mother’s late brother. The crown prince’s hair was the same color as Tamsin’s, so were his eyes. He had his father’s brow and a weak jaw. That, plus his tendency to stoop made him look even weaker in Pjtor’s eyes. For the moment he stood like a proper soldier, but as soon as he removed his uniform the boy drooped like a wilting plant. At least he could ride and shoot, and performed his military duties properly, such as they were.
Pjtor finished the inspection and allowed the officers to dismiss the men back to their barracks. They would drill more later, once it warmed enough that a man did not lose fingers touching the metal on the new muskets. Pjtor dismissed his son as well and the boy saluted and vanished as soon as he could. Pjtor fumed. He’d better be back in time for the discussion after din
ner, or I will give him three blows with the five-tailed whip myself. The crown prince had his own small court, with like-minded younger nobles and second sons. Pjtor had a listener in the group, one of Gretchanii’s sons. The young man reported nothing truly treasonous, but the whining and muttering about Pjtor’s policies and orders that he repeated caused Pjtor to seriously consider requiring his eldest son to dissolve the group and attend his father’s council and court. Alsice counselled time, but time was wearing short. The boy was eighteen, a man grown and more, and needed to start a family and produce heirs to ensure the safety of the empire.
Fortunately for Young Pjtor, he appeared a few minutes early for the war council. Geert Fielders, Admiral Alex Basilius, both Pjtors, Lord Broislov, General Green, now retired but acting as Pjtor’s minister of war, and several scribes and orderlies sat or stood around a table with a map showing the coastline of NovRodi from the edge of the ice in the north to below the low mountains that served as the unofficial border between what Pjtor considered his and the Spice Kings’ territories. Red dots marked places where Frankonians had been seen, either close to shore or on shore. They’d tried to demolish one of the mirror towers, the platforms where men stood when they used mirrors to pass messages along the coast and inland, but had failed or given up. Too many dots appeared on the page for Pjtor’s taste. At least no one else supports Frankonia in their folly. Several of the letters Geert brought back with him had included warnings about Frankonia’s claims, along with acidic comments about if old Laurence had that many people he should allow a few to leave and take up land in the East or North. Another wave of the spotted plague had struck the Empire and Bergenlands two years before, leaving too many dead even though the preventative scratch was well known. Pjtor had been scratched as soon as he’d learned of it, as had his family. Being a little sick for a few days was much better than dying in agony.
