by Alma Boykin
Alma T C Boykin
Blackbird
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EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-51-5
Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-52-2
Copyright 2015 Alma T C Boykin, all rights reserved.
To all who step into the breach. Thank you.
Blackbird
There is a tale from the Time of Trials that says: In the beginning, Selkow the Beautiful and Her consort danced the world into being. But his works fell short of Her perfection, and when he would not change his steps, she dismissed him. With his final dance he created the birds, and the last bird came into being black, as black as soot and a night without stars, ugly and ignorant. The other birds, offended by this disgrace, attacked the black bird, seeking to drive him away. But he fought back, scattering black feathers until at last, surrounded and alone, he lay near death. Selkow in Her mercy and grace respected his bravery and determination, flawed though he was, and set the black bird into the night sky, where he flies to this day, imperfect but courageous. Thus should all Selkow’s children respect true foes, even those who refuse to admit the error of their existence.
—An excerpt from “The Dance of Creation” in Tarya’s Book of Nights
Matthew fought off a yawn. He did not want another whipping. But Master Frank had a gift: he made running battles and constant warfare boring. Talk about the fights, about how my father saved Morloke. That’s what’s important. But no.
“… and in the face of such gross misbehavior and breach of faith, the Oligarchs, in their wisdom, had no choice but to separate from the Merchants’ Council. As a result, what had been the Commonwealth of Floritura became Morloke, to the north, and Scheel in the south. The Merchants’ Council paid for their folly, however, losing more than just their prosperity in trade and the northern mines. The Turkowi took advantage of their foolishness and began devouring Scheel, claiming more land and souls each year. For this reason …” Master Frank droned on, reciting a tale that Matthew and his brother Leopold knew by heart.
I could recite this in my sleep, Matthew Charles Malatesta grumbled, no longer even bothering to pretend to pay attention to their tutor. His father married Duke Sarmas’s daughter because she had a claim on Tivolia as dower right after Duke Tillson rejected her but kept her dowry, and the Oligarchs invited Captain Anthony Malatesta to lead the militia and other soldiers because none of them had any experience with fighting off more than caravan robbers. And then the Oligarchs got mad when Malatesta began running other parts of the government because they couldn’t agree on how best to deal with civil war on one border and the Turkowi monsters on the other, and the Eastern Empire salivating over Morloke like a dog eyeing a roast as the cooks fight. Especially once his father reunited the remains of Scheel with Morloke, after the Turkowi swallowed everything south of the Morpalo River five years ago.
At least, that’s the version Matthew had read in a letter one of his father’s old soldiers had given him and Leopold Anthony. Age twelve and already experienced in the ways of deceit, Matthew suspected the letter had the right of it. His older brother Leopold, the heir, argued for a more moderate view. “No one has all the truth, Mattje,” Leo reminded him at least once a week. Matthew, playing with his penknife as the tutor droned on and flies buzzed against the closed window, knew better.
Matthew brought his drifting thoughts back to the present. He fixed an expression of polite interest on his face as his mind wandered around the stuffy, over-warm, dark chamber along with his eyes. Although shelves lined two and a half walls of the designated schoolroom, a former storage area for high-value goods, only a dozen or perhaps a score of books leaned against each other and against the ends of the shelves, as if looking for support and protection from the ignorance surrounding them. Matthew had already read four of the books, two about religion, one about farming, and a collection of lurid tales about the Founders, the Landers, and the Great Fires. Master Frank had thrashed him when he caught Matthew asking Leopold about one of the stories in the Great Fires book. “That is knowledge for adults!” the ferocious, balding man had snarled, lashing Matthew’s back with the wooden rod with each word. “You know you are not allowed to read anything unless I or Father Matyas give it to you.” Father Matyas Sebok never gives us anything but passages from the Holy Writ to read, and those about obedience and discerning a sacred vocation. But by then Matthew knew better than to talk back if he wanted to be able to sit down or to have anything besides bread and water for his next two meals.
There must be more books in this world, he mused, pretending to take notes as Master Frank shuffled the pages in his hand, looking for his next lesson topic. I wonder if the stories about the Imperial Library in Vindobona are true? Lt. Klaus said he heard that they have books that the Landers brought, and copies of works from Old Earth, as well as all sorts of other things, religious and worldly. Matthew imagined what the room would look like, full of books besides the heavy brown business ledgers and copies of the Holy Writ. Maybe that’s what Godown’s house is like—all books ever written and all the time you need to read them.
“Matthew Charles Malatesta, what are you thinking about?” Master Frank demanded, slamming his notes down in front of the boy.
“Godown’s kingdom and the duties of the faithful,” he answered with almost-complete honesty.
The tutor blinked, but accepted the answer. “That is good. But now you need to get out your math work.” At the other end of the table, Leopold groaned quietly, but not quietly enough. “What’s this?” Master Frank pounced on Leo’s work, carried it over to the nailed-shut window to read the small, faint handwriting. “You skipped half the assignment, Leopold Anthony.”
“I’m sorry, Master Frank. I spent too much time on reading Papa’s latest letter, the one that came five days ago.”
Oh Leo, you shouldn’t have said that. He’s not supposed to know that we got one in between months. Their guardian had arranged a strict regimen of when they could read their father’s letters. One every other month, no matter when it arrived, because he didn’t want the boys “distracted from their studies.” But one of the servants, new to Damian Cevasco’s household, had given them the most recent missive and they’d devoured the news of the battles won and of events on the Tivolian border. I’d better deflect him before Frank tells Master Cevasco.
“What is going on in Tivolia, Master Frank?” Leopold asked before Matthew could intervene. “Father says he’s closer to securing enough land to balance our mother’s dowry, and that we should begin having more income of our own, even before campaign season ends this year. Does that mean he’s finally defeated Duke Mischa Tillson?”
“No!” Master Frank’s face turned red as he roared, “No, it does not. It means your father is a liar who can’t be content with what Godown has so generously given him, and that he is waging war on his own behalf at the Oligarchs’ expense, ruining good people like the generous Master Cevasco and bringing nothing but grief to Morloke and Scheel and Tivolia as well.” He paused, panting, “Your father would do better going south, fighting the Turkowi and reconquering all of Scheel.”
“Thank you, Master Frank,” Matthew interjected, trying to keep his voice low and calm. “As you have taught us several times, leaders should only go to war in the most grave of situations, such as an invasion by the Turkowi or to defend their homes and families against outsiders. A good governor is strong without needing to fight, but is prepared to use that strength as a last resort. Godown blesses the peacemaker,” even when he makes peace by beating the bad man into submission.
Grey replaced red in the tutor’s face, and he leaned against the end of the boys’ table. “That is correct. The way of Godown is peace, and trade is preferable to war.” He ducked his head, trying to catch his breath, and Matthew heard Leo inhale to speak.
Matthew kicked his brother as hard as he could, and mouthed, “Don’t set him off again.” Leo gave his younger brother a dirty look but kept quiet for the rest of the math lesson.
Damian Cevasco, their temporary guardian, had guests visiting for supper that night, so as soon as the boys finished the classroom work and their afternoon riding and fighting lessons with the Morloke City guard, they washed and dressed for supper. Matthew finished retying the laces on his shirt after getting them uneven, becoming frustrated, and almost tearing the fine, thin fabric. As Leo brushed and tied back his shoulder-length dark hair, Matthew wondered yet again how they could look so different. Leo’s dark eyes, tan skin, and dark brown hair with hints of red made him look like their father’s mother, or so their father claimed. Matthew resembled a ghost in comparison, with pale skin, pale blue eyes, and hair just a little darker than white-blond. But both boys shared square faces, broad shoulders, and more torso than leg, at least for the moment. Mistress Cevasco lamented frequently about the prospect of trying to keep them in trousers once they started growing again.
That night, after they retreated to their small, stuffy room and chased off the last lingering servant, Matthew and Leo compared notes. “I don’t like Eduardo Madau,” Matthew stated, looking up at the shadows between the ceiling beams. “He’s slimy.”
“Yeah, the same way Master Astai is, but not exactly. Lucan Astai just puts hands on anyone wearing a skirt that isn’t married to a master or doesn’t look older than his mother. Madau … ugh,” Matthew could almost hear Leo wrinkling his nose. “Glad we don’t have to be nice to him more often.”
“Oh yeah.”
After a long bit of quiet, Matthew heard the sound of ropes creaking and grass rustling as Leo shifted on his bed. “Master Cevasco shouldn’t have laughed at Orzatti’s saying mother cuckolded Papa.”
Matthew’s jaw clenched. “No, he should not. Papa and Mother both swear we are their children, just like Ann was.” Matthew made St. Foy’s fluttering hand sign. He barely remembered Ann, born after him. She’d lived less than a year, dying of the summer complaint like so many babies did. “That should be enough for everyone. Even Fr. Matyas agrees that we are our parents’ children, born to a legal marriage.”
“Was Orzatti right about trouble from the Empire?”
Matthew shrugged in the darkness. “I don’t know. Master Frank says the Imperials want to take over Tivolia and Scheel and Morloke and Polonia. Papa says the Imperials have too much to do with the Turkowi on the other side of the hills east of us to stick their noses into Tivolia, Scheel, and Morloke.”
Leo thought about it. “Well, I overheard Master Colella saying that no one in their right mind would want to get involved in Tivolia, since Duke Mischa is as mad as his uncle was and that his sons are going to be fighting over the duchy. And everyone knows the Babenburgs are greedy but not stupid, so I think that means that Master Orzatti was wrong. Again. I wish we could go with Father.” Matthew frowned at the raw contempt in his older brother’s voice. They’d been surprised by servants before, and he didn’t want to get another beating or lecture or both about treating the Oligarchs as equals, to be obeyed unless it was a matter of war.
You know why we are not with Father, Matthew thought at his brother. Master Cevasco and the others said it was because the brothers were too young and inexperienced to fight alongside Capt. Malatesta. Lieutenant Will Klaus knew better and had told Matthew the truth: he and Leo were hostages so their father didn’t try to overthrow the Oligarchs or make a bargain with the Turkowi. And Mother is not well, and is in a Sisters’ Home, and we’re boys, so we’re here. He did not like it one bit, and wanted to be almost anywhere else, but after the beating Leo got the last time he tried to run away, four years ago, Matthew knew better than to try. We’ll be old enough to be on our own in two years, Leo. Be patient and learn, he recited. They had to know their enemies as well as their friends, like Leo had studied the miller’s sons before he taught them to leave him and Matthew alone.
Matthew woke very early the next morning. Unable to get back to sleep, he dressed and slipped down the stairs, tip-toeing so he wouldn’t wake any of the servants or Master Cevasco’s family. He crept down the hall to Cevasco’s business office and eased the golden oak door open, praying it would not creak this time. He discovered that the servants had polished and oiled the hinges in preparation for the previous night’s guild gathering and it opened without a sound. Matthew squeezed in through the part-open door and wove past piles of traveling cases, stacks of ledgers, and Cevasco’s desk until he reached the wall opposite the windows. A large map hung from rings on the wall and Matthew studied his world by the light of false dawn and the fading moon.
Morloke and Scheel sat between the sea and the hills, with the great Morpalo River to the south, and the plains of the Magvi horsemen south of that. East of the hills, the Donau Novi River cut a deep, dry valley as it ran southeast to the sea. The Dividing Range, enormous, snow-covered mountains, marched parallel to the river almost to the edge of the Empire before turning due north and making a wall between the grass plains of the east and the Empire. The Dividing Range faded out at the Tongue Sea, an extension of the northern ocean of wild storms, huge fish, and the barbarian city-states of the northern coast. Well, Fr. Matyas says they are barbarians because they live where the sky-fires dance every winter and so they must be at least part heretic. But since Godown lets them live, I don’t understand why he says they are heretics. Between the northern cities and the Donau Novi, the map showed lots of small cities, the grasslands claimed by the Poloki, and the Eastern Empire.
As he looked at the gold-colored mark for the city of Vindobona, Matthew wondered again about the stories he’d heard. He didn’t think the city had streets paved with precious stones, or that the cathedral of St. Gerald glowed in the dark. But if even half the stories about the library and records there were true, it must be a wonderful place. And one trader swore they had painted pictures on the walls that dated to before the Great Fires, and fountains of clean water, so clean anyone could drink from them without fear of illness. Matthew dreamed of a place like that, of books and pictures and people who let you read if you wanted to, to learn about old and new things both. Maybe when he was older, he could go and see.
West of the Empire, the Triangle Range divided the Freistaadter from the cities of the Empire and eventually the Kingdom of Frankonia. More port cities, including the Sea Republics and New Dalfa, dotted the northwest coast. South of the Triangle Range, the Martins River separated Frankonia from the Freistaadter and Sarmas. Matthew vaguely understood why his grandfather and father claimed chunks of Tivolia, the duchy between the Freistaadter, the Triangles, and Morloke, but it didn’t make much sense, since Sarmas lay so far from Tivolia. Independent small cities and counties filled in most of the southern peninsula, where people grew spices, cotton, and even silk, and made glass much fancier than even Master Astai’s workshops could produce. Matthew studied the map, wondering where his father was, and if his mother had a map like this one.
Then he snuck back up to his and Leo’s room. Master Cevasco did not want to see either boy during business hours. Matthew didn’t want to see his guardian the morning after a guild masters’ meeting. Mistress Cevasco kept a tight stopper in the household’s wine and liquor casks most of the time, but when she opened them Master Cevasco helped himself freely. Matthew preferred the small beer the family drank for every day, but didn’t say that. Anything he liked seemed to stop or to come less frequently, aside from necessities like boots and clothing. Matthew washed his hands again and opened the small window at the gable end of the room before shaking out his sheets and blanket. A servant would do the rest, but he preferred to air out the bedding himself.
Leo rolled over but refused to stir. Matthew looked at the remaining water in the wash pitcher, then back at his brother. Should I? Tomorrow. The household wash is tomorrow, so wetting him and the blanket won’t cause as much fuss then.
On washday, Mistress Cevasco and the woman servants drove the men out of the house, one way or another. Master Frank confessed to feeling ill, so Matthew and Leopold rode west to Greyville with one manservant to deliver some goods for Master Cevasco. The master and his sons, Andre, Geraldo, and Tomasso, locked themselves in the storage rooms to do inventory. The menfolk always woke well before dawn, ate a cold breakfast of bread, sausage, and cheese, bolted down their hot chokofee, and then scattered before the women began work. Matthew knew from experience that rank meant nothing when Mistress Cevasco, Miss Martine Cevasco, or any of the Oligarch’s ladies determined to clean the household linen. He and Leo had hauled baskets of wet fabric, stirred boiling clothes, and chopped wood those few days when they didn’t find ways to get out of sight fast enough. And Godown help anyone caught empty handed the two times a year the women cleaned the entire house!
“I’m glad the mistress only does wash once a month in summer and every-other month in winter,” Leo admitted as they tacked up their horses.
“Me too.” Matthew liked clean clothes, but not the work required to get them that way.
They and Carl, the servant assigned to deliver the load of heavy weight woolen cloth to Greyville, set out as soon as the apprentices finished loading the cart. Their horses’ hoofs clopped on the cobblestones of lane between the residences of the most prosperous merchants of Morloke City, spooking a few yard birds and drawing the attention of other early risers.
Apprentices and serving girls cleaned the front steps of the houses and shops, opening foldout tables to display cheaper wares and preparing for business. Like many of the other merchants living around him, Master Cevasco’s office and business occupied two-thirds of the ground floor of his home, with living quarters above and behind. A few houses boasted decorations scratched or painted into the smooth plastered fronts of the buildings, mostly images of saints or of the owner’s business. By now all the wooden buildings sported plaster-covered walls and stone or tile roofs. The city council had banned exposed straw and wood within the walls because of fire, or so Master Frank had told his charges as he made them recite the laws from memory. A dung cart rolled past, followed by the nightsoil wagon, and Leo wrinkled his nose. “They say the Imperials just dump their slops in the river,” he informed his brother.
