by Alma Boykin
“Not much,” Andrews admitted, shifting a little once he remounted. “They seem to be heading south. They seem to have no captives or stolen livestock, and they seem to be done for the season.”
Don snorted. “More ‘seems’ than my lady’s latest sewing project, in other words. But I suspect rumor is right for once. They’ve been blocked from hitting our main settlements this year, Godown be thanked. Maybe they did better farther south.”
“Not in Morloke or Scheel they didn’t,” Matthew corrected without thinking. “They’ve been on the losing end for the past two years down there.” No thanks to the Oligarchs.
The Starland men gave him long looks. “Huh. That explains why we saw them so early this year, Yer Grace,” Andrews said. “How big were the bands you met, Master Malatesta?”
“Don’t call me ‘master,’ please Captain. I’m just a soldier now. And the biggest unit I recall meeting was ten riders and twenty foot soldiers, unless you count the group with the portable temple two years ago.”
Several men whistled. “You found a group with a portable temple?” Duke Starland repeated. “That’s not a good sign.”
Matthew managed a ferocious smile. “No, it wasn’t, because we captured it and the tithe boxes, killed twenty or so Turkowi including the priest, and wounded or drove off the rest.” The smile faded and he admitted, “We weren’t looking for them, just got lucky, Your Grace. And then we returned north to Morloke City, in case we’d really pissed someone off.”
“Good decision,” Captain Andrews told him. “No point in seeing if the Rajtan himself might be offended enough to come after you.”
“No. I’ve heard stories about the battle of Sigurney. No thanks.” Godown must have given Captain Kidder a pair of brass ones to stand up to the entire Turkowi army, without any help from the bloodsuckers in Scheel Center. Which may be why Godown let Morloke retake northern Scheel. Punishment for betraying Kidder and his men. No priest would agree with him officially, of course, but Matthew’s understanding of Godown suggested that He looked dimly on oathbreakers. Leopold Anthony, of course, had not broken any oaths.
Despite young Thomas’s renewed, but more careful, attempts to draw out Matthew’s story, he kept it to himself over the next week. Duke Starland made him welcome, introducing him to Duchess Eleanor and to their other children: Gerald, Frank, Donna Mou, and Basil. Matthew trained and rode with Starland’s men, knocking off a great deal of rust the hard way. The land looked as if it had potential, should enough farmers ever settle it. Matthew sniffed a little at first, but only in his mind. I could do better, like father did for Marteen. Granted, winters are longer and there’s less protection from storms, but still, His Grace could do more to encourage cultivation. Those thoughts died after Duke Starland let him read the estate’s military accounts for the past three years. “You’ll get the picture from these. The seventeen years before are almost identical, aside from the hunger year, when no one raided anyone else because the rains drowned everything.”
That night Matthew stared at the ceiling. I have a lot to learn, he admitted at last. He and Leo had ridden against small bands of raiders, not an army. I have no idea how to defend Marteen, or anything else. Don Starland does. The admission hurt a lot. We were fools, Leo. Godown had been with them, and probably St. Gimple as well, just like Lt. Klaus had sworn. Well, he’d come to one of the best places possible to learn, provided he could find a way to do so.
The Starland contingent rode north two and a half weeks after Matthew and Duke Starland’s market square meeting. By now Don had decreed that Matthew would ride with him, despite Matthew’s protests that he wasn’t experienced enough. “You’re a man and a soldier, Malatesta. You’ve led soldiers in battle. You stay close to me and learn.”
The first two weeks of the journey passed, if not entirely uneventfully, at least quietly enough for Matthew’s taste. Duke Starland and Captain Andrews took turns teaching him, and the other less experienced men, about how to use terrain, what landscapes to look out for, how the Turkowi managed to hide, and even a little about the Frankonian Army. “Godown be praised, I only have to worry about the Turkowi,” Don sighed one evening. “The Frankonians are Peilov’s problem, not mine.”
“The Frankonians are attacking the Empire, Your Grace?” That makes no sense.
Don shook his head and knocked back the rest of his wine. “Not directly, which is why they are Count Peilov’s problem. He’s the foreign minister for His Majesty Emperor Michael. They’re like mice nibbling at the edges, seeing how far they can get. Lewis Junior’s too busy trying to keep your uncle from biting off more of Frankonia to do more than be a nuisance. For now.”
A week’s journey from Vindobona, things changed. One of the men riding ahead of the duke’s party came cantering back. “Company ahead, Yer Grace. Banner’s a dry fountain.”
Don Starland drew himself up. “Crown Prince Alois is out rather far,” he observed. “At least, that’s his banner. Matthew, pass the word back, then return here,” and he pointed to his left side. Captain Andrews shifted behind and moved to the duke’s right hand, while Duchess Eleanor dropped back, into the protective screen of riders around the younger children. She also loosened the strap on her long saddle knife, Matthew noticed. They take no chances. Interesting, but then we all know what the Turkowi do to women.
“There’s a group up the road with the crown prince’s banner,” Matthew reported to the next group of Starland riders. They’d strung out into three main batches, with a few single riders between, so other traffic could pass. The duke and his family and senior staff rode first, followed by the remuda and some supply wagons, with the rest of the wagons and mounted infantry bringing up the rear. As he carried the message along, he could see the formation shifting, turning into a long defensive oblong that could compress into a true square if the need arose, with the horses in the center and the wagons forming a sort of wall.
By the time he rejoined Duke Starland, he could see the dust of the approaching riders. Not Turkowi, then—on a raid they ride single file to hide their numbers, not bunched and ready to confront a large group. He relaxed as much as he could. The dust grew closer and Matthew could just see blue and white banners. “His Majesty’s ensign is a flowing fountain. Crown prince’s is a dry fountain, since he doesn’t have power yet,” one of the sergeants explained.
Matthew filed the information away for future use. “Makes sense, thank you,” he said. Starland glanced at him before the noble turned his attention back to the group bearing down on them. Now Matthew could see more dark blue, the Babenburg color, and individual riders. A man on a white horse accelerated, trotting ahead of the main body of soldiers. Don drew rein and the Starland lead group stopped.
“Greetings!” a young man called, taking off his broad-brimmed hat and waving it as he approached.
“Greetings, Your Highness.” Don bowed in the saddle and Matthew hastily copied him.
“I’m on my way back from Heilbrown,” Crown Prince Alois Donn Babenburg explained before extending a gloved hand to Don, who shook it. Captain Andrews dropped back to allow the prince to ride on Don’s right side. Matthew eased Red to the left, making room for the captain as if this had all been planned. Andrews nodded his approval and Matthew felt better.
“I trust you are not anticipating trouble on the road, Your Highness,” Don half-asked.
A firm headshake answered the question. “Not at all. But I saw no need to force the pace to get ahead of you, once I saw the heliograph reporting your position.”
Andrews explained under his breath to Matthew, “They’d have to get at least a half-day ahead of us so we wouldn’t break the road crowding rules. Or they can join us, or wait until we’re half a day ahead.”
“Ah.” Road crowding rules? That’s strange. I’ve never heard of such. Matthew kept his mouth shut and eyes and ears open. He studied the imperial soldiers as they flowed around the Starland party to fall in with the outriders and guards. They rode decent hor
ses, and Matthew liked the men’s matching jackets. Their weapons looked well cared for, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary for light cavalry: crossbows, lances and spears, sabers. Prince Alois and a few others had what looked like pistols tucked into holsters on their saddles, and Matthew wondered how you handled a horse and lit the match. Or maybe they only used the pistols for emergency, dismounted fighting. That made more sense. He’d been allowed to fire the match-lock guns used by the Morloke City guard once or twice and knew that no one could handle one of those things and control a horse at the same time, much less get the horse to tolerate the hissing match and the sound, fire, and smoke from the gun. Actually, Matthew decided, the pistols are probably just to display his wealth, like his fancy horse and tack are. That makes more sense than anything. Firing a gun from horseback? Nah.
Aside from the larger numbers or outriders and wagons, Matthew discovered that riding with the prince differed very little from the previous two weeks. The group passed through a town and camped in the meadows beyond. That is to say, the men did. Duchess Eleanor, her daughters, their maids, and a small group of guards stayed in town, as she had done once or twice before. Matthew considered the mild chaos as the men sorted themselves and decided to set up his shelter with the other Starland soldiers. Duke Starland, however, had other plans.
“You’re to stay near His Grace,” Sergeant Johns informed Matthew after Matthew had finally managed to get two tent stakes into the rock-hard ground. “He’ll explain.”
That evening, following supper, Don and the crown prince dismissed everyone but Gerald, the Starland heir, and Matthew. Prince Alois and Matthew studied each other. For his part, Matthew couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone with dark hair and pale skin before. Alois had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with short legs. In fact, he stood almost a full head shorter than Matthew did, at least when Matthew straightened from his usual slouch. After a minute or so, Don Starland cleared his throat. “Your Highness, this is Matthew Charles Malatesta, son of Count Anthony Malatesta of Morloke, grandson of Edmund Ironhand of Sarmas. Matthew, His Highness Crown Prince Alois Donn Babenburg.”
Matthew bowed as he’d been taught. He envied Prince Alois’s calm, confident air of command, and his new-looking riding boots and white horse. Alois spoke first. “Welcome. A friend of Duke Starland is a friend of the Crown,” he said. “What brings you to the Empire?” Don made a pulling gesture with the hand not holding a wine cup, as if trying to draw the words out of Matthew when he remained silent.
After some thought Matthew explained, “Politics, Your Highness.”
“Indeed. Morloke seeks an alliance with the Empire?”
I don’t want to talk about it. But I think I have to. “No, Your Highness, that is, to my knowledge the Oligarchs’ Council prefers to remain in control of an independent and alliance-free county, such as it is.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady and under control. “You are aware that my father, Count Anthony Malatesta, died of his injuries three years ago?” When the men nodded he continued, “My brother Leopold Anthony assumed the title of count and ownership of Marteen, the lands our father recovered from Tillson of Tivolia as repayment for our mother’s dowry. In exchange for support from the Oligarchs, we continued our father’s agreement with them, protecting their caravans and fighting the Turkowi in Scheel north of the river and in southern Morloke.”
He took a deep breath. I’d better be tactful, at least for the moment, in case the Babenburgs have allies in the Council. “Your Highness, Your Grace, this past summer Count Leopold failed to meet the stipulations of the season’s contract he’d signed with the Council. When he reacted … heatedly … to their accusations of deliberate malfeasance at the end of campaign season, they accused him of treason for violating an agreement they had concluded with Count Anthony eighteen years ago. As a result—” He stopped, unclenching his fists and forcing himself to stay calm as the image of Leo’s body appeared in his mind’s eye. “As a result they killed Count Leopold. I … am unable in good conscience to provide such men with military service, and I fled, hoping to come to Vindobona and to learn what I need to be able to protect Marteen against Duke Tillson, the Turkowi, and the Oligarchs.”
Don Starland considered Matthew’s words, as did Prince Alois. “Do you know what was said in the council meeting between your late brother, may Godown grant him peace, and the Oligarchs’ Council,” Alois inquired, expression unreadable.
Matthew shook his head. “No, Your Highness. I was not there. I was told by Master Cevalo that Leo attacked the acting head of the council, which I do not doubt, but Cevalo refused to say if Madau or anyone else had goaded Leo. Leo had a bit of a temper,” Matthew admitted with some reluctance. “Nor do I know if it was a physical attack or intemperate words.”
Don and Alois sat back. “That makes more sense than the story the Oligarchs’ messenger brought, Your Highness,” Starland said.
Alois nodded. “It does, especially if Count Leopold had the Sarmas temper.”
Starland winced a little at the prince’s words and Matthew wondered why. Maybe Starland had crossed paths with his mother at some time. Alois turned to Matthew. “I am not able to speak for my honored father, but until you have an opportunity to explain yourself to him in person, I take you under my protection. No one from Morloke can harass or put a claim on you, Count Matthew, unless you violate our laws in some way.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. I will not abuse your gift.” Not for all the gold in— wait. He called me count. The realization almost knocked Matthew off the camp chair, and he struggled to keep his emotions off his face. I … I am count, now that Leo’s dead. I’m responsible for Marteen, and for the contract with the Oligarchs. Or am I? No. They broke it when they killed Leo. Marteen is mine to protect and develop, not Morloke or Scheel.
“Good. Now,” the prince leaned back in his chair. “What gossip from the south?”
Gerald Starland shrugged a little. “Not much, Your Highness. Lewis II of Frankonia’s guardians are eyeing Sarmas and the western Freistaadter, since the Sea Republics and Louven politely declined to accept his wise leadership.” The men smiled at the careful understatement. “The most interesting rumor is from the southern Thumb. Supposedly, someone has found a new source of saltpeter earth that doesn’t need as much work to turn into decent gunpowder.”
That’s interesting. Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “Your Highness, Your Grace, that might explain the stories I heard in Valdoro about the Turkowi and some Freistaadter suddenly having better artillery. The merchant said he’d heard that someone on the Thumb had found some Lander works on metal casting and powder making. I’m, well,” he thought aloud. “I’m not sure anyone would need to find a Lander book, given how much the Sea Republics and Freistaadter have been experimenting with metalwork and small cannons for their ships.”
“Good point,” Alois nodded. “And I’m not certain how much a new source of saltpeter would affect the Empire, since Godown blessed us with decent sources of our own.”
Duke Starland wagged one hand back and forth. “But if the Turkowi and Frankonians suddenly have better explosives and their siege guns quit blowing up, the Empire may suddenly be very interested in that new source.”
His son shrugged. “Since the price has not changed, I’d take the rumor with a large chunk of earth coal.” He refilled his wine cup. “Any news from Tivolia about their succession?”
Matthew snorted and leaned his head back, stretching his neck and looking up at the stars. They’d stayed out in the crisp evening, enjoying what would probably be the last decent weather for a while. “Duke Mischa wants his son Karl to take over. Karl is unlikely to live long enough, unless Godown smites him with more sense than even St. Kiara had, so it appears likely that Michael, the second son, will inherit.” Leaving aside that Michael’s father might not be Mischa, of course. Everyone’s heard that story.
Alois sat forward. “Really? Is Karl,” he touched h
is temple and raised one eyebrow.
“No, Your Highness,” Don Starland sighed. “He’s a twelve-year-old in a twenty-year-old body. No off switch, won’t listen to anyone or take ‘that’s dangerous’ as anything other than a challenge.”
“He tried to challenge Count Leopold once,” Matthew shook his head. “The boy’s a fool, all bluff and bluster. Leo left him flat on his ass and told him to go back to riding ponies and working with the training dummy.” And Leo wasn’t that good fighting on horseback, either. “He’s a neck-and-nothing rider, at least in his own mind, with no patience for learning government. If you can’t hunt it, ride it over jumps, or get drunk from it, he’s not interested.” Matthew stopped, considered the other rumors he’d heard, then added, “There’s a story that he favors St. Jenna, but from what little I’ve seen and heard that I trust, Lord Karl Tillson is not interested in any of the bedroom arts.”
After a little silence, Don Starland made a curious noise. “Interesting. I’ve heard of people like that, but never met one.”
“Most probably go into religious service or work around it if they need to raise a family,” Alois observed.
“Point, Your Highness.”
A long silence followed, broken by the usual night noises of camp. Something large flapped overhead, probably an h’owl attracted by the bugs drawn to the animal manure and campfires. “So, Gerald,” Alois inquired. “Just how fast is that bay mare of yours?” Talk turned to horses and horse racing, and after a little while Matthew excused himself. He’d never been interested in racing, unless he was trying to escape someone. Just another way to lose money and break your neck being stupid, he thought and yawned.
By the fourth day after Prince Alois joined them, Matthew decided that the prince had spent too much time around a fancy court and not enough out in the real world. Oh, he rode well enough, and didn’t act the fop like a few men Matthew had crossed paths with over the years, but the prince’s pretty manners and fancy kit rubbed Matthew the wrong way. Well, once you meet in the practice field, you can see if there’s anything under the polish and plumes. For now you’d better be quiet. You need him. He does not need you, Matthew reminded himself.
