Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  “I apologize for my rash behavior,” the prince offered.

  “And I apologize for speaking without thinking, and for forgetting my place as a guest.”

  Michael pointed in different directions and the men slunk off. As he left the courtyard, Matthew thought he heard laughter, both Count Kossuth and the emperor chuckling over the debacle.

  “That came a week sooner than I anticipated, Your Majesty,” Kossuth admitted.

  “You were right, Tony: two young hotheads in one house are two too many. But you still owe me three silver thalers.”

  Matthew’s face burned hotter and he rushed up the steps to hide in his chamber.

  “Well, Blackbird?”

  Matthew ignored Paul’s question for the moment as he studied the map draped over the table in the imperial council chamber. What on any known planet is Lewis thinking? He isn’t. Not if he thinks he can gobble Sarmas.

  “His Majesty Lewis the Second of Frankonia, or rather his guardians, are lacking in sense as well as taste if they believe they can overawe Sarmas. Granted, Ironhand’s dead and buried, but trying to threaten Sarmas this late in the season is as foolish as, oh, tackling the Bergenlands right now.”

  “You mean that the passes being closed, the poor harvest, and Martins River stretching three times as wide as usual might cause Godown’s gift to Colplatschki to experience some difficulties while attempting to annex the toughest nut under Godown’s heaven?” Paul chuckled as he leaned over the map from the other side of the table. “I agree.” He straightened up. “You’re still leaving?”

  Matthew stood straight and tugged his black jacket back the way it was supposed to hang. “Yes. I’ve got to reassert my claim to Marteen. Duke Mischa’s not going to have as many distractions once the succession battle finishes, and the Oligarchs are making noises about,” he wrinkled his nose. “Not annexing Marteen, because they can’t, but taking it under Morloka protection.” I have a duty to my people. And I need to claim my income, which I can’t do from up here, no matter how good my managers are. And he didn’t like the way Alois and his father keep noising about an alliance. They’d moved past hinting to borderline threatening. Nothing overt, not direct threats, but suggestions about imperial recognition and diplomatic relations with Tivolia that set Matthew’s teeth on edge. He supposed he should be flattered, but he just wanted to leave.

  Paul made a rude sound and Matthew smiled. He left the map and strolled over to the far corner of the room, out of the way of the servants coming in with chokofee, platters of finger food, and the other accouterments of an imperial council meeting.

  Count Kossuth the elder came in a side door, looked around, and joined Matthew. “I can’t persuade you to stay, can I, Blackbird?”

  “No, sir.” They’d argued over, discussed, and planned Matthew’s departure since mid-summer.

  Kossuth folded his arms and turned to watch the activity in the room. “Good. We, and I don’t mean just the Empire, need someone with more than a quarter of a brain to the south of us when the Tillson line finally implodes.” After a breath or two, he continued more quietly, “I’m really starting to wonder if Fr. Mou was right, and that the reason Tillson continued his uncle’s suspension of the clergy was in order to avoid having a Diligence done.”

  “That’s assuming Duchess Tillson is Karl’s mother, which I am growing more and more inclined to doubt, sir.”

  One thin red eyebrow rose over a grey-green eye, as if questioning how Matthew could even think such a thing. After a year of living in Kossuth’s pocket, so to speak, Matthew knew what Anthony meant, and snorted a little. “Indeed,” the older man said, under his breath. Duke Hoffman stalked past, gave the men a dismissive glance, and dropped into his seat at the council table. Hoffman supported an alliance with Tivolia for reasons Matthew and several other people doubted had anything to do with the good of the empire as compared to the good of Hoffman’s money pouch.

  “Greetings, Blackbird,” a hearty voice called. Hoffman turned, scowling, as Alois Babenburg sauntered in. That is, as best he could saunter on crutches with one leg in a splint.

  Kossuth and Malatesta bowed. “Your Highness.” Kossuth eased away, making room for the prince and getting out of the way of any possible fights. Matthew hid his smile. No worries, sir. It’s too cold to be courting another horse-trough bath.

  “You’ve become a blackbird in truth,” Alois observed. Matthew wore black from his boots to the small plume on the soft hat currently tucked into his belt. Empress Laural and her ladies had taken to calling him the Blackbird because of his serious demeanor and in jest at his fair coloring, and Matthew had claimed the name for his own.

  He shrugged. “It suits.” Black dye is cheap. And the Turkowi fear the blackbird as ill omened because it fights without ceasing. That suits as well. Matthew now shared the Kossuth men’s secret: knowledge of the dozens of Turkowi books locked away in the library office at Kossuthna Major. He spoke the language with a terrible accent, but he could read it almost as fast as he could read his own tongue. One of the books, a collection of children’s tales, included the story of Selkow and the blackbird. That religion makes sense from inside, but wow, how any sane person could believe it still escapes me. He knew better than to mention any of that outside the Kossuth family or Starland household, however.

  “Such a cheerful sight you are. Even Sarah can’t get you to smile.”

  Dare I? Why not. I can run faster than he can, and I’ll be over the border before he heals. “No, Your Highness, but I must confess that your horse certainly made me smile.”

  Alois started turning red, then laughed, shaking his head. “I still have not sorted out what happened.” He’d been taking one of the jumps on the cavalry course when everything went wrong, but no one could guess how.

  “I had nothing to do with it, I assure you, Your Highness,” Matthew spread his hands and tried to look harmless. “After all, I was in Kossuthna and I have witnesses.”

  “That’s the only reason I believe you,” the prince retorted. He turned and made his slow, careful way to the chair beside the throne, taking his place. Until he healed, his father had given him permission to stay seated. Managing steps and bowing at the same time remained beyond the prince’s ability.

  Not long after, Paul joined Matthew, Gerald Starland, and Archer Jones in the “bachelors’ corner” as they called it. “His Majesty Emperor Michael Babenburg,” a stentorian voice called, and chairs scraped as people rose and bowed. Matthew heard heavy steps. “You may be rise and be seated.”

  Now that he knew what to watch for, Matthew admired the emperor’s way of handling the council nobles. A question here, a hint of agreement there, and the suggestion that Michael’s desire had been the lord’s idea all along kept business moving smoothly and tempers even. Count Anthony was right. I had a lot to learn and didn’t even know it. Matthew did not care for Emperor Michael’s loathing for Lander things, but as with the Turkowi, he understood how the older man had come to be like that. If Leo had gone mad from playing with broken bits of Godown-only-knows, I’d hate the stuff too.

  Finally, after far too long, or perhaps not long enough, Michael looked at the bachelors’ corner. “Count Matthew Malatesta,” he called.

  Matthew walked forward, bowing again. “Your Majesty.”

  “We understand that you are leaving our court.”

  He’s using the imperial we, OK, that means this is a policy matter and he’s treating me as a head of state. Matthew’s heart started to race and his attention sharpened. “Yes, Your Majesty. I have made excessive use of your most generous hospitality, yours and Count Kossuth’s. And matters of state make it necessary for me to return to the Malatesta lands and see to things personally.”

  The dark blue eyes seemed to weigh Matthew, as if comparing the boy who’d arrived a year ago to the man now standing before the throne. “Indeed, certain difficulties respond best to personal attention.” Michael briefly shifted his gaze, pinning Count Jones for an i
nstant. Matthew heard Jones squirming at the attention: he’d been pushing for the emperor to delegate more of the imperial war dukes’ power over defense to the council. “We trust that you depart in peace and friendship.”

  “That is my hope as well, Your Majesty.” He kept his tone and expression politely neutral. No alliances, Your Majesty. You know why.

  “Then go with our prayers for your safety and our hopes for your future prosperity.”

  Matthew bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty. May Godown grant you peace.”

  “Selah” several voices chorused, and a small hint of a smile lifted the corner of the emperor’s mouth.

  Early the next morning, as he checked Red and Shadow’s tack, Matthew found a sealed note stuffed into the saddle scabbard. He removed it and tucked it into the saddle pouch with the waxed-cotton lining. Clyde the mule made a rude sound and Matthew went over, checking his load and confirming that the noise signified nothing besides mulish muttering. “Why did I let Lord Anthony talk me into taking you?” He swore quietly at the cantankerous beast.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you take Paul,” Kossuth said, startling Matthew out of his skin. The older man glided up, his boots silent on the stones of the courtyard.

  Matthew smiled. “No, thank you, my lord. Paul eats too much.” Both young men had grown over the past year, filling out and, in Matthew’s case, adding almost ten centimeters of height. He could see the top of Count Kossuth’s head now. He extended his hand.

  Kossuth took it, but instead of shaking, he pulled Matthew into a half-embrace before releasing him. “That he does. His mother is threatening to make him harvest his own food so he won’t break her budget.”

  Since the person in question was not present to defend himself, Matthew thought about correcting the record, then decided against it. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Kossuth waved him off. “You gave Paul someone to aggravate besides his mother, sisters, and I. Now scoot. I don’t like how the sky looked yesterday at sunset.”

  “Me either, my lord.” Matthew mounted Shadow, a stolen horse he’d recaptured from the Turkowi when he helped fight off a raid in the spring. Socks had earned retirement at stud on Kossuthna. “Godown be with you.”

  “And also with you. And Matthew?”

  “My lord?”

  “Don’t screw up.” Kossuth whapped Shadow on the rump, spooking the horse into motion before Matthew could respond. The three equines clattered out of the twilight-dark courtyard of Kossuth House and into the quiet street.

  Matthew forgot the note until after he reached Marteen. With Duke Starland’s help he’d found a way to communicate with the man he and Leo had left in charge. As a result, Matthew did not have to try and prove his identity. Nor did he have much trouble reasserting his possession with the farmers and merchants, not after breaking up a Tivolian raid single-handedly. It hadn’t been much of a raid, Matthew thought that night, watching the snow falling outside the snug house he’d made his headquarters. Two trained armsmen and a gaggle of bully-boys trying to cause trouble and saying that the farmers owed Duke Mischa thirty percent of their harvest for his “protection,” did not meet Matthew’s standards for a raid. And once he’d unhorsed one of the armsmen and badly wounded the second, the farmers rallied and chased the remaining thugs off. They didn’t need my help. He sipped hot cider. No, but you shocked the intruders and gave your people a rallying point.

  He picked up the still-sealed note. The light blue wax bore Prince Alois’s dry fountain mark. I wonder if he wanted to challenge me to a duel over Sarah’s honor? She’d been betrothed to the son of the Patrician-Master of Perrulia, one of the Freistaadter, at midsummer. Matthew shrugged and broke the seal, unfolding the battered note.

  “Blackbird,” it started. “You still owe me for those weeks I spent trapped in Peilov’s office.” A broad, evil smile spread over Matthew’s face. You started it, not me. “But since I survived, and you managed to keep Paul Kossuth out from underfoot for almost a year, I guess I owe you.” Right. And shahma fly. “If you need help from the Crown in the future, ask and I’ll do my best to do whatever I can. By my hand and seal, Alois Donn Misha Babenburg.” Matthew started to toss the page into the small fire, then caught himself. You never know. If the Rajtan and his entire army show up at Leaky Creek, you might need his help, Godown forbid. He made St. Michael’s sign and put the note away with his few other important documents.

  What next? He’d also returned with gold, enough to hire a few good soldiers until he could establish a reputation and build up a war chest. He had not wanted it, but Emperor Michael and Count Peilov had insisted, showing him the contract Emperor Thomas had with Count Anthony Malatesta to provide men against the Turkowi. “Thomas died and your father waded into his fight with Tillson and never claimed the money. Take it or I’ll dunk you in the horse trough again,” had been the emperor’s exact words. The imperials are insane, the lot of them. Tending the sewers themselves? Godown bless, but they are crazy. Good, but crazy, and too damn ambitious for my taste.

  He needed to strengthen his hold on Marteen and to make his name. Until he did that, older men would try to push him out, or ignore him. For the moment, being ignored suited Matthew just fine, especially if it were Duke Tillson ignoring him. But it couldn’t last, and without proving his competence, he’d be fighting off every younger son and ambitious hire-sword along with the Turkowi. He stared into the fire and plotted.

  The snow melted as soon as it fell, so the next day Matthew rode out, looking over the land. Thanks to a wet summer that kept the pastures lush, the cattle, sheep, and shahma looked fat, but not the wheat and quinley. The few farmers who’d experimented with marsh wheat did well, but the other crops drooped, weak stemmed and waterlogged. I’d best just drop the tax on grain this year. There won’t be enough to be worth taxing anyway, and it should help those who have to buy. Including me. A few people acknowledged his presence, tugging forelocks or dropping little curtseys, and he waved. I need to build fighting strength, at least a squad of horsemen and a pike square.

  That night, on a whim, he wrote out a letter to Lt. Wilhelm Klaus and addressed it to Klaus in care of Anthony Kossuth’s distant cousin in Florabi. Then he wrote another one to Master Eduardo Madau, now the head of the Oligarchs’ Council of Morloke, informing him that Count Malatesta would not be doing business with members of the Council for the foreseeable future. Instead, he sent word through the small shopkeepers in Solva to the traders in Kirwali, Revanaar, and Valdoro that they could do business tariff-free in Marteen for the next three years. That should kick them into at least sending factors, if not diverting some trade here. He closed his eyes and considered what else he could do for income, based on what he’d learned over the past year.

  Marteen and Kossuthna Major shared two important similarities: broken land and hostile borders. Instead of the Dividing Range, rugged hills took up almost half of the small county, squeezing the 25,000 or so people who lived in the area into the flat ground on the western side, facing Tivolia. The hills provided good timber and grazing, and a little earth coal, but not much else besides hunting. The plain boasted some of the richest soil south of the Donau Novi lowlands, just not as much as Matthew liked. He’d thought about annexing a bit more of Tivolia, but the time wasn’t ripe. With Karl Tillson about to prove himself incompetent, it eliminated the succession question and allowed Duke Misha turn his attention back to Marteen and Count Matthew. And if he couldn’t defend it, he shouldn’t try and claim it. Count Kossuth had hammered that into Matthew’s head.

  The rest of the winter passed quietly. Since the Oligarchs couldn’t close their border to him without choking their own caravans, Matthew’s farmers drove their flocks south and then west to market at Valdoro, the island trade city just off the coast. They brought back grain, arms, and other goods, along with news. Matthew read the letter from Lt. Klaus and smiled. Yes, I think in late winter I’ll make a trip to Revanaar, during the weather gap. The smile fad
ed as he thought about the other news, the rumors and whispers the farmers and small merchants had brought.

  The Turkowi had swallowed Amsport at last. And they’d built bridges over the Morpalo at Sigurney and two other points, big strong bridges that could support heavy guns and ox carts. Supposedly engineers from Frankonia had provided some assistance, although Matthew doubted that the Turkowi needed any such help. He swished the sip of spiced wine over his tongue and swallowed. That opens the Lander roads to Scheel Center and the coast road as far as New Dobri. From there it’s an easy trip straight up to the Morloke border. Assuming they stick to roads, which I doubt. There’s no need for heavy guns, since there are no decent fortifications between New Dobri and Morloke City. I need to look at my notes on fortifications without stone. There was something from Novi Rus about what they did in the Gormie War, recreating an idea from Old Earth. If he created a line of earthworks and those wood-earth composite forts, he could direct the Turkowi, Tivolians, or whoever else decided to cause trouble, without the expense of building in stone. Well, and in places that never had any stone, which described large swaths of Morloke, and the road to Valdoro. Spring would be busy.

  Matthew finished losing the last of his breakfast over the side of the ship. He panted, watching the grey-blue water for a minute before he managed to push himself upright. He locked his eyes on the grey-white horizon, trying to ignore the motion below and around him. I’m never sailing in spring ever again. Except he had to if he wanted to get back to Marteen. At least he wasn’t alone in his misery. All but one of the other passengers suffered terrible seasickness, and that one Matthew wondered about. Godown help us: if this is “fair weather” may I never see a storm. At least, according to the sailors, the wind that turned the sea into a rolling, churning instrument of torment would get them to shore sooner than planned. Please, holy Godown, get us to shore and I will never complain about slow travel on land ever again, please, I promise. And at least Turkowi couldn’t sail because of the rougher weather to the south, or so he’d heard.