Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  Matthew waited until his stomach assured him that it had nothing left to lose before returning to his small space below the deck. He ignored the sounds of the people in the long cabin beside his and tried to ignore the stench. The sewers of Vindobona in late summer almost smelled better than the small ship. It creaked, and he heard flapping from overhead as the sailors adjusted one of the sails to take better advantage of the wind. A night and day of retching left Matthew drained, and he lay down, closing his eyes and reciting his long-neglected bead prayers.

  They touched the shore at the port that served Revanaar just before sunset the next day, too late for the main city’s curfew but far earlier than anticipated. Matthew graciously allowed the other passengers to leave first (and to attract the cut purses, sellers of sick horses, and others), taking his time walking down the ramp from the deck to shore. He skirted the commotion of the dockside and walked up to an inn along a quieter back street, in the quarter set aside for gold workers. He continued until he reached a small, quiet building with a black h’owl painted over the door. “Inn of the Blackbird it is,” he laughed under his breath, then walked in.

  “Sweet St. Basil be with us,” a familiar voice exclaimed. “Shit, sir, it is you. Damn you’ve grown.” Matthew pivoted, smiling as he saw Lt. Klaus and a few other familiar faces.

  “Good to see you too, Lieutenant.” He turned back to the rotund man with brawny arms and a mostly clean apron who stood behind the bar. “Count Malatesta, one room without company. And a meal.”

  “Four thalers silver.” Matthew pushed the coins across the knife-scarred wood. “My lor’.” The innkeeper showed Matthew his room. After moving everything of value from his bags to his person, Matthew returned to the taproom and took the seat Klaus offered.

  “So, Klaus, what news?”

  “Nothing much, my lord. The usual noise among the Freistaadter, the Frankonians trying to pretend that they really weren’t all that interested in Sarmas, Turkowi underfoot.” He took a long pull from his beer. “Magwi set up a trade post in Tivolia, that’s new.”

  “That is. I wonder …” Matthew held his peace until the barmaid left after putting a large plate of stew in front of him. He poked at it, recognized most of the contents, and ate.

  “So, my lord, you want to rebuild your army?” Klaus began once Matthew had inhaled half the meal.

  “Aye. I have cash to hire decent men—not many, just a core. What do you know about the situation in Scheel?”

  The man beside Klaus spat, “It reeks like an overused privy in a swamp on midsummer, my lord.”

  Matthew’s eyebrows rose. Not exactly diplomatic or tactful, but honest. Maybe. “Indeed?”

  Klaus nodded, pointing with his thumb, “Kazmer Takacs. My ex-cousin-in-law, logistics and trade specialist, purportedly descended from the Takacs of Morloke, but that’s just a vicious rumor.”

  Maybe, but he has the look: black eyes, curly black hair, dark skin, and a face so angular you could shave on those cheekbones. “I take it you’ve been in the south recently, Mr. Takacs?”

  “Aye. Getting family out of Amsport and off the New Dobri road. The Turkowi bit off more than they could chew, trying to beat up the Magwi. They’re too evenly matched as far as light cavalry and nastiness, so the heretics turned north. You know about the bridges?” Matthew nodded and Takacs continued, “They swallowed Amsport and the land around it, almost to the western edge of the hills. Already have the hills between Sigurny and Karlava north to the Rocky Ford.”

  “So they are in striking distance of Scheel Center. What of St. Kiara’s shrine?”

  Klaus answered. “It moved to Kirwali, with all the Sisters, the relics, books, everything. Just about the time you went north, one of the priests had a vision so strong he used it to beat the bishop over the head with, then took everything west over the water.” Klaus made St. Gerald’s bridge, and Takacs responded with St. Basil’s crook.

  “No time to waste then.” Matthew sipped his beer. He didn’t taste anything off, so he took a larger swig. Raucous laughter billowed up from the corner table by the fireplace, and he saw a large man, well into his cups, giving another customer a “friendly” slap on the back that knocked the smaller man onto the heavy wooden table, driving the wind out of him. Matthew shrugged—not his fight.

  He told Klaus, “I need a unit of medium cavalry and two squads of infantry, pike and archers. Trained men and steady, willing to settle down and to work with reservists if necessary. I can pay the first year’s salary, and I anticipate being able to supplement that, given what rumors are flying and your news,” he nodded to Takacs.

  Klaus nodded in turn, as did Takacs. “You have land?”

  “Not yet, but I suspect I might soon. Or I might not—Godown looks after idiots, small children, and Tillsons, as they say.”

  The loud man appeared at Matthew’s elbow and growled, “You insulting His Grace Duke Tillson of Tivolia?”

  Matthew smelled beer and trouble. He looked up, studying the stranger. Drunk and big, but I’m bigger and sober. I’m also a stranger here. He glanced past the drunk to the innkeeper, who glowered at the drunk’s back, as if he would not be unhappy to see the rowdy removed. Let’s see what happens if … “No. Just observing that the Tillson family often seems to have been touched by Godown.” He kept his tone friendly and mild.

  “Good,” the man turned to go. He stopped as the meaning of Matthew’s words penetrated the beer haze. “Hey! You bastard.”

  Matthew got to his feet. “No, my parents had been married to each other four years before I was born. Yours may have had a purely professional relationship, but I’m no bastard.” The drunk swung, Matthew ducked, and grabbed the other man’s collar as he staggered off balance. The innkeeper pointed to the door and Matthew obliged, heaving the troublemaker into the road. No one in the taproom objected to the rapid departure.

  “The Blackbird is a fighting bird,” Klaus said when Matthew returned to his seat.

  “Yes, he is.”

  The next morning Count Malatesta paid his respects to the Lord Mayor of Revanaar and confirmed his interest in improving trade with the city-state. He also contracted with several of the weapons makers for pike and halberd blades, arrows for crossbows and compound bows, plain helmets and buffcoats. He paid half in advance, plus a little more to have a design marked onto the long arm blades. “An eagle? Aye, my lord,” the smith agreed. “Your sigil?”

  “Yes.”

  That evening he stayed in a better inn, one within the city walls. The next morning he attended services at St. Kiara’s. As he went up to receive the bread and oil, he noticed an attractive young lady joining the line just ahead of him. Matthew made himself concentrate on the sacraments and the service, but as soon as the priest dismissed the worshippers, he began looking for the woman. Carefully, of course, since he had no desire to discover the hard way that her father was the head of the city guard and that she had five larger older brothers, or a husband. She managed to disappear in the crowd and he sighed a little. Ah well, time enough. He’d noticed other women, from tavern wenches and market girls to master merchant’s ladies, eyeing him. After all, he was young, with strong features, and his black clothes and pale hair made a striking contrast. There are plenty of birds in the forest, especially the ones willing to throw themselves into my net. Why work harder than I have to?

  That afternoon he met with Klaus again. “My lord, you need to go to Kirwali.”

  “Why?” I didn’t think I’d managed to piss off anyone that badly yet.

  Klaus counted off on his fingers, “One, to meet the Patrician so he knows that you are serious about maintaining your claim to Marteen. Two, to look at their foundries. Three, because of the gunpowder.”

  “Ah.” That must be the source of the better powder they’ve been talking about in the empire. “I believe I can manage a side trip. I need horses.”

  “Let Kazmer take care of that, my lord.” The older man made a hand sign Matthew had not seen in
three years. He smiled a little.

  The next morning the three men rode out along the old Lander road between Revanaar and Kirwali. The route followed a line of hills just inside the coast, then cut inland through low but very rugged hills. Small strongpoints dotted the land, and a few appeared to be Lander work. Scrubby oak trees and scrawny fat-nut trees scattered out across the hills, and the only strips of grassy green appeared to be along a few streams and small rivers. The rest of the grass shared the trees’ dull color. Kazmer Takacs shook his head. “And this is lush, my lord, the tail end of the wet months. Imagine what it looks like in a dry year.”

  “No wonder the Freistaadter on this side focus on manufacture, trade, and animal products.” You certainly can’t grow much wheat on those little green strips. “And marsh wheat,” Matthew recalled.

  Lt. Klaus shifted in the saddle of his ugly brown horse. Takacs had found them beasts that looked rough but possessed good conformation and quiet dispositions. That suited Matthew, who preferred not to call attention to his resources just now. That the beasts all sported shaggy winter coats helped hide their virtues. As the old soldier started to speak, a scatter of birds burst out of the brush ahead of them, just before a curve in the road. Klaus flashed the hand-sign for “ambush.” Matthew returned, “agreed.” He thought for a moment. “Race?” He heard Takacs make a surprised noise when Klaus signaled his agreement. Both men drew their swords. “Tsa!”

  They charged around the curve and through the ambush. Four men appeared in the road behind them, and Matthew hauled back on the reins so hard that his dapple beast almost sat down. It scrambled for footing and turned. He urged the gelding back into the surprised group. “Blackbird!” he heard Klaus call. They attacked the would-be ambushers. Matthew caught glimpses of ragged clothes under mis-matched leather buffcoats and battered helmets before the men scattered back into the scrubby bushes along the trail, leaving two of their associates lying in the road. As Takacs rode up, leading the pack horses, Klaus dismounted and finished off one man. He checked the second one, shook his head, and dragged both bodies out of the right-of-way, taking their weapons and a few coins as he did. “Don’t worry, my lord, I left the death fee.”

  Matthew forbore to comment. Godown doesn’t charge anyone an entrance fee, but this isn’t the place to discuss theology. As soon as the older man hauled himself up into the saddle, all three took off at a fast trot. The packhorses didn’t hesitate, almost drawing level with Takacs in their desire to stay with their herd. The warriors kept up the pace until the road descended into an open area of fields and a few stone houses. Once well clear of ambush-friendly terrain, Matthew drew rein, slowing his beast to a steady walk. “No archers. Interesting.”

  “Too risky, my lord.” Takacs jerked his head back toward the pass through the hills. “Might hit the horses instead of the riders. And the brush will foul the shot.”

  Matthew started to point out that crossbows would have less problem shooting through the scrub, but caught himself. Crossbows cost money, are hard to maintain, and the ones without cocking winches are a bitch to reload once you’ve fired. Instead he grunted his agreement.

  It took two days’ steady, dawn-to-dusk riding to reach Kirwali. The city controlled land and smaller towns up to fifty kilometers from its walls, and Matthew knew he needed to tread carefully with the Patrician. He also lusted after the city’s fantastic defensive position, up on a series of hills overlooking a respectable small river. The Lander-crafted walls warned would-be attackers of the difficulty of approach, as did the curving roads leading up to the city, each with an outer gate and watch-posts. Klaus dropped back to ride even with Takacs, taking one of the packhorses’ lead ropes and tying it to his saddle as a way to show that they intended no harm.

  Matthew led the way to the guard post on the road. He slowed the grey horse to an easy walk, giving the guards plenty of time to look over him and his men as they approached. “State your business,” a man in brown demanded. He wore an apron-like garment over his jacket that bore the device of the city, a simplified depiction of Kirwali’s walls with St. Kiara’s flame above them.

  “I’m Count Matthew Malatesta of Marteen, with my men. I’ve come to present my credentials and a trade proposal to the Patrician and the trade council.”

  The guard came a few steps closer, confirming that the men’s weapons had been peace tied. “Just you three?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t ask anyone else to cross the Sutherland Sea this time of year unless their priest issued it as a penance.”

  A hint of amusement colored the guard’s voice. “Very well. Curfew runs from full dark to an hour before dawn. Your long blades must remain peace tied while within the walls. Any trade takes place in the market spaces—nothing in private homes without a permit.” He lifted the bit of red and brown-painted wood that barred the road and stepped aside, letting them pass.

  Matthew found a suitable inn and then sent a message to Patrician Andre Geraldino, advising of his arrival and interest in a brief meeting, should the Patrician’s schedule permit.

  The honored gentleman’s scheduled did permit. However, first Matthew and Klaus visited the armorer and powder miller. The miller’s shop sat outside the walls, near the river. He displayed his wares in a small stone building, away from where he and his apprentices made the black stuff. Once inside, Matthew peered at the strips of black-colored powder laid out under protective layers of glass and plaztik, each labeled with the type of weapon and the price per kilo. The powder for heavy guns looked grainier compared to the standard, and he wondered how the master made it. The prices certainly seemed reasonable, although transportation costs would devour the lower cost. Or perhaps not, if his new trade policies proved effective. Matthew placed an order for the finer scattergun powder, to be delivered through Revanaar to Valdoro and then Solva.

  “I’d be more confident in the cannon if their last failure wasn’t in the courtyard,” Matthew observed later that morning as they rode back from the foundry. The large chunks of metal had been impressive, but probably not in the way the master arms smith had hoped. He’d not had time to melt and recast the metal before Matthew and Lt. Klaus arrived.

  “Agreed, my lord. Godown and St. Michael must have been with them.” Klaus had not looked happy to hear that the failure—blowing the loading breech out—had killed only one man “this time.”

  Loading from the butt end was still a good idea, but how were they going to make latches and clamps strong enough to keep the flame going out the barrel, especially once they tried it with a full-weight ball, Matthew wondered. He knew that the Landers had managed it by casting a solid cannon, somehow, but he didn’t know enough to imagine what equipment had been used. He had no need for cannon at this point, but he might eventually, depending on what the future held.

  Matthew’s border with the Tillsons needed something. Marteen’s western edge bordered on nothing but more gently rolling plains with nary a large hill or deep river to protect them. That was the problem with the land between the Triangle Mountains and the low range this side of the Donau Novi lowlands: it held no defenses but men to stop an invader from any direction save north. How many times, on how many worlds, had rich, lush land without good natural defenses proved too tempting? Matthew tried to recall but the list was too long. What’s that proverb? Rough land and ugly women are both safe from invasion? And the Tivolian Lowlands are neither. “Perhaps Godown will help them with the next version of their cannon.”

  Will Klaus shrugged. “Perhaps, my lord. We learn best from our mistakes, provided we survive them.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Welcome to Kirwali,” Patrician Andre Geraldino said as Matthew removed his soft hat and bowed to the older man. Matthew noted the sunken cheeks and sharp nose and chin, as well as the white eyes. Claw-like hands emerged from the old man’s lush wool-velvet robe of office to rest on the arms of his chair.

  Matthew knew better than to take Geraldino’s blindness as a sign of weakness. �
�Thank you, sir. I am honored to have a moment of your time.”

  “Yes, you are, young man. I take it this is about the trade agreement you proposed last fall?” Geraldino cut through to the heart of business, sounding not impatient, but testing. Or so Matthew guessed.

  “Yes, sir. My offer stands for duty-free passage for three years, and a one-percent tax on sales or purchases, no tax on grain until after the fall equinox or the completion of fall harvest this year, whichever comes first.” He added quickly, “Let me clarify, that applies to grain shipped before those times. I will honor the tax agreement on goods based on date of departure from Kirwali’s territory.”

  The Patrician made a noncommittal noise. Matthew waited, stock still, letting only his eyes move. He used the time to study the garish paintings on the council room walls. They made the murals in the Oligarchs’ chambers in Morloke City dull in comparison, and he wondered where the artists had found such brilliant colors, especially the yellow. It came close to making his eyes hurt. Fortunately, the artists had used it sparingly, adding a touch here and there as an accent color. Godown save us if they ever decide to paint a scene depicting a victory over the Turkowi. Even the blind will have sore eyes.

  “I suspect the council will accept your offer,” Geraldino pronounced at last. “Assuming your territory has not been devoured by either the Tillsons or the Turkowi.”

  “It is my understanding that the Tillsons have made themselves most unwelcome in Marteen already, sir, and the Turkowi need to consolidate their gains. They’ve come close to overextending themselves, in light of the murrain reported among the Magwi’s flocks.” Patrician Geraldino and two of his advisors made St. Basil’s crook, warding off the news.

  Geraldino leaned forward, white eyes focused on Matthew, or so it seemed. “Is this truth or rumor, Count Malatesta?”