Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  “You said this is Lander? Is that safe? And my lord, I don’t mean physically safe.” Klaus didn’t follow St. Mou, but he had serious concerns about using anything from the Landers. “Godown didn’t like their technology, my lord.”

  “Godown destroyed their technology because of the Landers’ pride, Klaus, not because it was technology. Go back and read your Holy Writ, especially the Book of Fires,” Matthew sighed. “And these designs pre-date the Landers, or so the old book said. They go back to Old Earth, to a place without much stone but with a lot of enemies. ‘Kevin Rooz’ or something like that.”

  Actually, Matthew had thought as he looked over the finished outpost, the Landers would have laughed at the little fort. It sat atop a dirt mound, with dirt sloped up to cover the first layer of logs. The wall above that rose eight meters, with another layer of packed earth behind it, and a second log wall. The second wall supported the wall-walk and a shed-roof for the archers and other defenders. At the base of the wall inside the fort, men could shelter in the little rooms built into the dirt section, safe from weather and bombardment. A dirt-covered wooden passageway led to a spring. By using the trees from the hillside and floodplain, Matthew’s men had stripped the cover from around the mini-fortress. An attacker would have to approach in plain sight, and couldn’t easily gather firewood or timber for battering rams or scaling ladders. The fort controlled a bend in the river and a cut through the hills, where a small road met the larger river road. And it only required two weeks to construct, because they’d been cutting the trees all spring in preparation for the intense building push.

  Matthew envisioned more of the little forts, all connected with heliograph or messenger birds or something. He’d also read about how the Kevin Rooz built dirt walls that helped keep horsemen out of their lands, as long as the people maintained the walls, and he planned to construct a few in places where no other barrier might be possible. But not now. Now, as he rode away from the prayer and blessing service over the little fort, he had other matters to consider—Morloke matters that could bring in more income or open a gaping back door for the Turkowi.

  He’d begun patrolling the road from Solva to Valdoro now that more merchants made the trek inland with their goods. He’d flushed bandits once or twice, never large parties, but enough to make the effort worthwhile. That encouraged the merchants, and by midsummer a small second trading section developed in Solva, since the market had outgrown the original merket square. The taxes flowing into Matthew’s coffers helped defray the additional costs. He also made certain to keep his men and his staff well paid, reducing the temptation for them to do anything potentially bad for business.

  Apparently the Oligarchs couldn’t match his success. He learned about it from Barbara Lee one night, after he’d taken his pleasure with her. “You heard the news from Morloke City, my lord?” she’d asked.

  “No.”

  “Four caravans attacked, two of them lost half their goods. That’s why Master Andradi’s men came here first. It’s not just the lower market costs, my lord, but they have safe passage. The Oligarchs can’t protect the roads from New Dobri and Valdoro as well as you do.” She rubbed his back.

  “Mmmgh.” The only part of him capable of moving seemed to be his brain, and it ran slowly. They do have a longer, rougher route to cover, he warned himself as he started feeling a glow of pride. And he’d chased the bandits that direction, so the Oligarchs had more hungry people hunting the same prey—them. Either the Oligarchs would need to hire more guards, and they’d scream at the cost, or hold their caravans and travel in fewer, larger groups for defense. And then they’ll cry because other people beat them to market. He smiled at the thought. And it’s all their own fault. Barbara found a little knot in his shoulder muscle and worked it loose. Life is good. He drowsed away, contented with the world.

  Three weeks later, the first message from Morloke City arrived. Matthew read it and passed it to Kazmer Takacs without comment. Kazmer looked up at the ceiling of the room Matthew now used as his business office, his expression saying “idiots,” then handed the page to Roger. The majordomo read through it and snickered before catching himself. He turned the laugh into a quiet throat clearing. “I was not aware that you had an outstanding contract with the Oligarchs’ Council, my lord.”

  “Neither was I.” With that Matthew went back to the business at hand, sorting out claims over property loss from a small fire in one of the new warehouses. He’d been asked to arbitrate between the builder and one of the men with property in the warehouse, and had called Kazmer and Roger in for their opinions since they knew more about the matter than he did.

  A second message came ten days later. Matthew compared the two and shook his head before filing them both in the maw of the small fire in the main hearth. The weather had turned cool and rainy, and a little heat felt good after getting soaked to the bones while inspecting the militia drills. Barbara watched him toss the page into the flames. “Problem, my lord?”

  “Yes, but not for me, at least not yet.” He slouched down in the chair and accepted the wine-laced juice she poured for him. She apparently did not plan on going out any time soon, because she wore a pale dress with a hint of lace on the hem, a lacy bit of something with blue ribbons on the edge over her hair, and no scarf. He appreciated the view. At his orders she dressed more modestly when she went marketing or riding. Barbara smiled before returning to her seat and picking up her needlework. He explained, “They seem to forget that I am no longer fifteen and dependent on their good graces.”

  Softly curved brown eyebrows rose a little. “That is a problem, my lord. For them.”

  “Indeed.” He drank the juice and watched the flames licking up the last bit of paper, dancing and flaring on the wax of the seal. I have the power here, now. I will not dance to your tune—never, ever again. His grip on the metal stem of the glass tightened. You owe me blood price for Leopold Anthony Malatesta, and I will see you pay it, one way or another. I might be persuaded to defend you, perhaps, but on my terms, blood-guilty bastards. He imagined the flames dancing over the big houses and storage barns in Morloke City and smiled. Barbara made St. Alice’s sign and pushed herself back in her chair. Do I scare you? Good. He no longer woke up terrified, reliving his brother’s death in his dreams, but the memory remained fresh.

  One of the wagons that arrived the next day brought a most welcome distraction. Roger prized open the top of the sturdy wooden case and removed a layer of straw. Matthew shooed him out of the way and unpacked the contents himself. “Ah, yes,” Matthew breathed, picking up the first book, a copy of St. Mou’s earliest sermons. A matching “Life of St. Gerald” and “Willem’s Guide to Fortification” emerged from the crate. The books shared almost identical bindings, with touches of silver leaf around the titles. At last, Matthew had the resources and space for the books he’d so craved as a child. And other things: the next crate produced reproductions of several Lander-era landscape pictures, and a striking statue of St. Michael carved in black and white streaked stone. That the saint bore a distinct resemblance to Count Malatesta was, of course, pure coincidence. Not that Matthew intended for any priest to see the item, unless the cleric happened to be visiting Matthew’s private study.

  “I can’t have what the Landers had,” he explained to Barbara that afternoon as he oversaw the servants moving things around in his office. “I don’t especially care for Lander trinkets or relics. But I will not live like an uneducated lout. Master Cevasco detested books and pictures unless he could sell them. These are mine.”

  She knew better than to argue, especially when he used that tone of voice. She’d pushed his temper once, and a single firm correction had ended that. Thank you, Godown, for a woman who learns quickly. He didn’t like having to discipline her, and she’d never protested his purchases or major orders since that first and last time. Oh, she fussed a little in private on occasion, and sometimes defied him on matters of dress and small household things, but never, ever in pu
blic or in important ways. He’d chosen well taking Barbara as his mistress, and they both knew it. Her placid manner soothed the household, and her other attributes provided a most pleasant distraction—she was like his books, in her own way. He needed those small distractions more and more as the days passed.

  The days grew shorter and Matthew watched his western border with increasing concern. Sooner or later, Tillson would come looking for his missing taxpayers. And that trouble might lure other, more dangerous, powers into the fray. Matthew began interrogating the long-distance merchants when he could. West or south? Which way will it come from, Godown? Send me a sign, if it is Your will.

  The first sign of movement came not long after the feast of St. Alice. “Aye, my lord,” the caravan’s chief teamster said, “Rumor says the Frankonians have left Francis Tillson-Capirotti perched on the Barnhard Pass with no support but his own men and a few from Florabi. Seems Duke Tillson called their bluff. ‘Course, that’s rumor, filtered through two hundred kilometers and four tongues at least, my lord, so,” he shrugged.

  “After their little problem taking over Sarmas last winter, I suspect rumor is closer to truth than usual,” Matthew allowed.

  The square-shouldered man shrugged, or so Matthew guessed. The teamster’s thick neck made it hard to tell if his shoulders moved any closer to his ears or not. “That’s what I’m thinking, my lord. Plus, they hired for a single season and aren’t extending contracts. There’s some as are wondering if young Francis was just an excuse to harass the Freistaadter and scout east of the Martin’s River, my lord.”

  Now Matthew shrugged. “Possible, as you say. Did you have any trouble on the road?”

  “None but the usual, my lord. A few loose shoes and a broken axle on that damn fool who overloaded with trash.” The teamster looked over his shoulder at the wagon in question, one carrying a load of iron goods as well as lace and fripperies. Barbara had launched a frontal attack on the man’s wares, Matthew knew. Well, that’s why he gave her pin money. It kept her from pestering him for trifles. The visitor’s next words pulled Matthew back to the matter at hand. “But we met some folks who wasn’t as lucky, my lord. Got away with their hides and that was all. They’re trying to buy passage back to Valdoro any way they can.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. Bandits, but they chased those off. It was the Turkowi that cleaned them out.” The man made St. Michael’s sign and Matthew copied him. “The heathens caught ‘em as they tried to regroup and reorganize after the first attack. Took all their goods, so the men claim, and threatened to kill them if they didn’t convert. A few did, and that satisfied the bastards for the moment. They let the others go, mostly intact.”

  Do I want to know what ‘mostly intact’ means? He could imagine, and grunted his understanding. “Did you hear where they were when they got hit?”

  “Old road from Scheel Center to Greystown,” came the prompt answer. “Were trying to duck inland to get away from traffic and find better forage.”

  Shit. Shitshitshit. “Thank you.” Matthew slipped the man a silver thaler piece. “Godown and St. Michael be with you.”

  The man ducked what might have been a bow. “Thank ye, my lord. And also with you.”

  Matthew finished inspecting the market and stalked north then east, to the barracks barn. From the outside it closely resembled a tithe barn or other typical farm building. Inside it housed twenty horses, forty men, and their arms, along with a briefing area. A smaller stone building to the east housed the kitchen and mess, three bathing rooms, and an infirmary. Another barracks, built to look like a warehouse, stood on the northeast side of the kitchen. Matthew pushed the door open and bellowed, “Lt. Klaus, Sgt. Roth, get your overfed selves down here.”

  Roth, still as lean as a snake on short rations, appeared at his elbow. “You called, my lord?”

  Thick-chested, slim-shanked Klaus emerged from the shadows of the tack room that served as his office. “The dead you woke are washing their faces and will be along in a minute, sir.”

  “We may need them. Map room.” The trio ignored the curious looks and whispers as they walked through the building to the briefing room, with its enormous map of the area. A scribe kept it updated as Matthew’s men brought in information. “Turkowi hit a caravan here.” He pointed, “After it fought off a bandit raid. Kept the goods and a few converts, tortured a few, let the rest go on foot to get home to Valdoro as best they can. Heard it from a man who talked to the survivors.”

  “Shit,” Roth hissed.

  Klaus pointed to the road leading straight into Morloke. “No argument here.”

  Matthew folded his arms and looked at the map. “I anticipate I’ll get another letter from Morloke City soon—a rather politer letter. But this bothers me.” He leaned forward and ran a finger from the main road junction on what had once been the Morloke-Scheel border northwest, then north just inside the coastal hills. “They’ve got easy terrain, no patrols, and I suspect the farmers and villagers will flee into the hills rather than try and stop them, depending on how large the force is.”

  Klaus and Roth both frowned, thinking, before Klaus asked, “How big was the caravan, my lord?”

  “Don’t know, but let’s say good sized and armed.” Matthew folded his arms again. “This wasn’t a small end-of-season raiding party.”

  “No sir, not now and not there,” Roth agreed. The man rubbed under his crooked nose. “Are they cutting in from Amsport and the New Dobri road, to cut off this area here?” He used one hand to mark out a wedge of territory, widest along the coast.

  Possible, but this late in the season? No, I think this is a scout and terror raid, looking for loot. They’ve consolidated what they gained last year and are sniffing around to see how weak we are, especially since Tillson’s been ignoring everything but the Barnhard Pass. “Maybe, Roth, but I think this is a heavy raid more than anything. Very heavy, but not a full invasion—that will come in spring.”

  Klaus rocked his head from side-to-side. “I think you have it, my lord. Or this is more than a heavy raid, but not a full occupation army. Sort of a ‘set up caches for next season and disrupt harvest’ attack, my lord, if you follow my meaning. They can block the grain and livestock trade from here,” he pointed to the next junction north. “And scare the Oligarchs and Tivolia into fighting over who goes under first.” Klaus nodded. “We need to get another mini-fort here, my lord.” He pointed to the bridge over the Arnoldo River where Rosino’s border met Marteen’s.

  “Yes, sir, but here would be better,” and Roth pointed to a location on the main trade road, within Morloke territory. “Beggin’ your pardon.”

  “Thppth,” Matthew made a rude sound, summing up the likelihood of that. “Klaus, draw up a plan for patrols, and for militia to begin staffing the watch posts full time, harvest be damned. And start getting ready to fight off a small Turkowi army.”

  “Small, my lord? As in less than a thousand cavalry and infantry, or less than ten thousand?” Klaus was only half-joking.

  “Less than a thousand. Nothing as big as what Captain Kidder got to deal with. Yet.” All three men made saints’ signs.

  Two days later a messenger from Morloke City arrived. He found Matthew, Lt. Klaus, and Barbara comparing notes with Kazmer Takacs in the temporarily empty front room of the Broken Wheel Inn. They needed a place to spread everything out, all the account books and maps for Rosino and Marteen, as well as Morloke, Scheel, and the southern Empire. “My lord, are you anticipating all the women and children, or just the most vulnerable?” Barbara asked, studying a list of goods and supplies.

  “Just the youngest and weakest, for now. This close to harvest most farmers won’t be able to let any strong back leave.”

  She found a bit of charcoal stick and made a note, then looked up and said, “My lord, a visitor.”

  The men straightened up, turning toward the door. “Yes?” Matthew inquired.

  “Count Malatesta?” The courier looked from one man to
the other, apparently unsure of who was whom.

  “Yes. State your business, please.”

  The newcomer opened his document pouch and produced a sealed message. “The gentlemen of the Oligarchs’ Council of Morloke-Scheel send their greetings and request your presence to discuss matters of mutual interest.” He extended the letter to Matthew.

  “Leave it on the table and you may go. If you need refreshment, Roger will assist you.” Obviously you’ve met him, or you wouldn’t be here. Now, where can we put refugees that will be out from under our feet? Matthew turned back to the map.

  “The gentlemen of the Council request a reply,” the courier said, sounding irritated.

  Matthew shrugged. “I will send one, if and when I have time. You are dismissed.”

  The man didn’t move. “Count Malatesta, Master Astai and the other members of the Council have grown impatient with your lack of respect for their position and for the contract between yourself and—gak!”

  In one smooth move Matthew straightened up, lunged forward, and grabbed the man’s collar, momentum carrying them to the heavy wood of the doorframe. Matthew slammed the lighter man against the wall and tightened his grip on the leather and fabric until he choked the insolent fool into silence. “There is no contract between me and your masters. Astai, Madau, Cevasco, and the others saw to that when they murdered Count Leopold Malatesta. I have more pressing matters to attend to,” he growled, voice quiet, in perfect control of his rage. “You are dismissed and I will respond to the Oligarchs’ Council’s request when time permits. That may be after my men deal with the Turkowi army marching up the Greystown Road, or before.” Matthew stepped back and released the man before he fainted. “Go.”

  He didn’t look to see if the fool obeyed him this time. Barbara and Kazmer had finished comparing their lists and seemed to have reached a conclusion. She didn’t look entirely happy, but neither did Kazmer. “It’s the best we can do,” Kasmer sighed.