by Alma Boykin
With that Matthew sat down at his desk, hunted around until he found a bit of waste paper and some mostly-thawed ink, and made a list, answering each of the Oligarchs’ demands and accusations, veiled or otherwise. Then he made a rough calculation of what he would have in his coffers, had he diverted as much of the recovered goods and Turkowi gold and silver as they claimed. Kazmer Takacs found him studying the sheet of numbers and chuckling without mirth. “My lord?”
“Look at these, Kazmer. What say you?”
The man ran a finger down the list, lips moving as he added things up. “My lord, I believe that you are missing a castle and at least two Poloki heavy chargers, one of them a mare in foal. Should I call out a search party to help locate the missing property?” He winked.
Matthew leaned back in the sturdy chair, hands behind his head, and felt things popping as he stretched. “No, I believe we will find them in the Oligarchs’ delusions of grandeur. Master Cevasco may come to regret making me learn basic accounting, Kazmer. Because even with the usual doubling of price, none of these items come to this value. And that’s assuming the goods on the bills in the ledgers we found were all intended for Morloke City, which I doubt.”
Kazmer set the page down and shook his head. “No, the copper wares would have gone to, ah, Terriston or Roycevill. Those were miners’ tools and such, not your ordinary trade goods. With the traveling patchers and tinners no longer moving as much, more people are having to buy spares. And there’s no one in Morloke City who needs jewel wire like we found, my lord. That must have been intended for someone in Tivolia, where they make the wire lace. There’s some Magwi there that taught them how.”
“Hmm.” Matthew made marks beside those items. “And the cloth went south with the Turkowi. There’s no other explanation.” Unless it was never shipped, and the listing is a code, but that’s not how Cevasco, Astai, and Madau are acting. “Thank you for confirming my suspicions.”
“You’re welcome, my lord. If you have a moment, you need to look at the beasts that are bothering Tom Bari. What little I saw from a distance makes me wonder how they got here alive.” He backed up as Matthew stood, stretched again, put the letter and scrap in a drawer, and then locked it.
Matthew pulled on his coat, hat, and boots, and walked out to the city gate. He waved at the guard on duty and crossed over to the pens for traveling livestock. The closest batches looked sound, but when he went farther, to the area reserved for animals from outside Marteen and Rosino, he paused. “What in Godown’s name was the owner thinking?”
“Well, my lor’, I’d venture to guess he thought we were blind.” Tom limped up, leaning on his cow hook. “Those are good for nowt but the knackers.”
I’m not sure I’d want even the hides, those beasts are in such poor condition. They looked like the pictures he’d seen in the Imperial archives of animals after a long winter on the northern plains. Their ribs stood out, he could see every detail of their hipbones, and their heads bore a good resemblance to hide-covered skulls. A few had sores on their mouths. He walked around to get a better look at their earmarks or brands. “Where are these from, and who came with them?”
“Supposedly,” Tom began. “Supposedly from Greysvill. But they came in from the wrong direction, and there’s no way Godown as my witness any animal could lose weight on the Greysvill Road. That’s the richest fodder with the greenest ditches on Colplatschki. ‘Sides,” he used his stick to point to one especially weak cow, “that thing could never have walked from Greysvill.”
“No.” One of the steers turned around and Matthew caught sight of a familiar mark on the beast’s hip. “He didn’t.” He leaned over the fence and stared at the mark. “He did.” Matthew’s fists clenched. “Tom, send someone to get the marking book, the one for strays. I think we’ll find some of these in that. And don’t let them anywhere closer to the healthy stock.”
“No, my lor’. They look might sickly indeed.”
That afternoon Matthew added another black mark to his list of things the Inner Council of the Oligarchs owed him.
On a happier note, the new priest rode in just before curfew. “Greetings in Godown’s name!” A cheerful, deep voice boomed through the late afternoon shadows. Matthew heard the call over the sounds of the pike drills and waved to Sgt. Roth to continue. He rode back to his house in time to find a large, round-looking man dismounting from a mud-colored horse.
“One of Count Kossuth’s beauties, I see,” Matthew said with a smile.
“The fairest of that fair breed.” The man looked Matthew over. “Count Malatesta?”
“You name me right.”
“Godown be with you. I’m Father Andrew Leopold Basil Neuman, but I go by Father Andy.” He stuck out his hand.
Matthew gripped it and noticed the staff-fighter’s callouses, as well as the firm grip. “Welcome to Solva. Are you our new priest?”
Father Andy nodded. “That I am. His Excellency Bishop Leontino sends his greetings. He’s much better now and should make a full recovery.” The priest sighed and shook his head. “He’d never gotten toddler-spot fever as a child and it almost killed him, especially the cough.”
Matthew made St. Michael’s sign. He’d rarely been sick in his life, and didn’t want to start now. “I’m glad he’s recovering.”
The house door opened and Barbara peered out, then emerged, wearing a heavy shawl and a hesitant expression. She raised her eyebrows, held up seven fingers, and mouthed “supper.” Matthew nodded and she bobbed a little and retreated indoors. Fr. Andy looked from the door to Matthew. “My chatelaine,” Matthew explained.
“Ah. A woman with good domestic skills is a gift from Godown and much to be prized.”
“Indeed, Father.” By now a small crowd had gathered, keeping a respectful distance from the men and the priest’s horse and large pack-donkey. Matthew pitched his voice to carry. “Father Andrew Neuman is our new priest.”
A few muted cheers and a ripple of relief flowed through the group, and two boys darted off to spread the news. Fr. Andy smiled. “I take it you’ve been without benefit of clergy for a while, my lord?”
“Long enough that we have ten children in need of name blessings, and a dozen confirmands, Father. But not all this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” The priest looked around, spotting the stubby tower of the chapel poking up from behind the inn’s bulk. “Isn’t the chapel normally on the main square?”
“It was, Father, until I made this my official residence. The market shifted to this side of the inn, and the merkat-cross followed. The market outgrew the old square.”
Fr. Andy seemed satisfied with that news. “Ah.”
“Please make yourself comfortable in the priest’s quarters, Father. We’ve been keeping them ready. And then if you would do me the honor of joining my staff for a light supper, I would be most grateful.”
“I believe I will accept your most generous offer.”
Roger had appeared at Matthew’s elbow, and bowed. “Roger, please show Fr. Andy where everything is, and see that the stable is ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” The smaller man pointed around the back of the inn, past the baking house. “This way please, Father.” The priest led his riding and pack beasts in the indicated direction, their hoofs clopping quietly on the stone cobbles.
That’s interesting. Those don’t sound like shod hoofs. Huh.
Fr. Andy proved to be a genial table guest, although he gave Barbara a few speculative looks. For her part she ignored them, or appeared to, concentrating on trying to eat while supervising the staff. As per Matthew’s orders, they gave Barbara more than usual. He’d heard about her difficulties in the mornings, and did not want his child suffering for a lack of food. It appeared that she appreciated the extra, given how it all disappeared. That pleased him. Her vow to drink no wine until after the delivery, as a promise to St. Sabrina, did not please him, but as long as she didn’t start drinking well water, he’d keep his mouth shut.
&nbs
p; After the last course, a clear broth to cleanse the mouth, had been finished, Fr. Andy inquired, “I understand that you have some knowledge of the Turkowi, my lord?”
“Barely any more than the average man, Father. I know enough of their language to tell them to go away, but more than that, no.” I can read a great deal more, but no one needs to know that. The Kossuths were right: some knowledge is best kept quiet.
Fr. Andy nodded, looking a bit disappointed. “Pity. I’d hoped to find someone who knows more, or something more recent, than what Fr. Mou left in the archives in Vindobona.”
Kazmer Takacs leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Do you mean of their theology, Father, or their politics and the current limits of their army?”
“Internal politics, Master Takacs.” The balding priest dipped his head, as if a little embarrassed. “There is a certain group within the Church that believes the Turkowi can be brought to see the error of their ways, and that if someone could persuade the Rajtan and his family and advisors of the glories of Godown and of His mercies and grace, then the Turkowi will turn away from the worship of Selkow and embrace the true faith.”
Matthew wanted to laugh but caught himself in time. Lt. Klaus managed to turn his guffaw into a cough, which became a real cough as he inhaled a little hard cider. “Sorry, my lord, Father,” he gasped, coughed again, and wheezed. “Excuse me. I hope Bishop Leonardi is not planning on a personal mission to speak to the Rajtan.”
Barbara made St. Alice’s sign, appalled by the thought. Matthew wasn’t exactly pleased with the idea, either. Fr. Andy shook his head and fingered the chain with his silver Godown emblem on it. “I highly doubt that he is, Lieutenant. His excellency has never been accused of impetuosity.” The others looked relieved. After lighter conversation, and confirming that indeed, over a score of Solva’s residents needed name blessings or confirmation into the church, Fr. Andrew pled exhaustion. Matthew needed to speak with Kazmer Takacs and accepted the priest’s excuse. After he blessed the household, Barbara and Roger saw him to the door.
Matthew and Kazmer sat down by the fire in the main room. A maid brought mulled wine and nuts, then left. Matthew shelled a paperhull and ate the sweet, crunchy nut as Kazmer opened a leather folder and produced five letters. “After some quiet inquiries, my lord, I found five candidates, all with families willing to seriously consider a match with you. There was a sixth, but it appears she anticipated entering the bonds of matrimony and is no longer considered eligible. She does have a younger sister.” Kazmer sounded doubtful.
“How much younger?”
“The sister will be ten next summer, my lord.”
Matthew shook his head. “No. Unless she came with the imperial throne and agreed to delay consummation for at least five years, no.” The thought of marrying a child made him a little queasy. “So. Who else did you find?”
“In order from least to most likely, my lord, Elizabeth di Pizanni of Florabi, niece of the Patrician’s secretary. Sabrina Martina Tillson-Capirotti, younger sister of the current claimant to Tivolia. Kiara Ann Lorenzo, daughter of the Lord Mayor of Revanaar.” Kazmer looked up from the next page, the corner of his mouth curving up a little, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Next is Antonia Marie Takacs, granddaughter of Master Rolando Takacs, currently the ward of Marko Orzatti because her uncle Istvan doesn’t want to deal with her or provide a dowry. And Richilda Magda Tillson, Duke Mischa’s acknowledged daughter by his last-but-one mistress.” He handed Matthew five pages with sketches and descriptions of the ladies under consideration.
Even if the prospect of having Mischa Tillson as his father-in-law had not appalled him, the look on Richilda’s face, sketch though it was, took Matthew aback. The wild, not-entirely-sane expression reminded him too much of some of the unfortunates he’d seen in Vindobona under the care of the Church. “She takes after her half-brother.”
“So it is rumored, my lord.” Kazmer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and reaching for the nutcracker. “That she killed a scullery girl in a fit of rage is not rumor,” he added under his breath, before straightening up and starting work on a pfeekahn.
No. I’m not marrying someone who will try and kill me in my sleep. Godown forgive me, but after losing mother to mind-waste, I’m not up to taking on another shattered woman. At least his mother had never been violent, just withdrawing farther and farther into a world no one else could see, singing quietly, or talking to people that only she heard. She’d died in her sleep not long after his last visit, following his return from the Empire. Sister Francine wondered if the blow to the head when she slipped on ice and fell against the chapel steps had started it. Godown grant her mercy, I doubt we’ll ever know. Thank You that her passing was peaceful.
He studied the next picture. “Elizabeth di Pizanni is lovely.”
“She has a reputation for beauty and grace, my lord. She also brings a seat on the Florabi kentum, their ruling council, as part of her dowry, although I suspect, if I might be so bold, that her uncle and godfather intend to assist any son-in-law with his decisions.”
Which means I’d need to relocate to Florabi as well as possibly fight two fathers-in-law. I’ll have to think about that for a while. Sabrina Tillson-Capirotti he dismissed out of hand. Too many family problems, too tempting for Duke Mischa to attack him in order to eliminate the double claim on Tivolia, and Matthew doubted that anyone would have an easy time claiming the half of Tivolia listed as her dower. And the groom gift? Five units of pike, some artillery, and two squads of heavy cavalry to assist her brother? He snorted with derision.
Unless she were the last female on Colplatschki, or a miracle happened and the Oligarchs had a collective conversion and repented of their ways, Antonia Takacs would not wear his ring. Which was too bad, because the picture showed an attractive young woman with dark hair, light eyes, and a sweet expression. Her little nose had a charming tilt to it. If he didn’t already have a mistress, Matthew might have considered Antonia, but a man could only deal with so many women at a time.
“So, Kiara Ann Lorenzo, age eighteen, daughter of the lord mayor of Revanaar, granddaughter of the sister of the Patrician of Kirwali, well versed in the womanly arts and domestic management,” Matthew read. “Dowry in trade rights as well as goods, plus a defense alliance, although that’s more of a nice gesture than a useful offer.”
Kazmer cracked another pfeekahn. “My lord, as I understand it, that includes use of the hired troops or assistance hiring troops similar to those kept by Revanaar for its own defense. That’s not such a bad offer, even if you only get cash and weapons.”
“Mmmm. Good point. And she’s not unattractive.” Kiara Ann boasted golden hair, blue eyes, a moderate nose, pouty lips, and fair skin. Of course, she could have been pouting because that seemed to be the fashion among women in the Freistaadter, rather than her face being shaped like that. And she had three brothers, a good sign for her bearing sons. The groom gift would be negotiable, and Matthew thought he’d do pretty well in the competition. He could give good tariff rates, and if he did end up taking over the full defenses of Morloke and the rump of Scheel, well that opened an enormous trading area. Kiara Ann is number one, followed by Elizabeth de Pizann and the Takacs girl. Decision made, Matthew turned his attention to shelling the fresh nuts, tossing their hulls into the fire to make it flare and dance. When he retired for the night, he found Barbara asleep already. He wasn’t in the mood for a romp, so he didn’t wake her. Instead he lay beside her, one hand on her already swelling belly, feeling for any hint of motion from his child. His son: he needed a son.
By midwinter Matthew knew he’d have to intervene in Morloke. Godown had sent a sign, two in fact. Even though he wasn’t as devoted a son of the Church as Fr. Andy might prefer, Matthew Malatesta could tell that Godown had grown impatient, either with him or with the Oligarchs. Or both. Matthew didn’t intend to make Godown send a third hint.
The first sign came from Fr. Andy, who chose to preach a s
eries from “Michael’s Letter: or the Book of Leading and Following,” the first of the guiding books in the Holy Writ. Matthew tended to let his mind drift during the homily, but snapped back to attention when Fr. Andy’s rich voice filled the chapel. “For behold, we are like sheep who have gone astray, like shahma without a herdsman. Godown sees our need and calls shepherds and herdsmen to tend His flocks. Woe be to the one who hears but disobeys, for he is like a shepherd who sleeps during the storm, or a watchman who leaves his post before the morning star fades; their charges are scattered, and it were better such a man had not been born.”
Matthew’s eyebrows rose a little, and several other congregants nudged each other. That’s an interesting choice of texts. Usually this time of year the readings are from Glimmerings or the Book of Changes, about all things in their seasons. Well, perhaps Fr. Andy wants to stir things up a little, since Fr. Alessandro was here for so long. Perhaps a little too long, in truth, Godown rest his soul. Matthew listened to the homily, nodding once or twice, but not thinking too hard.
The next week got his attention, however. After the very familiar passage, often called “Song of the Sheep” that started, “Godown is my Shepherd, I shall not want,” and ended with “surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in Godown’s peace forever,” Fr. Andy kept going to the next verses. “But what of the shepherd to whom Godown has passed His charge and authority? On him is the burden but also the reward. For him whom Godown chooses is double blessed, once by the Lord and once by his charges, those whom he tends and leads, Godown’s people, the shahma of His pastures. But woe unto him who fails, not through weakness for Godown knows our weakness and tempers His burden to the beast, but out of pride or laziness. Oh sheep, beware the shepherd who tends not the least little one, the herdsman who thinks himself above all troubles. For the flock scatters, and Godown will bring low the very one whom He raised. But Godown is merciful, slow to anger and quick to forgive, He hears our cries and knows our sorrows, and never leaves His people, by day or by night, through the Fires or through storms.”
