Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  Matthew hid a wince. Just the day before he’d been congratulating himself on how well they’d done that year, fighting off the Turkowi and reducing the number of bandits along the main trade roads, and keeping things quiet in Marteen and Rosino. Fr. Andy didn’t pick anyone in particular, not even the Tillsons, to use as bad examples in his homily, but focused on deceivers and people who over-promised, then refused to admit that they’d gotten into waters far over their heads. Matthew noticed a few other people twitching, and he felt just a hair better. We are all less than perfect. We all make mistakes, which is why Godown doesn’t ask for perfection. Otherwise He’d be alone in His paradise. But Matthew couldn’t feel quite as smug as he had the previous afternoon, and he left the chapel quietly, absently noting the fat snowflakes drifting out of the dark sky.

  The second sign came with Lt. Will Klaus. He’d gone to the Freistaadter to visit family and to do what Matthew thought of as “Klaus things.” Privately, Matthew thought his old military advisor touched in the head for traveling by boat during winter, but rough water didn’t bother Klaus the way anything but smooth seas tormented Matthew. Klaus returned three weeks after midwinter, escorting a cart with books and other goods, and bringing news. He also had a letter from the Lord Mayor of Revanaar, but that wasn’t what made Matthew shiver.

  “My lord, at first I thought it was a joke,” Klaus began. “I was at the Black H’owl, waiting for the next sailing and for the last part of your book order to arrive. Do you know Captain Thomas Ricks?”

  Matthew shook his head. “I’ve heard of him. Everyone has. But I’ve never met him.”

  “Well, my lord, I was taking my ease in the taproom and guess who walks in but the captain himself, along with a gent who turned out to be his muster-master. And they were looking for me.”

  “How much did you owe?” Matthew’s grin faded when Klaus pulled a sealed letter out of his tunic and handed it to him. The seal showed two hayricks with a cannon above them.

  “Ricks wanted to talk to you. I told him you’d stayed at home. He allowed as how that was a good idea this time of year, then got to business. I’ll be blunt, my lord. He wants to work for you.”

  Matthew choked on his hot wine. “Ak—” he coughed. “He what? He approached you about getting hired by me?” I think I’d better wear the broad-brimmed hat next time I go out, because there are going to be flocks of flying shahma overhead.

  Klaus drank a little wine. “He did, my lord. His entire company—logistics men, gunners, scouts—all of them are for hire right now, and he wants to come here and fight alongside the Blackbird.”

  Something cold ran up and down Matthew’s back. “He smells trouble. Rewarding trouble, but still trouble.”

  “I think so, my lord. And you pay well, and on time. And you have land, and no one wants to touch Frankonian coin, not after they dumped Tillson-Capirotti without paying anyone more than their seasonal advance.” Klaus drained his wine cup, and at Matthew’s gesture refilled it, as well as topping off Matthew’s own heavy plaztik cup, an ancient artifact that had been found during the building of another border fort. “And you’re a good leader. That’s starting to count for more, or so rumor has it. At least, you’ve never been as bad as ‘Prince’ Carpaccio was this past year.”

  “Thank you, I think.” Even Matthew had heard of the briefly self-styled Prince of Nuovo Napoli, in the southwestern part of the Thumb. “I probably could be worse, but it might take effort.”

  “According to Capt. Ricks, my lord, it would. Even a ten-year-old girl or a convent sister knows better than to camp by a stream between two hills in a bare area surrounded by trees.”

  Matthew checked off the mistakes: low ground, no cover, ample cover around the camp so anyone could sneak-up on you, and anyone approaching already had the high ground. “No, I don’t think my judgment’s been that poor, yet.” Yet. “So, what is Ricks asking?”

  Klaus tipped his cup toward the letter on the side-table. “It’s in there, my lord. They’ve got their own transportation to our side of the sea, or so he assured me.” The older officer shifted a little, looking into the embers of the fireplace. “There’s word that Frankonia is arming the Turkowi. A lot of people are pissed with Louis and his guardians, but no one wants to challenge them directly. They can’t, not really; there’s no just cause at the moment unless you are Sarmas, and,” he shrugged. Sarmas could take care of itself, thank you.

  “Interesting.” And worrisome. Very worrisome. Matthew broke the seal, read the letter, and heaved himself out of the seat to go stare out the window into the darkness. Holy Godown, he’s serious. And I have no idea what to do, none at all. The last of the log in the fireplace crumbled, and the wind hissed around the house, but nothing else moved for a long while. At last he heard Klaus shifting a little in his seat, and the sound of a mug on wood. “I’ve never commanded an army.”

  “My lord?”

  He turned. “I said I’ve never commanded an army. That’s what Ricks is offering—first refusal on everyone, his entire company. Four thousand men, plus some support personnel and the usual camp followers.”

  Will Klaus didn’t blink. “Can we afford them, my lord?”

  “Yeeeessss.” Matthew dug deep in his memory. “We, yes, we can, but only until mid-season unless something dramatic happens.” Both men made saints’ signs.

  Klaus got up. He walked over and rested his hands on Matthew’s shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “Hire them, Matthew Charles Malatesta. Hire them now, marry the wench from Revanaar, and get ready for trouble. The word in the Thumb is that the Rajtan’s grown impatient, as have his priests. The Magwi are not rolling over like everyone thought, and Selkow doesn’t like it when her followers fail her this often. The bastards have staked claims up here, and they need to follow up.” Klaus tightened his grip, not quite shaking Matthew. “Hire Ricks, my lord. Hire—the—man—” He stepped back and released the stunned young man. “And then I can get some sleep and Sgt. Roth will quit bitching about trying to pound discipline into farmers’ skulls.”

  “If Byron Roth quits complaining, it will mean that he’s dead,” Matthew managed to say.

  An eloquent snort of agreement emerged from the older officer. “Hire him. The sooner the better. That way he’ll be here, ready, when fighting season starts. You’ll need time to get used to each other.” Lt. Klaus bowed a little. “If you will excuse me, my lord?”

  “Of course. Take all the time you need tomorrow, Sgt. Roth and the weather permitting, of course.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Klaus let himself out. Matthew stood in the dark, watching the last embers turning deep, sleepy red. At last he banked the fire and went to bed. He stared at the ceiling, listening to Barbara whuffling softly in her sleep, and wondered.

  The next day Matthew wrote two letters. The first came easily, because it affirmed that he desired the hand of Kiara Ann Lorenzo in marriage. Barbara, lips tight compressed, had gone through the few Turkowi things that had not been broken apart and melted for their metal, and found a heavy, probably stolen, silver chain with a wire-work flutterwing pendant. Matthew included that with his letter. She’s a woman, she’ll like something fluttery. Barbara gave him a few hurt looks but kept her complaints to herself.

  The second letter required more thought, enough so that he started on a wax board and stylus. Matthew wrote, scratched out, rewrote, and after two hours by sand-glass had probably composed at least four pages worth before he settled on his final version, the one he rewrote in a fair hand on real paper and sealed with his blackbird. “Most honored Captain Thomas Ricks,” it began. “I received your missive yesterday. After careful consideration, I have decided to accept your offer. Along with this letter you will find the first ten percent of the fee for you and your men, along with a letter of introduction to my factors in Revanaar and Valdoro. Do not hesitate to use them should you have any difficulties with transportation or supply.” He went on to describe the quarters available, and offer his thanks fo
r the captain’s thoughtful inquiry. Letter finished, and ready to leave, Matthew sat back and closed his eyes. Godown, lord of all, what have I just done? Is this truly what you want me to do? I want it, oh I want it, but are you going to let me soar only to strike me down for arrogance, for daring to think so boldly? Godown did not reply, at least not within the next few minutes, and Matthew opened his eyes. He scribbled a note to Rudolfo Nagy, telling him to release the funds for Capt. Ricks. Then Matthew went up to his bedroom, to the small prayer corner Barbara had installed there, and begged Godown on his knees for help.

  For the rest of the winter Matthew alternated corresponding with Lord Mayor Lorenzo of Revanaar and planning for the spring campaign season. As the days grew longer, and the letters from Morloke City brusquer and less informative, Matthew started losing patience with the Oligarchs, especially the Inner Council. He also informed Barbara of the pending change in the household.

  She stared at him, brown eyes filling with tears, lower lip quivering. Then she sat down hard, so hard the chair creaked in protest. “Kiara Lorenzo? You’re marrying Kiara Lorenzo?”

  “The agreements are not completely finished, but most likely, yes.”

  Barbara shrank in on herself, shoulders hunched, hands on her very large belly as if to protect their child. “But,” she whispered. “But she’s mean. She hurt me, caused trouble in worship and told my guardian it was my fault and he beat me. Over and over and over.”

  Matthew stared at her, confusion changing to anger. “She’s also eighteen and brings a good dowry, including armaments. You knew from the beginning I would not marry you.” He sounded cold, but damn, he hated whimpering.

  Barbara gulped and shook her head. “That’s not it, my lord. She’s mean. I know you—” she stopped. “That you would not marry me. I understand. You’re a noble and you need alliances. But she’ll hurt me. Please, my lord. Please don’t let her hurt me or our child.”

  Well, that explains where the scars on her back and legs came from. Matthew scrubbed his face with his hands, wondering what the hell to do next. Barbara cowered in the chair, hands still on her belly, body curled forward so that only the back of her head and neck were visible. Finally he walked over and put one hand on her shoulder. “Barbara, I care for you and for our child. You will remain in the household, working with Roger. I’ve arranged for you to have quarters in the new residence, connected to mine, but discreetly. From what I am given to understand, Miss Lorenzo will not be taking an active part in managing my day-to-day affairs. You will.” And I highly doubt I’ll love her, and vice versa. “Until the new residence is finished, I’ve purchased the little cottage by the north gate for you. And Barbara?” She looked up at him, eyes streaming tears. “If she lays a hand on you, or tries to order someone else to, I will return the insult four-fold, Godown as my witness.”

  Somehow she got out of the chair and onto her knees, kissing his hand and leaning against his leg. He stroked her hair with his free hand, then hauled her to her feet. “Now go, get cleaned up, and start making a list of all the fuss and foolishness I’m supposed to have on hand when whoever I’m marrying arrives.”

  She managed an awkward curtsey and shuffled off.

  A messenger arrived the next day. He travelled by the Morloke Road, but his news came not from the Oligarchs’ Council, but Greyville and two other smaller hamlets. “We’re seein’ Turkowi sign, my lord.” The young man, some farmer’s son probably, pulled four stakes out of his saddlebag and laid them on the table. Father Andy hissed and dropped a bit of blessed oil on them. Each stake, perhaps forty centimeters long, bore Selkow’s sign carved and painted into the dark wood. “Neighbor found two in his field when he went to plant, and tuther two’s from the road south of Greyville.” He scraped a straggle of brown hair out of his eyes. “Twern’t there last fall, when you defeated that army, my lord.”

  Matthew ignored the army comment. “You say these are from within the Morloka lands. Have you told the Council?”

  The messenger’s head bobbed and Matthew guessed he would have spat, except for being inside. “Aye, my lord. They told us they were old sign, not to worry, and that we need to plan on more taxes for this year, to pay you.”

  Lt. Klaus made what might have been a rude sound that Matthew ignored. He picked up one of the tokens, looking at the crisp carvings and fresh, unweathered wood. “My lord, unless these were very well protected, they are not from last year.”

  Matthew grunted his agreement, then asked, “So the Council didn’t send any guards or a priest to look at what you’d found?”

  “No, my lord. Nothing. Said Turkowi’s not after farms anyway, they just want caravans. Except my people, some of us came from down near Karstad and north of Sigurney. We’re not blind, my lord. We’ll fight if we have to, but we’re not runnin’ again.” Matthew could easily imagine the man, feet planted on the soil of his family’s farm, scythe or pruning hook in hand, or hiding in the barn with a bow and arrow, or even a scatter gun if they had money enough. Aye, and that’s where you’ll die, too. Or you will if they can pick you off one farm at a time, which they will.

  Anger warred with hesitation, and anger won. “Thank you for bringing these. You are right and the Council is wrong. The markers are fresh. I’ll start sending men to patrol the roads and tracks along the Greyville road, and I’ll have a word with the Council about preparing for trouble come full spring.”

  Pure relief suffused the younger man’s face. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll pass the word and we’ll keep our eyes open.”

  Matthew turned to Klaus and under the cover of the table flashed a hand sign. “Guards?”

  Klaus’s fingers moved. “Yes.”

  Matthew nodded and put down the marker he’d been playing with. “If you can, and you might not be able to spare the men, but if you can, I’d recommend having one armed man with each plow team or wood-gathering party. Definitely have someone on watch when the women are out. My men and I will do what we can, but Godown knows we can’t be everywhere.” At least not yet.

  “My da’ and the neighbor was already plannin’ for that, my lord, or somethin’ like it.”

  “Good.” Matthew had Roger see that the man and his horse got something to eat and drink before setting back out. Then he went to the barracks barn and stared at the map, Klaus and Fr. Andy at his side.

  “How much longer, my lord?” the big priest asked. Matthew, arms folded, gave him a strange look. “How much longer until you challenge the Oligarchs’ Council?”

  “What right have I to do so? Stupidity is not a crime yet, not that I know of.” Thanks be, or no young man would be safe, nor many older men and women, either.

  “A ruler has a duty to protect his people, especially against something such as the Turkowi.”

  “Morloke is not my people.”

  “No?” Fr. Andy nodded to the map, showing the long, open border between Marteen and Morloke. “Two streams and a woodland are not much of a barrier, now that the time of miracles has passed.”

  “What about Duke Tillson? He’s certainly not doing his duty for his people, or I’d not be here with two districts to my name.”

  “Tillson’s not killing people, not directly, not yet.” Fr. Andy looked at Lt. Klaus and back at Matthew. “The Oligarchs’ inaction will bring death and fire come spring, my lord. You know that.”

  “They will, Father,” Klaus answered. “My lord, let the Oligarchs keep control over the little things, like running Morloke City, and setting trade agreements. But take over the rest, defense and the like. You’ll have to anyway, if you want to keep the roads open.” Klaus knew better than to mention the contract between Count Malatesta and the Council.

  “We’ll be stretched thin.”

  The priest shook his head and Klaus picked up the pointer for the map. “Not as thin as if we don’t take over the borders, my lord. Here we have strongpoints, choke points, a good river. Like using the Arnoldo. Here?” He swept the tip of the stick around Marteen and s
outh along the road. “Too open, too long, and a wide open back door.” He stabbed at Morloke.

  Alright, Godown, I’ll do it. But You’d better help me, Matthew half prayed, half threatened. “Very well. We plan for defending the caravans and the combined borders. But minimal force in the east,” he warned. “If they come up the Donau Novi lowland again, we’ll catch them on this side.” The Oligarchs won’t like it, but they don’t have any people on the back of the hills as it is, not after what happened in the months after Sigurney. Don Starland and Anthony Kossuth were very clear about that.

  Not two weeks later, an angry summons from Morloke City reached Solva. Matthew and Klaus shared predatory smiles. They’d received news that morning that Captain Ricks and the last of his command had finished crossing and were making landfall from Valdoro, to arrive in another two weeks or sooner. “I’d say the time has come, Lt. Klaus.”

  “Indeed, my lord. We’ve got the barracks foundations started, so those should be framed in by next week, Godown willing and the weather permitting.”

  “Selah,” he made St. Michael’s sign. “So. I believe it is time for the Blackbird to visit Morloke City.” And perhaps watch you burn. Not literally, no, but char in your own stupid pride.

  Matthew planned carefully. He, an advisor, and a hand-picked group of twenty black-clad soldiers rode into Morloke City on black and grey horses under Matthew’s black eagle banner. Barbara had used the yellow thread and thread-of-gold from the captured Turkowi goods on the eagle’s talons and beak, and now they flashed in the spring sun. The city guard stood clear as the men trotted into the main gate, through the market square, and only drew rein at the city hall. Matthew dismounted. He, Klaus, Kazmer Takacs, and three soldiers marched into the building while Sgt. Roth and the others waited outside, ready for trouble. Since the town guard had already shown where their loyalties lay, Matthew didn’t anticipate much trouble. Never underestimate the power of stupidity, or of startled people to do stupid things, he reminded himself. Both Kazmer and Lt. Klaus carried bags.