Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  The six men climbed the stairs to the council room and walked in without an invitation or waiting to be announced. “What? How dare you?” Lucan Astai protested. “Leave at once.”

  “You said you wanted to discuss the defense of Morloke. I’m here.”

  “To discuss our caravans, and you will wait until you are called.” Several voices muttered “hear, hear.” But a number of men drew back from the council table, and those already by the walls did their best to shift away from the soldiers, and from the Inner Council.

  Matthew didn’t move. He kept his voice calm and steady as he informed them, “No. The defense of Morloke. Your farmers and townsmen have come to me with fresh Turkowi claim markers because you can’t be bothered to even offer to protect them. They are having to keep men on guard at all times because you don’t appear to want to even investigate the possibility of Turkowi scouts.” Matthew jerked his head down and Kazmer emptied a bag onto the table. Twenty claim markers and other Turkowi devices spilled out onto the polished wood. Several men jumped back, making saints’ signs. “In addition to the four that were brought to me, my scouts and your farmers located these and gave them to me on my ride here.”

  Damian Cevasco spluttered, then spat, “You lie. These are all new. The Turkowi have left nothing since last summer. They are well south, and these are fakes—”

  “Or he made them and planted them himself to scare the fools,” Eduardo Madau interrupted with a hiss.

  Even Matthew couldn’t say later just how his sword appeared so quickly in his hand. “Klaus, the other bag.”

  Even knowing what it contained, Matthew’s stomach did a flip as the head and yellow-wrapped metal cap rolled onto the table. Three men rushed to the window to be sick as the grizzly trophy lolled on the fine wood. “The Antonini family were very lucky.” Matthew explained as dispassionately as he could. “They surprised the scout in their orchard. His horse had gotten sick on green apples, and the rest of the Turkowi had left him behind. A pruning hook took care of the rest. My men are searching the back-trail.” Although, if the Turkowi run into Captain Ricks’ company, my men won’t find much, I don’t believe. “As you can see, this is not from last summer.”

  Cevasco moaned, scooting his chair away from the sightless head that stared at him. “But, no caravans have gone out yet. Why are they bothering us?”

  Madau snapped, “Because Tillson and Malatesta have pushed them into us. They and the empire.”

  “No, you fool. You pulled them in by refusing to defend all of Morloke and Scheel. You opened an undefended hole and all but hung out a sign saying ‘Please visit.’ Hellfires,” Matthew snarled, “Even the Freistaadter think you’re idiots. They pay more attention to the Turkowi than you do!”

  “You ungrateful—” Madau began.

  “Shut up!” The civilians leaned away from the force of his roar. “Your people are now my people. I’m taking over the defense of Morloke and Scheel, or what’s left of them. Go read ‘Michael’s Letter’ in the Holy Writ if you want to know why. You may keep running your affairs as you see fit. I will do everything else, including collect what taxes there are.”

  “Impossible,” Cevasco finally managed to gasp after a long, shocked silence. “You don’t have enough men. We don’t pay you enough to have that many men.”

  “Wrong. I have an army. Captain Thomas Ricks and his men are on their way inland to Solva as we speak.” Matthew pulled the latest letter out of his belt bag and held it so the men could see Ricks’ seal. “I came to inform you as a courtesy. You can cooperate or you can burn. And to be honest: if the Turkowi decide to burn Morloke City and all your goods to ashes? I may just watch from the hill.”

  He turned to go. Fidelio Colella called, “My lord count, do you intend to take your, ah, evidence with you?”

  “No. You are free to dispose of it as you wish. Godown be with you.” Because He knows you need it. And so do I.

  As they pounded down the steps, Klaus asked, “My lord, do think they’ll try to stop us?”

  Matthew snorted. “Of course they will. Will it go past try? I doubt it.” Two of their guards hauled the doors open and they strode out into the sunlight. The soldiers had carefully avoided standing under the open council chamber windows, and Matthew bared his teeth in a vicious smile.

  “I wonder if any of them will think to toss the, ahem, evidence out the window, my lord, or if they’ll still be cowering come harvest?” Kazmer asked after they mounted.

  Klaus and Matthew both shrugged as much as their armor allowed. “Let’s go. We have a border to defend and Turkowi to find.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  When they reached Solva a week later, an unfamiliar older woman in plain grey dress with a white apron and cap waited for him. She held something in her arms: a small something that waved a tiny arm from the mass of blankets.

  Matthew stammered, “Is this . . ?”

  She presented him with the bundle, which he took awkwardly, afraid he’d break the fragile thing if he breathed too hard on it. It appeared very round and pink, and rather sleepy. “Your son, yes my lord. Congratulations. He arrived three days ago. Lady Barbara is resting, but she’s fine.”

  Godown have mercy. Now what do I do?

  Matthew and his men rode past the gates of Solva, around the beast pens, and up the long, curving road to the castle. Well, not exactly a castle like Starhart, Matthew thought as he studied the stone and wooden walls, but a defensible strongpoint with a very nice residence inside. Some of the soldiers took a smaller side path that led to their remuda and barracks, while Matthew, Capt. Ricks, Lt. Marko Bustos, and the soldiers on guard rotation continued up to the main gates. They trotted through the stout wood-and-iron portals, now open to let the spring breeze and Duke Matthew Malatesta both enter. Matthew smiled to see his banner flapping on the pole beside the lightning diverter.

  They dismounted and grooms came to lead their warhorses off to the inner stable. “So, Captain, no surprises?” Matthew asked.

  The grey-haired warrior, now semi-retired and acting as Duke Malatesta’s chief of fortifications, shook his head. “None, Your Grace. Godown’s own truth, I’d expected the river to finish washing away the post at the ford, not shift and leave it more secure.”

  “The Arnoldo’s a funny river that way,” Matthew agreed. “It can’t make up its mind, if rivers have a mind.”

  Lt. Bustos chuckled. “Why not, Your Grace? Horses and the weather both seem to.”

  “Indeed.” A short line of people waited outside the main doors of the keep to greet the returning duke. “You are dismissed, gentlemen.” The soldiers saluted and went to their quarters, already discussing plans for the spring campaign season. Matthew squared his shoulders and walked toward the children and adults waiting for him.

  As he got closer, the three children all bowed or curtsied. Anthony, Don Paul, and Sarah Barbara, his children by Barbara Lee, appeared to have grown at least ten centimeters in the past two weeks. Anthony, now nine years old, looked exactly like his father, except with pale green eyes instead of blue. Don and Sarah more closely resembled their mother, and, thanks be, Sarah had inherited Barbara’s placid personality. Don Paul did his best to live up to his middle name, and Matthew wondered what tales of mischief awaited him. “Welcome home, my lord father,” Anthony declared.

  “Thank you, Anthony. I trust you have behaved in my absence?”

  “Yes, my lord father.”

  When Don hesitated, his two-years-older brother elbowed him in the shoulder. “Ow! Yes, I behaved.”

  Sarah just nodded. Matthew leaned over and she raised her arms. He hoisted her onto his hip. She’d been a sickly child and he indulged her, probably more than he should.

  Their mother stood just behind Roger, now also gone gray. “Welcome home, Your Grace,” the long-serving and long-suffering castellan offered.

  “Thank you. I trust nothing exciting happened?”

  “The new bake oven exploded, or tried to, but ot
herwise no, Your Grace.”

  Matthew hitched Sarah higher on his hip. “An oven exploded? Was someone trying to dry powder?”

  Roger and Barbara both shook their heads. “No, Your Grace. It’s a bit complicated.”

  Matthew handed Sarah to her mother, who managed to curtsey without dropping the girl. He caressed Barbara’s arm but showed no other affection, not here in full view of the staff.

  Kazmer Takacs bowed. “Your Grace.” A boy, one of the servants-in-training, held the door open for Matthew and he and Kazmer walked in, the others following at a proper distance.

  Her Grace Duchess Kiara Ann Malatesta neé Lorenzo waited in the cool shadows of the main hall, Matthew knew. He sat in the chair by the door as a footman helped remove his heavy riding boots and cape, putting on shoes that wouldn’t damage the floors or carpets farther inside the family quarters. A maid presented a basin of warm water and a towel, and Matthew rinsed his hands and face, amazed at the amount of dust that appeared in the water and on the light-brown towel. How can I get dusty riding on damp roads? I must have a gift. Ablutions finished, Matthew strode in to the great hall.

  Kiara Ann did not rise from her seat to greet her husband. Instead, he bowed a little, taking her offered hand and kissing it with the grave formality that she so enjoyed. “My lady.”

  “Your Grace,” she murmured, trying to keep from sounding shrill. It wasn’t her fault that Godown’s gifts to her did not include a melodious speaking voice. “I hope you are well and that your trip went as hoped.”

  “Yes, thank you. And you, my lady?”

  She nodded, the tiny beads on her headcover and earrings clinking a little. “I am stronger. Godown and St. Sabrina have been gracious.”

  “Godown be praised.” He didn’t have to feign relief. To their intense disappointment, he and Kiara had yet to have a living child after nine years of marriage. Her last birth had come only a month early, but the child had not lived a day. Still, each time she carried longer, even though it drained her more, and perhaps, if Godown willed, she’d give him a son, one recognized by those around Morloke-Scheel as legitimate.

  He said none of that, not in her hearing, and especially not now. “It is good to see you up, my lady.”

  “Thank you. Mistress Galen believes that walking the garden will help me, and the fresh air does seem to give me strength.” Kiara frowned. “She also insists that I eat more of those bitter herbs, although I have no idea why.”

  Matthew did. “They are a blood strengthener, my lady, or so it is said. Farther north they are much prized, and the first greens of the season command high prices indeed.” Which I suspect Mistress Galen tried to tell you, but you refused to listen.

  “Ah.” She studied him from her seat, her feet in their embroidered slippers propped up on a small pillow. “Perhaps my lord would like to change before dinner?”

  No, I want to go tumble Barbara and find out why the oven exploded. But he knew the dance and Kiara’s vicious temper, and dipped his head. “Perhaps I shall.” He bowed a little and left for the family rooms.

  He stripped to the waist and washed a little more, then changed into something less sturdy and more to Kiara’s tastes. She wanted a decorative, high-ranking husband who showered her with gifts and let her run roughshod over the staff. Instead Matthew gave her two of the four and treated her with the same manners he’d have used with the Empress Babenburg. He looked in the polished metal sheet that served as a mirror and decided against shaving. Maybe later, but I’m not scraggly yet. His fair hair didn’t look as bad as some of the darker men’s did. And he’d shaved the day before, taking advantage of a hot spring along their route.

  A mature man of almost thirty looked back at him, more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but otherwise still in his prime. Matthew’d been very, very lucky this far. He’d not been wounded in the face yet, and he had all but one of his teeth and suffered none of the pains of most men. The rest of him told a different story, including a scar across his gut from a wound that only Godown knew how he’d survived. In cold, wet weather he limped, and his left arm no longer fully extended, thanks to a blow that had caught him between the parts of his armor and cut one of the tendons.

  That had been the last major battle with the Turkowi. Thanks be to Godown, lord of victory, that he didn’t take my arm off. And thank You that we’ve had three quiet years. Well, quiet in that no Turkowi have harassed us. Karl Tillson … Godown, no offense, but what were You thinking? He never expected an answer, but Matthew asked at least once a month. He combed his hair back into order and after some thought, went to his office, the one beside his library.

  Ah, the library. The sight of all the books lifted the grey cloud that had settled on him after seeing Kiara. Between orders, trade, inheritance, and gifts, he’d amassed a collection of over a thousand titles. Only the imperial library and a few of the religious houses had more, at least on this side of the Triangle Range and the Thumb. Matthew stopped, turned, and walked over to look at a few recent arrivals laid out on a cloth-draped table reserved for new books. There he found two histories, a blue and silver bound Life of St. Basil that had to be at least a hundred years old, and a small but thick volume with yellow covers so badly worn he could barely read the script. “Oh, my, where did you come from, little one,” he murmured under his breath. After glancing around for overly curious observers, he opened the covers and turned the leaves at random.

  “Ahhh.” He’d found a carpet page, one of the intricately hand-painted pages between the stories, this one with an image of Selkow the Merciful giving blessings to her worshippers. Her six hands each held a gift of some kind, and her fearsome, boar-tusked mouth smiled. Instead of the usual blood-red eyes, this image of the goddess turned a soft brown gaze onto the yellow-clad man and women at her feet. The goddess’s golden robe floated on the breeze in graceful folds. So different from her usual form, Matthew mused. No blood, no severed heads, no wild animals and carrion birds dancing around her. He closed the book and carried it with him to his office, to put in the locked cabinet with the solid doors where he kept all the problematic volumes.

  He tucked it beside the ancient, corrupted Lander-era version of the Holy Writ. Once again he wondered how anyone could have taken some of those stories seriously. But he loved the pictures, faded as they were. The tiny script claimed they were copies of ancient paintings from Old Earth. Matthew wanted paintings like those, especially the one of the man painting a portrait of a fair woman with a child on her lap. “Saint Luke painting the Virgin” by R. Van Der Weyden the letters said, although Matthew had never heard of a Saint Luke.

  Matthew found a ledger open on his desk and a note from Rudolfo Nagy about taxes. After paying for the latest addition to his stronghold, and his men’s quarterly allowance, and the estimated cost of replacing the bake-oven door, he had two hundred thalers to last until the end of summer. Kiara won’t be happy. Matthew ran his finger down the page, lips moving as he roughed out the sums for himself. The final number matched Nagy’s, and Matthew initialed the bottom of the page to show that he’d seen it. The note would be added to the ever-thicker leather-and-wood record books, and the ledger rejoin the enormous stack on the shelves in Nagy and Barbara’s office. He picked up one of the full record books, hefting it to get an idea of the weight. Someone tapped on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “They do not seem to grow any lighter, Your Grace.” He heard the smile in Barbara’s voice.

  “No, they do not.” He put the tome down. “Lady Barbara, what happened to the bake oven?”

  She rolled her eyes until they almost disappeared under the edge of her pale pink head cover. “Dawn, the baker? She wanted to try a new way to make bread, one that makes the outside crisper but keeps the inside soft. They do it in Frankonia, supposedly, and it involves adding water in a pan or big bowl to the oven, then sealing the door to keep the steam in. Frankonian ovens must be different from ours, Your Grace, or the seal was too good.”

/>   As she spoke he eased closer to her, until he could take her hand and pull her against his side. She’d grown a little rounder in the right places, a little softer, but that just made squeezing her more enjoyable. “And the door blew off.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Yes, Your Grace. And cracked the framing, and Godown be thanked didn’t hurt anyone but two yard birds, although the other hens stopped laying for two days.” She squeezed his hand. “Despite the dairy woman’s fears, the cream separated without problem and the cows didn’t notice.”

  He released her. “Cows never notice, unless you do not want them to notice whatever it is. Do we have any bread?”

  “Oh yes, the smaller oven is still fine, and there’s panbread, the quinly and maize version.”

  His mouth started watering. Kiara despised the heavy, nutty, egg-rich pan bread, calling it coarse, but he loved it, especially hot with jam or dark sucre. “Is there any other news of the household, Lady Barbara?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Any other news?”

  Kazmer Takacs cleared his throat from the doorway, giving Barbara time to step aside. “Karl Tillson is at it again, Your Grace, although I’m not certain that’s news.”

  “No, it’s not, not really.” All three of them shook their heads and Barbara fingered the prayer beads now hanging from her cloth belt.

  It’s really too bad he hasn’t had the grace to die: him and his sire both. Maybe there’s a hint of truth to the story that Duke Mischa found some Lander thing that gives long life. Not that it was really necessary, since Godown looked after small children, animals, and fools. And Karl Tillson was two of those three. If even half the stories were true, Karl should have been put down like a mad dardog years ago.