Blackbird (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 7)

by Alma Boykin

  “There’s a letter from a Father Gerald Jones who would like to look at some of your books, with an introduction from Count Kossuth. Fr. Andy recognized the name and says he’s harmless. Oh, and the first caravan has left Valdoro for Morloke City, Your Grace. We got the heliograph flash just after sunrise.”

  “Good.” He’d meet it at the halfway point and escort it the rest of the way. Nothing interesting had happened since he’d gone on his inspection tour, Godown be thanked. He preferred it that way. Kiara had tried to take advantage of his absence once, not long after they’d first married. He’d come home to find Barbara barricaded into her cottage, nursing barely healed gashes on her face and arms from Kiara trying to “discipline” her for “letting” Anthony cry after Kiara had taken a switch to the toddler for getting fingerprints on a white linen table cover. He’d taken away Kiara’s favorite gowns, dismissed the two maids she’d brought from Revanaar, and when she’d attacked him, had tossed her to the floor, pinned her arm behind her back, pulled her head up by the hair and quietly reminded her who was lord of the county and under whose roof she lived.

  “I’ll tell my father!” She’d threatened.

  “No, because I will.” And he had. She still loathed Barbara, as best he could tell, but she’d never laid another finger on anyone. Her father had indulged her overmuch, Matthew had decided.

  Supper that evening featured both light bread and his pan bread. A nice fish served as the main course, with egg soup before and fresh greens to follow. He and Kiara ate alone, since they had no company, no visiting scholars or artists come to study his pictures and books. They even had a few musicians occasionally, some of whom he’d given an open invitation to return at any time, but Solva remained a bit off the usual routes.

  “Your Grace, have you considered moving to Morloke City for the season?” Kiara inquired after the greens arrived.

  “No, my lady, especially not this close to summer. Morloke City shares that with Vindobona—the walls trap heat and scent both, and this is the time when they are tanning calf hides and lamb skin.”

  She wrinkled her nose, red lips pursed. “Ah. An excellent point, Your Grace. Why are they allowed to do that so close to the city? It fouls the water as well as the air.”

  “Because the land is already worn, or so the tanners say. Since the waters have been polluted by the city, a little more bark and hair makes no difference, my lady.” Unless you are a fish. Or the wind blows from the south, as usually happens in summer.

  They ate in silence for a little while. “Is it true a caravan is coming north?”

  “Yes, it is, my lady. Is there anything that you need or that the household needs?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, mostly soft goods.” He and his men tended to be hard on fabric, even the sturdy canvas and worsted wools. “And some kitchen things, or so I’m told.”

  “Very well.” So long as they cost less than twenty five thalers.

  “Greetings,” the caravan master acting as lead teamster called, waving his hat. He rode beside his team, setting the pace for the others. He had to be one of the tallest men Matthew had ever seen. Blessed St. Michael, where’d he find a horse tall enough so his toes don’t drag the dust?

  “Greetings,” Lt. Bustos called back. Matthew’s group slowed their pace to allow the standard-bearer time to furl the Blackbird’s banner. Not all beasts had been trained to ignore banners and flags, Matthew knew well from painful personal experience. “Any trouble?”

  “A little, sir, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Just your ordinary bandits.”

  Matthew grimaced a little at that. Well, bandits are like fleas: every dog has ‘em. The caravan master matched his grimace. “Aye, Your Grace?” At Matthew’s nod of confirmation the man continued, “We found a few other things, but nothing really worrisome, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Unless you have reason otherwise, we’ll ride with you the rest of the way to Morloke City.”

  Bustos and the others smiled at the ripple of relief among the teamsters. Twenty wagons, including some with cargos that had overwintered inland of Vindoro, made a very tempting target, even with a few guards of their own. Matthew and Bustos had brought their newest troopers, those most in need of a little seasoning and extra work. Caravan or supply train, the same cautions applied, and he’d rather punish someone for sleeping on watch in peacetime than wake up dead with his throat cut. Not that some of these lads will fall asleep unless the sun is up. They jump at every least sound, which is almost as bad. Almost.

  Matthew waited until that evening to question the caravan master, Paulo Esmith. “You said you found a few things of interest?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. May I get something out of the wagon?” Matthew nodded, and the tall man disappeared into the shadows, returning to the fire with a bag he carried in now-gloved hands. He ducked, a little sheepish. “My sister made the gloves and bag and had them blessed, in case I needed to touch anything Lander. She and our fosterer follow St. Mou.”

  “Ah.” Except what Mr. Esmith removed from the bag had no Lander sign on it. Instead, the wooden stakes bore an all-too-familiar mark and yellow paint. “Where did you find these?”

  “The first three campsites inland from that bitter water creek, Your Grace. Found ‘em while we were scouting for wood.” He seemed delighted to get rid of the Turkowi claim markers, and scooted them closer to Matthew before folding the bag and removing his gloves. Matthew caught a glimpse of the black and red of St. Mou’s emblem stitched on the backs of the gloves before Esmith tucked them into his belt. “We’ve been on guard ever since, Your Grace.”

  Lt. Bustos made an approving noise, as did Matthew. “Good decision, Mr. Esmith. You didn’t see anything else that you recall? No bits of yellow fabric in the trees or signs of recent use at the campsites?”

  Esmith shook his head, eyes part closed. “No, Your Grace. Truth be told, we were surprised to see those so soon. Market talk is the Turkowi won’t be moving north until later this year. That’s why we’ve got extra, and another big group is only a week or two behind us. No one wants to risk getting caught in the midsummer battle.”

  Matthew’s eyes went wide and he looked at Bustos. The darker man’s eyes stood out against dark tan skin and he gave a little shrug. So he hasn’t heard anything. Hmmm. “That’s interesting news, Mr. Esmith. Any reason for why the heathens might be coming north, instead of pestering the Empire again?”

  “Supposed to be a new Rajtan. All the Turkowi traders from the south, the ones that show up trying to pretend to be Magwi? They vanished around the fall equinox, every last one of them. Ticked one of my contract holders something fierce, because he’d already promised rugs and the like to some patricians and lord mayors. Then the Magwi horse traders said the heretics had pulled out of their lands as well, or at least most of the soldiers had, all heading east and north, like they was going to the Morpalo Pass and back to the eastern plains for some reason.” Matthew made St. Michael’s sign. “Aye, Your Grace. That never means anything good.”

  Father said the hardest fighting he’d ever done was the year after Sigurney, when a new Rajtan needed to consolidate his hold and prove to Selkow that he appreciated what she’d done for him. Oh, holy Godown, please may this be just a rumor and may they have gone somewhere else, not back to pick a new Rajtan. He’d heard of lands south and east of the Magwi, where the Donau Novi met the sea, empty lands that were either rich and fruitful, or that Godown had rendered barren by destroying the Lander cities there and turning them to puddles of melted rock. Maybe that’s where the Turkowi had gone for a change. And maybe his horse would start talking and learn the Frankonian court dances, too.

  After a swallow of wine, Mr. Esmith added, “They’ll probably go after the Empire first, though, seeing as how there’ll be a new, untried Babenburg on the throne before the year’s out.”

  “What?”

  “Emperor Michael’s not far from the gates of Godown’s grace, Your Grace. You hadn’t heard?”


  Matthew shook his head.

  “My wife’s uncle was in Vindobona when it happened. His Majesty was on a sewer inspection and fell, somehow got only-Godown-knows-what in him. One leg went rotten and they cut it off, and he’s been lung sick all winter. Crown Prince Alois has been doing everything short of signing laws, or so market talk has it.” Esmith helped himself to more from the wineskin. Matthew repeated St. Michael’s sign, and Lt. Bustos answered with St. Gerald’s bridge.

  A new rajtan and a new emperor? Godown forgive me if I complained about things being to quiet. And I need coin to be able to hire more men and get powder and arrows and horses and mules and oh Godown, St. Michael-Herdsman, St. Gerald, anyone who hears me, help! He made himself calm down. “That is very interesting news, Mr. Esmith. A lot of people have been busy this past winter.”

  “That’s Godown’s own truth, Your Grace. My wife wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace.” And Matthew soon knew far more about Mr. Esmith’s family and business than he ever wanted. The evening star had long since set before the soldier managed to escape the garrulous teamster.

  Once they got back to their own camping area, Bustos breathed, “Blessed St. Gimple, does that man ever shut up?”

  I can see why his wife was happy to have him out of the house. Thank you, Lord, that Kiara doesn’t prattle, or I’d have thrown myself in the Morpalo just to get away. That aside, Matthew had a sinking feeling that his world had just gotten a lot more interesting. He played with the claim stakes in his hand, listening to the smooth wood clatter as the pieces rolled back and forth. Someone had spent many hours smoothing and decorating the cursed things. He admired the craftsmanship as much as he detested the Turkowi. After some thought he fed the stakes into the fire, whispering a prayer as he did. He lay on his bedroll and stared at the stars, watching his blackbird as it flew across the face of space.

  His meeting with the Oligarchs Council went as well as they ever did. Madau’s and Cevasco’s deaths had opened places for mellower, if not much younger, men. Tibor Jaros had disappeared, and no one Matthew asked would say anything one way or another about what might have befallen him. Although … Matthew had caught a glimpse of Mistress Jaros through the open door of the workshop one afternoon. She appeared much healthier and calmer than he could recall seeing in his entire life. Maybe those rumors were true. Astai still sniffed and glowered, but Collela and the others acted more willing to listen, especially after he told them what had been found, and the rumors from the Freistaadter.

  “Your Grace, my factor in Florabi says that the Frankonians have been asking about weapons, not for themselves but for ‘an ally.’ I’d discounted it, thinking he meant Louven, but could it be the Turkowi?” Fidelio Colella inquired.

  Matthew shrugged as one of his men made a note. “It is certainly possible, although Kirwali would be a more likely market, Master Collela. Unless they intended to ship things around the Thumb this summer.”

  Todor Avray, who had taken Cevasco’s seat on the Inner Council, stroked his long grey beard. “Your Grace, I do not believe that the Frankonians are able to do business in Kirwali.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing the words with great care. “That is, the masters in Kirwali, Revanaar, and a few other cities are … increasingly reluctant to accept unsecured orders from the Frankonian Crown. From individual merchants who are known to them, most certainly, but the Crown’s … recent fiscal decisions have made trade … awkward.”

  “Ah. Thank you, Master Avray. That explains some developments.” Like my having to pay twenty percent ahead instead of ten.

  Over the winter Matthew’s brother-in-law had told him to expect to pay more down, in good coin. “It’s nothing personal, Your Grace, just a new requirement for all governments: Frankonia, Tivolia, the Empire, Sarmas.” Someone always has to go ruin it for the rest of us, Matthew groused to himself. What is in the water in that damn country? Someday the king of Frankonia would piss off the wrong person and he’d get his fingers, and some other parts of his anatomy probably, singed.

  “You said there’s another caravan close behind this one, Your Grace?” someone on a rear bench asked.

  “Yes. Two weeks, barring the usual difficulties.”

  Several of the councilors scribbled notes and two or three of the men in the room couldn’t hide their disappointment. That would lower prices, at least for now. And they’d have to store more goods, both the new arrivals and the things to go south. He’d better say something.

  “Should you wish to send a caravan later this spring, I will escort it myself, in case the rumors are anywhere close to true.”

  Colella nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace, that is a great ease to our minds. And as we all know,” he swept his hand, taking in the entire room. “By the time a story passes through three markets, a caravan, and two factors’ offices, it often bears as much resemblance to the original as I look like St. Alice.” That drew chuckles from most of the men, including Matthew. Many depictions showed Alice in her early career, slight of build and long of hair, neither of which description fit the barrel-chested leather and parchment dealer. “And if it is true, well, as they say, it is hard to hide an army.”

  “Indeed, Master Colella, indeed.”

  Instead of the finery his wife had ordered, Matthew came home with military supplies, staples, and receipts for the fletcher and bowyer. “Your Grace, what is this?” She demanded as the men began unloading the barrels of flour and other supplies.

  “There will be trouble this summer, my lady, either from the north or the south. Your household fabrics are in the last wagon, but every spare thaler I could squeeze went to more important things.”

  Her mouth opened, then shut with a snap. She gathered her skirts and stormed off, knocking aside the maid who had followed her into the courtyard. He turned his attention back to supervising the unloading. She’d rip into him later, but she’d never lower herself to scold him in front of the soldiers and servants and carters. After all but the last wagon had been emptied, Barbara appeared. She had a list of household items on her wax board, and marked them off as the servants and soldiers carried them into the keep. She approached Matthew and curtsied. “All things are accounted for, Your Grace.”

  “Good.”

  She glanced around and lowered her voice. “And it is said that her ladyship’s courses are late.”

  Godown be thanked if it is true. Well, he’d handle Kiara even more carefully, then.

  The next morning he called Capt. Thomas Ricks, Marko Bustos, Kazmer Takacs, and Rudolfo Nagy into a war council meeting.

  He’d have called in Sgt. Roth and Lt. Klaus as well, but they’d gone to Godown. Roth must have been so pissed to discover he’d died in his sleep, Matthew mused a little sadly as he looked at the pages in Roth’s tiny, precise handwriting, describing the initial border fortifications and the staffing requirements for the planned forts. Godown had a lot of explaining to do, no doubt. Poor Klaus had been kicked in the head by a horse. He’d seemed fine, but he’d complained of a headache, then dropped to the floor just before evening chapel and died sometime before dawn. Matthew had taken the money, and children’s clothes, Klaus left for the inmates of St. Foy’s Refuge in Piccolomini and delivered them himself. That had been Klaus’s secret: he’d been abandoned as a child, and instead of supporting a mistress (or three) as many suspected, he’d been helping support the foundling home. Well, there’s no question about his soul being with Godown.

  On the other hand, Fr. Andy had been hinting that Matthew and Barbara might be in danger of suffering Godown’s wrath. He never said it in plain speech, but his hints about a marriage being one man and one woman, and forsaking the temptations of the flesh outside of the marital bed, had grown louder recently. Matthew ignored them and Barbara, well, she did her best to blend into the background. Not that anyone would have time to worry about the duke’s marriage if all the rumors proved true.

  “So, gentlemen. What if the rumor is true and a new Rajtan is courting Selkow’s favor?�
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  Ricks leaned back in his chair. “Your Grace, my first suggestion would be to pray that the rumor is false. Then to pray that they attack the Empire. Then to start shifting men, strengthening the southern watch posts and strong-points, without stripping any other areas or weakening the borders as a whole.”

  That drew skeptical looks, and the once fair-haired former mercenary acknowledged the problem. “If you had the Empire’s funds, Your Grace, life would be easier.”

  If I had the Empire’s funds, I’d have the Empire’s library and no more Turkowi this side of the Donau Novi lowlands, if not the Dividing Range. But Godown hasn’t answered that prayer yet. Matthew looked at the map on the wall of the barracks barn. “Do you still have the list of militia rotations, Kazmer?”

  Both Kazmer and Lorenzo Nagy pulled the pages out of their files. “Yes, Your Grace. As it happens, should you wish to call up the militia, the southern sections are next on the list.”

  “And there’s enough in the emergency chest, Your Grace, to sweeten the call, at least until midsummer,” Nagy added as Kazmer slid his copy to Matthew, who slapped his hand down, catching the page before it could sail off the table.

  Greysville, Bitter Creek, Andreton, and then we’re back up to the northwest with Terriston and Blackrock. “When was Valdoro-Matmouth last called up?” Matthew didn’t recall seeing the muster list for the island port’s mainland district.

  Kazmer and Lt. Bustos conferred and the officer said, “Last spring, Your Grace, but they’re currently supposed to be guarding the road for ten kilometers inland, so we took them off the standard list.”

  “Ah, thank you, Bustos.” Matthew studied the map a little longer. “Half. I call up half the contingent from Greysville, Bitter Creek, and Andreton, and call for volunteers to assist, as well as shifting a quarter of the men based here down to the southern border, a quarter to Greysville, and if the town council screams, they can scream.”