by Boykin, Alma
What in the name of all the saints do I say? Pjtor took a breath, trying not to choke on the stench. “There is no need for pardon. You did your best. I am sorry to say that two of the women are with Godown, slain by the Harriers.”
He stopped as he heard a commotion, and weeping. A young girl emerged from a stack of hay, her face sooty, her clothes charred, what he could see of her hands raw and starting to blister. “I tried to save the wheat and flax, Father, I tried. Please, I’m sorry, I tried,” her legs gave out and she sagged to the dirt, weeping and coughing. A red haze, not his warning of a spell but the red of fury, came over Pjtor’s vision as the peasants tried to comfort each other.
He looked down to regain control of his temper and saw his saber. Blood and hair covered the polished steel. He’d killed a man, at least one, Pjtor realized. He’d killed. He’d taken a life. Godown did not want people to kill. He’d killed. Pjtor felt his gorge rising and turned the horse, riding away from the farmyard. He took a long, slow breath, eyes on his horse’s ears. Then another breath, counting slowly until his stomach calmed down. The emperor of NovRodi did not get sick from fighting. At least not where others could see him, Pjtor thought. The thought started to turn into a laugh that threatened to get out of control and Pjtor bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. That cleared his mind, as did the horse, who chose that moment to shy at something.
Anderson walked up beside Pjtor and handed him a bit of rag. “Clean your blade before you try and sheath it. Otherwise you’ll ruin a good weapon.” Pjtor took the cloth and did as told while the captain held the horse still. He dropped the rag when he finished. “We’ll talk later. The soldiers have put the fire out, mostly, and the farmers are going to a neighbor to see if they can shelter and find help to bury the bodies. We need to get back to Muskava, Pjtor Adamson, and call out the army.”
Now laughter did boil out, bitter and black. Pjtor laughed like a madman. “What army? Grigory destroyed it, remember? We have no cavalry.”
“Stop that,” Anderson barked. “You have an army and it needs to muster and get moving before the Harriers show up at the gates of Muskava, if they are not there already.”
“Right.” Pjtor regained control of himself. “And we need to get inside the walls before full dark or we’ll be facing dardogs and other things.”
“Correct, my lord.”
Pjtor had lost two dead, both to archers, and ten injured. The two men unable to walk rode on Pjtor and Anderson’s horses, while the officers rode the Harrier beasts, or tried to. Pjtor’s feet almost brushed the dirt. The soldiers’ bodies were draped over two more of the Harrier horses. They’d count the enemy after sunrise. For now, the men hurried back to Muskava, unwilling to stay outside the walls with the little powder and shot they had remaining. The road had never seemed longer to Pjtor, and he heaved an enormous sigh of relief when he saw the walls and the open gates. He and Anderson stopped the men, had them form a column, and marched into Muskava in good order. A few of the soldiers led the other Harrier mounts and the mules, who protested in the eternal, unchanging fashion of mules.
“Well done, men,” Pjtor told them once they reached the palace barracks. “We’ll go out tomorrow and see about any spoils.” The men saluted and Pjtor did as well, then dismissed them. Anderson reclaimed his horse once the churigons had taken the injured and he put one hand on Pjtor’s sleeve.
“Good job. I’ll clean up tomorrow, with your permission, Imperial Majesty. You need to write down what you observed and be ready for an attack on the city.”
“Yes. Take the men out tomorrow and see what you can find.” Pjtor dismissed the captain, rode over to the waiting servants, and almost fell out of the saddle. His leg ached, and when he looked down, he saw a cut in the fabric on his thigh. I’ve been blooded, he realized. It hurt. I want a bath and a bottle of pflum spirits and I need to properly clean the sword and dear Godown what did I do today? Pjtor’s head swam and he staggered a little as he walked through the torch-lit darkness to the main palace.
Pjtor heard sounds like someone having a feast and dance. “What is going on?” he demanded.
The serving girl bowed low. “Regent Sara is celebrating Lord Grigory’s victor—”
He never heard the rest. Instead Pjtor stormed past her, shoving the wench out of his way. He strode through the corridor, ignoring the gasps and yelps as horrified servants and nobles dodged out of his way. His boots thundered on the wooden floors and he hauled the doors to the great hall open, slamming the wood against the walls. Pjtor stalked straight to the head table and locked eyes with Sara. “What is the meaning of this?”
“What do you mean what is the meaning of this?” She stood, craning to look up at him. “We are celebrating Lord Grigory’s great victories over the Harriers. Where have you been? And what were you doing?”
“I was fighting the damn Harriers, woman.” He put his hands under the edge of the table and heaved, tossing it over and almost flattening her. Fine dishes clattered and broke, metal platters rolled, and wine spilled as the glass shattered. “The Harriers are raiding within sight of the walls of Muskava,” he dropped his voice to a whispered hiss, “bitch. Whore. Not even the whore of a competent man, either.” He turned and pointed at Grigory, who had slid out of his chair and knelt behind the up-turned table. “Your army is supposed to be protecting Muskava. Instead I found Harriers destroying one of your farms, on the Leitmore Road. We drove them off, lost two soldiers, several peasants.” He straightened up and stared around the room. The revelers had all drawn back, kneeling, a few greenish complected and swallowing hard. A bit of Pjtor’s mind wondered just how bad he looked. It served them right. “Muster your army, Lord Grigory. The Harriers do not seem to have recognized your,” Pjtor sneered the word, “victory.”
Pjtor Adamson stalked out of the great hall, slamming the doors behind him. He heard wood crack. “I want a bath and pflum spirits and a meal in my chambers,” he ordered as he walked.
They were waiting for him. The servants gasped and trembled as he came through the door. I look bad. How bad? he turned to the side and for the first time he glanced in a mirror. Black hair plastered with sweat, blood on his coat and trousers, blood and mud on his boots, dirt and Godown-knew-what on his face, thick dark-brown mustache bristling, Pjtor looked like one of the avenging spirits in the painting of the inferno in the chapel. “Pjtor?” he heard his mother call. He turned. “Pjtor, what is going—”
She fainted.
Grigory did not want to believe. Neither did Sara. Isaac believed, and he turned red with anger. “And one of them his own farm?”
“Yes,” Pjtor told him two days later. They sat in the library, alone. Isaac had dismissed the servants and Pjtor sat with his legs crossed at the knee, swinging one foot, hands clasped on his knee so he didn’t hit and break any more furnishings. The side panel of the door would have to be mended, as it turned out, and the latches and one hinge replaced. “One of the ones Sara gave him last year.”
Isaac shook his head and leaned back in his own seat, eyes closed for the moment. “How many others?”
“Half a dozen thus far. It is one of those lightning raids, more to insult than to do serious damage, although at least a hundred people are missing as of what was reported to me yesterday. The army is, ahem, pursuing the raiders as we speak.” Pursuing at as slow a pace as possible, although the rain was not Grigory’s fault. It was probably the only thing Pjtor could not blame on his half-sister’s lover, however. Killing the bastard slowly held a certain appeal just then.
“This cannot stand. Pjtor, I am not well. And Sara has ambitions, far, far beyond the homefold.” Isaac opened his eyes. “But your little band of soldiers is not enough to stop her and Grigory.”
“No, but I.” Should he speak his thoughts and plans aloud? Not entirely. He loved Isaac but did not trust the walls and windows to be free of listeners. “She may have less support than she assumes, after this. A leader who cannot protect his people, Godown’s Writ
says what will become of him.”
Isaac nodded, tired and grave. “Better it were that such a watchman had not been born, that he die in the womb, for Godown hears the cries of His children, and though He is slow to anger, He is swift in justice, casting down the inattentive watchman from his watch and the careless guardian from his post.” Isaac quoted a different verse, “For lo, I am come like a thief in the night, and all who are unaware, I shall chastise.”
Pjtor made a sign of blessing. “Blessed be Godown and His word.” Especially when they do not apply to me, he ventured to hope. But they did, because he and Isaac had not acted when they should have and stopped Sara and Grigory.
“Ah-meen. Your mother?”
“Is recovering from her shock. It seems I am no longer her little boy. That discovery came as a surprise.”
Isaac managed a smile to match Pjtor’s own. “I can imagine. My blessed mother never could see me without leading strings, not even after that night I got out the window and took the horse from the stable.”
That had been quite an adventure, or so Pjtor vaguely remembered. “That was the night that Lord Kuril discovered the pfiggy in his homefold, was it not?”
“That, young man, I had nothing to do with, I was not near Kuril’s mansion, and I would never act as a decoy for someone intent on such undignified mischief, either.”
Pjtor bowed in his seat, smiling broadly. “Forgive me, Imperial Master, for making such a false and baseless accusation.”
The brothers smiled, then the smiles faded as Isaac began coughing. The cough grew hoarse and harsh, and Isaac doubled over, gasping. When he straightened up, Pjtor could see blood on the cloth he’d used to cover his mouth. Oh no, Pjtor begged, Godown, lord of healing and mercy, no, please, please not that. Holy One, creator and protector of all, please heal him, please.
Lord Grigory and the Chosen Guard returned before the Feast of Godown of the Harvest. Pjtor struggled to keep his mind on the liturgy, to focus on the responses and his duty as Godown’s chosen leader of NovRodi. The autumn incense smelled of orange gourd and warm spices, and three bundles of cut but un-threashed grain rested on the altar, the first fruits of the harvest from the fields. Apples too, red, gold, and blue, and Pjtor’s mind began drifting to the thought of the pies waiting back in the banqueting hall.
“Thanks be to Godown for all things,” Archbishop Nikolas sang, one eyebrow raised as he turned to Pjtor. Both men wore brown embroidered in gold and red, the colors of fall and of plenty. Pjtor took a deep breath and turned to face the other worshippers. They bowed as Nikolas raised the bejeweled Holy Writ behind Pjtor.
“Blessed is He who made all things, Godown of the Stars and of the Harvest, generous Lord of all worlds and space, Master of Life and Death, Godown be praised.” Pjtor inhaled, then sang, “Holy is He and worthy of all praise, Godown the Generous, who feeds all in their season, who watches and sustains His children, who inspires His saints, who strengthens His servants for their tasks and who comforts the poor and afflicted, Godown the Great, the Healer and Lord . . . of . . . Har—vest.” The last notes sank to the bottom of Pjtor’s range and required perfect control and concentration.
“Blessed be Godown, Lord of Harvest,” sang the worshippers.
It was easy to imagine that the shadows of the great church held all the faithful of Godown, Pjtor thought once more. The only light came from lamps and candles, their flames casting dancing shadows and making the gold and silver on the walls and ceiling glimmer and shine. When Pjtor broke open the great loaf of Godown’s feast, the bread felt warm, and he imagined a bit of steam rising up from the fluffy white interior. It would be improper to use even the fine brown bread of the daily liturgy for the great feast of thanks and joy, and Pjtor’s mouth watered.
A bitter wind hissed through the courtyards around the church, urging the worshippers to return to their smaller feasts. Bits of ice stung Pjtor’s face, falling from heavy clouds that seemed to scrape the top of the watch tower. This is a bad omen. He shivered, trying not to show how cold he felt. Ice-snow and ice will break the trees and ruin the root crops before we can dig them. Godown have mercy, please. He ducked into the doorway with a sense of relief. At least the wind could not reach him indoors. Servants took his heavy embroidered, fur trimmed long coat and he pulled on the knee-length eastern-style coat he preferred.
The cold extended indoors, however—not physical cold but chilly relations between the two co-emperors and their Regent. Sara glared at Pjtor as he walked into the great hall. He ignored her for the moment, looking for Tamsin. She’d withdrawn a little after his fight with the Harriers, but Strella and Nancy assured him that it was only because she needed calm and quiet to produce good milk for their son. Sara wanted the boy on the bottle as soon as possible, leading to a three-way fight in the homefold that ended with Tamsin in tears and hiding, and Nancy and Strella brandishing heavy wooden patens at the Regent and driving Sara out of the homefold with orders to stay out. The men kept a very respectful distance from the ladies for the next several days, until tempers sweetened and the incident faded. Pjtor commanded that all food for the homefold should come straight in and be cooked there for the time being, rather than passing through the main kitchens. He had no fear of Sara trying to poison his wife and child, but Grigory, well, Pjtor had made a dangerous enemy when he’d chased off the Harrier raid and humiliated the Lord of the Armies. And Sara and Grigory commanded the loyalty of the Chosen Guard, who might turn blind eyes to certain things.
Isaac too remained in his chambers, Pjtor saw, and part of him wept for his half-brother’s suffering. But not now, he scolded himself. Now was the time to be grateful and to show that gratitude to Godown for all that He had graced NovRodi with this year, one of the most bountiful in recent memory. Pjtor took his place at the head table with Strella between him and Sara, Nancy on his other side. His mother frowned at his coat but held her peace. All the women wore red and golden brown and finest white in honor of the feast, and Pjtor took the ceremonial loaf, gave thanks for sustenance, and broke the hot bread into quarters, one for each noble table. Sara lifted the platter of roasted, fine-chopped nuts, apples, and pfears spiced and then touched with honey, gave thanks for sweetness, and servants distributed the steaming hot fruit. Once all had been served, the diners dipped the bread in the fruit and ate as one.
After everyone had been seated and servants began to serve the first course, Strella devoured her fruit. “Have you ever wondered why this is called ‘charoasted fruit’ even though it is baked?” she asked Pjtor.
“Not really.” The history of food did not interest him. The presence of food, good food, interested him a great deal.
“One book I found says it was originally eaten in the spring, along with bitter herbs in salt water and lamb and flat bread.” She shook her head and smiled. “Truly the Landers were odd, to put salted water on their food.”
“And how did they preserve the fruit?” Nancy wanted to know. “Fruit in glass is almost impossible to make for the household, let alone for everyone.”
“Perhaps they used dried fruit,” Pjtor suggested after he swallowed the first bite of pfork. He preferred mutton or shahma, but it had been a good year for pfiggies, and so they ate those first. “And Strella, men working in the heat need more salt to replace what they sweat out. Especially in the south.”
“I’d forgotten that, brother. Thank you.” She turned her attention to the food, eating with a will. The women also fasted in the homefold before the worship services, unless they carried children or were nursing. According to tradition, Godown would not accept the fast of a nursing women. Pjtor thought Godown was wise.
To everyone’s relief, or so it seemed to Pjtor, the feast passed quietly. Pjtor and Sara worked very hard to be civil and to allow others to enjoy the food and entertainment. Grigory had been called to his father’s death bed and his absence soothed matters, at least for the day. Pjtor would have preferred that the incompetent oaf remained away for the rest of
his life, but Sara likely had other plans. Pjtor drank the tea that came between meat and drink courses and made himself listen to the music and act as the generous host. It came easily on a day such as this.
Pjtor woke later than usual the next day. His head ached a tiny bit, but otherwise he felt fine. He suspected that few other men were as awake. Even blue apple brandy failed to make him truly drunk—most men drank a thimble-full and nursed hang-overs for days after. Not that you haven’t had your moments, Pjtor reminded himself. He got up. As soon as he moved the heavy quilts and furs aside, servants swarmed him and the bed both, offering hot water, towels, a fur-lined robe, and felt and fur house boots. By the time he finished shaving, clothing appeared, already warmed, and the bed had been made, the night-slops removed, and hot tea with a splash of pfeach brandy waited. Boris still did not approve of Pjtor’s insistence on shaving himself, but could not argue with Pjtor’s dislike of other men waving blades near his throat. Pjtor suspected that what Boris really disapproved of was Pjtor shaving at all, keeping a mustache and small beard in winter and the mustache alone in summer. Men were supposed to have luxuriant beards. Pjtor thought about what he’d seen in some of those beards and shuddered. Godown had given all men louse combs for a reason, and the law said that no one could claim them for debt. Too bad that law did not require all men to use their louse combs.
The servants finished dressing their lord and master. Pjtor had barely finished his first cup of tea when he heard running feet coming toward the door. He moved without thinking, getting out of a direct line of attack from the entry and reaching for his sword and a small shield. The feet stopped, he heard a whisper of sound, and someone tapped three times, then thrice more. He nodded and Boris opened the door.
A messenger came in and dropped to his knees, forehead almost to the floor. “Imperial Master, your brother sends his greetings and asks that you come attend him to hear his final wishes.”
