Forcing the Spring (Book 9 of the Colplatschki Chronicles)

by Boykin, Alma

  Days turned to weeks and the ship grew, her hull filling in with the lower deck and all the partitions and sections taking shape. The hull remained crooked but no more so than when Pjtor and Artur began, and Pjtor had learned far more about splinters and hot iron than he ever cared to. He’d also learned how to curse at several different trades, from chandlers to ironmongers to the men who oversaw the ropewalk. Now he leaned against a bollard on the launching pier, sleeves rolled up because of the heat. Ship chaser birds glided past on long white and brown wings, glaring at the world with crimson eyes. Two big trading ships rode at anchor near the harbor mouth, their masts sticking up over the black rocks of the Lander-built breakwater. Pjtor had ventured out to look at the structure, amazed that someone could melt rock on command, turning stones from inland into a solid, glassy mass that rose from the bottom of the sea to two meters above the waves. Two days later he’d squinted into driving spray and rain, watching waves break over that black stone, clawing and fighting to gain entry into the port. He now understood why the houses and shops all had toe-catchers in the lower doorways, and why nothing of value was stored on the ground floor. Pjtor drank cool water that he’d brought from the sweet well near the house at St. Basil’s Boat and studied the sea and sky.

  The sun had long crossed the midline and lacked only a few weeks before touching the northern light-tower, marking the start of true summer. Two ships with messages from NovRodi had come into New Dalfa, carrying letters for Pjtor via Geert. All seemed well, and Strella and the lords of council had matters in hand, although Strella said that the heretics had grown more numerous since Archbishop Nikolas had announced his retirement, come the autumn feast of St. Adri. When was Pjtor coming home? Little Pjtor seemed to be growing well, but Nancy worried, and Tamsin fretted about not having a second son. The reminder of his family duty had also reminded Pjtor that he’d been without female companionship for some considerable length of time, and he contemplated going to one of the houses of pleasure to remedy that lack. Then he remembered what one of the apprentices had endured after catching red-piss from a cheap whore. No thank you, Pjtor thought, wincing again at the other apprentice’s account of why Mike had been absent from work. Spikewort sounds like a punishment from Godown himself that He created when He was angry. Nor did Pjtor care to wake up with a headache and no clothes or coin either, as sometimes happened to sailors.

  He needed to go back to NovRodi. He’d learned what he could, and could design ships and supervise their construction and rigging. Godown willing, a vessel would be arriving in another week or so with coin and servants, and Peter McAdams would return to being Emperor Pjtor Adamson Svendborg of NovRodi, Godown’s chosen emperor, monarch of the Sweetwater Sea. He’d make himself known to the governors of New Dalfa and begin the official portion of his visit, as well as hiring men and buying materials to send back to NovRodi. But for now he soaked in the sun, squinting at the ships coming in and out and enjoying the breeze from the sea.

  Not for long, though. The old rush and hurry swept over him, and Pjtor smiled. He finished his drink, wiped his forehead again, settled his hat and returned to work. They were finishing the last touches prior to launch, and Master Van Daam would not be pleased to find one of his journeymen counting invisible fish, as they said.

  “Yew stooped excuse for a carpenter!” The unfamiliar voice carried through the sounds of hammers and saws and the hiss of cooling iron. Pjtor turned and walked that way, along the wood and stone walkway between the building docks. Artur appeared ahead of him, wiping his hands on his heavy leather apron and settling his hat firmly on his puff of sun-whitened hair. Pjtor stretched his legs and caught up with him in two strides.

  “Goot,” Artur snapped. “Jake said he saw a stranger poking his nose around Master Vantersoon’s dock. I don’t want trouble.”

  Whenever a stranger appeared, someone met them and politely directed them where they needed to go. If the person insisted on getting underfoot, they were less-politely encouraged to depart. Pjtor had tossed one obnoxious younger son of a ship owner into the water himself. The young fool’s father had come the next day with an apology and a small keg of beer for those who had dealt with his son. Each master had his own dock, some had more than one, and all the workers learned quickly who needed to go where, and who belonged.

  “I have every right to be here, you common clod.” The voice grew closer and Pjtor listened carefully. The accent was not Dalfan, nor NovRodi, nor A’asterdee or any of the others he’d learned to recognize. It flowed a little, with accents in odd places, and it sounded as if the man left the ends off of some words while speaking through his nose.

  “Frankonian accent. I don’t like this,” Artur muttered. They ducked under the support poles for a three-decker’s fine stern carvings, sped around the end of the ship and joined the growing crowd of workmen watching a well-dressed man complaining and shaking his walking stick at one of the retired sailors or workers who hung around looking for messages to run or other errands in exchange for a few copper bits. Pjtor could see easily over the other men, and he frowned.

  “No, you do not,” the older, wooden-legged man, Clipped Tom, said back. Tom sounded a lot calmer than the Frankonian, and he took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the long stem. “Now go back and get proper papers and stop bothering working men.”

  The stranger snapped, “Out of my way, scum,” and tried to push past Tom. Two men with the stranger followed, one of them pointing at Pjtor and whispering to his companion. All wore clothes of a different cut than Pjtor usually saw in New Dalfa, with shorter trousers in pale colors not suitable for working around paint and pitch and fish guts. Their coats sported embroidered cuffs and collars and had ribbon ties instead of buttons. The coats did not fasten in front completely, allowing a glimpse of something fancy or colorful underneath.

  “Turkowi embroidery that is. Damned Frankonians and their heretic allies,” one of the men spat.

  The stranger pushed Tom, who pushed right back. This seemed to be the cue for the two others, who muscled Tom out of the way. Tom tripped one with his wooden lower leg. Sss-whack. “Hey!”

  The leader had pulled a small whip out of his coat and cut Tom with it, then struck him again. Distracted, Tom tried to protect himself and the bullies shoved him, then started to beat him. “Do not lay hands on a man from the court of the emperor of NovRodi,” the leader snarled, nose in the air.

  Pjtor growled and stepped forward. The crowd parted, several men reaching for the hammers and other tools they kept with them. “You say you are from the imperial court of NovRodi?”

  “Yes, I am, come to claim his majesty’s ship.”

  Pjtor came closer, calculating the distance and how much the whip-man weighed. “No one’s heard anything about the NovRodi emperor commissioning a vessel.”

  “He purchased a finished hull. Now get out of my way, I bear an imperial warrant and commission.”

  Pjtor stepped between the whip-man and his associates. Behind him, Pjtor heard the start of a thumping fight between the dock men and the strangers. “No, I commissioned no one and issued no warrants,” Pjtor said without thinking.

  “What kind of joke is that, simpleton?” He shook out the coils of the whip, ready to defend himself.

  Pjtor moved faster. He lunged forward, grabbing the man by the wrist and twisting back, then pulling.

  Crack. “Aiii, no!” The stranger’s eyes bulged and he cried in pain as Pjtor broke his wrist, then dragged him closer. He saw papers tucked into the man’s inside pocket and pulled them away, handing them to Artur before turning the stranger around, still not releasing his grip. “Noooo! Please I beg, no,” and Pjtor released a little of the pressure, not quite dislocating the fool’s arm and shoulder.

  Artur looked at the seal on the papers. “What say you, Peter?”

  Pjtor looked at the red ink and wax. He saw a castle tower and two crossed spears, and some kind of smear that might have been an attempt at an animal. He bared hi
s teeth. “Not my seal, not of NovRodi. The center element is a church tower, not an armored tower, with two arrows, and a forest-cat in silver, on black, not red. This is a very bad copy.” He twisted the man’s arm. “Who are you?”

  “I told you I work for the— Nooo, oww!”

  “I said,” Pjtor waited for an answer.

  It came from behind him. “They’re Frankonians, Journeyman McAdams.” Pjtor turned the stranger around and pivoted as well as Master Van Daam and several of the city watch came up. Pjtor tossed the Frankonian at the watch, who caught him, almost. They did pick him up after he landed on the sun-hot stones. He would be lucky, Pjtor realized. One of the others would never return to wherever he’d come from, thanks to a freshly a crushed skull. The hole looked square, like one of the iron mallets some of the wrights used. “The rest of his men are being fished out of the sea, at least if they floated. Tried to come up the beach and under the pier, then up to grab the Sweet Michael. Might have worked at night, but not by day. And the tide is wrong. Unless they planned to wait until after dark,” he observed, limping up to Pjtor.

  Pjtor bowed to the master.

  “Anyone see what happened to this man?” the guard officer called, crouching beside the dead Frankonian.

  “He tripped,” several watchers chorused.

  Clipped Tom, his face dripping blood from the whip-cut and other marks, rasped, “Tripped and hit that post there after he tried to beat me and push me into the saw-pit.” Pjtor looked up at the brim of his hat, wondering who would believe that claim. The hitching post, currently serving as a drying rack for someone’s rags, sat on the other side of the saw-pit.

  “I see.” The officer stood up and brushed his hands on the front of his blue and tan coat. “Anyone see otherwise?”

  “No.”

  “Nope.”

  “No, Lt. Neelson.”

  “Sorry, I was looking the other way.”

  “Me too.”

  “Likewise.”

  Pjtor coughed, hand raised to hide a smile at the denials. The workmen disappeared as he watched, melting away like snow in strawberry season.

  Once the guardsmen hauled the Frankonians away, Van Daam looked up at Pjtor. “Well, you finish my ship?”

  “Not yet, sir. This way,” and Pjtor bowed again, following Van Daam past two other hulls to Van Daam’s dock.

  They heard a soft drum beating a slow measure, and a strong voice calling, “. . . and two and three, heave! Heave! Heave!” The two journeymen stopped behind Master Van Daam, all three watching the main mast rising as men and a donkey-powered winch raised the enormous piece of wood into place.

  Before Pjtor could blink, Van Daam scrambled up a rope ladder onto the ship, pulling a hammer and a piece of silver metal out of his coat. As the mast came upright, Van Daam pounded the metal into the base, calling “Issa, Donn, Godown’s name!”

  “God—DOWN!” The men roared as one, giving a mighty heave. The mast snapped into place and several men with plumb-bobs and squares rushed forward, confirming the straightness of the enormous piece of wood.

  “She’s true. Thanks be to Godown.”

  “Selah,” everyone called back. Pjtor spoke with them even as he wondered why the Dalfans used that instead of “Ah-meen” as was proper.

  Once all was set and fastened safely into place, Master Van Daam inspected the hull. Then he beckoned Pjtor to him. The ferocious old man glared up at Pjtor. “The truth, young man. What did you mean when you told the Frankonian, ‘I commissioned no one’?”

  Damn, damn, damn. Pjtor ducked, feeling like he had when Master Andrej caught him in mischief. Then he straightened up. “Because I did not. Not yet.” He reached into a pocket, removed a pouch, undid the top and removed his travel seal. Pjtor switched to the formal speech. “This is the seal of the emperor of NovRodi, and I am he. I came to learn and to hire men and to buy materials.”

  Van Daam took the seal, studied it, and nodded. “Master Fielder told me, a fortnight ago, when he forgot himself and asked for ‘his Imperial Majesty Pjtor of NovRodi.’ I believed him, and I believe you.” Van Daam returned the seal, crossed his arms, and glared again. “You’d best make yourself known officially, your majesty, before the guard hauls you in as well for impersonating a diplomat. And before the Frankonians try something and catch you and your men off guard.”

  Pjtor had not thought about that. He had not thought at all. Now he wondered what in the name of all the saints he’d done. Probably broken a few laws and had pissed off the king of Frankonia, once the king learned about who had abused his agent. Not smart, Pjtor thought, then changed his mind. The bastard started it, pushed me into answering. “Very well, Master Van Daam.”

  “I’ll send your master’s papers to St. Basil’s Boat. You’re finished here. I do not want to see any ugly NovRodi boats cross the harbor mouth, do you understand me?” He shook his finger under Pjtor’s nose. “I taught you better.”

  Pjtor backed up and bowed again. “I understand Master Van Daam.”

  “Pack your tools and go. And if there are any more like you, but smaller, back in NovRodi, send them.”

  “I will do so.” Pjtor took the remains of his dignity and departed as Van Daam walked past him, intent on fussing at someone.

  Pjtor sipped the liqueur carefully. Not because he worried about getting drunk, far from it. But because he’d heard whispers about heart’s fire brandy and did not care to make an ass of himself. The Frankonian ambassador had already done that. The man now sulked at the end of the table, glowering at his glass of peach wine and being firmly ignored by everyone in the room with rank enough to do so. The wine’s name came from the color, not the main ingredient, and Pjtor found it too bitter for his taste. He preferred beer and distilled spirits. The brandy tasted warm and spicy with a fruit taste and scent. Then his lips began tingling with the hot spices, as did his throat and gut. Pjtor made a note to import as much of the stuff as he could find, cost be damned.

  It would be his last night in New Dalfa. The summer’s turning had passed, and he would return to NovRodi the next morning, sailing with the dawn tide. The governing council had made him most welcome, although one citizen of the city still made him wonder. It was too bad she had refused his invitation to come to the banquet. “Your pardon, Imperial Majesty, but my grace days are on me, and I am not sociable.” It was an elegant phrase for her monthly uncleanliness, Pjtor thought, although he did not entirely approve of using the same word for Godown’s mercy and forgiveness as for . . . that.

  As one of the trade-lords droned on to a representative from A’asterdee, Pjtor let himself remember his first encounter with Mistress Harmony Garland. He’d been attending a banquet at the mansion of the fishing master and she’d ridden past on her way to a different event. She’d smiled at him, giving him an appreciative, bold look, then trotted away. She favored red-roan horses and rode them well, even jumping them. He’d been taken by her looks, including an amazing bust that, as he discovered, was as Godown had made it rather than being artful false advertising.

  He’d made inquiries and in due course of time and invitation arrived at his new residence, one of the town palaces belonging to a noble with extensive timber lands to the east of the city. The gentleman had opened his house to Pjtor and his men for the duration of their visit. It was not the palace in Muskava, but it served. The hot and cold water, always ready thanks to a new earth-coal boiling system and heater combined that Pjtor longed to take apart and study, made up for some of the inconveniences. The invitation bore an address in a quiet district, away from the main market and trade areas, and gave notice that Mistress Harmony would be “receiving guests” after a certain hour in the afternoon. Geert acted a little uncomfortable as he explained what it really meant.

  Pjtor smiled as he sipped more brandy. Geert’s discomfort had been nothing compared to that of Basil Van Deiman, who Pjtor came downstairs one morning to find cornered in the hallway by two women with snotty-nosed brats in tow. “What
is this?” Pjtor had bellowed. Well, he’d called, but he’d forgotten that he was indoors again.

  The women had jumped, the turned to him. “Are you his patron? He owes me.” The smaller of the two began.

  “Me too! He’s my man, got me with child and ran after a year.”

  “No, he was my man, and he owes me child coin and a ring.”

  Basil, wedged into a corner of the hallway and trapped by the women, had made a little whimpering sound.

  Pjtor laughed until tears flowed, then had paid off the two doxies after Basil admitted that yes, he had been seeing both of them and yes, the children were his. They looked enough like him that Pjtor did not doubt the connection, and he’d insisted that Basil sign the church books, acknowledging them as his, even though they’d remain bastards at law.

  Well, Geert had explained what the invitation meant, Basil had confirmed it, and Pjtor had taken the opportunity to ease some tensions and enjoy all that New Dalfa offered. He’d ridden to a tasteful, narrow home with a well-kept flowerbed and clean walk and steps. A servant took his horse and Pjtor presented himself at the door. A maid, dressed in a modest-for-Dalfans brown dress showed him into Mistress Harmony’s receiving room, a small well-appointed room with light-blue walls and dark blue and white curtains. Mistress Harmony appeared and curtsied to Pjtor, her low neckline and snug dress revealing more of her attractions. He’d taken the logical next step, inquiring her price for her services.

  To his astonishment, she started laughing. Pjtor blinked, confused. When the laughter did not stop, he began to grow angry. Why was the woman laughing at him? He’d done nothing amusing.

  Mistress Harmony wiped laughter tears from her eyes. “Your pardon, gentlesir, but that is not how things are done in New Dalfa. Even paid women are to be courted, and one does not simply leap into bed in this household.”

  “And why is this funny?”

  “Because Marilese owes me five thalers. She swore that all civilized men on Colplatschki know how to approach women. She forgets that the world is far larger than our portion of it.”