by Boykin, Alma
He still failed to see the humor. “Then what does a civilized man do?”
“You truly do not know.”
He gritted his teeth. “No, I do not.” He intended to leave, bodily needs notwithstanding, if this continued.
The red-haired woman sobered. “Then allow me to teach you, gentlesir. For women here in the Sea Republics may be far different from what you are apparently accustomed to, and accidental offense is just as serious as intentional, if the other party does not understand the problem.” Her formal words came with taps of her fan on her other hand, and Pjtor decided that learning this difference would be a good idea.
“Then where do we begin?”
She smiled a little. “We begin with introductions, then a meal, then conversation. After that, should both parties remain interested,” she tipped her hand in a graceful gesture, making the lace at her cuff shimmer as the sunlight from the small window caught it.
“Welcome to my house, good sir. Might I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?”
Pjtor did not roll his eyes. “I am Pjtor Adamson Svendborg, emperor of NovRodi, King of lands of the Sweetwater Sea.” He added two more of his most commonly used titles, since he saw no point in listing all of them. Mistress Harmony remained attentive, as if noting them for her memory.
Several hours later, after leaving the bed to use the necessary, Harmony lay back down on her side facing him, using the pillow to prop her head and shoulder up. She rested her cheek on her hand, watching her guest. “If I might offer a pillow word?”
“A what, mistress?”
“A word of advice or caution, given in open honesty without intending harm or offense.”
Pjtor shifted so he could see her better and considered her offer. “Yes.”
She bit her lower lip, then said, “Remember what we did here, this evening.” The sheet slid down a little as she took a deep breath. “And do not, ever, force your will on a woman, Pjtor. You seem determined to impress all women with your power and to demand compliance if they hesitate. There is no need: you are strong enough, both physically and in rank and wealth, to make a woman yours despite her own desires. I do not speak of politics. That is different, played by its own rules, and women in politics abides by men’s rules,” she clarified. Harmony’s pretty face shifted, becoming a little sad. “Be careful how you use your strength with women. You may gain pleasure in the short term, but even the poorest dockside whore is a child of Godown, and may well decide to revenge herself rather than waiting for His justice.” Then she smiled, turning back into the smiling creature he’d spent the evening with. “You are quite able to charm, and if one girl says no, a dozen will line the path and say yes. We are weak-willed creatures of pleasure, after all, as the priests are fond of reminding everyone.”
She reached for him and he felt himself stirring once more as her soft, skilled fingers caressed his shoulder and chest. But he remembered her words.
They had served him well, and he nodded with approval as the wife of the harbormaster laughed quietly at a comment Geert Fielder offered. Pjtor’s manners with their women had eased his dealings with the men, and he now had a score and more of carpenters and ship builders from New Dalfa and A’asterdee who would come back to NovRodi with him to teach others about building, along with ships loaded with naval stores, tools, and other goods. He also had soldiers, men at loose ends following the closing, at least for now, of the Frankonian and Turkowi wars; men who would help him build a real army. Weapons already sat in the hull of his ship, packed and ready to travel, along with two arms-smiths.
Now, he thought, finishing the last drop of the brandy, I can regain what is mine from the Harriers and their masters. I have men, I have ships on order, I have new ideas and I have hope.
“Damn it, I need a—” He caught himself before someone panicked or drowned trying to comply with his demand. I need a great many things, Pjtor snarled, but only Godown can strike down hundreds with holy fire while also calming the waters and building a harbor. And the age of miracles is long past, alas. First I need to land, to get my men and supplies to shore safely. Then I need to deal with the Chosen Guard and their supporters once and for all.
He could do none of that until the squall passed. They’d felt the wind shifting, backing from east to north of east, and the captain of the ship now called Great Pjtor ordered the main-sails taken in and sea anchors prepared. The first heavy storm of autumn now battered the ship, and only Pjtor, Geert, and a few others remained on their feet, unaffected by the rolling and pitching as the waves and wind tossed the big ship. The sky was grey, the rain and ice were grey, the sea a darker grey, the wind snarled and made the rigging snap, turning any loose rope into a whip. “And this, Pjtor Adamson, is why we do not sail between St. Issa’s Day and the turn of spring,” Geert called over the wind. They stood on deck beside the main mast, each with a hand in the hold ropes at the base of the mast. The waves had stopped breaking over the deck, but one never took chances.
“You are wise. And I need a harbor, one on the coast where ships can hide from this,” Pjtor waved his hand, taking in the storm.
“Do that and all the sailors of my ken will bless you and your family so hard Godown Himself will run out of ways to reward you.” Geert grinned a little, adding, “Assuming you don’t try to take advantage of His favor, of course.”
“Of course no— Sweet Saint Boris!”
The sky roared and fire lanced down, kissing the water beside the ship. Around them, Pjtor heard the entire ship humming like a hive of bees. He also heard the voices of sailors calling to St. Issa, pointing. His jaw dropped open and he gaped as the rigging and masts glowed faintly blue white, then grew brighter. St. Issa’s Fire! Pjtor dropped to one knee, praying to Godown with thanks for His blessing and for the sign of His mercy and grace.
The wind and waves began to settle, slowly calming and losing their ferocity until the sailors caught a brief glimpse of a red setting sun below the clouds. The sky cleared and stars appeared, and all on board gave thanks. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” Michael Looven recited.
They sailed into the mouth of the Colrodo River early the next morning, managing to get as far as the first bend and the little port there. While Pjtor ground his teeth with impatience, a procession of little boats began visiting the larger ships, unloading the goods and people. It would take at least a week to move everything ashore, as compared to the hours in New Dalfa, Amstell, and A’asterdee and other eastern ports. This was not acceptable for an empire as great as NovRodi. No wonder the Easterners laughed at us, Pjtor grumbled, then sighed. Even he could not make a city overnight. Yet.
And he had another problem to deal with. “Imperial Master, forgive your unworthy slave,” Lord Korbin gasped, throwing himself into the wet dirt of the meadow as Pjtor stepped out of the boat. “It was said that the sea had taken you, and that your spirit rested with Godown. Forgive me for believing and not trusting, great Imperial Master, Godown’s chosen.”
Pjtor growled. Then he said, “You may rise. When did you hear that, Korbin, and from whom?”
“Just after midsummer came the first word, and then again at the harvest feast, Imperial Master, great lord. It came from the south, from Lord Karlov’s son, Imperial Master.”
Pjtor added Karlov to the list of people to remove from power. His wife’s brother joined that list the next day, as Pjtor listened to the news from Muskava. He wanted to race south to the capital, but waited, needing to learn and watch. He wanted Captain Anderson and his regiment as well, and sent a courier to order them to march north and meet him at Three Rivers. Pjtor read the papers from Strella and Lord Tabor until he picked up the empty silver plate from the table and threw it against the wall, leaving dents in both the wooden beam and the expensive silver. He got up, retrieved the silver before the terrified servant dared move, and folded it in two, then in two again.
Geert Fielder watched without speaking or ducking. Pjtor stormed up and down the length of t
he room, picked up a fire log and hurled it into the open hearth, sending sparks and coals scattering onto the floor. Now Geert moved, kicking the large bits back onto the stone hearth-mouth, grabbing a damp broom out of the fire bucket and scooting the other embers away from the rug and other combustibles. Only after he finished and had put the broom back did he take his pipe out of his mouth and say, “Problem, my lord?”
“Only Lord Karlov and a few others declaring that either I am dead, or that I have gone mad like my ancestor, or that I have been corrupted by easterners and am unfit to rule. And Strella, Godown bless her, is not willing to do more than argue in council because of not wanting to be compared to Sara.”
“I would not insult a mule by comparing it to the former regent, my lord, but that is strictly my opinion. And in a way we easterners have corrupted you, or at least have destroyed your sense of propriety, decorum, and taste in clothing.”
Pjtor glanced down at his coat, waistcoat, and long trousers tucked into black boots. “Fur-lined robes do not fare well on boats.”
“No, my lord, they do not, nor on horseback without certain consideration and tailoring.” Geert shrugged. “And you are not dressed like Master Oránge.”
Pjtor smiled a little for the first time since he’d touched NovRodi’s shore. “I do not care to be the laughingstock of two continents.” Oránge refused to admit that he had thickened in the middle. He also believed that any color could be combined, leading to purple waistcoats, green jackets, and red trousers far too snug for a man of his age and stature. And he had the money to afford those colorful garments, something Pjtor found both amusing and irritating. He understood why his great-great-great ancestor had ruled that commoners could not wear floor-length robes or yellow, orange, and bright green. Not that anyone in NovRodi could afford those dyes now, he sighed, although yellow being the color of the demon goddess also made it forbidden.
“But you are most certainly alive, as that poor piece of metal shows. Although,” Geert picked it up off the floor and looked at where it had torn. “Pure silver, easily enough melted and remade.”
Pjtor had a vision of himself cramming all the court nobles and others into a giant pot, melting them, and pouring them out into molds, remaking them into something better. He smiled a little more, then caught himself. That was what Godown did, trying and remaking men into better. And breaking those who would not listen to His word and will. Pjtor made a holy sign, warding off impiety. He’d gone to a service of thanks and celebration that morning, and being able to participate in a proper liturgy in a proper church made him feel much better. Or it had until he’d read those letters and court papers. “I need Anderson and soldiers. Enough is enough.”
That afternoon Pjtor had his first spell in several months. He’d only suffered two, both mild, while in New Dalfa. This time the shimmering colors overwhelmed everything in the room and Pjtor barely had time to sit down in the chair Geert shoved under him before the wonderful sense of love and calm swept over the world. Then came the shuddering and paralysis, followed by a crushing headache and temper that inspired him to use all the bad words he’d heard muttered in the dockyard or hurled by the fishwives. He added the spell to his list of things Karlov had to answer for.
A week later Pjtor, Geert and a score of soldiers and more servants rode into Three Rivers. Here three rivers joined into one, forming the Colrodo. Pjtor intended to turn south as soon as Anderson and the soldiers arrived, returning to Muskava overland and catching the Chosen Guard and their lords unaware. I should have terminated all of them, but I thought I’d need the experienced soldiers of the Chosen Guard for border defense. Lord Tabor’s letter proved that assumption false, and I’m not giving them any more chances. Pjtor growled with frustration, then made himself calm down. He’d stopped the group on a little hill where he could look at the small town of Three Rivers hidden behind a double log and dirt wall. The dome of the church appeared above the logs, and smoke from the houses, but nothing else ventured to peep above the town’s defenses. As they rode into the village through the unguarded open gates, Geert pointed with his riding stick. “Lander.” Pjtor glanced at the exposed base of the wall and at the square stone buildings shoved up against the wall with wooden platforms on stilts built on top of them. The grey showed no seams or joints, exactly like the oldest buildings in New Dalfa and A’asterdee. “I wonder what they wanted up here, my lord?”
“Timber? Solitude? To get away from in-laws?”
Geert chuckled as he was supposed to. The chuckle stopped and he reigned his horse to a halt. Pjtor swore, but quietly. Then he rode forward, rising in his stirrups and calling, “What goes here?”
The gathered crowd turned as one. Many dropped to their knees or bowed, but others fled. One or two men pushed through the others, shoving the crowd out of the way as they approached Pjtor and the others, spears and scythes and wood-axes in hand. “Who be you?”
Pjtor ignored the question. “What in the name of Godown and the Blessed Toni is going on?” His eyes bulged as he saw a man in black, like a priest, carrying a lit torch toward a pile of wood. A woman and a child had been tied up like pfiggies and lay on the wood, alive and crying for mercy.
“They called down the Harriers on us and said Godown does not exist. For that Godown blighted our crops and spread sickness among us, so we are punishing them as we should have.”
The flames touched the wood and fire billowed up. Pjtor heard screams, just like those of the women killed by the Harriers as he watched. “No! In Godown’s name no!” He kicked the horse, but Geert and Michael moved faster. Before Pjtor could reach the crowd, the others had ridden through it, scattering peasants and trampling a few, judging by the cries. Michael knocked the priest away and Geert grabbed his horse’s bridle as Michael jumped down, tossing the child out of the flame and then grabbing the woman, dragging her down and rolling her in the dirt. Pjtor followed, using his riding whip on a man who tried to pick up the child and shove it back into the flame. “As I am Pjtor son of Adam son of Martin, Godown’s chosen emperor, you shall not do this!”
“I am Father Timofee and you are a heretic!”
“Where in the Writ does it say to burn those who criticize Godown?”
“The Book of Flames, chapter three. The Shepherd’s Song, chapter one, verse two.”
“Bullshit!” Pjtor roared. “Flames chapter three says, ‘And lo, Godown sent a sign in the form of flames that covered the greater part of the sky for four nights. Grigory, Pjtor, Landis, and Basil saw and believed, and led their followers to shelter, warning all who would hear of the coming of Godown’s power. But the others laughed and continued as they had, mocking the believers. And the flames came by day, bright as the spot-darkened sun, and erasing the stars and moon by night. Godown reached down with His flames, destroying the radios and FTL links, killing one third of all thinking machines and power generators.
“And still the unbelievers mocked the faithful, saying ‘we do not fear Godown. Return to the cities and towns.’ But Pjtor and Landis led their people into the forests, while Basil and Grigory took refuge with those who eschewed machines for animals. And lo, the flames returned, stronger than before, and great was the fear upon the land. And a second third of the great machines failed. Woe unto those who saw and heard but did not believe!” As he recited the verses, the others cut the woman and child free and carried them away from the distracted mob. Pjtor continued, “Shepherd’s Song, Chapter one, verse two, ‘Godown is my shepherd, I shall want for nothing. He is the wise and great shepherd, He leads the clouds like a flock, He guides them with the sun as with a guiding bonfire.’ That is what the verses say. How dare you corrupt the Holy Writ?”
“Godown ordered us to cleanse the village.” The priest’s eyes had a wildness to them that made Pjtor nervous and angry both. He waved the torch at Pjtor and his horse shied, rearing. “See, he is a demon, a tempting spirit!” Pjtor kept his seat but not his temper, and drew his sword.
Before he could d
o anything more, bang. The priest dropped the torch, staggered back, and stared at Pjtor, he tried to speak but only blood came from his mouth. The crowd gasped as one, then wailed and fell on their faces as someone called, “Godown forgive us, Godown have mercy, Emperor Pjtor have mercy on your slaves. Godown has struck him down.”
No, gunpowder did, but that’s not what I need you to believe right now. Pjtor turned the horse, moving away from the bonfire and over to where a woman knelt in the dirt, cradling a terrified child in her arms and trying to sooth it. “What say you, woman?”
“Forgive me, Imperial Master, chosen of Godown, great lord, forgive your slave. I, I stopped going to liturgy last year, it is true. My man died in a forest accident and rumors claimed I had sent him out to hide that the child was not his. People whispered and pointed, and Fr. Timofeev ordered me away until I repented of causing my man’s death. I did not wish him dead, Imperial Master, believe me I did not!” she wailed, her words coming faster and faster until he almost could not understand her. “And then there was a crop blight, white-rust on the wheat, and travelers told us that you were dead, killed by foreigners, or of illness like Emperor Isaac Godown give him rest, and people began saying it was my fault and my son’s fault. It is not, Imperial Master, please believe me. I did pray harm against Fr. Timofeev, it is true, because I am weak and I wanted Godown to strike him for his harsh words, but I never prayed for wheat rust or for your death, please believe me.”
Holy Godown, what has become of NovRodi, and in such a short span of time? “I believe you, woman,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “As the Book of Wisdom says, ‘Woe unto him who harms an innocent. Better it were that he be drowned with a millstone around his neck than he injure one of Godown’s little ones.’”
“Ameen” and “Selah” came from all those listening, the villagers and Pjtor’s men alike.
