Circuits and Crises (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 6) Read online

  Alma T C Boykin

  Alma T C Boykin

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  EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-42-3

  Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-43-0

  Copyright 2015 Alma T C Boykin, all rights reserved.

  “There! Angle the light a little more to the left,” Emperor Andrew Babenburg ordered his brother. “I can almost see the bolts.”

  Thomas grunted and shifted the mirror a half-centimeter, shining reflected sunlight onto the top of the faulty pump. Andrew reached down, rummaging in the ancient toolbox until he found the right wrench by feel, then loosened the bolt so they could pull the pump out of the line and replace the valve leather. Only someone with Andy’s long, skinny hands could get the blasted thing loose without dropping it, Thomas grumbled, nursing scraped knuckles.

  “Thanks.” Thomas lowered the mirror and climbed down to look at the pump. Indeed, as Andy opened the case, they could see the ragged remains of the pump leather that had once separated the two chambers. “Well, that’s a blessed easy repair for once.”

  “For once,” Thomas said. Certainly easier than the deciding what to do about Morloke and Scheel. While Andy replaced the leather, his younger brother picked up a small candle lantern, climbed up the other ladder, and peered into the pipe. Godown please don’t let me fall or drop the mirror, he whispered as he let go of the ladder to juggle the lantern and a mirror on a stick. The spot of light bounced as he inspected the pipe. He didn’t see anything, and a quick swipe with his finger didn’t turn up any sand or slime. Better check the trap just in case. He climbed down. “I’ll check the trap.”

  Andy grunted, intent on tightening the pump’s bolts in the right sequence. Thomas clomped twenty meters up the tunnel, bent double for most of the trip. At least this is the only tunnel this small in Vindobona, Godown be praised. I hate small spaces. Moisture shimmered on the wet stones around the diversion pipe, and Thomas felt his nose starting to drip as the blessed humidity undid late summer’s annual evil. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and crouched, setting the small lantern onto the floor of the passage. He unfastened the latches on the clean-out by feel and heaved the plaztik and metal canister out of its niche. Thomas dumped two kilos of sand out of the trap before shoving it back into place and snapping the latches shut. The leather seal felt tight, and he didn’t see any evidence of water leaks around the clean-out.

  From foreign policy briefings to cleaning sand out of water pipes, Thomas sniffed. Followed by domestic matters and tax hearings. I think I almost like cleaning water pipes better: less dependent on rumor and much easier to fix. Except for being in small places underground.

  “Need the light again?” he asked his brother when he returned from the access tunnel.

  “Nope,” Andy called from the top of the ladder. “I can get it.” Ten seconds later, clang!, ping, clang, rattlerattlerattle rang out as a metal something hit two lower pipes before landing on the floor. “Oh, by St. Sabrina’s tits.”

  Thomas found the wrench and handed it up without a word, a huge grin spreading from ear to ear.

  Andy finished the installation. “Shut up and turn the water back on,” he warned, shaking cold, wet fingers.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows and tried to look innocent. Andy growled, threatening him with the wrench.

  Thomas bowed with a flourish and strolled back up the main access tunnel. Two steps to the side brought him to the metal wheel that controlled the master flow of water to half of Vindobona’s surface pumps. He pushed his whole weight against the wheel and it groaned, turning reluctantly. What do we do when it freezes up completely? Is there a way to bypass it? Well, this time it behaved, opening the flow. Andy gave him a thumbs-up sign and Thomas relaxed. No unplanned baths in cold water this time.

  They put the tools up in their boxes. “Any gaps?”

  “Nope. You?”

  Thomas triple checked the boxes. “None. All accounted for.” They closed the boxes and started walking to the access door. “I wonder if any other emperor has to repair pipes and sewers?”

  Andy’s snort echoed from the stone walls. “It’s better than what the Rajtans of the Turkowi are supposed to do.”

  Which thing? I’ve heard of several, none of which sounded fun. He just snorted in turn. “Gonna check the generator while we’re here?”

  Andy ducked and Thomas nodded to himself. His brother had forgotten about that. They turned left into another tunnel and climbed down two meters, using the notches carved into the wall to reach the platform and door. Andy unlocked the door and they carried their lanterns and tools into the small, long room. Water flowed just below their feet and Thomas edged along, his back to the slimy wall. He heard a switch snick and light bloomed over an assortment of paddles and gears hanging above the dark, fast-moving water. The generator produced power from a diversion of the main water pipes, the same diversion that supplied the palace fountains with water from the hills above the city.

  Satisfied, Thomas scooted back along the ledge while Andy turned off the light. They returned to the main tunnel and continued up the steep slope.

  “I found more of the circuit diagrams in the palace archives,” Andy announced. “These have the switch directions with them. Maybe this time I can get the pump to run from the generator the first time.”

  Thomas grunted. He didn’t share Andy’s fascination with trying to rebuild Lander junk, but it was a harmless diversion compared to some. “You going to need more wire?”

  “Don’t think so. I found another stash last week, in the shipment of trade goods from Karstaadt. And it’s not even corroded like the last batch.”

  “That’s good,” Thomas saw a man’s shadow ahead of them and added, “Your Majesty.” Back to the court manners he thought.

  Andrew straightened up, handing Thomas his toolbox. Thomas took it without a word. Andy the mechanic vanished, replaced by his majesty Andrew the Third of Babenburg. Thomas took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, assuming the restrained and distant air he wore in public. It helped deflect comments from his slime-streaked clothes, bleeding hands, and muck-spattered hair. “I trust there are no difficulties?” he heard Andy inquire.

  Gary Smith, the palace water steward, shook his head, straw-blond hair flopping across his eyes before he raked it away. “None at all, Your Majesty, highness,” and he nodded to Thomas after sketching a bow to the older brother. “Pressures are back up and so far everything looks good.”

  “Good.” Andy accepted a piece of clean rag and wiped his hands and face. “When was the master sediment trap last emptied?”

  Smith’s face fell. “Ah, last year I believe? I’m not certain, Your Majesty.”

  “Well, it needs to be done more often. How full was it, Thomas?”

  “Sand up to the first caution line, Your Majesty, and weighed two kilos or so after the water drained out.” That’s a lot of sediment in one year this far down the line. Which means the up-slope traps are probably full as well and the water is bypassing them. Which means someone has to go and check every damn one. He sighed as he set the toolboxes down in their slots on the maintenance cart’s bed.

  The donkey pulling the cart appeared to be dozing in the late summer sun, and Thomas agreed with the beast’s sentiment. He’d never, ever admit it to his brothers, but the tunnels gave him the creeps, especially the lowest levels where the great cisterns held the water that kept Vindobona alive. Oh, they could have drunk from the Donau Novi, and had in emergencies or during system tests, but having clean water and plenty of it meant that the
old city remained a healthy city. Healthy by modern standards, that is, Thomas reminded himself. He patted the donkey on the hip as he walked over to where his horse, Sweetie, waited.

  Andy had some words with Gary Smith that Thomas ignored in favor of tightening the mare’s girth and checking her headstall. He also untied the hat from the back of the saddle and pulled it on, shading his sun-sensitive nose. Andy mounted his gelding and Thomas counted to five before he heaved himself into the saddle. He’d inherited their father’s short legs, at least short compared to Andy’s two-meter height. Smith climbed into the driver’s seat on the cart and clucked the donkey into motion, following the royal brothers as they rode south through the city’s streets.

  Thomas nudged Sweetie ahead and caught up with his brother. “On a different topic, Your Majesty,” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you heard anything new about the situations in Tivolia and Scheel?”

  Andy blinked dark blue eyes before running his whip hand through his brown hair. “Only from Scheel, and that was a rumor that the Patricians sent the last messenger from Morloke packing. So the split is permanent, or as permanent as it can be until next spring, when everyone has had fall and winter to reconsider their positions.”

  Thomas considered the rumor. “Or until Tillson and Sarmas’s fight spills over when they decide to gang up on Morloke, that is, Your Majesty.”

  Andy made a rude but quiet sound as he raised his whip hand, acknowledging several bows and salutes from passersby. “Which has to be one of the stupidest fights imaginable, but then no one ever praises Miles Tillson for his sagacity and foresight, do they?”

  “No, Your Majesty.” Not that I’d want to marry Edmund von Sarmas’s daughter either, even if I could, but to send her back and try to retain claims to her dowry? And the free cities are between Sarmas and Tivolia anyway, so what do either Sarmas or Tillson gain by trying to unite the two, besides a bunch of pissed-off fortified towns? Thomas wasn’t a diplomat or soldier per se, but even he could see how stupidly Miles Tillson was acting.

  “Despite the mess along the rest of the Donau Novi, I think our problem will be the north again next year,” Andrew said after a moment. They’d reached the edge of the palace district and guards opened the decorative gates for them, bowing with fancy flourishes of their ribbon-trimmed hats. Emperor Andrew waved in acknowledgment as they rode through. “We northerners singed the Turkowi at the Plate River lowlands, but not badly enough.”

  Thomas felt his jaw starting to drop and caught himself just in time. He did stare at his brother in disbelief before returning his attention to Sweetie. “Interesting, Your Majesty.” We damn near slaughtered every male Turkowi under age forty and you think it’s not bad enough? After all, the Turkowi were just another horse tribe, like the Magwi on the plains south of Scheel, but with a different religion.

  “A courier is due this afternoon, Thomas, so get cleaned up and meet me in the lesser council chamber. Starland, Bierski, and Kossuth will be there, too.”

  “What about Peilov?”

  Andy slashed the air with one hand. “He’s still got plague to deal with.” Thomas made Jenna’s line with one hand. “The good news is he’s kept it confined to Peilovna and Donatello Bend. The bad news is…”

  “The bad news is that it’s in Peilovna and Donatello Bend, two of the most heavily populated counties in the realm.” Plague terrified Thomas more than tunnels did, although not by much.

  “Later.” Andy let two grooms take the gelding’s head as he dismounted. Thomas rode on to the far end of the stable block, closer to his quarters. He kicked loose of the stirrups and half-fell out of the saddle. Sweetie, used to his inelegant dismounts, flicked her tail at the flies. One of the waiting stable hands bowed. “Your Highness.”

  Thomas turned over the reins and patted the mare on the shoulder, then walked off. Smith would put the tools away, so he could go straight to his rooms and clean up. Already thinking about what he’d need to review before the upcoming meetings that afternoon and the next morning, Thomas barely remembered to take his hat off as he passed through the heavy iron-bound door at the end of the second-oldest wing of the palace.

  Ulrich Jones, his valet and steward, opened the door to his chamber before he could walk into it. “My lord,” Ulrich whispered, bowing, then catching the hat as Thomas tossed it.

  “Andy called for a policy chat in two hours or so, lesser council chamber. I’ll need to wash these.” He held up his hands for Ulrich to see. “Hair too.”

  “Very good,” came the harsh-voiced reply. The square man helped Thomas prize off his rough work boots, then took his coat, wrinkling his nose at the state of the sleeves. Thomas flinched at the valet’s disapproving glance, then poured himself some water and drank half the pitcher.

  How can I get thirsty when I’m surrounded by water? Never mind. He crossed the small anteroom in two strides, shed his shirt as he strode through his study, tossed the shirt on the bed and stopped. He turned to his private altar and bowed to St. Jenna and Godown. Thank you for getting us back safe. Then he walked into the small, tile-floored room where a water spigot poked out of the wall. He ran some water into a deep basin and ducked his head, scrubbing his hair and face both before he emerged. He found the soap by touch and scrubbed his short hair before ducking back into the water again. Thomas groped around with one hand and felt the towel sliding close enough for him to grab. He patted his face, then rubbed his hair touch-dry before returning the towel to Ulrich.

  Clean clothes waited in the bedroom and Thomas finished changing out of his heavy dirty-work gear and into narrow trousers and a white shirt and dark blue waistcoat. Andy had decreed full court formality to be in abeyance until the heat broke, so he could dispense with his jacket, thanks be. Ulrich nodded his approval and held up a mirror. Thomas combed his hair back into place. If he let it grow much longer, the thick brown hair turned into an undignified curly mop. His light skin did not match his dark hair and eyes, and once again he wondered what strange combination of ancestors had given him the odd coloring. He gestured for Ulrich to bring the mirror closer so he could inspect his cheeks and nose, looking for more of those strange red patches. The churigon had already cut two off his back and one off his nose, in case they might be dangerous. “Thank you. Any gossip of interest?”

  Ulrich put the mirror away and shook his head. “No, my lord,” he rasped. “I ordered the maids to start unsealing the storage chests and airing out some of your heavier things, in case the weather turns. And your waxed riding coat and hat are back. Your new shirts are also here. I took the liberty of having the laundress wash them after I approved them, my lord.”

  “Very good, Ulrich, thank you.” Thomas glanced to his little prayer area. Please, Godown, send cooler weather before we have any more duels or riots. “By any chance has someone?” He looked back and saw Ulrich removing a fly-mesh cover from a plate of minced fish sandwiches and a slice of custard pie, along with a pot of hot tea. “Thank you.”

  Thomas devoured the light meal as he read the most recent summary of the Empire’s foreign relations. Through a very informal agreement, he focused on matters outside the Empire, leaving internal affairs to baby brother Michael. He’s twenty-eight with two-and-a-half children, so not exactly ‘baby’ anymore. The youngest prince had come as a great surprise to the Babenburg family; a most blessed surprise, as events proved. Andrew had yet to marry, Thomas couldn’t, but Michael had happily stepped into the breach, providing potential heirs if Andy failed to find a wife.

  Thomas finished eating and his valet whisked the dishes away. Thomas took the tea into his study and read a little more before he had to go to the lesser reception chamber.

  He found a tidy stack of messages and two reports waiting for him in the cool meeting room. Counts Jan Bierski and Anthony Kossuth stood by the other small table, chatting animatedly about something. Lord Don Starland appeared deep in thought as he read a letter. Or he could be napping, Thomas grinne
d to himself. Starland had fallen asleep at parade rest at least once, although Godown knew on that occasion he’d earned the nap.

  Thomas busied himself sorting the messages. One, from a source in Morloke, caught his attention and he broke the seal, skimming the written contents. Then he ran a finger under the written words, feeling the pattern of dots and bars pushed into the thick paper. He frowned and reread the written words in light of the coded message. His brothers and their advisors would not like this news, especially if rumor proved true. Someone cleared their throat, and he looked up to see Jan and Anthony watching him. They bowed and for the hundredth time he wondered if they were twins. Oh, he knew otherwise, but they shared red-brown hair, green eyes, narrow jaws, and wiry builds.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted them.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Anthony Kossuth replied. “Any news of note?”

  Thomas glanced at the message in his right hand. “Yes, possibly, but it is best saved for all to hear together.”

  Kossuth took the hint and nodded, stepping back a pace. All three men turned as a quiet, “Zzznxxx” sounded from Don Starland. He’s done it again. Don stood, head tipped forward, eyes closed, dark brown hair flopped over his forehead, full lips slightly open, sound asleep. I thought he’d age out of that, but apparently not.

  Bierski’s eyes popped open and he mouthed, “I didn’t think he could do it.”

  “He can sleep anywhere, and does,” Thomas hissed back. And at the most mood-shattering moments, too, if he’s tired enough. Should they try and wake him before Andrew came in? He heard a door open and pivoted to face the front of the chamber.

  “His Majesty Emperor Andrew,” a voice proclaimed, and the men bowed. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas glimpsed Starland startling and dropping into a bow. He’s lucky he’s facing the right direction, Thomas thought. Andrew has no sense of humor when it comes to matters of precedence and etiquette.

  “You may rise,” Emperor Andrew called. “I called this informal meeting to discuss the latest rumors out of the south, and to sound out your thoughts regarding options for dealing with Peilovna and Donatello Bend.”