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

  Bierski gulped. “Your Majesty, what happened to Count Peilov?”

  “Nothing as of the last message from Crownpoint,” Andrew said, turning to Thomas and raising his eyebrows in a question.

  “There are no further updates, Your Majesty.”

  “The question is one of supply and taxes. It appears that the plague has stopped at the Peilovna and Donatello Bend borders, Godown be praised.” The men made the signs of their patron saints. Andrew continued, “But Count Peilov reports an estimated twenty-five percent population loss, although that is worst case, as you well know. Even if it is less, those who recover from the malady are weak, so Peilov thinks he’ll lose half of harvest unless he gets outside help.”

  Starland pursed his lips and rubbed alongside his long nose. “I take it, Your Majesty, Your Highness, my lords, that no one is volunteering their assistance.”

  Kossuth gave his older associate a look suggesting that only an idiot would ask that.

  “No. Nor is the crown going to ask or order anyone to, not until those lands have been plague-free for a month. What I want to know is: will remitting Peilov’s taxes for a year break the budget?” Andrew asked.

  Bierski, the mathematical one in the quartet, tipped his head to the side as he thought. “I believe that, based on what I recall, the loss will not unduly injure the Empire’s reserves, barring war or other disaster. Will the crown seek to make up the loss from other estates?”

  Andrew pursed his lips before replying, “Not at this time, barring war or other disaster, or an imperial wedding.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows at that bit of information. Wedding, Andy? I wonder who. Not the Sarmas daughter, surely. That would trigger a three-way war. Starland shot Thomas a glance and the prince shrugged a centimeter.

  “Now, since domestic revenues always end up tied to foreign affairs,” Andrew continued. “What news from the south? And I mean news, not market talk and traders’ rumors.”

  Thomas held up the message from Morloke. “The news is that the division of Scheel from Morloke is permanent and official, Your Majesty, according to the Oligarchs in Morloke, Scheel’s Patrician Council lacks the military strength to protect their border and force Morloke back into the commonwealth at the same time.”

  Kossuth made a quiet, rude sound.

  “Yes?” Andrew inquired.

  “Ah, Your Majesty, just that the division strikes me as counterproductive. They barely beat off the Turkowi the last time Selkow’s fanatics tried to force the passes, and neither territory has enough resources to prosper without trade.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Your Majesty, I’m inclined to agree with Anthony, but apparently the Oligarchs and Patricians don’t. I suspect there’s something we don’t know about, a family division or feud or,” Thomas spread his hands and shrugged. “What concerns me are the reports of Turkowi traders attempting to pass as Magwi. Several have been caught in both Morloke and Scheel, after the annual horse fairs in Tivolia and Morloke.”

  Don Starland patted the tiles with his foot. “Your Highness, perhaps they are traders. There’s no way the Turkowi could muster to attack anyone, not after their losses up on the Great Plate River.”

  “I agree.” Andrew’s cold tone warned that the topic had come to an end. “Tivolia and Sarmas are of greater concern,” and discussion turned to that difficulty.

  Some time later the emperor dismissed his advisors. Thomas walked back to his quarters, fingering the coded letter and wondering. The Magwi and the Turkowi detested each other for all that they shared a number of commonalities. For a Turkowi to pretend to be a Magwi horse trader made no sense, since no country but Polonia had barred trade with the Turkowi yet. Maybe Andy and Don are right and there’s nothing but someone being foolish for some reason. Could the Turkowi be trying to pass their animals off as Magwi? That would make sense, given the prices some people will pay for a Magwi stud. As he considered the matter, that explanation made a good deal of sense. But still, something nagged Thomas. Once back in his study, he made a note of his thoughts and filed the report away in the foreign ministry file. Then he stripped to his drawers and flopped onto his bed for a much-needed nap before the evening’s entertainments.

  As the musicians sounded the notes of the first dance, a couples’ line dance, his majesty bowed to Elizabeth Albinez and offered her his hand. The young woman fluttered and curtsied, resting her hand on the emperor’s. The other courtiers paired up, and Thomas bowed to Dowager Countess Jones. “Might I have the pleasure of your grace?” he inquired.

  The old lady sniffed a touch but agreed. She retained a measure of her former grace despite suffering from joint rocks, and she and Prince Thomas marked the end of the line of dancers. They bowed, stepped to the side, turned in place, and stepped forward, touching hands before turning to face the couple above them in line. As the flute began a counter rhythm, the four touched hands at the center of their small square and rotated a quarter turn so that women now alternated with men in the lines. The guitar and viol picked up the melody and the dancers turned in place again before the next set of steps.

  After the first dance ended, the musicians played the opening bars of a couples dance. Thomas escorted the dowager back to her seat, then took his accustomed hiding spot. Miss Geraldine Eulenberg joined him. She wore a plain dark brown dress and small brown cap with no lace. “Your Highness,” she said, curtsying.

  “Miss Eulenberg.” He eased over to make room for her beside the ornamental plant. “I am surprised to see you here.”

  “Uncle Misha insisted that I come. He still does not understand what half-vows entail.” The attractive young woman sighed. “He means well, but keeps saying that this is ‘a phase’ and that once father finds me a husband, I’ll ‘see reason’.”

  Thomas gave her a sympathetic smile. “He sounds like my mother, Godown be with her.” You should be seeing young ladies, you don’t need to spend so much time praying or studying religions things, you can miss one worship service without causing a problem, Thomas recited from memory. No, because even a half-vow is a serious commitment and solemn profession, Mother, which Fr. Anthony is probably still trying to tell you. He stood between the everyday world and a clerical profession. Thomas could still serve his family, but he also served Godown.

  Geraldine gave the dancers a wistful look, then wrinkled her nose. “I have not had the heart to tell Uncle Misha that I will be making a full profession at midwinter, with my parents’ blessing.”

  Really? That’s interesting. I wonder if Andy knows? Laural should, too. It’s been a while since a count’s daughter took full vows. That could shift the marriage market somewhat. Or perhaps not, Thomas decided, since she was the third daughter. “May St. Sabrina guide your discernment,” he told her.

  “Thank you.”

  Another group dance began and Thomas excused himself. Even though he’d taken half-vows, that did not release him from all social functions. And he was, in theory, an eligible bachelor as well as being his brother’s heir.

  An hour before midnight Andrew caught his eye and nodded his dismissal. Thomas bowed his understanding and ducked out of the great reception hall. Ah, Godown be praised for the evening cool! That many bodies made the airy room stifling, and Thomas cut through the back ways and the gardens, breathing deep of the cooler air.

  The wind had shifted, trickling down from the west. He fancied he could smell the sour, woodsy air of the hills west of Vindobona through the summer fug of the city. I will lift up my nose unto the hills, form whence cometh fresh air, he misquoted without a shred of guilt.

  Once back in his quarters, he rinsed off again and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Liara Kidder fought off a yawn, forcing herself to pay attention to her mending. She’d carried everything up onto the battlement, hoping the bright sunlight and breeze would keep her awake. At least the light made the work easier to see. She hated black-on-black mending, but lighter thread stood out terribly
on her father’s trousers. At least I’m above the smells, too, she thought, watching the dung wagon trundling back from its weekly trip to the farms on the other side of the river and marshes. And above the blood flies and biting gnats. After listening to her father and the other soldiers for most of her life, she understood why the Lander survivors had built a fortress extending well into the river here on the Morpalo in southern Scheel, surrounded by swamps and wetlands, but that didn’t make the bugs any less irritating.

  Mending her father’s pants again also irritated her, and she frowned at the dark material. How did he do it this time? He’d managed to tear the lower leg, the part that should have been tucked into his riding boot, and the upper thigh on the other leg. Of course they would be in places where she had to use black or dark blue thread to mend the tears, and she couldn’t just patch them, since these were his “uniform” pants. Liara moved a little on the gritty stones of the archer’s step, keeping her shadow off the work as she began stitching.

  Liara finished closing the thigh tear before her neck cramped. “Ow,” she moaned, rubbing the sore muscles in her neck and shoulder. “Ow, ow, ow, I know better.” She slowly straightened out her neck, turning her head left to right, then tipping back to look up at one fluffy cloud drifting through the white-blue sky. Her back also bothered her. She stood up and glanced around for watchers before bending over to touch her toes, then twisting back and forth. She rolled her shoulders and flapped her arms, carefully, so it didn’t look as if she were trying to signal or attract attention. Stretched and shaken, she leaned against the sun-warmed stones of the top of the fortress wall and looked out to the east.

  Far in the distance, at the edge of the world, a faint blue line peeking over the hills marked the heights of the Marlowe Mountains, part of the Dividing Range. Closer to Sigurney and the Morpalo River swamps, hills marched from northwest to southeast, matching the line of the western coast. Liara sighed. She liked the seacoast better than the hills and hated the swamps. She’d been allowed to walk on the beach when they’d lived in Sudmaar, running free as her mother did the mending and cooking. Then the Patricians had promoted her father to captain and moved them to Sigurney. No one played in the swamps, not even the few people living outside the walls of the old town and its fortress. “It’s an important post,” she whispered to herself yet again. “The Patricians trust Father a great deal to make him commander here.” And she wouldn’t be here much longer, not if her brother Gerald was right about finding a possible husband for her.

  And dreaming about young men would not get the pants mended! Liara sighed, tucked a stray brown curl back into her hat, and shifted her work until she had sunlight again. The breeze had died, even up on the battlement, and she risked unlacing and loosening the top of her blouse. Her father never said anything, but Sergeant Timothy would bellow at her for “distracting the men” again if he caught her. Sarge is worse than Fr. Donn ever is about women and modesty and proper behavior, she snorted. As if I can get into any mischief or even look at a boy here without someone reporting to Father. She didn’t need a matron to protect her when she had four thousand men of the Sigurney garrison ready to tattle if she so much as glanced at someone.

  An hour later by sun, she’d finished mending the pants. I quit. Her eyes felt crossed and they watered from trying to see the tiny stitches on the heavy twill fabric. Her fingers had gone numb, along with her rump. Liara packed everything back into her sewing bag and picked her way along the long, steep steps from the archers’ walk down to the second level. A grating voice called, “What do you mean you didn’t finish the floors yet?” and she heard a heavy slapping sound. Liara ducked into the closest doorway and scooted through the dim passage until she came to the back way into the family quarters within the inner tower. When Alice O’Raurk’s temper got riled up, anyone became fair game for her anger, and Liara didn’t want it to be her.

  She slipped into the commander’s quarters without being seen and leaned against the wall, relieved to have escaped notice. Then she straightened up and took off her heavy shoes, pulling on her slippers with one hand as she took off her sun cap and smoothed her hair with the other. Then she remembered to tighten her collar. “What was it today? Oh, yes, sausage and marsh wheat with sweet roots.” She took the mended pants to her father’s bedroom and laid them on the bed for him to inspect, then went to her cubby and put away her workbag. She checked her reflection in the little hand mirror she’d inherited from her mother.

  “No smudges this time.” She wrinkled her nose. A few curls had escaped her under cap, as usual, and she set the mirror down before twisting the stray hair back into place. She tightened her plain white cap and tugged her apron straight, re-tying the laces in the back before checking the mirror again. Her mother’s eyes looked back at her, grey-blue against her summer-tan skin. Where the little button nose came from no one knew, but she’d gotten a full dose of her father’s broad lips and classic chin. Liara put the mirror back in its hiding place and brushed her hands on her skirt. “Sausage, no, sweet roots first, and put the marsh wheat on to soak,” she decided aloud.

  Her father’s aid found her a few minutes later, as she was stoking the cooking fire and shifting the coals around. “Miss Liara, Captain Kidder says two more for supper.”

  Oops, better get out more grain and another root, then. “Two more for supper. Thank you, Lt. Johns.”

  He nodded and spun on his heel, striding out as if on parade. Except he collided with Alice as the matron threw the door open and rushed in. Liara bit her lip and turned back to the fire, struggling not to laugh. Goodwife Alice O’Raurk found nothing amusing, least of all an affront to her dignity such as walking into a soldier. Liara heard sounds but concentrated on measuring more marsh wheat into the bowl. She’d pumped water before going to the wall, so all she had to do was add enough to cover the grain.

  “What are you doing, Miss Kidder?”

  “Peeling two sweet-roots to go with sausage and marsh wheat, Goodwife.”

  Alice grunted and peered over Liara’s shoulder. “Did you get your father’s trousers finished?”

  “Yes, Goodwife.”

  The older woman sniffed. Liara concentrated on peeling the roundish roots. The tough, lumpy skins stuck unless she used a very sharp knife, and she needed to get every last bit of tuber off the skin that she could. “Don’t be wasteful. It will be a month before more supplies come.”

  “Yes, Goodwife.” I’m not a child, Alice. I’m perfectly capable of running my father’s household. I’ve been doing it since I was thirteen. And he won’t marry you, especially not since your husband is still alive! Although I’d try for a detached posting too if I were married to you.

  Alice leaned forward and inspected Liara’s work. The lean, weasel-faced woman sniffed again before withdrawing a step or two. She stirred the soaking grain, then went to poke her nose in someone else’s work.

  Liara waited until she heard the door shut before heaving a sigh of relief. Her mother would never have put up with Alice. But Liara was only sixteen and unmarried, so she had to at least act respectful, even if her father was the commander of the fortress and Alice’s husband a corporal courier. Liara set the tuber peels aside and stirred the grain, pouring off a little of the water and adding fresh. A few weevils left with the rinse and Liara groaned. She’d have to go through the entire sack of marsh wheat tomorrow, sifting and sorting.

  Liara tested the big chopping knife, then attacked the two sweet root tubers, hacking the orange roots into bite-sized pieces. She’d toss them in with the sausage as it baked, catching the drippings while mellowing the sharp flavor of the meat and herbs. She set a pot of water on the hot fire to come to a boil. Then she turned her attention to the dining area.

  By the time the water boiled, Liara had cleaned and set the table for six. She hurried back, drained the grain once more, and poured it into the pot of boiling water along with a bit of ham and some fresh greens that she’d saved back. Then she moved part of
the fire to the side and set a second pot of water heating for hand washing before the meal and cleaning up after. The sausage and sweet roots went into a clay dish that she’d soaked in water. Liara set the lid on it, then set the dish on the coals, piling a few more onto the top. She tidied the worktable and tossed the tuber peels into the fire. She had time enough for one set of bead prayers before she needed to check the grain.

  Liara went to her cubby and opened the little box with her treasures. Her mother’s prayer beads rested on top of the trinkets and bits of material. Brilliant scarlet and gold beads alternated with creamy tan and ended in a tiny red and gold flame, a reminder of her late mother’s devotion to St. Kiara. Liara sat on the end of her promise chest and began reciting the beads, praying for her mother’s soul and her brother’s health, and for discernment in choosing a husband, among other things.

  “Blessed be Godown, Lord of all, who takes His children to his heart. Blessed be,” she stopped on the last bead and sniffed. “Oh no!” Liara dropped the beads back in the box and darted into the cooking area to find starchy water overflowing from the grain pot. She used a scrap of batting to lift the pot lid, frowning as she saw the water. Alice! You old cow, what were you thinking? Someone had added water to the grain. Liara bailed at least two tankardsful out, then added the last of the greens, the ones she’d been saving for garnish since her father had a guest. “I hope it isn’t ruined.” Godown, please make Alice mind her own business. Fr. Donn always scolded people who prayed for unworthy things, but even he might agree with Liara this time, or so she thought.

  The food survived. At least Liara thought it had. Her father and the other men didn’t seem to taste it. She listened as they talked, filling their mugs and adding more to their plates when they signaled for seconds. No one complained, even though the grain seemed bland to her taste. Instead, the men chewed over the latest news.