Circuits and Crises (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 6) Page 3

  Captain Michael Kidder, Liara’s father, rested his elbows on the table. “So much for the so-called ‘Eastern Empire’ finishing off the Turkowi.”

  Sergeant Frank Timothy poked at his food, pulling anything green out into a pile on the side of the plate. “They were stupid is what they were, sir.”

  “The Turkowi or the Imperials?”

  “Imperials. One battle, even a big one, won’t stop the heretical bastards, sir.”

  “The Turkowi or the Imperials?” Kidder raised one hand, forestalling an answer. “I know, the Turkowi. The Imperials are impious, arrogant, and incompetent, but not really heretics. Yet.”

  Lt. Tommy Johns looked from one speaker to the other. “I thought the Turkowi wanted to trade at the big fairs?”

  A visitor with a courier’s ribbon sewn onto his sleeves shook his head. “Not according to the message the Rajtan sent to the Patricians’ council. Tulwar Ko Singha’s people want to trade, yes, but he and his priests want us to convert as well. To ‘accept the true faith of the one goddess, she who gave birth to all in her mercy and for her unending glory,’ as the message put it.” The courier gulped a bite of sausage, coughed, and continued, “And if the Patricians don’t return tokens of our conversion by next spring, the Rajtan will bring Selkow over the mountains, in order to correct the error of our ways.”

  “Is he strong enough to do that? I thought the Imperials had beat some sense into him, sir,” Jones half-asked.

  Kidder shook his head. “No idea. He may be bluffing. He may be trying to keep his priests happy, like Governor Andrews used to do, by calling for a war to eliminate the unbelievers but not really doing anything more than make noise.” He drained his tankard and Liara refilled it, this time with weak beer. He frowned but didn’t complain. “Or he could be serious. I think it’s a bluff, but we’d better prepare for a ferengrazzia next spring.”

  “Unless the Patricians decide to convert,” the courier reminded them.

  Kidder’s brown eyes narrowed and he rubbed the scar on the side of his face. “They can and be damned, but most of the rest of us won’t, especially those with families. Not unless there’s been a sudden revelation and the Selkowiki changed half their theology. In which case I expect to see pigs and sheep flying two-by-two over the hills above the trees.”

  The courier started to speak, but stopped when Kidder pointed to Liara. What’s the matter? I’ve heard worse, probably. She glanced down to make sure she had not spilled anything on her blouse or apron. What do families have to do with changing religion? Unless the entire family has to switch for some reason. She’d ask Fr. Mou Marcy when he next came to visit. For all that he came from the Empire, he knew a lot about the Turkowi and their goddess.

  “Liara, thank you for a good meal. You don’t need to wait on us any longer,” Captain Kidder announced.

  She got up and bowed a little to the men. “Yes, Father.” She took their now-empty plates to the cooking area. Liara washed everything and put the pots on the warm side of the stove to dry faster. She brewed a little herb tea for her father to drink for his stomach after the other men left, then banked the fire, shook out the drying cloths, and swept the floor. Chores done, she finished the bead prayers and went to sleep.

  “Go in peace, may Godown’s blessings go with thee and His wisdom guide thee until you return,” Father Mou Thomas Marcy chanted.

  “Godown’s grace be with thee. Selah,” the congregants sang back. All bowed to Godown’s symbol above the altar. Then the worshippers began turning to go, chatting or departing in thoughtful quiet. Mou preferred quiet, but after thirty years in the priesthood he’d given up waiting for miracles. Thank you, holy Godown, that they even come, since harvest is in progress. He sensed a frost in the air as well. I’d better add prayers to St. Michael-Herdsman and St. Basil-Pastor tonight. Not that he believed in St. Basil, but Godown knew which saints were true and which were false, and could sort out the petitions as He saw fit.

  Fr. Mou waited until the parishioners departed before leaving the altar area, in case someone needed to speak with him. Then he snuffed all the lamps and candles except for the massive presence lamp beside the main altar and the petition candles at the altars to St. François, St. Mou, and St. Kiara. Kiara’s flame, or rather an excellent wooden representation of it, also danced beside the main altar. After another check of the candles, and nudging two leaning petition tapers upright so they didn’t fall onto the wooden rack and start a fire, Mou retreated to the robing chamber. He brushed the borrowed robes off and hung them up for Fr. Edward. Holy Godown, pardon my thoughts, but next time you could just send a messenger instead of a storm if you need me to change my route.

  The storm had closed the road as well as drenching Fr. Mou. He’d turned west, diverting away from the Morpalo River and into the hills, only to dodge more downed trees and washed-out trails as he came north. That slowed him by a week, so he’d reached Norbert only yesterday. He’d knocked on the door of the priest’s residence and heard the worst coughing he could remember. Fr. Edward, also caught in the storm, had failed to change clothes fast enough, chilled, and came down with the winter cough two months early. Of course he couldn’t lead holy day worship, but could…? Mou agreed. One more day would not mean much, since he was not going to be crossing the mountains this year.

  After he finished cleaning up, Mou returned to the side chapel to St. François, his patron. He bowed, then knelt, joining an old woman. She appeared oblivious to the priest’s arrival, too wrapped up in her own devotions to notice anything of the world. Mou picked up his beads and began the litany for harvest, adding special prayers for safety of those working in the fields. He approved of the local image carver’s work. François looked down on them, stern yet gentle, understanding of true weakness but impatient with the lazy and foolish. Much like his priest, and Mou added a little prayer for patience, as he always did. He doubted that the bishops would ever fault him for excessive tolerance and laxity of worship.

  He finished the prayers, bowed once more to his patron, and walked out into the cool late morning sunshine. A trickle of north wind teased his neck and face, and he pulled his coat closer around his shoulders, then tugged his knit hat lower over his bald head and large ears. I wonder if the weather is changing again? His horse, normally placid to the point of torpor, had snorted and sidled that morning as he groomed the mud-colored gelding. The other animals also acted restless, as had the congregation of St. Kiara-by-the-Woods. Mou stretched his long legs, walking briskly to the edge of town and climbing the worn steps up the wall. One of the guards saw him and bustled up. “What are you—? Oh, sorry Father.” The town guard backed away as he caught sight of Mou’s silver pendant of office.

  “No, I’m the one who’s trespassing. I just wanted to see what the sky looked like to the north.” Mou followed the heavyset guard to the wall and peered out over the edge of the wall.

  “I’d say you have until the noon bell to get your errands done, Father, then I’d stay in for the rest of the day.”

  A dark blue mass covered the northern horizon as far as Mou could see. He’d seen enough of those cloud lines to know what they meant, and the priest nodded his agreement. “Aye, we’ll be waving an early good day to the sun, I fear.”

  “Aye, Father, that we will. At least it’s not one of the brown ones like they get on the eastern plains.”

  Startled, Mou turned back to the guard. “You’ve been on the plains?”

  The man spat and shook his head. “No, Granther and Grammer were. Some of the last of Godown’s people to flee back to this side of the mountains. Granther talked about the dust storms that came on the north wind in bad years.” He glanced to the north again, then back at Mou. “Granther always preferred the plains. Said he liked seeing weather coming. Grammar shook her spoon at him every time he said it.”

  Mou smiled a little. “If there’s any truth to the stories about the weather east of the Dividing Range, I’d side with your grandmother. Thank you, and Godown be with you.”

  “And with you.” Mou trotted down the wooden steps and hurried back to his lodging, an inn not far from the church. He had no desire to listen to Fr. Edward’s coughs, and the innkeeper had offered Mou a late-season discount.

  The cold storm arrived as the last of the noon bells rang out. The wind howled through Norbert, stirring up a little dust. The innkeeper’s wife had already brought in her laundry and had hung the dishtowels by the fire in the main room to dry. Mou settled onto a bench by the fire with his travel notes and began working on his report for Bishop Frank Martin at Vindobona. Although nominally assigned to Tivolia, since Duke Tillson refused to accept a new bishop until the church paid him a newly announced “settling fee,” Mou reported to Vindobona, at least until the situation in Morloke and Scheel sorted itself out. Which was why he now sat in Norbert, at the edge of Morloke, Tivolia, and the Empire, almost a month behind his usual schedule.

  That afternoon, when the wind abated a little, he checked on Fr. Edward. The younger man looked and sounded much better. “I won’t be helping with the butchering tomorrow, I promise, but I can lead worship,” he assured Mou.

  “Good. I’ll leave early tomorrow then. Do you have anything to go north?”

  “No, thank you. I sent everything two weeks ago, before the last storms came through, with a group of traders on their way to Vindobona and then Herbstadt. They’d been down with the Magwi all summer.” The round priest shrugged. “Their route sounds backwards to me. I’d winter with the Magwi and go north in summer, like the birds do, but I’m just a priest.”

  Fr. Mou shrugged in turn and finished his tea before getting up. “No, stay here and rest. I’ll do evening prayers for you, so you can stay in the warm and dry.”

  “Thank yo
u.” Edward looked much better than he had the day before, but it was easy to relapse into the winter cough.

  Three weeks later Fr. Mou reached Kossuthna Major in the Empire. To his delight he found Count Anthony Kossuth in residence. “Father Mou! Godown bless, but we’d worried about you this summer,” the tall, lean border lord declared.

  “The situation to the south kept me busy. But I’ll fill you in later. I need to see to my beasts first.”

  “Of course, Father. How did Claude do for you?” Anthony walked around the gelding, checking his legs.

  “He did just fine. Got colic once when he managed to get through an unlatched gate into a field of just-mown fodder grass.” Mou smiled at Anthony’s groan. “Darby had too much sense to do that, thanks be.”

  “Well, Darby’s a donkey. Of course he knows better.” The men smiled at the jack, who puffed a little as a stable boy removed his packs. “So, let’s get out of the cold before my lady scolds me for being a poor host.”

  Mou followed Anthony into the main hall, then through a side door and into the chamber reserved for traveling priests. Kossuthna Major didn’t have enough people to warrant a full-time spiritual guide, but priests visited at least six times a year, and until this past spring old Lord Steve Kossuth, the count’s uncle, had served as lay-leader. Mou made St. François’s sign in memory of the old man’s passing. He’d been crippled from an accident as a young man and had taken half-vows after failing to find a wife. Godown, grant him mercy in Your grace and shelter in Your arms, Mou prayed. He did his best, even if he was a little too fond of sprits. But who was Mou to say that he wouldn’t do the same thing, if was in as much pain as Steve had been at the end, his bones eaten and twisted by joint-rocks?

  Mou washed off a little of the road dust and returned to the main hall to find Anthony and his lady, Marie, along with four of their children. Mou smiled at the stair-step, brown haired youngsters, then stopped. “Where’s Thomas?”

  “He’s at the fearless and fast on four legs stage, Father Mou,” Marie explained with a little laugh. “So we’re keeping him in the nursery until all the winter stores are in and the heavy shutters are up, along with the fire guards. I don’t want to discover that he’s been flattened by a log or gotten buried under a pile of winter blankets.”

  “And Annie is with Godown,” Anthony added quietly.

  Mou closed his eyes for a moment. “Godown loves all his children. St. Foy helps the innocent to find rest in Godown’s care.”

  “Indeed, Father. Her passing was a mercy,” Marie murmured.

  “Will we be having evening prayers tonight?” Little Marie asked.

  Mou smiled. “Yes. In the chapel, with bread and oil and incense,” he assured her.

  “Oh good!”

  Later, after worship and supper, Mou retired with Anthony to Anthony’s warm, comfortable office. “Marie will join us after the children are in bed,” Anthony said.

  “I don’t understand how women manage,” Mou admitted. “I see it, but Godown must have given them special energy to do all that they do in a day.”

  “Marie refuses to tell me.” The two men fell silent as a servant brought in nuts and apples to go with the cider simmering on the hearth.

  Mou looked around at the books in the room, noting a few new theology books and accounts of saints’ lives along with the usual account files and histories. Mou wondered yet again if Anthony would have come to the clergy, had he not been the first-born son. But Godown gives each their calling. I’m glad we have been granted this friendship, because I need someone I can talk to about what I found in Tivolia. And who understands my little weakness. Mou pulled a small case out of his belt pouch and removed a tight roll of nicotiana leaves.

  Once the servants left, Anthony stirred the cider, then lit Mou’s nicotiana stick with a coal. “So, Father, what news from the south?”

  “I learned something fascinating, but I’m not certain if I should say anything about it or just place the files in the archives.”

  Anthony cracked a nut and tossed the shell into the fire. “Church history or otherwise? Because if it is Lander history, his majesty will want to know anything you find.”

  Mou shook his head and helped himself to the cider. “Neither. It has to do with Selkow.”

  Anthony inhaled the rest of his nut, then started coughing. “Selkow? You found the source of the heresy?” He whispered, then coughed again. “Sorry.”

  “No, not the source of the heresy, but the reason why they hate the women of Godown.”

  “I assumed it had to do with women raising the children and secretly staying faithful to Godown.”

  Mou drew deeply on the burning leaves, enjoying a rush of smoke and relaxation before he exhaled. “No, or at least that’s not the main theological reason, although I suspect the theology developed because of that. No,” he leaned forward and tapped off a little of the ash into the fireplace. “It is so that the women can be blessed by being reborn as followers of Selkow. Their souls return to the world in Turkowi bodies and they receive a second chance, so to speak, to follow the true religion.”

  Anthony’s eyebrows drew so close that they looked like a V-shaped caterpillar. “Wait. The heretics believe that a woman must be born to worship of their goddess, otherwise she can’t convert and should be killed?”

  “There are some records in Sierra, just inside Tivolia’s borders at the seminary of St. Gerald there. One of the postulants speaks and reads Turkowi—no he’s not a convert, it’s a long story,” he warned. “But he translated the book and some other things that were captured thirty or so years ago. Women are too spiritual and devoted, according to the Selkow priests, and can’t be swayed from either ‘the true worship’ or from ‘the way of error and fire.’ So the best, kindest, most blessed thing to do is to kill the non-believing females over age four, and they will be reborn as followers of the goddess with all the blessings that entails. Men are more worldly and less spiritual, so we can convert.” The very idea made Mou queasy, and he sucked in more smoke to settle his nerves.

  “That’s… ugh. Damn it to hell, but that’s sick. I’ve heard some strange things, but that… I see the logic, and it makes a warped sense, but…”

  “That’s what makes me believe the translation is correct, Anthony. The logic holds and matches what we’ve seen and heard over the years.”

  Kossuth ate another nut. “If, and I really do not like the way this leads my mind, Father, but if this is true, it might explain the other things we’ve seen. Because why not show them something truly horrible, women I mean, so they will be more appreciative of their redemption when they see Selkow after death? A taste of eternal punishment so they are more grateful to be reborn as Selkowiki, and more devoted?”

  “Oh holy Godown. Oh St. Sabrina and St. François, but that makes a dreadful sort of sense. As well as justifying what is otherwise inexcusable.”

  The other man raised one finger. “Do not, under any circumstances, mention this to Princess Laural, Father. Whatever else you do, don’t mention it to her. She’s already on the border of fanaticism when it comes to her dislike of the Turkowi, and this will push her over the edge,” Anthony warned.

  “I’ll take that under advisement.” Mou finished his nicotiana stick and tossed the last bits into the fire, then got more cider. “So, how much are you going to charge for Claude’s siblings and their offspring, now that I’ve proven he can deal with anything the road comes up with?”

  A woman’s voice answered from behind them, “Twice what he’d planned, I’m sure.” Marie Kossuth, neé Klaussen, half-closed the door behind her before taking the seat on her husband’s left side. “Big steady horses for heavy loads on rough roads will sell well, especially this year since nothing is moving out of Peilovna and Donatello Bend.”

  Anthony reached over and rested his hand on Marie’s knee. “You see, Father, just who the true ruler of Kossuthna is.” Marie flushed at the praise and patted her husband’s hand. Mou smiled at the by-play. He heard so many unhappy spouses coming to him and the other priests for counseling and prayers that he savored being around contented couples. Happy pairs never asked for assistance.