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  Merchant and Empire

  Merchant and Empire Book Four

  Alma T. C. Boykin

  Copyright © 2019 by Alma T. C. Boykin

  Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/TinaPappasLee

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  1. Great-hauler vs. Ovstrala

  2. Road Wary

  3. The Secret of Imperial Magic

  4. Rest and News

  5. Rumors from the South

  6. To the Moahne

  7. Moahne Calls

  8. Moahne Mouth

  9. News and Warnings

  10. The Will of the Gods?

  11. The Gods Speak

  12. Long Road Home

  13. Author’s Note

  Also by Alma T. C. Boykin

  1

  Great-hauler vs. Ovstrala

  Trweeeeeessssss!" The lead great-hauler beside Tycho lunged for the passing ovstrala, trying to bite a chunk out of the hairy beast's shoulder. The northern bovine ignored the bird's outrage and plodded along as Tycho hauled the female's head down by the lead rope, then thumped her beside the crimson crest feathers. She hissed again with affronted dignity.

  "Nay, you be civil," Tycho Rhonarida warned. "Or Yoorst of the Beasts hear me, I'll turn you into marrow stew and shoe leather before the next great feast."

  The lead bird shook all over, settling her feathers, and subsided with a quieter hiss. The north man walking beside the ovstrala wagon gave the merchant a sympathetic look and nodded. Tycho returned the nod and once the blue and white wagon-sleigh finished rolling past, he shook the lead rope. The bird leaned against her harness, cueing the other two, and they stepped out with a will. The Great Northern Emperor's men considered Tycho passing strange for bringing his own beasts and wagon while traveling as a member of the imperial court. Tycho accepted the stares and held his peace. Spare great-haulers trudged along with the other spare beasts, no more or less temperamental than the ovstrala. Tycho firmly believed that any man who trusted his beasts not to fall ill, or run away, or stay out of fights, or remain sound of limb and wind on a long journey, well, Maarsrodi seemed inclined to wait until Yoorst disciplined the merchant first. And why borrow an animal that might ail and then have to be paid for? That way lay debt and worse.

  "Heh, Master Tycho," one of the northern teamsters called. "Yon bird seems as biddable as Olgar's lead team." The north man drew the "a" long as he spoke, and Tycho wondered if his ears would ever grow accustomed to their dialect.

  Tycho had gotten the privilege—or penalty—of a front-row place to watch that display of temper by the second-line teamster's beasts. They'd allowed Olgar to harness them, acting mannerly enough, and had followed him to the wagon. Only there did they rear and kick, lashing out with hoof and horns at any and every beast and man within reach. Clods of dirt and grass had flown, pelting every wagon and wagon-sleigh closer than a county's distance, or so it had seemed to Tycho as he'd held one of his follower birds, a gelded male, and tried to ease him away from the commotion. Then the hairy ovstrala stopped and quietly allowed themselves to be hitched up as if they'd never fussed at all. That little show had convinced Tycho that his choice of great-haulers had been wise. A man always knew what disturbed the birds, be it a chafing harness or the scent of danger or an insect bite. How anyone could tell what transpired under all that hair...

  Tycho explained, "She'll settle in another day. They always act so until they are four days from home." Tycho had yet to make a journey without it happening, although such a thing might be possible.

  "Huh. Good to know. Ovstrala don't do that." The teamster sounded more thoughtful than anything else, and he turned his attention back to the blue and white wagon and grey-black beasts beside him. They'd left Rhonari two days previously, bound first for Vlaaterbe, then south, eventually to the mouth of the Moahne, if not farther. Tycho hoped not farther. He did not care to be away from home for more than a single trading season.

  One of the Great Northern Emperor's couriers, a man called Amund, strode up beside Tycho on the inside of the wagon lines. "Hae, Master Tycho. Are all the lands so flat as the Five Cities?" He gestured, but not extravagantly, toward the fields and marsh around them.

  Tycho considered what he had seen of the empire. "Nae, not so flat entirely. It is said that sea ice covered this land during the Time of Cold, and that when the ice melted, neither Donwah of the Waters nor Korvaal of the Fields could decide if they claimed it entire, so they share." He tipped his head toward the east. "The Lady of Waters occasionally reminds us of her claims. Fifteen years back or so, the sea came upriver and all of Bushmaak, most of Rhonari, and all of Maans'hill not on the hill went under for a space of days. Vlaaterbe not so badly, or so I heard tell."

  Amund's eyes widened, then half-closed as he walked, thinking. "My father said that he'd heard from his father of storms so strong, but to see wet water that high... We have snow deeper than the second level of your houses, Master Tycho, every year, but not so much wet water."

  Tycho boggled and shivered, but only inside his head. "Huh. It is said that wet water keeps snow away, but that's for priests to worry with." The last winter had been strange enough as it was, with so much snow in Rhonari, and that before the Great Northern Emperor had called the snow to fall inside the very city Council Chamber. That had managed to persuade Caster Paulaa to keep a dignified silence for two days, a feat Tycho had thought impossible for any but a god.

  "But the rest of the empire is not so flat?" Amund returned to his original question, making Tycho wonder what the land around the emperor's home city looked like.

  "Nae. The roads follow low ways and rivers, but the gods left hills, and mountains, and a great raised plain called a plateau here and there. The rivers all flow down from mountains, as best I ken. I do not know the lands of Liambruu, south of the Comb, the mountains south of Milunis where three rivers form the Moahne." The young man would be thinking fondly of the flat ground if the emperor intended to cross the Comb.

  The lead great-hauler tossed her head left then right, almost pulling the lead rope out of Tycho's hand. He allowed the slack and motion. She shook her head and neck, then settled again. Great-hauler females did that, and Tycho kept intending to ask the beast-mages why, but never did remember to inquire when he had a beast-mage on hand.

  Which led to a question he'd been mulling over since the Great Northern Emperor's visit began, the first in four hundred years. Who were his mages? Tycho had not seen any men or women that he recognized as mages. All mages wore the insignia of their guilds, per tradition and in some places by law, so that people could tell who might be a healer or a beast-mage in times of need. Tycho had watched the imperial court and did not recognize any pattern that resembled the mage-embroidery and badges of the Five Free Cities or other places. Surely his Imperial Majesty traveled with beast mages at the very least, and healers? Radmar of the Wheel turned men's and beasts' fate too often not to need medical attention at least once on a journey, and bad sausage and meat-pies respected no man's rank or trade.

  Perhaps no one had dared to cheat the north men yet. Tycho decided that was likely, and all men knew that meat in winter stayed good. Without the heat to raise miasmas, food kept fresh, enough so that even cheap meats could be eaten somewhat safely. Tycho snorted a little to himself. A wise man still did not look too closely at sausages and meat pies, lest he learn more than his guts cared to know.

  But that did not solve the m
ystery of the mages. Surely the emperor himself did not act as healer for the thousand people traveling with him, and their beasts? No, no more than the nobles and priests who had mage skills did elsewhere. Tycho shrugged to himself. The question had an answer, one that would appear in due time and miles. The weather appeared to be cooperating for the moment, and winter's rains had not ruined the road too much this year. Perhaps the unusual cold and snow kept the ground firmer and smoother than rain did.

  "Bog ahead," someone called, and Tycho grimaced. He should not have been so contented—Radmar had heard him. The wagons slowed, and Tycho tugged twice on the great-hauler's rope. She eased up her pulling.

  Pad pad pad thump. One of the north men's great hunting cats trotted up and leaped into the wagon beside Tycho's own.

  "Trrrwheeeeeessssssss!" The bird flapped her wings and tried to lash out at the predator. Tycho dodged the blow, then urged his team to the side of the road, farther away from the huge white cat. The cat watched the commotion with unblinking green eyes, then curled up and ignored the near-chaos he had initiated. The teamsters shifted just enough to make room for Tycho to get his wagon to the edge. After more flapping and a few smaller kicks, the brown-grey birds shook hard, then settled. They kept their crests down, though, warning any man wise to their ways that they stayed alert and wary.

  "Bird, Korvaal as my witness, you are too stringy and smelly for anything to want to eat you," Tycho sighed. They did not smell yet, but he wagered that by the time they reached Plaatport, if they did not find a dusting pit, everyone downwind would know of their presence.

  "Can man eat those, Master Tycho?" the teamster behind called.

  "Aye, with much stewing. Great-hauler for the table's far younger and worked less."

  A woman coming down the row carrying a courier pouch smiled. "Any animal's edible with enough stewing, bar spotted veshla." The groans and oaths that followed her declaration suggested that whatever a spotted veshla might be, Tycho did not want to meet one. He added it to his mental list, along with that unpleasant little creeping lizard-like thing in the south with the poison bite.

  "Bog's not too wide," the head teamster announced, walking back among the others. "Only a mile or so." Borghind resembled his animals in his girth and shoulder width, and heavy legs. He had yet to raise his voice. Tycho approved. "Move fast through it, don't run if you don't have to." He waited for everyone to acknowledge the command, then continued along the line.

  Tycho had triple-checked the contents of his wagon already, so he stayed with the beasts. He'd take his staff out of the wagon before they entered the bog, in case he needed help with his own footing. Given that the load was not as heavy as usual, the birds should have no difficulty, but one never knew. Some bog pulled worse than other bog. The wagon ahead of him rolled forward, and Tycho twitched the great-hauler's rope. She clawed the dirt, then began pulling.

  Not so bad, perhaps, Tycho decided as the wet area came into view. He left his staff where it was. The wagon-sleighs' tracks could be seen, but did not cut too deeply into the mire. More importantly, no axel-scrapes and shoving pits appeared to his sight. No one had bogged so low as to require men pushing from behind, at least not yet. He watched the wagon ahead of him. The ovstrala hesitated as if waiting for an order, then surged as one. Their driver ran alongside, encouraging them, and the wagon rolled, slowed a little, then lurched forward. Tycho watched until the teamster slowed the ovstrala back to a walk, and made note of where the man had trouble. Once the wagon-sleigh moved well clear, Tycho slapped the lead bird's breast. She and the others reared their necks back, then lunged.

  Tycho hurried beside them, stretching his legs but not quite running. The birds raced through the churned-up black soil, wagon following. At the deep spot, the lead leaned forward, three-clawed feet sinking deep, then pulling loose slorp slorp slorp. She and the others threw the mud to the side, kicking out and not spattering each other. It wasn't boot-pulling muck yet, but a rain or two in quick succession would make the way difficult indeed. Tycho kept one eye on the birds and another on the way ahead. Something looked wrong, and he tugged the rope, bringing the birds to the inside of the road. The right wheel bird gasped, pulling harder, and Tycho heard and saw the wagon starting to slew, then come free. "Pit here," he shouted over his shoulder, then concentrated on running as the ground firmed up and the wagon moved freely once more.

  Once everyone managed through the boggy mile, Tycho noticed the teamsters giving him looks of respect. Had they thought he was some pampered town-man? A merchant who couldn't handle his own team or crew his own ship was no merchant at all. Maarsrodi helped those who worked. He confirmed that neither birds nor wagon had suffered any ill from the fast passage, and returned to plodding along with the others. Borghind caught him as they made camp later that afternoon. "An apology, Master Tycho."

  "Sir?"

  "We thought you and your beasts unfitted for the journey, and some held you for low that you handle your own team. Now we know better." Borghind clouted Tycho on the shoulder and strode toward the watering lines. Tycho returned to un-harnessing his team and getting them into the line for water. He had not counted the number of beasts travelling with the emperor, but he assumed that it was twice the number of wagons, plus extras. A very large number, more than he cared to be responsible for. He'd brought some fodder for the great-haulers, but already he worried about the sheer amount of feed required for so many beasts, assuming the ovstrala ate the same things as great-haulers did.

  "Hae, Master Tycho, come ahead. Otin's four are taking too long," one of the senior teamsters ordered, and Tycho tapped the brim of his hat with one hand and urged the birds forward. They wiggled through the clumps of four-footed beasts and drank quickly, dipping their heads, then raising them again to allow the water to flow down their throats. Great-haulers needed half the water the ovstrala required, since the weather was cool yet, so Tycho's birds finished and he led them out of the way before anyone had time to complain. Borghind had set the rules early on, and everyone approached water from the same direction, then departed to the right, unless an obstruction of some kind blocked the way. It made moving the beasts in and out much more efficient, and Tycho greatly approved. He would tell the others and find out if they could do it with great-haulers as easily as the ovstrala accepted the system.

  Tycho returned the birds to the great corral where the other birds waited. Instead of penning the beasts inside a wagon ring every night, the imperials used wooden frames and ropes. The first night, Tycho's eyebrows had risen well toward his receding hairline at the sight. Surely the ovstrala would push through the little wooden "gates" and ropes. To his enormous surprise, the bovines filed quietly into the huge ring, found places and settled down. "Ah, is there magic cast on the ropes and wood?" he'd asked the man in line ahead of him.

  "Nae. I' th' snow country, they sleep in rings at night. Summat attacks, the dams with calves go i' th' middle, t'others face horns out, and t' problem goes away." The man had smiled at Tycho's raised eyebrows. "Come back at dark and see."

  Tycho had left the birds, after warning the herdmaster that they might jump the little rope and fence. When he'd returned, not too long after the sun left the evening sky, he saw the birds lumped-up in the center of two rings of ovastrala. The animals in the inner ring faced inwards, and the others lay nose out, with a space of a foot or two between them. A few men had walked between the rings, each carrying a metal-tipped prod. The ovstrala left a large space between themselves and the ropes around them. Someone had scattered some extra fodder in front of each ring, where the bovines could reach it without moving too far from wherever they had settled. If he hadn't seen it, Tycho would not have believed it. Even so, he still wondered what they'd do in storms. Did they get sky-fire storms in the north? He'd not thought to ask.

  As he walked through the town that formed every time the imperial progress stopped, he reminded himself that no, it was truly a Progress. Tycho sidestepped, dodging a young boy carrying
an arm-load of tent-poles. Progress. The oldest books had called it that, always a proper name, and he was starting to understand why. It was one thing for almost a thousand people to stay in a city and the surrounding villages and inns. It was quite another to move so many across the land, away from urban amenities. The emperor's "roadward" was a man called Jokith, as tall as the other northmen but leaner, probably because he never remained still unless he rode in one of the wagon-sleighs. He made Tycho's staff seem plump. Jokith had showed Tycho the map of the camp. Each night, every person and wagon went to the same position within the camp, all centered on the imperial tents. Depending on the land and water, there were four basic patterns the camp followed, and everyone but Tycho knew them. "Aye, Master Tycho," Jokith had explained as he fitted Tycho's own rig into the pattern, closer to the imperial tent than Tycho really preferred, "we train in the winter, forming camp and breaking it. The ovstrala get restless if they do not work for more than a few days, and it is always good to be ready to move, should we need to. Lady Sneelah, merciful be She, is a demanding mistress." That had not made any sense to Tycho, but if the goddess of the north were as watchful and jealous of her dignity as Donwah, Lady of the Waters... A wise man did as She bade and asked no farther.

  To Tycho's surprise, the wagon-sleighs also served as tents. The northmen could not believe that Tycho's people slept out, bedding down under their wagons with nothing more than a blanket and camp fire. Finally, Borghind had spat, then announced, "They do not travel in snow, men. We go south, to the warm country. Master Tycho knows the land. We do not." He'd cracked his knuckles and further comments had ceased. For his part, Tycho could not believe that people would travel so far and sleep in tents. That weight and space could be used for goods, for food and fuel if needed, so why bother with canvas and poles? Besides, everyone knew that in hot weather, tight canvas trapped the miasmas that came from the ground at night. Dew could give a man bone-ache, but miasmas killed both men and beasts. Fresh, moving air was best. And he had a suspicion that things like lice found tents too much to their liking for him to be comfortable with the idea of carrying mattresses and such on a very long journey. Even if each pair or three men and women used only their assigned bedding, one louse in a warm, dark roll of cloth became thousands of lice faster than Tycho cared to contemplate. Just thinking about them made him feel itchy.