Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Catherine, on the other hand, was more than content to define her status based on Owen’s position within Mystria. That became the nugget of her hatred for the new world. In Mystria he was Prince Vlad’s friend, and she was a confidant of Princess Gisella. One could rise no higher in society. But in the eyes of her friends and rivals in Norisle, this meant little. After all, a scullery maid in some Launston pub warranted higher social standing than anyone in Mystria. Their colonial cousins were to be humored and tolerated or pitied and despised. While Catherine reveled in the status she did possess in Mystria, she hated that it meant her standing had fallen below where it had in Norisle when she’d married him.

  He turned to a fresh page in his journal, and began writing her a letter. He wasn’t certain that it would ever be found if the wolves got them, or that he would ever let her read it if they didn’t. Still, he had much to say to her. He would make one last attempt to let her know why he loved her and Miranda and Mystria.

  He hoped she would understand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1 May 1767

  Prince Haven

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Prince Vlad’s spirits soared with Mugwump. Firmly lodged in the saddle, his goggles in place and gloves on his hands, the Prince could not help but smile as the dragon flew lazily over fields and back toward the wurmrest. Mugwump showed no inclination to descend and instead raised his head and gave voice to his joy.

  At least, that’s what Prince Vlad assumed he was doing. Since midday, right after Vlad had stopped working on his Mystrian thaumaturgy, Mugwump had begun an odd series of vocalizations. They tended to break at odd places for Vlad, but the howling of dogs and Richard’s putting his hands over his ears suggested the sound just moved into higher registers than Vlad could hear. The string of sounds—and the calls seemed the same every time, deliberately repeated—ended on a rising note making it sound as if the dragon was asking a question. Vlad even timed the intervals between calls, as best he could. They ran roughly a minute, which meant the sound had thirty seconds to travel out and a reply to come back. If Mugwump was asking questions, he was expecting an answer from a creature roughly six and a half miles away.

  No replies came, however, and as nearly as Prince Vlad could see, the silence had no effect on Mugwump’s mood. In fact, were he to compare the dragon’s reaction to the call and lack of reply, it would mirror Richard’s concern over something one moment, then his utterly carefree response to something else the next. Still, while they flew, Mugwump tended to vocalize toward the west, with more of a challenging tone to his voice.

  During those vocalizations, Mugwump tended to be gliding, and lost altitude. Aside from the first time, the loss was neither abrupt nor quick, but it did seem to surprise the dragon. He flapped his wings a couple of times and they regained the distance they’d lost. Beneath them the buildings had shrunk to something roughly the size of Vlad’s thumbnail. He took note of that fact, even stripping off a glove to make sure the comparison was close to exact. Later he rode out from Prince Haven, took proper measurements of ground features, and calculated how high they actually had flown.

  Making observations about distance were about as far as Prince Vlad got. The exhilaration of flying so far exceeded the thrill he’d felt when swimming with the dragon that he could scarce compare them. Granted, the thought of drowning had always dampened the thrill—and the inability to holler happily likewise caused problems—but flying combined freedom and speed with placement in a realm where men were not meant to go. Even the knowledge that were he to fall off or Mugwump to plunge from the sky, he would die, could not kill the happiness bursting within him.

  He kept his hands very light on the reins, but Mugwump responded when he tugged. The only time he had difficulty was after Mugwump had shrieked toward the west and awaited a reply. After the requisite interval, however, Mugwump turned, swooping or climbing, drifting over the broad river which flashed silver in the sunlight.

  It was in crossing the river that Prince Vlad realized something had changed in how Mugwump approached flying. When flying over warm land, thermal updrafts helped Mugwump maintain altitude. As he passed over the river, he’d descend. His descent, however, was a fraction of what it had been before and didn’t provoke a need to flap his wings. His wingspan had not grown significantly, so it had to be something else.

  The dragon is using magick.

  The thought came to Prince Vlad unbidden, and he tried to dismiss it as a hangover from his morning’s considerations. It presented him with two problems, neither of which he liked. The first was that there was magick that would allow heavier-than-air creatures to fly. While no man might be able to discover, master, or power the exact nature of that spell, the Prince found himself making a mental list of every story in the Good Book that involved angels or other people flying and levitating. Adding in every saint who had been said to have managed it swelled the list enormously. Vlad transformed that into a battalion of flying soldiers armed with rifles and didn’t like the implications at all. That the Church might know of that magick and might have incorporated it into their grimoire frightened him.

  On top of that, the idea that a dragon could work magick caused all sorts of philosophical problems. Men spoke proudly about their ability to reason as being what differentiated them from beasts. Use of magick was but one example of the fruits of reasoning. Men used the ability to reason in conjunction with passages from the Good Book to justify the subjugation of every other creature in the world—as well as their fellow men.

  If a dragon could use magick—and magick use was a sign of the ability to reason—then there could be no moral justification for treating a dragon as chattel. Could he actually own a creature that had its own mind? Society would agree that he could—indentured servitude was an example of an acceptable form of it, and even the Good Book failed to condemn slavery. But Vlad had never bought a man’s contract, and the idea of owning slaves repulsed him. Yet if Mugwump is a reasoning creature, can I pretend to own him?

  Prince Vlad’s eyes tightened. “How much do you know, Mugwump? How much can you understand me?”

  The dragon looked back at him, then opened his mouth as if to smile and dove. He plunged head-first toward the ground, wings tight in. Vlad held on to the saddle and leaned back, forced into that posture by air resistance. Then Mugwump’s wings came out and his head came up. His tail went down, then twisted. The dragon came up and over in a somersault, then rolled over and soared back the way they had come.

  Vlad’s heart pounded in his chest. “I hope to God you can understand me. Do not do that again.”

  The dragon frowned.

  “At least, not without warning.”

  Mugwump raised his head and trumpeted proudly.

  Vlad laughed, then something wet hit his face. He looked up, seeing not a single cloud in the sky. Then he looked at his shirt and saw a red splotch, as big around as his fist. He swiped a glove against his face and it glistened.

  He pulled back on the reins. “To the ground, now, Mugwump. Now!”

  The beast glanced back at him and more blood flew from his nostrils to strike Vlad in the chest. A shiver ran through the dragon, then he dove toward the ground. He unfurled his wings at the last moment and slowed, but not enough. They hit the ground heavily, though Mugwump’s powerful arms and legs cushioned the landing somewhat.

  Vlad vaulted from the saddle and ran to the dragon’s head. He was bleeding from the nostrils and this confirmed what Vlad had wondered. Use of magick demanded a price of the user. Blood would seep beneath Vlad’s thumbnail when he shot. Likewise Mugwump’s use of magick had taken its toll on the dragon. Whether his nasal passages had begun to bleed, or the blood came from his lungs, Vlad couldn’t be certain—though Mugwump’s lack of distress and the regularity of his breathing suggested the former case was true.

  Baker came running over. “Are you hurt, Highness?”

  “Not my blood. His. Nosebleed.”

 
“Nosebleed?” The wurmwright frowned. “Can’t imagine what would cause that.”

  “I believe he may have snorted a sparrow, much like one of us getting a gnat up the nose.”

  “I hate noseeums.” Baker frowned. “I could swab out his nose, but I don’t imagine he’d like it. Ruin a mop and I’m not sure I’d get the bird out.”

  Vlad smiled. “I think you should just let Mugwump rest for a bit. Stand clear in case he sneezes it back out. Then lead him home, let him eat his fill. He’s earned his rest.”

  “As you wish, Highness.”

  Prince Vlad patted the dragon below his left eye. “Take it easy, my friend. We’ll take a week, then try this again.”

  The dragon made no sound, but his golden eyes seemed to reflect understanding.

  Vlad headed off across the field to cut through the narrow strip of woods. He damned himself for not having at least a pistol with him. He didn’t really imagine that a jeopard would hunt something reeking of dragon’s blood, but the scientist in him could not discount that possibility. That same scientist also knew that a pistol wouldn’t be of much use, nor would running, since that would only attract the beast’s attention. Remaining as vigilant as he could, then, he headed home.

  As he emerged, he caught sight of a young man on a horse, riding up toward the front of the house. He waved. “Is that Caleb Frost?”

  Caleb reined around and rode toward him. He vaulted from the saddle, concern evident on his face. “Are you hurt, Highness?”

  “Not any part of me you’d care to see. Not my blood.” Vlad stripped off a glove and shook Caleb’s hand. “What brings you out here?”

  Caleb fell into step with the Prince, his horse trailing behind. “Fast packet boat came in this morning. Rumor from certain parts reports that Parliament has come up with a new scheme for collecting revenue. Since taxing our economy directly didn’t work previously, they are intent on creating a series of licenses and permits which one must purchase to hunt and harvest here in the Colonies. If you pay for a trapper’s license, for example, you will pay a much lower price for brimstone and firestones. Goods produced by a licensed person will pass through Customs faster, likewise products being released to licensed merchants. If you refuse to obtain a license, your goods can be confiscated, you can be fined or even sentenced to jail or servitude.”

  As the Prince walked with Caleb toward the stables, his stomach tightened. He’d always known Parliament would retaliate for the Colonies’ protest against the document tax. Requiring licenses would generate income, and soon after would come fees which were, de facto, taxes. That Norisle needed the money was not in question, nor was the Mystrian resistance to sending money east over the ocean.

  Caleb handed his horse over to the stable boy and Vlad washed up in a water trough. He raked wet, brown locks from his face and relished the tickle of cool water running down his back.

  “Someone in Launston is being very clever. This plan forces merchants to become the tax collectors. They’ll have to pay less for unlicensed merchandise to cover the cost of their own licenses. Plus increasing the prices of brimstone and firestones guarantees that most people will buy licenses.” Vlad frowned. “Instead of taxing our economy everywhere, they put the pressure on the people at the point of contact with the Norillian economy.”

  Caleb nodded. “It’s also selective. For someone like me, the licenses and fees mean nothing, since I only sell within the colonies.”

  “Still, the added fees will get passed on to you when you buy anything that comes from Norisle, or through the hands of someone who has paid for a license. And what man in Mystria is not going to face higher prices for brimstone and firestones?”

  “Men dealing with smugglers. Ryngian powder sends a ball just as far, just as straight.”

  “True, but if you’re caught with it, you can get your thumbs ringed in iron or taken off entirely.”

  Caleb held his hands up. “I understand that, Highness, but there are those who will see these licenses as being different than the document tax. That affected everyone and almost immediately. This will affect everyone, but more slowly. And once outrage about this dies down, the licenses get expanded, fees get raised. And even then we lose sight of what’s really going on. This set of fees is being bundled under what is known as the Shipping and Control Acts. The legislation will assert as its justification that the Crown owns everything in Mystria. Not just the land and the raw materials it produces, but the products all men create. There is nothing and no one who will not be touched by it.”

  Vlad nodded. “You may have even seen where that can go in the future. If the Crown can license your livelihood, they can go further and restrict where it is that you may practice your trade. You’ll be forced to carry papers that agree that you can work, and specifying where you can work. In essence, people will be tied to a specific place for life, or can be uprooted and sent to another place at the Crown’s whim. There could even be wedding licenses and fees for children. It is serfdom reborn. You said this was rumor. I take it, then, that the Shipping and Control Acts have not yet been passed?”

  Caleb shook his head. “The packet boat left before Parliament voted. There didn’t seem to be an overwhelming majority in favor, at least not in Commons, but there was a majority. Most who opposed it were afraid that the Control Acts would get established in Norisle if they were successful here.”

  No doubt a very real fear. Vlad’s mouth soured. “What will you do with this information?”

  The young publisher sighed. “It would be irresponsible to print notice of what, right now, is speculation. Unless the Crown is going to send us their copy of the Control Acts along with thousands of soldiers to enforce them, we will have ample time to respond in a way that makes the Crown reconsider. Our response would take six weeks to get to Norisle, and we’d not hear back for at least another six weeks. If a ship arrives with the Acts tomorrow, it would be September before the Queen could respond to our reaction, and that really means this time next year, if she is planning an armed intervention.”

  “You’ve told me what you’re not going to do, and I applaud your caution.” Vlad patted the man on the shoulder. “Now, what will you do?”

  “Highness, you know I have the utmost respect for you.”

  “I consider us friends, Caleb, and no matter what you say, our friendship will not be affected by it.”

  “Even if it is treason?”

  “Let’s see how far down that road you are going to travel.” Vlad threw his arm over Caleb’s shoulder and guided him back around toward the new laboratory. “As you did me a favor to inform me what is happening, so shall I keep what you tell me in confidence.”

  “Thank you. Highness, the Control Acts cannot be allowed to stand. A copy of the message we received will be in Samuel Haste’s hands before the week is out. I’m sure he’ll write another book and it will influence many people. We will also support and print notices for community meetings and debates on the Control Acts if they pass. We will print stories of how the acts are enforced. We will not advocate armed resistance to the Acts. We might report about same, but we will not glorify what happens.”

  “This is all assuming the Control Acts are real.”

  “Yes, Highness.” Caleb shrugged. “If they are not, the alarm is for nothing.”

  “It’s not for nothing, Caleb. It never is.” Prince Vlad smiled. “As a friend, thank you for telling me all this. As Governor-General, I am pleased that you bear your responsibility to the community so highly.”

  “You don’t think anything I would do is treason?”

  “It might border on it, but only just.” Vlad nodded solemnly. “As long as I am Governor-General, speaking the honest truth about injustice will never rise to the level of treason. And if my aunt doesn’t like that, she can recall me and I shall explain it to her, face to face.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  2 May 1767

  Dire Wolf Draw

  Westridge Mountains, Mystriar />
  The wolves came after darkness fell, silent as death, dark as shadows, only betrayed by sparks of firelight glinting in amber eyes. Nathaniel couldn’t figure out why they’d come. Growls and snarls in the distance had communicated the fate of the three they’d already killed. If the valley was at all like Little Elephant Lake, they should have had more than enough to feed on. Could have been they didn’t like the intrusion. In his experience, however, despite their fearlessness, they’d always been inclined to let men pass unless someone was bleeding or food was scarce.

  The meager fire provided a sphere of light just less than thirty yards in diameter, so when they came, the dire wolves came fast. Nathaniel, crouching behind the low wall, tracked the biggest of them and shot. The bullet caught it square in the chest, dropping it. Other wolves leaped over it, giving him just enough time to club his rifle before they hit.

  Other shots had killed wolves, but the holes in their line closed fast. Rathfield hit another with a pistol-shot, then cast aside the handgun and stabbed with his rifle. The bayonet was almost long enough to go clean through a dire wolf’s chest. The beast’s momentum and weight forced Rathfield to raise it, thrashing, as if his rifle was a pitchfork, tumbling him back from the line.

  Makepeace, roaring like the bear that had once mauled him, stepped up with a long knife in one hand and short ax in the other. He split a skull with an overhand blow and buried his knife in a wolf’s breast. The stabbed beast twisted, ripping the knife from Makepeace’s hand, then closed its jaw on his left forearm.

  Beyond him Kamiskwa brandished his warclub, in the half-light looking every bit the sort of demon that preachers warned would torture the unworthy in Hell. The heavy wooden club came up and around in an arc that crushed skulls. Blood sprayed from the obsidian blade as it slashed through thickly matted fur. Kamiskwa matched the wolves’ snarls with curses and challenges, then broke those that came at him.