Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Really?”

  Ian deliberately took a large bite from the cake he’d been offered. He found it dry and largely tasteless—consisting more of sawdust and salt than anything sweet. He would have washed it down immediately with tea, but that would have freed him to speak. He wanted the time that chewing and swallowing afforded him to cover his reaction.

  The Bishop clearly was inviting him to talk about any theological discussions on the trail. Save for Makepeace Bone, all of them had made remarks that could have been interpreted as critical of the Church, whether they were meant to be or not. While Ian knew that his companions had tolerated him more than respected him, he didn’t want to reveal anything to the cleric which could come back to haunt them.

  Ian sipped tea. “Yes, well, of course, as you saw in your time in the wilderness, men can be coarse and crude, even given to profanity. I will admit to uttering a curse or three myself. Had he wished to manipulate our view of him, he could have done so.”

  “I see.” Bumble nodded solemnly. “Now when Mr. Beecher came to visit, he said you could remember nothing of the other matter we had talked about. Has your head cleared since then?”

  Ian set his cup and saucer down. “I am not certain, Bishop, that Mr. Beecher serves you in the best way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He made a veiled reference to a matter which I had addressed with you, in the confidence of the confessional, if you will recall.” Ian allowed a scowl to steal over his features. “I fear the man may have listened in to our conversation. Not thinking him a safe conduit for information, I complained of a headache which clouded my recollection.”

  “I see.”

  “I apologize for causing you undue upset about your aide.”

  The rotund man shook his head, his chins quivering. “Calm yourself on that count, sir. You must understand, sir, that Mr. Beecher did not listen into our conversation. I told him everything you told me.”

  Ian blinked and sagged back. “You what?”

  “Colonel, it is my duty to see to the spiritual life of everyone within my diocese. What you revealed to me is most troubling, and I would have been remiss if I did not inform Mr. Beecher. In the event I am unable to perform my duties, my responsibilities will fall to him.”

  Ian glanced off toward the room’s far corner, avoiding the man’s gaze. “But what I told you in the confessional, you used to pressure me into undertaking special work for you in the wilderness.”

  Bumble, eyes wide, set the cake plate down forthwith. “In the name of Heaven, sir, I apologize if that is how it appeared to you. I merely wished you to understand that as you trusted me with your most closely held secret, so I trusted you with a mission of incredibly great importance. If… if you felt I coerced you in any way, if Mr. Beecher gave you the impression that your secret would become public… well, sir, I understand your outrage and I offer you a most sincere apology.”

  Ian shifted in the chair. “You will forgive me, sir, for making such a mistake.”

  “Of course, of course.” Bumble’s smile spread across his face. “I do have to ask, however, if you saw anything concerning what we discussed.”

  “I do not recall anything which indicated Steward Fire was practicing or causing his people to practice magicks.”

  “Did you not tell Mr. Beecher that Fire prevented Woods and Strake from shooting Rufus Branch?”

  Ian frowned, his head beginning to throb. “I told your aide that Woods and Strake both reported being unable to fire their rifles, but I have no proof that there truly was such a prohibition. To be frank, they had been having me on about all manner of things during the journey. I thought this might well be yet another of their amusements.”

  “Are you certain that is how you remember it?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I imply nothing, Colonel. I am asking if you have had time to reconsider what you remember.” Bumble brushed a crumb from his black coat. “You see, you are correct that the evidence against Fire is circumstantial at this point. Were you to recall his using magick in an inappropriate way, or making outright heretical claims, doing what must be done would be much easier.”

  “But what if he is innocent?”

  “I can assure you he is not.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Bumble fell silent for a moment, then pressed his hands together in his lap. “The man was a promising student of mine many years ago. While he served under me, he seduced my wife. For her sake we have revealed this to no one. To punish us for our vanity, God made her barren. So I know the evil which has curled itself in his heart. I wished to deal with him, but he vanished years ago. I only wish I had acted more courageously. The people need not have died out there.”

  Ian shivered. He’d seen Livinia Bumble once. She was to Catherine Strake what vinegar was to wine. The idea of anyone seducing her seemed absurd, and he just could not believe Fire would have done so.”

  The Bishop reached out and grasped Ian’s right forearm. “You see, Colonel, this is why dealing with Ezekiel is so important. You may not have seen him use magick inappropriately, but I know he is capable of it. But you saw nothing?”

  “No, nothing, not really.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, when the Green woman and her daughter came to Happy Valley, he laid his hands on the girl and healed her. He was able to help her, but not her mother, who had collapsed beside her and died.”

  Bumble patted his hand. “You see, there you are, you do remember.”

  “I just said he healed her, much as the Good Lord did.”

  “Oh no; no, no, no. That’s what you think you saw.” Bumble nodded confidently. “What you saw was his using magick to drain the life of the mother to preserve the child. The mother knew too much. She came to report to him what happened at Piety, but he could not let her unless the truth be revealed to the strangers. Then he led you off to Piety so Branch could prepare a trap for you. It’s all very clear.”

  Ian rubbed at his forehead. “You’re twisting my words.”

  “No, Colonel. I am helping you remember the truth.” Bumble’s smile flashed past quickly. “Much as you asked me before to help you remember the truth so you could be absolved of any guilt.”

  Ian stared blankly at the man, his mouth open, words choking him.

  Catherine Strake, her brown eyes blazing dangerously, swiftly re-entered the parlor. “So sorry to have to ask you to leave, Bishop Bumble.”

  The cleric ignored her and picked up his tea.

  Catherine plucked it from his hands and set it down on the tray again. “You must come again, your Grace, when your visit will not tire Colonel Rathfield.”

  Bumble looked up, his face hardened. “We have not finished our conversation.”

  “Nor will you on this visit.” Catherine pointed a stiffened finger at the door. “Your horse awaits.”

  The fat man stood. “Were I your husband, I should beat you.”

  “Were I your wife, I should have long since been your widow.” Catherine gave him a withering stare. “Shall we be frank, Bishop? You have never taken to me because of your feelings for my husband.”

  “I have never liked you, woman, because your husband has given you free rein.”

  “And you don’t like him for the same reason you do not like Colonel Rathfield. Each of them has more courage than you will ever know, and they are the men who stand between you and that which terrifies you the most.” Catherine dismissed him with a wave. “You may hold sway in Temperance and even in other colonies, but in this household you are unfit to black the boots of the men who make this their home.”

  Bumble turned to bid Ian adieu, but Catherine caught his arm and twisted him toward the door. She escorted him out. The door did not slam behind him, but it closed with a firm finality. Relief washed over Ian. He refused to look toward the windows and the front yard, therefore he only peripherally caught the Bishop’s departure in shadow.

  Cat
herine returned and went to her knees by his side. “Please, Ian, forgive me. I’ve embarrassed you terribly. I shall go and write a note of apology. I shall say I was concerned for you and for Owen, and I spoke out of turn.” She pressed her face to his left hand and he felt tears dampen his flesh. “Do say you will forgive me.”

  Catherine, I should forgive you anything.

  That was what he wanted to say, that and much more, but he dared not say it or even think it. Gravely ill, he had been transported from far away and for every waking moment of the last month, she had been with him. She had bathed him and clothed him, fed him, read to him. She had changed his bandages and helped him work on his report for Launston. She had done for him all the things he could not do for himself, never passing judgment when he fell or soiled himself, when fevers came or the headaches shortened his temper.

  For him she had been the perfect wife, and she had healed more than his body.

  He brought his right hand over and caressed her brown hair. “Do not cry, Catherine. You have just done for me what a good friend does for one… of whom one is quite fond. I lack the words to express the depth of my gratitude for this. If you wish to write Bishop Bumble on your on accord, then do so, but I should not require it. Were I your husband, I should forbid it.”

  She looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. “Really?”

  “Yes. It would be a lie to suggest that he did not deserve what happened, or that anything you said was incorrect.” Ian smiled at her, pleased to see a smile coming back at him. “The soul in peril this afternoon was his, Catherine, and he should see to it before he concerns himself with aught else.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  17 June 1767

  Saint Luke

  Bounty, Mystria

  For Owen, whose head still throbbed because of the salksasi he’d consumed, the rasp of pen nib on paper sounded as if someone were sawing into his skull. Still, he diligently scribbled down details of the visions Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had, adding his own observations. None of them knew how long they had been wrapped up in the visions, but the day following had consisted of a purification ritual. They’d remained in the hut with a fire blazing, sweat pouring off them and dripping into wounds that stung. Only as night fell were they allowed to emerge, remove their mittens and wash themselves in the nearby stream. They drank more salksasi, had their wounds bandaged with mogiqua poultices, and were allowed to sleep.

  Owen rubbed at eyes that burned. “Kamiskwa, I have your name for the golden people as Noragah. I heard it as Norghaest. Nathaniel, you heard it in the Shedashee way?”

  “Up until the dragons came. Then it was as you did.”

  Owen made a note. Despite hearing some words differently, and having slightly different emotional attachments to the story, the three of them had seen the same thing. The Norghaest had built an empire on magick, employing it to inflict cruelty on the Shedashee and each other. When it seemed they were invincible and at the height of their power, however, dragons came and destroyed their cities.

  Even having seen Mugwump did not prepare Owen for the advent of the dragons. Not a one of them that attacked—and the sky had been blackened with them—was anything less than double Mugwump’s size. Many were quite larger, and where the Prince’s dragon had smooth scales almost like a snake’s skin, the larger dragons had thick, heavier scales with ridges that ended in horny protrusions. They fell on the Norghaest as falcons on varmints, devouring them greedily. With long claws, the winged beasts tore open Norghaest towers and rent the earth to pursue them into the undercities. The carnage would have been unimaginable, but Owen had been at Anvil Lake, and had already seen the visions of bloody orgies the Norghaest staged to entertain themselves.

  The dragons’ assault drove the Golden People underground, deep underground, like termites. As the visions progressed and they witnessed the Norghaest trying to reestablish their cities, the Norghaest changed. The golden hue drained from their flesh leaving the pale grey of a mushroom. Black hair became white, and many of them lost it completely—the men, anyway, for none of the subsequent visions provided sight of the women.

  Kamiskwa drank from a gourd, then lowered it. “The visions showed the patterns: first comes the earthquake. That is them opening the gates to their cities below. They send scouts to see if dragons are about. Then the next year, or the year after, they colonize the surface. If those colonies survive, they emerge in all their glory to re-create their empire.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “Well, now, I done counted four times the Shedashee did some de-colonization. Only once did they get to that emerging. Shedashee hurt them bad, and dragons finished them.”

  “But, brother, there were more Shedashee then than there are now, and we only have one dragon, a small dragon.”

  Owen looked up from his journal. “The dragons came from the west, didn’t they?”

  “’Peared that way to me.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Don’t quite know what to make of that, but I reckon Prince Vlad will. I reckon he ought to be learning what we saw sooner rather than later.”

  Owen’s journal snapped shut. “We can get a full day’s travel in today, be halfway to Grand Falls.”

  “I cannot go.”

  The two Mystrians looked at Kamiskwa. Nathaniel frowned. “All this coming from you will carry more weight.”

  “Agreed, but what I saw is not for the Prince.” Kamiskwa knitted his fingers together. “The Shedashee need to be reminded of the Noragah. They must remember a time when we united to fight them. My father will already have sent runners to the other nations in the Confederation. They will confer and I must be here to tell them what I have seen…”

  He held out his left forearm and poked a jagged claw wound with a thumb. “They will all inspect the wound. Scars will not do. And when they believe, they will send runners. The Shedashee will gather and fight the Noragah.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Well, then, I’ll be there with you to fight ’em.”

  Kamiskwa shook his head. “You say that, my friend, but you will have other responsibilities.”

  “You’re forgetting that your niece and nephews is my children.”

  “And they are of the tribe, too; so we shall take care of them.” Kamiskwa smiled. “I do not say this to hurt you, nor because I doubt that Magehawk would be welcome at my side. It is because I fear that without your people to fight as our allies, we cannot turn the Noragah. And if there are no more dragons in the west, all of the world will be as was Piety.”

  Reluctant though they were to leave Kamiskwa behind, Owen, Fire, and Nathaniel headed south from Saint Luke, making for the Benjamin River right below Grand Falls. They traveled relatively lightly, having abandoned all but two of the dire wolf pelts to the Altashee. Each man wore new clothing, his tattered and tainted clothes having been given to the women to be washed and repaired or burned.

  Ezekiel Fire, because he had not been bitten or scratched by the demons, had not been forced through any cleansing ritual. He’d been treated as a guest and honored by Msitazi on the second night. He’d told the Altashee his favorite stories from the Scriptures, and had reported that the audience was more attentive and appreciative than most he had preached to.

  By and large they were not given to much conversation as they made the trip back toward Temperance. Below the falls they found a large canoe and started down river. Owen, in the bow, had an unobstructed view of the countryside. The days had grown longer as they traveled, the green grasses tall, and the tree canopy shaded much of the river the first two days. The utter lack of destruction along the Benjamin contrasted with the devastation along the Snake.

  Try as he might, Owen could not help but add details from the visions to the landscape. A soft rolling hill became a mound upon which had once stood a Norghaest outpost. He could imagine tunnels running beneath the landscape everywhere. Though he and Nathaniel did not talk about it, when they made camp, they chose to sleep atop large, flat rocks so Rufus couldn’t come up from the earth and, to further f
rustrate him, they did not stop at camping sites that he might know about.

  It was, therefore, with great pleasure that they came around the curve of the river and saw the Prince’s dock. Owen picked up his paddle and pointed, then waved it high.

  A little girl stopped and waved back.

  Nathaniel laughed from the aft. “Your little one done sprung up some, hain’t she?”

  “Three months we’ve been gone.” Owen dug in with his paddle. “Almost home.”

  Nathaniel started paddling too. Miranda ran from the dock, then returned with the Prince. He, in turn, managed to catch hold of Prince Richard before the toddler ran off the end. With the boy in one arm, the Prince waved.

  As they came to the dock Owen caught sight of his wife, Becca Green, and Princess Gisella sitting in the great house’s shade, sipping tea. Ian Rathfield, wearing Norillian clothes, save for a cast on his left leg, sat a bit apart from them in conversation with Bishop Bumble. Count von Metternin came to the dock to help secure the canoe. Both he and the Prince wore pants and shirts of Mystrian manufacture, and could have easily been taken for hired help in the employ of those up by the house.

  Once the canoe had been tied off, Owen bounded out and scooped his daughter up. Miranda squealed. Tipping his hat back, Owen kissed her, then she pushed his face away.

  “Papa, you have whiskers.”

  “I do, child, but not for long.” He shifted her weight to his left arm, then offered the Prince his right hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Highness. You remember Ezekiel Fire.”

  Vlad nodded. “I do.” He nodded to the Steward and Nathaniel, then looked at Owen again. “You’re missing two companions.”

  “Makepeace elected to stay in Plentiful to help after the flood.” Owen lowered his voice as he saw Bishop Bumble marching down the lawn. “And Kamiskwa remained in Saint Luke to speak with the Shedashee. We can explain…”

  “Please forgive me, gentlemen, Highness, but I do believe I spy my old friend, Ephraim Fox.”