At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Owen frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “What must be done.”

  Caleb returned and handed Owen a small cup of rum. “Virtuan superstition. You were up to deviltry tonight, so there’s demons in the wound. Heating the needle will remind them of Hell’s-fire and scare them out of there.”

  Mrs. Frost scowled. “More than once you’ve been sewed shut with this needle and have barely a scar to remind you of it, Caleb Frost. Don’t be mocking God’s work.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Caleb pulled back and mimed drinking the rum at a gulp. “It helps.”

  Owen tossed off the alcohol. It burned all the way down and exploded in his stomach. He wondered for a moment if he would vomit again, but the rum’s warmth soothed things.

  Mrs. Frost took the cup from his hand and poured the remaining drops on his wound. “A cup for your insides, a drop for your outsides.”

  “That stings.”

  “Good. Let it be a reminder to you next time.”

  It felt odd to be stitched up. Not that he hadn’t before, but never around an ear. In addition to the little pokes and the tugs when drawing the stitches tight, he got to hear the popping of his flesh, and the rasp of the thread going through the hole. Mrs. Frost worked diligently, and put more stitches into that small wound that he’d gotten for a sword-gash on his thigh.

  Finally she snipped off the end of the thread, then poured another drop of rum on her handiwork. She fashioned a pad out of some clean cloth, rubbed some green paste smelling faintly of mint into it, and set the cloth against the wound. She secured it in place with a bandage that went all the way around Owen’s head twice and tied off over his other ear.

  “I should think, Captain, that should do.”

  “Thank you, Mistress Frost.”

  “You will thank me by staying out of trouble.” She turned to her daughter who was sewing up a tear on his jacket sleeve. “You will get him a pad for his pillow, so he will not bleed on our linens.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Mrs. Frost’s expression eased. “Is there anything else you require, Captain?”

  “No, I think, well, perhaps, my writing case.”

  Mrs. Frost’s glance dispatched Caleb to Owen’s room. He returned quickly with a boxy leather case. “I’ll put this on the dining table.”

  “Thank you.” Owen moved into the dining room, the rum still warming his belly. Caleb had set the case at Owen’s place on the table and had lit a candle. He stood at the sideboard pouring himself a cup of wine.

  Owen waved away the offer of wine and opened his case. He set out some paper and ink, then used a small knife to sharpen a quill. But who do I write first?

  He saw no purpose in preparing a report on the incident. Langford would only laugh. He might even send his own version of the incident back to Launston to discredit Owen. Preparing a report and sending it directly to Horse Guards would do him no good. It would just be taken as confirmation of the craven nature of the Mystrians, and confirm him as being stupid for having been ambushed. The report’s very existence would be used against him—most likely by his uncle.

  And writing to Catherine would not do. She would faithfully read the letter, but would keenly feel every blow. The letter would cause her great anxiety, and that was the last thing he wished to do. Catherine would be pleased and proud of victory, but heartsick at his injury. She would blame herself for his being in such danger.

  Bethany came into the room bringing another candle, his coat, and her sewing kit. She smiled. “Please tell your wife that your jacket is in good repair.”

  Owen blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You must be writing her, to tell her you are well despite things, yes?” She sat and hunched over his coat. “Caleb told me you are married. You must miss her.”

  “I do, Miss, yes, very much.” Owen set the quill and penknife down. “I’m not certain she would care to know what has happened. Not about this, anyway.”

  Bethany looked up, surprise cocking her head. “When Ira was gone I wanted to know everything, every detail. He wrote some—had someone write I mean—and my uncle wrote. We got letters in bunches, of course. Some long after…”

  “I can imagine how much that hurt.”

  She shook her head. “Not as much as not knowing. Men think that not telling saves us worry, but we know. We know when something is not being said, and that makes us worry more. We know you are not telling us something that will worry us, and that leaves it to us to imagine something truly terrible.”

  “Alas, my wife is not of a temperament to deal with visceral details.” Owen half-smiled. “She could never have done what your mother did.”

  “I know.”

  “What?” Owen frowned. “You presume a great deal, Miss Frost.”

  “No offense intended, Captain.” She held up his jacket. “I have noticed an indifferent pattern to the repairs. Your wife is not intimate with a needle and thread.”

  “You notice my handiwork, I’m afraid.”

  “I am certain she would want you to look your best, so I shall redo some things.” Bethany smiled and got out a small pair of scissors. “Go ahead, write. I love the sound of a quill on paper. I find it very soothing. It is one of the reasons I enjoy writing.”

  “What do you write?”

  Bethany looked up, her eyes widened. “Silly things, Captain. Scraps of poetry. Things that shall never see the light of day.”

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you write, Miss Frost. I am certain you have talent.” Owen sighed. “I’m afraid I am a better seamster than a writer, but I shall work at it. But I don’t think a letter is the thing. I shall commence keeping a journal. That will be good for this journey. I shall start tonight. Tomorrow I shall have to purchase journals to accompany me.”

  “It should be my pleasure to find you a stationer, Captain Strake, if you so

  desire.” She smiled. “With one proviso.”

  “And that is?”

  “When you return, I wish to read it all.”

  Chapter Ten

  April 29, 1763

  The Frost Residence, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Owen awoke feeling as if he’d been trampled by horses, then dragged a mile behind them. His head throbbed and his stomach pulsed painfully. It didn’t help that he could smell bread baking. It made his mouth water, and his stomach knotted in protest.

  He rebelled at the thought of leaving bed.

  But leave you must. Laughing at himself, he threw back the covers and levered himself out of bed. The fact was that he had once been trampled by a horse, and had been dragged behind others. That had been bad. He rubbed his stomach and the purple bruise over it, then pulled on breeches, stocking, shoes, and his second-best shirt.

  He traced a small, vertical bit of stitchery on the right side. A corresponding scar twisted his flesh beneath—not having been sewed up as neatly as the shirt. He could still feel a twinge as the lance hit him, feel the pressure as it skittered off a rib, and the triumphant look on the Lancer’s face before Owen shot his lower jaw off.

  He shivered and unbandaged his head before the round table-mirror next to the water bow. The bandage had remained clean, but blood seepage had stained the cloth over the wound. He used a little water to loosen it, then gently pulled it away.

  A little redness, slightly swollen, and a bit warm to the touch, but it looked good. Mrs. Frost’s stitchery had been tight and the wound had already crusted over. In a week or so he could clip the stitches and pull them out. Let his brown hair grow a bit and no one would ever notice the scar.

  Owen washed up in the bowl, then shaved using that same mirror. He had always enjoyed the ritual of shaving—his having an angular face making it easier than for others. He found something soothing about the routine, about lathering his face, then applying cold, razor-sharp steel to his throat. Hearing the scrape of metal across flesh as the hairs popped reminded him that he was still alive, even when pain made him w
ish he was not.

  He headed downstairs and found Doctor Frost in the dining room reading a broadsheet with the title “Wattling’s Weekly” emblazoned across the top. “Good morning, Doctor.”

  “And you, Captain. I understand you had an eventful evening.”

  Owen nodded. “Which your wife and daughter did their best to repair.”

  “Your coat is hanging in the kitchen by the door.” Doctor Frost folded the paper. “A new paper.”

  “Mr. Wattling was on the ship. I am surprised he managed to publish so quickly.”

  “It’s old news from Norisle.” Frost smiled. “Nothing of your encounter last night, and no report on the debate at the college.”

  “Debate, sir?”

  “Please, sit. Martha, the Captain will have his breakfast now. I told them to fix you some weak tea with honey and some ginger. Good for the stomach. Bread, no butter.” Frost slid Owen’s chair back with a foot. “Two stories are circulating concerning your encounter last night.”

  Owen sat. “Indeed.”

  “One has you and Nathaniel Woods insulting the Branches and their getting the worst of a thrashing. Nothing for them to brag upon. They’ve run afoul of Woods before with similar results.”

  A servant brought the tea and bread. Owen sipped carefully and his stomach eased slowly. “The other story?”

  “A group of Twilight People slipped into the city and attacked you, but Nathaniel Woods told them to go away.”

  Owen frowned. “Why would that story have any currency?”

  “You wear the red coat. The Twilight People were of the Ungarakii and in Tharyngian employ. The story serves those who hate the Twilight People. If they are painted as loyal to the Laureates in Feris, reports will get back to Launston and more soldiers will come to drive the natives away.”

  Owen dipped a corner of the bread into his tea, then took a bite. “I don’t see the logic of that. I rode from here to the Prince’s estate. There is plenty of unoccupied land.”

  Doctor Frost sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That is a matter of contention, Captain. The Twilight People migrate seasonally, so what we see as open is land they require for hunting, or that might be sacred to them. They do not develop the land as we do. Because they do not engage in animal husbandry or much more than subsistence farming, they require far larger tracts than we do. When someone decides to go out, clear some ground, and set up a farm, the Twilight People take offense. Not close to the city, mind you, but out there, in the wilderness.”

  “Langford could send troops to punish the raiders.”

  “He could, but most of the settlers involved are squatting on land claimed by the Crown. Speculators, however, want those lands, so the pressure will increase to destroy the Twilight People.” Frost sat back. “That discussion formed part of the debate last evening. The larger question was whether or not Mystria would do better as its own nation, or subject to the Crown.”

  Owen’s eyes tightened. “That discussion could be construed as treason, Doctor Frost.”

  The older man smiled. “Not the discussion, sir, but advocacy of independence—and no one advocated that. What we did discuss, however, was whether or not the Crown was negligent in its conduct toward us. Benign negligence in the minds of most but, alas, not all.”

  “I’m not certain I follow, sir.”

  “Let me give you one simple example. The southern colonies are prohibited from selling cotton to anyone but Norillian merchants. They are paid a price set by the Crown, a price which is considerably below that offered by the Tharyngians.”

  “The Tharyngians are our enemies, Doctor. You cannot be suggesting we would trade with the enemy.”

  “No, but Norillian merchants buy our raw cotton, then sell to agents of the Alandalusians at a great profit. They, in turn, sell it to the Tharyngians.” Frost raised a finger. “And, more to the point, the cotton that ends up in Norisle is milled there, then shipped back here. The cloth is sold at a considerable mark-up. Because we have ample rivers, we could produce our own cloth here, even more cheaply than in Norisle. We could even ship and sell it cheaply in Norisle, but the Crown prohibits us having any native industry.”

  “I will admit, sir, that this seems, on the surface, to make no sense, but…”

  Frost chuckled and patted a hand against the broadsheet. “It makes perfect sense, Captain, when you realize that it is the men made rich in the various trades who have the Queen’s ear. They are the men who sit in Lords or have their agents elected to Commons. They tell the Queen that were we to have our own mills, it would ruin the Norillian economy. They remind her that we are the children of convicts, dissidents, and redemptioneers and, therefore, inherently untrustworthy.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow. “You argue against yourself, sir. You suggest you are not defectives. If this is true, and you were given industry, you would succeed in your ventures, ruining Norisle’s economy. The Crown is either ignorant, or terribly wise.”

  “I prefer ‘unthinking,’ Captain.” Frost lifted up the paper. “Consider, if a press can be shipped here and set up in two days, do you think it possible that a mill will not be someday duplicated? Might some man ruined by a rival not come here and build one? Might not a Ryngian cede us that knowledge to ruin Norisle?”

  Owen nodded. “Either could happen. Each would be illegal.”

  “If you were given the orders, would you destroy those mills?”

  “It would be my duty.”

  “But could you get all of them, Captain?”

  Owen shook his head. “They would still be illegal.”

  “And inevitable.” Frost smiled. “Change is an irresistible force, Captain. Progress cannot be hobbled, just harnessed. And, if not harnessed, it will run out of control.”

  The soldier shivered. “You have given me much to think about, sir. Had my brains not been scrambled, I might have given you a better argument.”

  “You acquitted yourself well, Captain. This is the joy of being a Natural Philosopher. The world is my treasure. I am free to think and imagine. My passion is illuminating the minds of the young.” He leaned in again. “I would ask of you a favor, however.”

  “If I may be of service, sir.”

  “You will be going into areas where not many have gone before. If it does not compromise your duty, I would appreciate copies of your charts—the rivers, you see. We huddle on a narrow strip of the coast. If we are ever to thrive, we will move inland, and the rivers are the routes we will follow.”

  Owen hesitated for a moment. The information he would obtain was for the Crown. By rights, its distribution would depend on his superiors. But Nathaniel Woods could just as easily communicate same to the Frosts—and Colonel Langford would certainly sell them the information. Frost’s possession of it was inevitable. Just like change.

  “It would be an honor, sir.”

  “Very good, thank you.” Frost clapped his hands and looked up as Bethany came in from the kitchen, fastening a light cloak around her shoulders. “Are you come to conduct the Captain about town?”

  “Are you done torturing him?” A white bonnet restrained her light brown hair, save for a curl over her forehead.

  “For now, yes.” Frost slid his chair back and stood. “A pleasure, Captain.”

  Owen stood and shook the man’s hand. “And mine, sir.”

  “Take good care of my daughter.” Frost pumped his arm warmly. “Until this evening. Good hunting.”

  As they moved through Temperance, Owen studied people with new eyes. His red coat and even his second-best shirt had been woven tightly—more tightly than clothes worn by anyone but the most prosperous. Many men wore breeches that had been patched repeatedly, and often needed yet another patch or two. More commonly they went without shoes or stockings, and few possessed proper coats.

  Prior to his discussion with Doctor Frost, Owen had been inclined to put their slovenly appearance down to their nature. Norisle’s feckless and destitute—those in thrall to
spirits and indolence—dressed similarly. He thought them incapable of rising above their nature, lacking character. Even those brought into the army and trained for better retreated to their baser selves when given any idle time.

  “Did you not hear me, Captain?”

  Owen blinked. “My apologies, Miss Frost. My mind was off and away.”

  Bethany laughed easily. “You are like my father in that regard. I should have expected this after his speaking with you this morning.”

  “He does challenge a man.”

  “That he does.” She opened a hand toward a small alley off Fortitude Street. “You may find the journals you want here, on Scrivener Street; or you might want to obtain logs closer to the dock.”

  “We should look here.”

  “Very well. What was it my father had you thinking about?”

  “Things well outside my purpose here.”

  A frown wrinkled her brow. “My dear Captain Strake, do not think me some addlepated girl. I am my father’s daughter and capable of handling myself in discourse.”

  “No offense intended, Miss. We discussed the lack of a native textile industry.” Owen jerked his head back toward Fortitude. “Consequently I was noticing what people wore.”

  “It gets very cold for some come winter.” She paused before the door of Burns and Company, Booksellers. “We might try here.”

  Owen opened the door into a small shop crowded with shelves. A bell tinkled from above the door. A small man wearing spectacles appeared from deeper within the shop. Two large volumes filled his hands. “Good day, Miss Frost. May I help you?”

  Bethany eclipsed Owen. “I hope you will, Mr. Burns. Captain Strake desires two journals, three hundred pages each, your best paper, leather covers, and oilskin wraps. He’ll need an inkstick and a half-dozen quills.”

  The man smiled, setting the books on a small, drop-leaf desk in the corner. “I can bind up the journals, send them around to your house, Miss Frost, by eventide.”

  Owen nodded. “That would be satisfactory.”

  “As for the quills, well, I have something here you might like better, Captain.” Burns pulled a narrow wooden box from the desk and slid the top off.