At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Thinking I was Rufus?”

  “I didn’t expect… I thought we were meeting at Westgate.”

  Wood detached himself from shadows. “So’d some other folks. Word got out.”

  “I told no one.”

  “Never ’spected you did.” Woods yawned and jerked a thumb to the left. “We’ll head over to Justice and go out through the pig yards.”

  Owen shouldered the musket again. “Are you afraid Rufus is watching us?”

  “Ain’t ’fraid, just cautious. Careless word here, a word sold there, might be finding trouble we ain’t needing.”

  Owen followed him. “Are you suggesting that the Tharyngians are actively spying in our colonies?”

  “Are you believing they’re not?”

  “No, Mr. Woods, I would imagine they are. I was asking, to be more precise, if you have any knowledge of Tharyngian spies in Temperance Bay.”

  “Don’t suppose I do.” Woods looked back over his shoulder at Owen. “Don’t know that I care. Ryngian and Norillian fights don’t much concern me.”

  “How can that be?” Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What the Ryngians want to do to us should be every man’s concern.”

  “I reckon we’ll be disagreeing about that, Captain.” Woods picked his way between two barns and around a pig pen. “Mind you, we’ll be having plenty of time to gum that to death.”

  “I should think this is an issue that needs settling more quickly.”

  “More pressing things to deal with first, Captain.”

  Owen’s guide set off at a trot, crossing the road and heading off through a meadow full of green grass. He trotted toward the dark treeline. His fringed buckskins made him stand out, but he moved quickly enough that he seemed a ghost. He reached the trees a few steps ahead of Owen and promptly disappeared.

  Owen got into the trees, then crouched, looking back through bushes toward the city. A few lanterns burned in windows, and dark smoke rose from chimneys, but nothing indicated pursuit. Owen took that as a good sign, though he resented the fear trickling through his belly.

  A branch snapped off to his right. Owen spun quickly, trying to bring his musket up. The barrel smacked a sapling hard. The impact unbalanced him, dumping him on his backside as surprise flooded through him.

  A dark-skinned humanoid loomed over him. He’d clearly not broken the branch. He wore a loincloth and leggings. Save for a beaded armlet from which dangled two feathers, he remained naked from the waist up. His long, dark hair had been gathered into a thick braid bound with leather. His amber eyes, narrowed as they were, reminded Owen of a cat.

  The dark man smiled, white teeth splitting a shadowed face.

  Nathaniel crouched at Owen’s side. “Captain Owen Strake, you’d be meeting my brother, Kamiskwa. He’s of the Altashee.”

  Owen gathered his feet beneath him and brushed leaves from his coat. “He’s one of the Twilight People.”

  “He is.” Nathaniel stood and picked a leaf off Owen’s coat. “Come sun-up you’ll see more green than grey in his skin.”

  “Does he speak?”

  “Only when he has something to say.” Nathaniel chuckled softly. “That’ll be coming soon enough, Captain. Kamiskwa is always free with an opinion.”

  Owen offered the Altashee his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Woods pushed Owen’s hand down and away. “The Twilight People don’t do things like we do. They’re wary.”

  “Because of Major Hopkins.”

  “Not entirely, Captain.” Woods retrieved the musket and handed it to Owen. “Magick works by touch. Don’t know a man, you don’t let him touch you. Gives him a chance to hurt you.”

  Owen nodded. “Of course, no offense intended.”

  Kamiskwa chuckled, and made a comment. Woods joined him, held a hand up. “Nothing bad. He just said that any who thought you’d be back in Temperance within the week was wrong.”

  Owen smiled. “Thank you, Kamiskwa.”

  “Don’t be thanking him.” Woods patted the Altashee on the shoulder. “He says you have ten days.”

  The trio took off at a solid pace and made good time even in the pre-dawn darkness. Kamiskwa remained half-invisible as he ranged ahead. The game paths he chose went around hills instead of over them. The tracks doubled-back on themselves, as any animal trail will, but the men moved faster along them than they would have if they’d resorted to bushwhacking straight through.

  Woods brought up the rear and stopped fairly often to watch their backtrail. He’d come trotting up, his rifle sheathed in a beaded doeskin case. He always had a big smile on his face. He shook his head at Owen’s mute inquiries and urged him on with a nod.

  They set a good pace. Owen kept up despite carrying twice as much as either man. Woods had his rifle, shot pouch, a knife and tomahawk. Kamiskwa bore a musket, but his had been cut down into the carbine model the cavalry most often used. He carried a knife and had a length of knobbed wood slung over his back. It had been inlaid with mother of pearl and featured a triangular blade on the back of the knob.

  As the sun rose Owen unbuttoned his woolen coat, but refrained from loosening his waistcoat. He shifted the eleven pounds of musket from one hand to the other. The aching of his shoulders and the growing blister where his boots rubbed at his heels reminded him of marching through the Low Countries.

  That realization brought him back into his mission. Though they were making good time through the woods, no modern army could have followed them. Having soldiers snake through the woods—even his skirmishers—would guarantee disaster. If they didn’t get lost, and many of them would, they’d be strung out and easily ambushed. Because of the Mystrian forest’s undergrowth, the enemy could hide until he could reach out and touch a man.

  Kamiskwa’s caution made abundant sense.

  Woods caught up with Owen as they came to a sandy portion of a stream bed. “’Bout time to get something on your insides, Captain Strake?”

  Owen nodded and shrugged his pack off. “I noticed that neither you nor Kamiskwa carried food. I will happily share.”

  “So will we.”

  Kamiskwa crossed the stream and quickly climbed up into an old pine tree. He disappeared into the foliage. He climbed halfway up—at least that’s what Owen judged by which branches were dancing—then lowered two beaded leather bags and two loosely rolled blankets with both ends secured by leather thongs.

  As the Altashee retrieved their baggage, Woods tossed aside several stones stacked on the sandbar, then scooped out a pit beneath where they had stood. He reached down into the hole and gingerly teased out three packets wrapped in maize husks. Owen immediately caught the scent of salmon and his stomach grumbled accordingly.

  He frowned. “You stayed here last night, cached your bags in that tree, and used the remains of a fire to cook the fish while you came and got me?”

  Kamiskwa grunted, which Owen took as a confirmation.

  “Pretty much right on the button, Captain.”

  Owen sat down, pulling off his pouches, and decided to press his luck. “You didn’t leave any sign you were here, so you’re cautious. Means you think you could be in danger anywhere.”

  Kamiskwa smiled and retrieved a fish. “Nahaste.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow as he broke the bread into three parts. “Meaning?”

  Woods accepted bread. “You’re up to three weeks.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re observant and a thinker.” Woods stretched out and sucked at burned fingers. “Lots of things get cached hereabouts. Over there, ’neath that rock shelf, we put some firewood. Replaced what we used last night. Anything else we weren’t needing, we’d put it there, too. You’ll see lots of that. No mark on the cache, take as you like, put back more. Marked, a man won’t touch it.”

  Owen teased open his packet of fish. Steam rose, filling his head. He slid flesh from bone and savored. The velvety fish just melted in his mouth. “This is good.”

  “Kamiskwa tickled them on out
of the wet.” Woods nibbled some bread. “That’s another thing out here. You travel light as possible. Also, with jeopards and bears about, you ain’t wanting to carry things they counts as supper.”

  Owen looked around. Sunlight was breaking through leaves. The stream gurgled and little breezes rustled foliage. A few birds sang in the trees, and crows flocked to squawk. Outside their little bowl he could see nothing, and found it easy to imagine a jeopard crouched and watching them.

  “We will not be wanting for supplies?”

  “Ain’t enough for an army, Captain, but we ain’t no army.” Woods pointed off to the northwest. “Fair piece of the ground we’ll cover, Kamiskwa and I hunt and trap regular. If you’re not too picky, you’ll eat. Even if you is, you won’t starve none.”

  Owen picked up his musket. “I can lend a hand hunting.”

  Kamiskwa laughed.

  Woods shook his head. “Not likely.”

  “I assure you, I am a dead shot.”

  “Ain’t saying you ain’t, but you is damned loud of foot.”

  “It was dark.”

  “True point, but you’ll be needing to be a walking-whisper. Then there’s that coat. You mights-well be on fire.”

  Owen’s expression darkened. “We discussed this. I am an officer in Her Majesty’s Army. I have my duty and will not be shot as a spy.”

  “Well now, I ain’t too worried ’bout you being shot.” Nathaniel smiled. “Any Ryngian sees that flash of red and shoots, like as not me or Kamiskwa’s gonna catch that ball.”

  Owen laughed. “Marksmanship has never been a Ryngian strong point.”

  “Good thing you’re a crack shot.” Woods pointed to the musket. “You’ll want to be loading that thing, and keep it loaded. Your training, you can probably get off four shots in a minute?”

  “I’ve done as many as five.”

  “Out here, shooting may come on you quick. Likely because someone’s already done shot at you.”

  Owen nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind.” Standing, he produced a cartridge and began to load his musket. “The Prince said your rifle was fairly special.”

  Nathaniel smiled proudly and stripped the fringed sheath off it. “This here is one of two dozen or so rifles made by Colonel Apostate Hill up Summerland way. It is a breechloader. I don’t have to be stuffing a ball down the barrel just to shoot it back out. It uses a .71 caliber slug—same weight as your musket, just squashed a little. More egg than round. Rifled barrel so’s it’s accurate out to a hundred yards. It does some killing out there.”

  “The Prince mentioned you killing a jeopard. Showed me the mounted specimen. That’s fancy shooting at range.”

  “More luck in that shot than there was good.” He jerked his head toward Kamiskwa. “Like as not, my shot would have just riled it. Kamiskwa was there to do the killing if it got close.”

  “And what if he missed?”

  “I’da had another shot ready. And if I missed that, I’da deserved to be dinner.”

  “I look forward to a display of your marksmanship. Perhaps you’ll shoot us something for lunch.”

  “I reckon I could, Captain Strake, but we won’t be needing it today.”

  “You have food cached further along the way?”

  “After a manner of speaking.” The guide smiled. “At noon we’re having supper with the Prince.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  May 2, 1763

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  After erasing any trace of their having stopped, the party moved on at a more leisurely pace. Owen still felt himself an object of study, but also realized his guides were giving him the opportunity to learn. They’d offered the direct warning about the necessity to keep his weapon loaded, then proceeded to give him practical lessons on moving through the woods.

  Owen studied Kamiskwa and did his best to ape him. The Altashee moved economically and carefully, preferring to slip beneath or around branches rather than push them aside or hack them off. Going up hills he tended to step on exposed roots, or rocks that were solidly buried. He took smaller steps rather than longer ones that might result in a slip or spill of stones. He moved quickly, but without haste; a distinction that manifested itself in a fluidity that gave him a ghostlike quality.

  Woods’ earlier comment had been correct. As the sun came up, Kamiskwa’s flesh and hair picked up a greenish tint. He remained mostly dark—very much the color of the pine needles. A few spring-green locks streaked his hair. Owen couldn’t figure out if this was because of his youth or his age, since the man had no wrinkles and if he bore scars, they did not show up in contrast to his flesh.

  What he did have were tattoos. Simple line drawings tending toward geometric shapes and a few animals. They’d been done in black and only showed up in full sunlight. Owen could make no obvious sense of them.

  They continued on for another hour, pausing at streams to refill canteens and waterskins. They used that time to listen as well. Though Owen would have laughed at the notion had anyone suggested it, Mystria sounded different than Norisle. Bird song and insect buzzing came tantalizingly close to those of his home, but a few differed mightily. This he found somewhat disconcerting.

  A hawk screamed and sparrows, which had gathered around a blackberry bush, immediately took flight. Owen looked for the hawk, expecting to see it perched on a branch and defiantly proclaiming its existence. The only bird he saw, however, was brown, twice as large as a sparrow, with equally nondescript plumage. It landed beneath the bush and started harvesting berries from the lower branches.

  Woods pointed at it. “That’s a liehawk. The Altashee name for it means ‘Little Bird with Big Voice.’ Other folks call it the bully-bird. You’ll hear that name used on people, too.”

  Owen shook his head. “Just how different is this place?”

  Woods shrugged. “Don’t know. Hain’t been to Norisle. This here is its own place. What’s different to your eye?”

  The soldier took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve been walking since dawn, but haven’t seen any signs of humanity in that time.”

  “This is a big land, Captain, two-three times Norisle. Maybe more. Half the people. Most on the coast.”

  Owen nodded. “And along the rivers.”

  “Very good, Captain.” Woods smiled. “Ain’t going to be many folks out where we’re headed. That ain’t a complaint.”

  Kamiskwa grunted his agreement.

  The three of them headed off again, and within a short time Owen caught a heavy, thudding rhythmic sound. Axes. Kamiskwa slowed them down and worked his way around a level lot where three men labored clearing the land. Two brought the trees down and trimmed the branches. The third used a team of mules to haul the logs through a forest of stumps to a pile. They’d already split and cut a few of the logs, creating a square foundation, onto which they’d erected a tent.

  Owen studied the lot. A small stream ran through it on the far border by the tent, promising a good water supply. They’d cleared the better part of three acres and had situated the tent at the base of a hill in the lot’s northeast corner. By the end of the summer they’d have gotten up many of the stumps. Within a month they’d be able to do some limited planting and get a harvest before the winter.

  Owen started into the open, but Nathaniel held him back. “Squatters. Won’t be welcoming us.”

  “Aren’t they afraid the landowner will evict them?”

  “Depends, don’t it?” Woods withdrew from the edge of the clearing. “The Confederation lays claim to these lands. Her Majesty thinks her issuing deeds trumps that. Name on the deed could be someone back in Norisle, or down in Fairlee or Ivory Hills. They might go to court in Temperance, but ain’t many a judge will rule in their favor.”

  Owen pointed toward the lot. “But those men know that what they’re doing is wrong.”

  “I reckon they ain’t thinking it is.” Woods spread his arms wide. “When the redemptioneers first came here, it was all wide open. Yo
u find a place, farm for a bit, move on when the land wore out. Then the Parliament says that no one can go beyond the mountains. That’s fine, still lots of land, but then ministers and their friends bought it all up from the Crown. So you take a man who has worked hard improving the land, and he cain’t afford it because some speculator who hain’t never worked a day in his life is greedy.”

  “I would agree, Mr. Woods, that this seems hardly equitable, but theft is not the proper response.”

  “Ain’t theft. More like taking a lend of the land.” Nathaniel laughed. “Captain, you heard of the Golden Rule?”

  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

  “Maybe in Norisle. Round these parts, it’s he who has the gold makes the rules.”

  A shiver ran down Owen’s spine. The Royal Army allowed those with money to purchase commissions. A noble—like Lord Rivendell’s son, John—with a taste for adventure and no understanding of warfare could buy his way into the command of troops. More than once, such privileged commanders had refused to obey orders issued by a superior but common officer. Often they issued their own orders in some vain attempt at winning glory. Their actions would destabilize a line, provide an opening for the enemy, and often transformed a victory into a rout. At Villerupt, had Rivendell’s son actually followed orders, the Mystrian Rangers might not have suffered as severely as they did.

  Woods’ version of the golden rule applied in Norillian civilian life, too. A noble’s misdeeds could be silenced with gold, whereas a pauper’s offenses would be severely punished. Someone like Lord Rivendell, whose power and prestige legitimized his book, commonly hid moral shortcomings by virtue of charitable gifts and well-placed bribes.

  “Is this why you are so hostile toward Norillians?”

  Both Woods and Kamiskwa broke out laughing.

  “I fail to see what you find so funny.”

  Woods wiped a tear from his eye. “I ain’t hostile toward Norillians. Leastways not specifically. I hate all men what is out to spoil this land.”

  “I’m here to see to it that the Tharyngians do not spoil it.”