At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He added outrage to his words, but was happy his friend couldn’t see his smile. The simple fact was that Kamiskwa wore Mystrian clothes very well. He’d been given breeches and a long coat in black, with white hose and shirt. Black shoes with silver buckles and a dark green neck-cloth had been added to finish his outfit. He’d found a string of malachite beads in his bag and used it to tie his hair back. The whole thing gave him a slightly diabolical cast, but one that looked good.

  By contrast, Nathaniel had just looked awkward. His shoes had felt too short, or so he thought, until the Count took him aside and pointed out that he had them on the wrong feet. There didn’t seem a way to know that, and Nathaniel had never heard of shoes meant for each specific foot—clear foolishness, that was. But when he switched them they did feel better. Still, the hose scratched. He managed to misbutton the coat, and the shirt sleeves ended in lace that only had one purpose—to soak up gravy faster than a biscuit.

  He did count his blessings, however. Neither he nor Kamiskwa had been provided wigs, which had to have itched something awful. Nathaniel really couldn’t see any purpose to the things since all the men but the Bishop had hair.

  “I am thinking it is a good thing your father weren’t there for that dinner else we’d be having nine-course meals in Saint Luke and then dancing after.”

  “No dancing.”

  Nathaniel’s grin broadened. “You just ain’t got no appreciation for culture.”

  “No. You dance for recreation. We dance for magick.”

  “Oh, there was some magick there.” Nathaniel had enjoyed the dancing, despite not being good at it. The Princess had brought along a string quartet and a dance caller. The caller explained all the dances, which were danced by couples and groups of four. Mrs. Frost or Lilith Bumble ended up being partnered with him all of the time, but when the dance’s progression would put him in league with Rachel and her partner, breaths were being held. Everyone watched them to see how they reacted, and those reactions and their impression had been a source of much mirth when Nathaniel and Rachel were out fishing.

  “I do not think you appreciate how much magick there was, my friend.”

  “Prolly not.” Nathaniel chuckled. “But I sure did enjoy it.”

  The fortnight following the dinner had been one with a bit of entertainment, but the guests left after four days, allowing the Prince, the Count, Nathaniel, and Kamiskwa to get down to work. The Prince and the Count drew up a list of facts they needed to know about the fortress. The Prince added to it a list of things he wanted to know about du Malphias’ pasmortes. He even hoped they could capture one for him and bring it back.

  Nathaniel had not liked that prospect. “Begging your pardon, Highness, but what if it gets all bitey or stabbity or otherwise unpeaceable? It’s going to be a long trip back here.”

  The prince had allowed that might be a problem, and the next day borrowed Nathaniel’s bullet mold and produced some special ammunition. They fired the bullets a few times, both being satisfied with the performance, and Nathaniel promised to report on their effect against pasmortes.

  Nathaniel and Kamiskwa pushed their walks fast and reached the winter Saint Luke in a week and a half. They stopped long enough to get a good night’s sleep, then picked up Makepeace Bone and made for to Hattersburg. Instead of heading into the town itself, they stopped at Seth’s farm.

  He didn’t seem to bear them any grudge, but his new wife—Meg Gates—did. She would have made them sleep in the cow shed, but Seth explained how if it weren’t for them making him go to Temperance, she’d never have taken care of his cow, they wouldn’t have fallen in love, and wouldn’t have gotten married. This mollified her a little, though Nathaniel figured she loved the cow more than Seth.

  From there they made directly for Pine Lake, cutting the trip to three days. They reached the small island by mid-afternoon. The wind had shifted from east to north, so Makepeace suggested they stop for the day.

  Kamiskwa disagreed. “Snow tomorrow. We should best get across now.”

  By the time they reached the far shore, the sun had set and the first few snowflakes began to drift down. They burned when they hit his flesh. He pulled his sleeves down to cover his hands. First snow of the year always made him happy. It was at first snow that he’d first kissed Rachel—albeit a bit later in that year and a long time before she ever became another man’s wife.

  The three men set up camp then pulled on heavy winter Altashee robes. They’d traded cloth scraps for them—as a formality since Msitazi wanted to help them succeed. Makepeace’s robe and hood had been pieced together from two bearskins. Nathaniel’s had only taken one, his hat a beaver, and his mittens an otter. Kamiskwa wore a robe of jeopard that his sister Ishikis made from animals he’d killed. All three of them had boots made from wolverine since the ice didn’t stick to it, lined with rabbit to keep their feet warm. The winter clothes’ bulk kept them warm, but could be shucked quickly enough if they had to start fighting.

  Snowfall picked up and the wind howled through the night. They cut branches for snowshoes, stripped them of leaves and bent them into ovals. Using well-oiled leather thongs they wove a web in the center and created harnesses for their feet. The snowshoes would allow them to move across the snow pack.

  Nathaniel tossed another log onto their fire. “Ain’t going to be easy being that close to Owen and not going in to get him.”

  Kamiskwa shook his head. “We do not even know if he is alive.”

  “If he ain’t, I’m going to dig him up and give him a right good talking to.”

  Makepeace grunted. “In du Malphias’ hands, you ain’t neither gonna need to dig him up. He’ll be coming after you.”

  A low growl rolled from Nathaniel’s throat. “Iffen he does, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Makepeace sat up. “You will do God’s work. Ain’t rightly nor natural the dead running around.”

  “But maybe this du Malphias can change things. Make him, you know…”

  “Dead again?” Kamiskwa stirred the fire with a stick. “Bone is right. If he attacks, you have to kill him.”

  “And what if he don’t? What if he is one of them pasmortes but ain’t mean? If you cain’t tell he ever died, how would you know he was dead?”

  Makepeace held his hands out toward the fire. “I would reckon it’s all in the bringing back. Now when the saints did it, they were godly men, so God would let them bring the original spirit back in. Man like du Malphias, that would be Satan putting a demon in.”

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “But Pierre came back.”

  “And when he died, Satan got control of his soul, I am certain.” Makepeace rubbed his hands together. “If the dead are walking, evil spirits is in ’em.”

  “Wendigo.”

  “Well now, the two of you agreeing, that’s a powerful argument. And it ain’t that I don’t believe there’s a God in His Heaven, but I ain’t had much church learning. Fair recent, though, Bishop Bumble up and lectured me on what the Good Lord says we ain’t to be doing. Resurrecting folks weren’t among the things mentioned. If God ain’t commanding agin it, his prophets, saints, and Son is doing it, could be there’s more to the issue than we know to be exploring.”

  Kamiskwa and Makepeace thought on that for a bit. Makepeace, his hands warmed enough, went back to making his snowshoes. “Could be you’re right, Nathaniel. Could be. So what are you going to do when Captain Strake’s looking at you from the other side of death?”

  Nathaniel sighed and tapped his cartridge pouch. “Load up one of the Prince’s special bullets. And if God has mercy, let Him visit it on Owen quick—before my bullet finds its mark.”

  The next day they set out by mid-morning heading due west, but the unseasonable cold slowed them down. After the better part of a week they worked their way upslope toward the southern bank of Anvil Lake. They kept back on the mountainside, well away from the open water. The north wind, blowing across it, kicked up a lot more snow. They were glad fo
r the trees’ shelter.

  A new storm kicked up by the time they’d gotten close to the Roaring River. Given that the storm was intensifying and threatening to dump two feet of snow by midnight, pushing further would have been foolish. By early afternoon they built a lean-to in a sheltered hollow and lit a fire. They couldn’t see the fort from the nearest ridge, so they figured du Malphias couldn’t see their fire.

  Despite the cold and the snow making every task laborious, each man cleaned, oiled, and charged his gun anew. They didn’t change their firestones, but they rotated them so clean color rested beneath their thumbs. This close to the fort there was no sense in not being prepared to fight.

  They debated taking watches. For a man to have an effective post, he’d have to be up on a ridge. He’d constantly have snow in the face and get cold fast. Since they couldn’t see anything in the pitch dark, they opted to remain in their camp and trusted that any Ryngian scouts this far out would be hunkered down against the storm themselves.

  As a precaution, however, no one talked much. They all kept an ear out for anything aside from howls of the north wind. By mutual agreement, two tried to sleep while the other stayed awake to feed the fire, but Nathaniel reckoned there was more trying going on than actual sleeping.

  A couple hours past midnight, based on the stars that came out when the north wind died and the snow stopped, Nathaniel woke Kamiskwa. “Sleep any?”

  “Very little. Did I hear thunder?”

  “Might coulda been, not long ago. Wind snatched it away right quick.” Nathaniel stretched. “I reckon I will lay me down, but I ain’t ’specting sleep.”

  And before he even lay a blanket down, two gunshots rang out.

  Chapter Forty

  October 15, 1763

  Prince Haven

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Snowflakes sped on a shrieking gust of wind coming through the wurmrest’s door and sizzled on the giant boiler. Vlad, down in the pit, tossed another log on the fire beneath the iron tank, then looked up toward the door. He smiled, despite being sweaty, mud-streaked, and soot-stained.

  “You should not be in here, Highness.”

  Gisella pulled off a thick woolen cloak and hung it over the pit’s railing. She stamped her feet, freeing them of snow, then returned his smile. She wore a baggy pair of riding breeches and a homespun shirt with a knitted sweater over it.

  “I thought, Highness, you might value help on this bitterly cold night.”

  “Baker will be back after he gets some supper and a little sleep.” Vlad tossed another piece of wood on the fire. “And while your help would be welcome, you know why you should not be here. We are unchaperoned.”

  “Not true, my Prince.” She started down the ladder into the pit. “We have your Mugwump.”

  Vlad turned. The wurm had huddled himself into a circle with head and tail pointed away from the river. Wooden shutters had been closed over the river entrance, and a copper pipe ran from the boiler down into the pit. Steam came off of it and combined with the heat of the fire to render the wurmrest as warm as a windless August day.

  “Though he seems to be tolerating the cold better than he has in the past, I am afraid, Princess, that Mugwump is not really much of a chaperone.”

  “It does not matter; wurms are known in all the medieval tales to be fine chaperones. Knights of great virtue have rescued princesses by the dozen, and the presence of the wurm was enough to ensure no loss of honor.”

  “Do you believe such tales are true?”

  She came to his side and grabbed a piece of wood. “It matters only what others believe. You are an honorable man, so there is no question of my virtue being in jeopardy.”

  “I hope the Count agrees. I recall the joy with which he relates his dueling stories.”

  “The Count is unconscious, buried beneath many blankets.” She tossed her log in.

  The Prince grabbed another. “Ouch.”

  “What?”

  Vlad tossed it onto the fire, then shook his right hand. “A splinter.” He held out a grimy hand, then spat on his finger and wiped away the dirt. “Right there.”

  Gisella took his hand in hers. “Hold still.” She ran a finger gently over his skin. When he jolted, she murmured, “Sorry.” Then she deftly caught the splinter between two fingernails and yanked it free.

  “Thank you.”

  “In Kesse-Saxeburg we have a superstition.” The Princess raised his hand toward her lips and gave the wound a gentle kiss. “That will make it better.”

  Vlad smiled and reluctantly drew his hand from her grasp. That kiss—by its very gentle nature—stirred something in him. He found Gisella physically attractive, with his affection growing through all the time spent with her. She was, in many ways, more beautiful a woman than he had ever supposed he would have in his life.

  Because of his bloodline, however, his destiny had never been his own. He had forced himself over the years to be cordial, but to reject the advances of many women who had dreams of someday being the Governor-General’s wife or perhaps even Norisle’s queen. He had learned to quickly turn away from the biological urgings such as those her presence encouraged.

  She cocked her head. “What is it, Highness?”

  “You are a conundrum, Princess Gisella, much akin to du Malphias’ pasmortes.”

  “I assure you, my lord, that I am quite alive.”

  “You are wise enough to know that is not what I meant.” He tossed another log on the fire. “You have been plucked from your father’s domain and sent here to marry me, and you actually appear to like me.”

  “This would be because I do.”

  “This is what I find to be so peculiar.” Vlad shook his head. “You are less than half my age and from another nation. You have told me, and I have seen, that you enjoy many things that other ladies at court loathe. You are in the midst of a grand adventure, one the equal of any in a variety of novels…”

  “I do not read novels, Highness. They are persiflage that does not educate nor illuminate and seldom succeeds in amusing. Writers of such fanciful tales should find something useful and honorable to do with their lives, instead of filling their days writing lies.”

  Vlad laughed aloud. “Yes, perfect.”

  “What?”

  “And you are a woman of strong opinions, not afraid to express them.”

  She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, then picked up a firerake and reduced a log to coals. “I should think, for Mystria, this would be preferred.”

  “I agree.” Vlad smiled. “My father’s most recent letter had explicit instructions for me to follow concerning my upcoming marriage. He began, of course, with the Church’s teachings. He cannot help it. He’s been a monk longer than he has been a father, but he tries at the latter. He told me that to marry someone I barely knew and didn’t like was a duty. In time, he said, we would come to understand each other. We might even get to the point where we tolerated each other’s company. If blessed, we might even be friends. He said our children would be a point of commonality and would reflect our shared values. But the idea of liking each other…”

  “Or loving each other?”

  Vlad looked down. “Yes, these were things, he said, dreamt of by fools and novelists.”

  “Because of what your father wrote, you cannot believe I like you?” Gisella smiled and stepped closer to him. “You cannot believe I might love you?”

  “It is, I think, far too early to be speaking of love, Princess, lest you commit foolishness for which you would condemn a heroine and the novelist who created her.”

  “I should tell you, I do not think it is so.” Gisella reached up and stroked the side of his face, then turned away. The fire flooded her hair with golden highlights. “I was raised at court, my lord, where I did not fit in because that which attracted others bored me. Like you, however, I was prepared to do my duty. I would come here and marry a man I did not know. I would bear him children and I would hope he would go off to w
ars or to tour his lands. I would hope he was an ambitious man and that his ambitions took him far from me. And this is why I hate ambition.”

  Vlad smiled. “Princess, I am an ambitious man.”

  She turned, her eyes alight. “Your ambition is practical. Your laboratory shouts it. You want to know things, to discover things, to learn. You seek to make the world a better place. Ambition can be selfish or selfless, and you are the master of the latter form. For that reason alone I would like you; and certainly do love you.”

  “But I am not…”

  “Not what, my lord? Dashing and handsome like von Metternin? I would tell you that you are. Handsome, most certainly, and dashing, of course. Who else in all the world rides a wurm beneath the river? You enter worlds no other man has seen. Countless are the fools who charge into battle and think themselves brave because their enemies cannot shoot straight. Their foe’s incompetence somehow becomes a shining sign of God’s favor.”

  Her face lit up as she paced. Even Mugwump stirred at her words, sliding his tail out of her way as she paraded. “Shall I tell you, my lord, why it is I love you, for I do love you, and it does not matter to me if you do not return that love? Knowing I have found a man worthy of being loved is enough. But do you wish to know?”

  Vlad met her gaze and nodded. “I should be honored.”

  “You are a man who deals in realities. You acknowledge that honor and glory exist, but you do not seek them as a hound seeks a fox. You see them for what they are. Glory will feed no one. Honor will keep no one warm on a night such as this. A bullet will kill the virtuous and brave as easily as the dissolute and craven—and often side by side with the same volley.”

  She pointed back toward the house and his laboratory. “The model you have created, the men you have sent to scout it, none of these things are matters for the Governor-General. Your responsibility would have ended with sending reports to Launston. That would be your duty as seen by the Crown, but you see more. You see what is necessary and you execute.”

  Gisella smiled. “And here, my lord, the fact that you have sent your wurmwright to bed while you stoke these fires, it pleases me. I can imagine you sitting up the night with a coughing child or…”