At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Owen felt as if he were a child again. His father had never been a disciplinarian, so those duties devolved to his grandfather or uncle. Grandfather simply had the help beat him. His uncle greatly relished his role and, it had often seemed to Owen, was intent on bleeding him dry of Mystrian blood.

  His uncle had never just inflicted pain. He always threw in humiliation. Owen’s cheeks burned at the memory of the time his uncle had appeared at his Academy, had him strip off his breeches in the courtyard, then applied a riding crop to his buttocks and thighs for an imaginary offense. As it turned out, Richard Ventnor had actually committed that particular offense thirty years earlier, and his father had beaten him as he beat Owen.

  Owen doubted the invitation to dinner would include a beating. Still, he was willing to bet humiliation and mental torture would be on the menu. Owen knocked at the apartment door, wondering why he had even come.

  Harlmont, a wizened prune of a man whose subservient attitude had left him perpetually hunched, opened the door. The servant said nothing by way of greeting. He took Owen’s hat, then waved him through to the sitting room.

  Richard Ventnor stood before a modest fire, holding a book in his left hand. He snapped it shut and set it on the mantle, then looked Owen up and down. “I have, I fear, grossly misjudged you.”

  Owen hesitated. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Harlmont, two whiskies. My best. Be generous and quick.” Deathridge moved to a chair beside the fire, and nodded Owen toward its mate opposite. “I read the Prince’s report—twice, in fact. The level of detail, the things you learned about these pasmortes, impressed me.”

  Owen sat. “Lord Rivendell believes they are ghosts to frighten children.”

  “Rivendell could not find east even if you started him at the dawn.”

  “He will get men killed.”

  Deathridge accepted a whisky and raised his glass to his nephew. “To men who see what is.”

  Owen took his whisky and sipped. “Thank you.”

  “To you goes the thanks. And an apology.” Deathridge set his glass on a side table. “Had not your wife so eloquently pled your case, I would never have considered you for this assignment. I had little expectation of success. Certainly nothing on this level. You justified her faith in you, and opened my eyes.”

  Owen frowned. “Did you know du Malphias was on his way when you sent me?”

  “It had been rumored, but he sailed after you did. Had I guessed at the depths of his depravity I would have…” His uncle’s head came up. “No. I was going to say I would have informed you, but the truth is, I would have chosen someone else. I never imagined you to be as clever as you are.”

  Owen shivered. “Are you well, Uncle?”

  The man laughed, and openly so. It had to have been the first time Owen had heard that sound. “I deserve that. I treated you poorly, Owen, for reasons that, I guess, you should know.

  “My brother, your stepfather, is a drunkard and a horrible gambler. Your maternal grandfather, Earl Featherstone, had lent Francis a great deal of money—more than our father was willing to repay. When your father died, your grandfather purchased Francis’ marriage to your mother at the price of his debts. I, and my father, had hoped to use Francis to secure some other alliance. My discomfort at being thwarted was something I took out on you. I convinced myself you were a stupid boy and that if you were dead, it would be the best thing for all involved. I do not, however, stoop to murder.”

  Owen gulped a decent slug of the whisky, letting it burn his throat so he would not scream. My existence thwarted his ambition, so that justifies how I was treated?

  Deathridge steepled his fingers. “So I have several things to tell you. The first, which will be made public when you return to Norisle, is that the Queen is going to make you a Knight of the Norillian Empire. With that shall come a modest land grant here. You know what you have seen and what you like; please choose a place. A thousand acres. You might name it after the family estate.”

  “A knighthood. Do not tease me.”

  “No, it is quite true. Her Majesty recognizes the threat these pasmortes represent. Du Malphias had been rumored to be collecting bodies and looting graves back in the days of Villerupt. We saw no evidence of anything untoward, so suggestions of necromancy had been dismissed.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow. “What about his ability to use magick beyond the realm of touch?”

  Deathridge recovered his glass and drank. “That I find the most disturbing of all. There are always rumors of magick that powerful.”

  “The Shedashee can do it, after a fashion.”

  “This gives the rumors more credence, certainly.” Deathridge put the glass down again. “This brings me to one charge I have for you, one that you must reveal to no one else.”

  “Yes?”

  Deathridge closed his eyes for a moment. “When you take the fortress, du Malphias will attempt to burn his papers. You must, at all costs, prevent this. We need his documents, to analyze and determine what breakthroughs he has made. The very future of Norisle will depend upon it.”

  “That is a very important job, Uncle. I should think you save it for yourself.”

  “I would, but I will not be joining you on the expedition.”

  Owen frowned. “But you said your job was to advise…You’re not going with Forest’s troops, are you?”

  “As much as I might like to, no.” His uncle sighed and almost seemed to shrink. “The packet boat did have the information I informed the Prince of concerning Tharyngian troops. It also contained a letter directing me to return to Launston with all haste. One of my political allies—one of Rivendell’s enemies—suffered a public scandal. I will remain here long enough to organize supplies for the expedition, then I will return to Launston to salvage what I can.”

  Deathridge covered his face with his hands, then looked up. “How smart is Prince Vlad? Is he sane? He seemed so, but many fear he has adopted Tharyngian ways.”

  “He’s very smart, and very sane.”

  “Ambitious?”

  “Not in any way you might think.” Owen smiled. “His ambition extends only to his studies. He gave me a list of plants and animals to bring back for him. He understands politics, but only uses that knowledge to do what the Crown wants.”

  His uncle nodded thoughtfully. “Good. And he is not too much under the influence of the Kessian?”

  “Von Metternin? He uses the Count as an advisor, but even the Count is in awe of the Prince.”

  “This is important, Owen.” His uncle’s expression sharpened. “What did they think of du Malphias’ plan to create his own nation?”

  “The Prince laughed when I told him. He said it was impossible. Aside from Tharyngia lacking the necessary number of people, Mystria is too large, with too many regions and interests. The Continent would sooner be united than Mystria.”

  “Very good.” His uncle smiled quickly. “And the Kessian’s thoughts?”

  “He feels the same, as best I know.”

  “Good.” Deathridge stood and plucked the book from the mantle. He handed it to Owen. “Do you know this book?”

  Owen ran his fingers over the cover. A Continent’s Calling. “Yes. I used it as a key for coded messages to Prince Vladimir.”

  Still standing, Deathridge took up his glass and sipped more whiskey. “Did you know that the author, Samuel Haste, does not exist? It is a nom de plume.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that fact.”

  “If you knew who had written it, you would tell me, yes?”

  Owen nodded despite goosebumps puckering of his flesh. It occurred to him in a flash that the book’s true author might be Doctor Frost. I would never betray him. “Of course. Is there a problem?”

  “The document is seditious. Be careful. Do not let Rivendell know you have read it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “One last matter.”

  Owen looked up. “Yes?”

  “If Lord Rivendell were to lose his m
ind and lead the expedition to ruin, do you think Prince Vladimir could take over? Allowing that he would use Count von Metternin as an aide. Would you be able to command troops in his name?”

  “Yes, to the first. A conditional yes to the second, since colonels will be commanding the regiments.”

  Deathridge smiled coldly. “I yet have it within my power to do certain things, Owen. Before I leave, I shall write out a sealed order and give it to the Prince. It will grant you a field promotion to General in the event that Rivendell is relieved of command. I will brief the Prince on this matter.”

  Owen blinked. “Are you certain, Uncle?”

  “I am. You have to be my man here, Owen. You have to be Norisle’s man here. If we fail to deal with du Malphias, our position in the world is compromised. My enemies do not see it that way, but it is quite clear. I know it, and I know their will is such that when adversity strikes, they will withdraw and merely hasten a collapse that never need happen.

  “You, Owen Strake, have seen the evil that is Guy du Malphias. It falls to you to eliminate him. It is our family duty to thusly serve the Crown.”

  Owen shook his head as if to clear it. Is this truly my uncle?

  He knew there had to be more going on than he was seeing. Before he could even begin to puzzle it out, his uncle set the whisky down and extended his hand. “I must be leaving.”

  Owen stood and shook his hand. “But I thought… Dinner?”

  “One last ruse, and you will understand.” Deathridge smiled curiously. “You will still have dinner, and you will enjoy the company.”

  Deathridge exited to the foyer. Owen made to follow, but a voice from behind, from the dining room, stopped him. “Owen.”

  He turned, his heart instantly in his throat. There she stood, perfect and smiling, a gown of white reminding him of the day they wed. “Catherine!”

  She flew to him and he gathered her into his arms. She clung to him, burying her face against his chest, her body wracked with sobs. She grabbed handfuls of his coat. She seemed so small and delicate. All he could do was hold her and stroke her hair.

  “Shhhhh, nothing is wrong, beloved.”

  She pulled back and looked up, her cheeks wet. “I thought I had lost you.”

  “No, darling, no.”

  “Owen, I sent you from me and then when you were hurt, when you almost died. It was my fault. I had hurt my husband, my love.”

  “Hush. I am fine.”

  “You don’t know, Owen. But for the kindness of your Uncle Richard, I should have been undone.” She stroked his face, holding it in both hands. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

  He smiled and turned his face to kiss her palms each in turn. “You never lost me. You never came close to losing me.”

  “Oh, you are such a frightful liar.” She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his breastbone. “Your uncle, too. He would not tell me how close to death you were, not for the longest time. But I was inconsolable, Owen. I love you so much.”

  He tipped her head up, then kissed her. She melted into his arms, her hands running beneath his jacket, holding him tightly. She broke the kiss, then kissed his chest. “I thought I should never have you in my arms again.”

  “I am here, now, Catherine.”

  “Yes, you are.” She pulled back and took both his hands in hers. She led him into the hallway and deeper into the apartments. On the left, toward the back, she brought him into a bedroom and bade him sit on the bed. She knelt and tugged his boots off, then stripped him of hose.

  “Your uncle brought me to Mystria because I could not bear to be without you. He said nothing of my passage on the packet boat to surprise you. I had to go with him, of course, since it would not do for me to be left alone on a troop transport. You soldiers can be such a randy lot.”

  Owen stared at her. “If one of them touched you…”

  “Calm yourself, Owen. None of them did, beloved. None of them touched me as you have, as you will.” She peeled his coat off him and slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat. Both of them she deposited on a spindly chair, pausing then to kiss him again and press herself to him. Smiling, she unbuttoned his shirt, teasing, kissing exposed flesh.

  His hands rose to hers, stopping her halfway.

  “There are new scars, Catherine.”

  “They are part of you, husband, so I love them.” She opened his shirt and shivered, but just for a moment. Her smile grew wide again. She leaned in and kissed the bullet wound on his left flank.

  Owen gasped. Until the heat of her kisses flowed into his flesh, he had not realized how alone he felt. Part of his captivity had remained with him, grown out of the dreams where Catherine held herself apart. She had feared losing him, and deep down, he had feared losing her. One kiss, a kiss which was but the harbinger of many more, was enough to banish that fear.

  Sinking to her knees in a rustle of linen, Catherine unbuttoned his breeches and stripped him naked. She ran her hands from his waist along his thighs, her thumbs brushing over his bullet wounds, her fingers tracing the splinter scars on his hip. Her breath warmed his skin as she kissed the wounds on his thighs.

  She looked into his eyes. “I have missed you so, Owen, you cannot know my agonies, my fears.” She kissed his flesh again. “But now they have all evaporated.”

  He drew her to her feet. He began to fuss with the knotted lacings of her gown, but she pushed his hands away. She gathered pillows on the bed and directed him to lay against them, kissing him once, then pressing a finger to his lips.

  She loosened the ties that bound her into her gown and let the dress slip to the floor. She was as he remembered her, slender with full breasts and large nipples. He smiled, and she blew out the bedside candle. Then she slid onto the bed and straddled him.

  Catherine unfastened her hair. It cascaded down about her shoulders. She leaned forward, kissing him again, then whispered, “I feared I had lost you, Owen. I will now rediscover you, every inch of you, and show you how so completely I missed you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  May 30, 1764

  Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  "Truth be told, sir, I ain’t too proud to acknowledge I am pleased to be leaving Temperance behind.” Nathaniel walked beside Major Forest. “Every foot between me and Bishop Bumble makes me happy.”

  Forest smiled. “It was good he gave us that blessing before we headed out. His heart is in the right place.”

  Nathaniel frowned, unsure he believed Bumble had a heart. The Bishop had offered an hour-long sermon on the horrors of Tharyngian society, telling the men that their mission was really God’s plan. He offered numerous scriptures to underscore this opinion, even mentioning the Good Lord wandering for forty days and forty nights in the wilderness. “Not sure I find tales of the Lord wandering and lost much of a good omen, Major.”

  “Your feelings not withstanding, Captain Woods, I’m sure the sermon was a comfort to some.” Forest’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone fell out properly.”

  “True, sir, with a few exceptions.”

  By rule both companies of the Mystrian Rangers carried a hundred rounds of ball or bullet per man. The riflemen among them had an added twenty of the prince’s pasmorte killers. All of them had their long guns in a deer- or moose-skin case. Most all the men had decorated them with beads, buttons, bits of shell, or fancy stitching. They carried hatchets or tomahawks and knives.

  Each carried two types of packs. The first, consisting of a blanket wrapped in bearskin, had a strap looped through its middle. That loop settled over the man’s shoulders and across his chest rather high. A few men tucked some notions in the blanket, but nothing too heavy. A canvas cloth rolled up and tied on either end into a loop made up the second pack. It closely resembled a big sausage. The men carried rice, beans, some salt, some sausage and salt pork in it, as well as eating utensils, some ginger, sugar, and tea.

  In a separate satchel they kept bullet molds, lead, spare firestones, and tools.
Because these things tended to be heavy, four or five men would share them, passing the satchel around every couple of miles. Nathaniel had his own satchel with the molds, but Makepeace offered to haul it since they both used the same rounds.

  Nathaniel smiled as the troops marched along. No one would mistake them for Norillian troops, as they looked far more raggedy than professional soldiers. In general, the Rangers all dressed alike, wearing moccasins and leather leggings, breeches, leather tunics or homespun shirts, with short jackets over them, and caps. The similarity ended there, however, as colors marked the men as different. Caleb and his college friends all wore sashes of maroon and gold around their middles. The men from Summerland had their red caps. The Branches and Casks all wore foxskin caps, while the southerners had adopted the Fairlee militia’s green coat.

  Nathaniel hadn’t been immune to sprucing up his appearance. He decorated his slouch-brimmed, black felt hat with a band of jeopard fur. William’s mother had made him a necklace with bear and jeopard claws—the bear claws for his relationship to Msitazi, and the jeopard claws to celebrate his warrior nature. Just seeing that made some men smile and soured Rufus Branch’s expression right quick.

  Caleb’s men—whom the others had taken to calling the Bookworms—had made a point of carrying a diary, pencils or pens, and at least one other book. They planned, during pauses in the marches, to read to each other, continuing their education on the way. Not to be outdone, Makepeace had managed to find himself a copy of the Bible and threatened to read the entire thing to every Tharyngian left alive at Fort Cuivre.

  “I reckon them books will get heavy, Major.”

  “I believe you are correct. I suggested they read from one of them until it was finished, then move to the next. I suspect some will be abandoned in Hattersburg.”

  “We’ll be leaving more than books.” Nathaniel pointed to a skinny man whose buckskin clothes hung on him like mammoth hide on a mouse. “It was kindly of Bishop Bumble to give us Mr. Beecher to tend to our spiritual needs, but he ain’t gonna make it.”