At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The Lord Mayor invited Prince Vlad to address the assembly, which he did with the customary reluctance that had marked the man since Owen first met him.

  Vlad smiled. “Thank you, Lord Mayor, and the people of Temperance. You honor us today in ways we never would have imagined. It is so good to be home. I will not speak very long because I know all of us want the company of our families. So I only wish to say this: Know that your friends and kin are the bravest men on the continent. Know that even if they tell stories that seem outrageous, they could exaggerate them a hundred times and would not even come close to the truth of what they endured. And understand that as happy as we are to be home again and reunited with you, we mourn the passing of our brothers in arms, and honor their sacrifices, which made it possible for each of us to be here.

  “I look out over this sea of faces and I see two thousand brothers I never knew I had, and two thousand brothers whom I shall never forget.”

  Cheers rose, hats flew, and many tears fell. The Prince dismissed the men with a salute and the orderly formations dissolved into chaos. Owen went toward the stage, having seen Doctor Frost head off to the left. And as he got close, the crowd opened and there stood Bethany with her family not twenty feet away.

  His heart leaped.

  Then Catherine spoke. “At least pretend, my husband, that you were looking for me.”

  Owen spun. “Catherine!” He smiled, his arms going wide. “I was looking for you. I assumed you would be with the Frosts.”

  Weariness flashed over her drawn and haggard face. Then her expression softened and she forced a brave smile. “I’m sorry, Owen. It has just been so trying a time without you.” She opened her arms, spreading the cloak she wore, then let a hand stroke her swollen belly. “You see why I have missed you so?”

  Owen’s jaw dropped. “A baby? Our baby?”

  “Ours, yes, of course. You are my husband.”

  “Catherine, I dreamed of this on the march.” He clapped his hands and laughed. “This is perfect. We can make a new life here for our child.”

  “A new life here?” She shook her head, her eyes narrowing. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  Owen hesitated. “A slip of the tongue, darling. I mean… for us to return home, of course. It is just… with the land grant, we will have lands here, too.”

  She reached out and caressed his cheek. “Of course. The land here shall make our life in Norisle perfect.”

  Owen drew her to him, holding her tightly. “It will be perfect. I might, you know, wish to visit…”

  She stiffened slightly within his embrace. “I understand, husband. I much prefer you coming here to visit than your going off to war.” She pulled back and smiled. “I shall remain in our home, caring for our children, while you adventure and bring back more glory and wealth.”

  Owen kissed her forehead. “Nothing could induce you live here?”

  “Remain here. Are you joking?” She looked up at him, her brown eyes intently studying him. “No power under Heaven could convince me to stay a moment longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “I hope, Mrs. Strake, this is not completely true.” Prince Vlad, his complexion ashen, gave them a wan smile. “I would ask of your husband a personal service which would delay your departure.”

  Catherine, surprised, turned and curtsied. “Highness, please, I did not mean…”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

  The Prince sighed heavily, shrinking, shoulder sagging. “Baker sent word from my estate. It’s Mugwump.” The man looked up, stricken. “He’s dying.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  September 17, 1764

  Prince Haven, Temperance Bay, Mystria

  "Owen, you can’t abandon me.”

  He looked at his wife. “I’m not.”

  “You just returned from war.” Catherine’s eyes began to brim with tears. “I need you.”

  Prince Vlad held his hands up. “Forgive me making so unseemly a request.”

  Owen shook his head. “No, Highness, your request is anything but. I have my duty to you and my desire to help Mugwump.” He turned to his wife. “And I am not abandoning you. With the Prince’s permission, I will have Mr. Dunsby get a coach and convey you to the Prince’s estate. There you can get some peace and we will have time together.”

  Vlad smiled. “Yes, of course. Mrs. Strake, I would have you renew your acquaintance with Princess Gisella, and I would love for you to be my guest. I would be honored.”

  Catherine sniffed. “Really?”

  “Sincerely.”

  Owen kissed her. “I want you with me, Catherine. We have been too long apart and now that we are a family, I do not want you away from my side. Were this not an emergency…”

  She wiped away tears. “Go. I am so silly. Do not think of me thus. I shall be with you as fast as possible, beloved husband.”

  Owen signaled Dunsby and explained what he needed. The Private accepted the orders with a smile and led Catherine off to gather her things. Owen then followed the Prince to the garrison stable where Nathaniel Woods had already gotten three horses saddled. The three of them mounted up and made haste for the estate.

  The lack of conversation gave Owen time to think. On the road he had been ready to return to Norisle, but his blurted admission to Catherine had relieved pressure that had been building in his chest. He really didn’t want to leave Mystria. He really had nothing back in Norisle, but here, in the land of his father, he had a future.

  He recalled Mr. Wattling accusing him of being a Mystrian. At that time he’d taken it as a grand affront, but now, he would find it high praise. While no Mystrians would see him as one, they would come to accept him as one. The reverse, no matter how great the service one performed for the Crown, would never be true in Norisle.

  The words I spoke to Catherine came from my heart. Owen smiled as they sped over the unspoiled landscape. Can a man live with his heart an ocean away?

  Their horses lathered thickly and flagging, they rode straight through the yard to the wurmrest. Owen leaped from the saddle and glanced at Baker, who sat listlessly near the wurmrest’s door. He looked up as Owen approached, his eyes red, dark circles beneath them and his complexion sallow.

  Owen dropped to a knee. “What’s happened, Mr. Baker?”

  The wurmwright shrugged. “I don’t really know. He was fine, just fine, last evening. He ate. He swam, he came back in. Nothing unusual and then…” Baker opened the wurmrest. “He’s dying.”

  Owen preceded the Prince and his wurmwright into the stable. The stench staggered him. Not only did it wreak of wurm—a cloying, musky scent that lodged deep in the sinuses and started them weeping—but heat blasted him. The heat radiated from the wurm, rising so sharply that every step closer felt as if he were walking into an inferno.

  The wurm, or what Owen had to presume was the wurm, lay nestled inside a fat, twenty-foot-long cocoon spun of black and red silk, with hints of gold, reflecting the colors of the creature beneath it. The silk alone would be worth a fortune, but it came with a high price. The cocoon would kill the wurm, though slight movement suggested Mugwump hadn’t died yet. Owen took this as a good sign.

  Owen leaned on the railing. “I’ve never seen a molt like this. The scales are outside, as if the cocoon grew beneath the wurm’s flesh and exfoliated them.”

  The Prince nodded. “Normally a cocoon’s fibers grow over the scales?”

  “Yes. You cut the wurm out of the cocoon, then help him shed.” Owen pointed at the far side of the wurmrest. “Baker, what’s that?”

  “His tail, sir. He chewed it off.” As long as the cocoon itself, the tail had already begun to putrefy, contributing to the fierce odor. “I wanted to drag it out, but it’s too hot for me to get it.”

  Vlad grabbed Owen’s upper arm. “I have pruning hooks. We might be able to cut him free. Do you think we should do that? Can we save him?”

  A lump rose in Owen’s throat. He clasped the man by both shoulders and
swallowed past it. “I don’t know, Highness. I’ve never seen colored silk. I’ve never seen shed scales nor a chewed-off tail. I’ve never heard of a wurm having a fever. Fact is, he’s breathing. If we interfere…”

  Vlad glanced down at the wurm, then nodded. “Right, right, of course. Fever means metabolism. Same with breathing. Part of a natural process. It must be something natural. I need to make some notes.”

  “Good idea.” Owen pointed to the tail. “I’ll see if we can drag it out.”

  “Rope and tackle might help.”

  “I think I can find it, Highness.”

  Vlad gave him a wan smile. “I am sorry for intruding on your reunion with your wife, Captain. I’m very glad you’re here.”

  “As am I.”

  “And congratulations on your child.”

  Owen beamed. “Thank you. Of recent times I’ve seen a lot of death. Having life brought into the world will be good. And since I want my child to be able to swim with a wurm, we’ll make sure Mugwump lives, too.”

  The Prince’s smile broadened. “Your children shall ride, Captain. This I promise you.”

  Between the three of them, Owen, Nathaniel, and Baker were able to get some rope around the severed tail and drag it out of the wurmrest. Owen’s guess that it was the source of the stink had been right. Nathaniel wanted to burn it. Baker suggested burying it. The Prince insisted on dissecting it, which he did using the aforementioned pruning hook and a highway-man’s mask heavily laden with oil of eucalyptus.

  Though the dissection did not thrill Owen, it kept Vlad busy. He would cut open a portion of the tail, make sketches of what he saw, then weigh flesh and bone before separating them. He noted that fish did not take the wurmflesh for bait and that birds seem reluctant to pick at it. Based on tracks they found the next morning, neither wolverine nor bear had difficulty eating the meat, and by the second day a family of raccoons waited in the woods for that day’s dissection to end.

  Vlad did make some interesting discoveries. In one of the tail bones he found an old arrowhead entirely encrusted with bone. “I checked Mugwump’s history and in 1162, at the battle of Verindan, an arrow penetrated his tail. They could not dig it out, so they snapped it off.”

  Nathaniel and Baker took the wurmskin and set about cleaning and tanning it. The fact that Vlad was able to discover a variety of new things appeared to keep his anxiety at bay, and this made the waiting more endurable.

  Princess Gisella did her best to make everyone feel at ease, especially Catherine. Owen’s wife had taken to bed for two days after the rough coach ride from Temperance. Gisella waited upon her as if a servant. Owen apologized profusely to her Highness, but Gisella simply smiled and promised to care for her as Owen was caring for Mugwump.

  On the third day, the Prince came to relieve Owen. “I believe, Captain, I know why this molt is different from others.”

  “Yes, Highness?”

  “Mugwump made the cocoon very quickly—in less than five hours. That requires a great deal of energy. Mugwump does many things differently from wurms on Norisle or the Continent. He consumes a variety of flora and fauna that are unknown on the other side of the ocean. I am certain that has contributed to his health and his colors being so bright. But he’s been doing that for fifty years, without this sort of molt. So I looked for something else, some way he might have gotten access to energy.”

  The Prince’s expression tightened. “I think it comes down to his eating pasmortes.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting he consumed the magickal energy in them?”

  “It’s just a theory and yet, when du Malphias destroyed the magick, Mugwump vomited back corpses and showed no more interest in anything that had been pasmorte. He stored that energy up and then when back here, in his lair, feeling safe, he entered a molt.”

  For the next week and a half things settled into a routine. Owen, the Prince, and Baker divided the day into three watches. One of them was with Mugwump at all times, with Dunsby and Count von Metternin helping out as needed. Nathaniel hunted and fished, as well as continued to process the wurmleather and bones, happy with the distance between himself and the cocoon.

  On the twenty-fifth of September, surprise visitors arrived on the river. Msitazi, still wearing Owen’s jacket, accompanied by Kamiskwa and William, beached the canoe. After greetings and introductions—Msitazi doing Owen the great honor of offering to buy Catherine, that being an honor his wife neither understood or liked—William fetched a package from the canoe. Unwrapping it, he proudly bore one of the wurmscales filled with a small fortune of salt mixed with bear grease into a thick paste.

  The Prince accepted the gift. “What is this?”

  Msitazi chuckled. “It is for Mugwump. It is to celebrate his birth.”

  “I fear I don’t understand, Chief Msitazi.”

  The older man dispatched William to fetch one of the scales from the wurm’s tail. The chief squatted and planted the scale on the ground upside down. The inside shined with a wavy mineral rainbow akin to mother of pearl. The Altashee oriented the attachment point toward the north.

  Msitazi pointed to a dark dot near the southern edge of the scale. “This marks his birth.” His finger traveled over to the western side of the scale and tapped a small, thorn-like projection. “This is his nativity bump. When the sun sets, and its shadow touches the dot, it is his day of birth.”

  “I find your idea intriguing, sir, but the date of Mugwump’s hatching was in April, many centuries ago.”

  The Altashee chuckled. “You are born once of your mother, and again born a man. If a man is lucky, he is again born into wisdom. If this is true of men, why is it not true of Mugwump?”

  Vlad ran a hand over his jaw. “When?”

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  “Then we shall have to be ready.” Vlad looked over at Owen. “Though how we prepare for the birthing of a wurm, I have no idea.”

  After the evening’s dinner, Owen found Catherine standing on the balcony overlooking the lawn. Below, the Altashee had constructed a domed hut and sat around a small campfire in front of it. Nathaniel sat with his son and the four of them all laughed.

  He slipped his arms around her and kissed her neck. “You should come down, Catherine. They tell very good stories.”

  “No. You can go.”

  “Not without you.”

  “I know you want to go, Owen. I know you’d rather be with them.”

  He straightened up and turned her around. Tear-tracks glistened in moonlight. “I want to be in your company, Catherine. I like these men. They saved my life.”

  “They abandoned you to du Malphias.”

  “They did what I ordered them to do, and they returned for me. Had they not been there, I never should have escaped.” He tipped her face up. “What is it?”

  “You’ve changed, Owen. Sometimes I wonder if I know you anymore. I wonder if you still love me and want to return to our home with me.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I love you, and wherever we are together is our home, be it in Norisle, or here.”

  “Here?”

  “Would that be so terrible?”

  Before she could answer, a rumbling screech burst from the wurmrest. Baker bolted through the door. “It’s happening. Come quick!”

  Without a second thought, Owen vaulted the railing and sprinted to the wurmrest. The others came as well—including Nathaniel. Msitazi marched proudly into the dark confines, bearing his gift.

  The wurmrest’s temperature had dropped sharply. This would have worried Owen, save that movement from within the cocoon had increased. Though the silk still shrouded Mugwump, there was no mistaking him for dead.

  Another shriek ripped through the night, with enough hints of Mugwump’s battle-cry that none who had heard it before could help but smile.

  Owen grabbed a pruning hook from the rack on the wall. “Shall I cut him out?”

  The Prince considered for a moment, then glanced at Msitazi. “N
o. If Mugwump is emerging into wisdom, he’ll get himself out.”

  Msitazi moved off to the side on the catwalk and sat down with his offering in his lap. He began to rock back and forth, singing in a low voice, a huge smile on his face. He clearly had no concerns for the wurm’s health, and that calmed everyone save for Baker, who decided to keep an eye on both the wurm and the Altashee.

  Nathaniel nodded. “I think I’d be liking to know how Msitazi knows what he knows about these wurms.”

  Kamiskwa tapped his own left eye. “I accept that he knows.”

  The grumblings from the cocoon became more consistent and louder. Activity within the cocoon became more deliberate. Before Mugwump could have been an infant moving within a dream, but now the motions had direction and purpose, not the fluid aimlessness of slumber.

  And then, just as Princess Gisella entered the wurmrest, it happened.

  Mugwump’s tail slashed through the silk. It emerged slender and sinewy, but strong, with an arrowhead point at the tip. It uncoiled and waved about, like a snake preparing to strike. It chopped down toward the wurm’s hip, opening another great rent.

  Mugwump’s head reared up through that hole on a long, slender neck. Though still wedge-shaped, his head was smaller than before. Small horns started at the tip of the nose and worked themselves up between the eyes, then split into two trios that angled back along the skull. His great golden eyes had shifted forward, peering out over the muzzle. It made him appear more equine, though the scales and horns had never been seen on a horse. Two pointed ears with tiny golden tufts topping each, flicked forward and back.

  Talons clawed through the cocoon front and back, tugging on the silk and enlarging holes. They exposed him fully, his flesh gleaming, muscles visible, but with a new serpentine leanness to his shape.

  “‘Pears you’ll be needing some new tack, Highness.” Nathaniel scratched at the back of his head. “He done shrank a mite.”