Of Limited Loyalty cc-2

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “We know it does, but no one in Norisle will see it that way. They’ll come and say that the people of Piety went insane. Outbreak of St. Vitus’ dance or, given the fact that they followed the Steward here, they’ll say he preached a wrong message. They’ll say parents slaughtered children, then husbands killed wives. They’ll say the deacon then killed the husbands and that the Steward here killed the deacon. They’ll make it into a problem that doesn’t require a solution because they won’t have a solution.

  “In pointing out that things are missing, I’m pointing out that someone went through here and collected things, samples-same as those Prince Vlad asks Nathaniel, Kamiskwa, and me to collect. Whoever did this took things not as plunder, but to study.” Owen thrust a finger at the meeting house. “And given their willingness to kill so easily, does having them study a settlement make you uneasy? It does me, because I can see my wife and daughter headless in some of those empty chairs.”

  Rathfield struggled to his feet. “What are you saying, Strake? That there is a madman out here who styles himself a naturalist like Prince Vlad? If you are, you’re mad. There’s only Tharyngians out here, and they hardly need to study Norillians.”

  Nathaniel spat into the dust. “And you’re gonna be telling me that Ryngians done raised that ruin we done explored?”

  The Norillian hesitated. “I don’t know if…”

  “Colonel, someone from Auropa wouldn’t have no need to study us. But whoever did create that ruin, whoever did inscribe those tablets, ain’t from around these parts.” Nathaniel shook his head. “They may have run into the Shedashee before, so when they found Piety, it was something new, something worthy of study. And given how powerful they appear to be in terms of magick, I’d prefer them knowing less about us than more.”

  Nathaniel slapped Owen on the shoulder. “I don’t reckon I’m much suited to thinking the way Prince Vlad thinks, but I am considerable good at collecting them things he likes to think about. I reckon we need to go over this here settlement and look for the things ain’t right. Since it seems magick was used to erase tracks, but didn’t blow so hard as to make too much of a mess, we might just find us some things could be useful. Let’s take it house by house and see what we can find.”

  What they found didn’t amount to much. As expected, a variety of things had been taken from the homes, including candle molds, a fiddle, the Weaver family’s copy of the Good Book, and a few other odds and ends. Nothing made of iron or steel had been taken, as nearly as could be discerned, since every home had an ax, cast iron pots and pans, and not a single musket or pistol was missing to the best of the Steward’s knowledge. Owen assumed that the Prince would conclude that the creatures who had taken things were highly involved in magick, so iron and steel would be almost poisonous to them.

  Kamiskwa, Nathaniel, and Makepeace found the most interesting artifacts out to the southwest. A bent barn nail had trapped a few long hairs, which, as nearly as any of them could discern, belonged to a wooly rhinoceros. They didn’t discover any tracks to indicate how the hair had gotten there, but Fire had never heard of any wooly rhinos being in the area.

  As odd as that was, the two artifacts Nathaniel displayed in his open palm were far stranger. A claw, hooked, hollow, and black, had caught in the jamb on a hayloft door. Because it was thinner at the base than it was toward the top, Owen imagined that this claw had sheathed another claw below, and when stressed, had broken free. Beside it lay a triangular tooth with a serrated edge. It had a mother-of-pearl pattern to it, akin to the sheen of oil on water. Though it was no bigger than his thumbnail, Owen had no doubt that it would do a fair amount of cutting-and though it would have helped confirm his conclusion, he didn’t suggest returning to the meeting house to match wounds to either tooth or claw.

  Nathaniel slipped the tooth and claw into his bag. “I ain’t sure what to make of these, and like as not I don’t want to hear what Prince Vlad will say.”

  “I agree.” Owen closed his journal and replaced it in his satchel. “But the sooner we get back, the sooner he can figure out what we should do next.”

  “I don’t see no reason to delay our departure.”

  “Me neither, brother.”

  The five of them waited at the edge of the green as Ezekiel Fire faced the meeting house and offered a prayer. Owen couldn’t hear it, so just offered his own. After he finished, Fire crossed himself, then tossed a burning brand into the blockhouse. They waited until the building caught fire solidly, then headed west, letting the blaze light their way.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  16 May 1767 Prince Haven Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Prince Vlad looked up from his notebook as his wife entered his laboratory. “What is it, my dear?”

  She hugged her arms around herself. “Baker just came back from town. He brought a note from Catherine Strake. She begged our pardon, but she will be one more day in Temperance. She is attending a sick friend. Miranda is ours alone for one more day.”

  Vlad closed the notebook on his pencil, then leaned back. “She expects to be back tomorrow night, then?”

  Gisella nodded. “I would not worry, but this is the sailing season…”

  “Yes, a legion of ships loading up and heading back to Norisle.” Vlad’s natural inclination was to think that the woman would not abandon her husband and child, but when Catherine Strake had nothing to occupy her time, she filled it with dreams of returning to Norisle. “Do you really think she would go?”

  “It would be easier now that Owen is away. I just cannot imagine her leaving Miranda behind. She’s so possessive. If she wanted to hurt Owen, she’d take the child. It would tear his heart out.”

  “True, so why would she abandon the child? Does she think that returning to Norisle without Miranda would improve her prospects? I gather that being a poor refugee from the Colonies is not something looked upon with great favor in Launston.”

  “I believe she has an elderly relative-a grandmother, perhaps-who is wealthy. I don’t know if the woman approved of the match with Owen. Catherine’s leaving him might improve her lot.” Gisella shrugged. “And she could be charming, and is smart enough, to play well the person horrified by how primitive the colonies are. Her comments would be most welcome in certain highly placed circles.”

  Vlad pushed his chair back and stood. “I could stop her. I could have a warrant issued for her detention for abandoning her child.”

  “You hesitate because you don’t know if that would be a blessing or curse for Owen.”

  He pressed his hands together, then nodded. “I asked him if he was taking the mission west to do his duty, or to escape his wife. His answer was quite frank. I think he did love her once, and part of him may yet. She is, after all, the mother of his child and he loves Miranda fiercely. Catherine is profoundly unhappy here. She wants to leave, and he can’t imagine leaving. To have to share your life with someone so opposed to what makes you happy…”

  Gisella threaded her way between heavily book-laden tables and hugged him. “It is a fate we avoided, beloved, when your aunt and my father thought to foist us off on each other.”

  Vlad kissed her forehead. “I wish my friends were as lucky as we.”

  “Perhaps someday they will be.” She smiled. “If you issue a warrant and Catherine is not thinking of leaving…”

  “She will have one more thing to hate here. If I accept her at her word and she does not return tomorrow night, it will be too late.” He shook his head. “If I had worked on the thaumagraph, tested it, and had a copy in Summerland, she could be detained there.”

  “Many ifs, darling. Besides, your new project is more important.” She pulled back from him. “Your son, you may have noticed, has taken to wearing gloves as you do.”

  “It will be a while before he has a pair of these.” Vlad turned toward his desk and the pair of leather gloves arranged so he could sketch them into his notes. The only truly unusual thing about them was the wooden disk assembly that had be
en riveted to the back of each index finger. The disk, which was no larger than a crown coin, had been positioned to allow easy access with the thumb. The thumb, as with many gloves used by soldiers and huntsmen, had a sheath over the thumb which could be pulled back to expose it.

  Building upon the vibrating teacup experiment results, Vlad had fashioned a means to communicate with Mugwump in flight. He placed other disk assemblies into a harness which fitted over the dragon’s head. The assemblies settled right over the scales that covered Mugwump’s aural canals. Invoking the spell he’d created, Vlad could spin the wheels on his gloves, making the right or left disk click against the dragon’s head. While Mugwump had not reacted well to the noise at first, when Vlad was able to moderate the noise and remove the bridle and reins, the dragon became far more tolerant of the tapping.

  “Are you going to try flying him with them?”

  “I will be very careful, my love.” Vlad sighed. “I’ve trained him on the ground, and yesterday we flew and I had the reins. Off the ground the noise needs to be a bit louder because of the air rushing past, but he did respond.”

  “Yes, you’d been afraid that his magick might interfere with yours.” Gisella took his hands in hers and examined his thumbnails. Blood had gathered beneath them. “You should have drained them.”

  “I can’t. I need to measure.” He went to the desk and opened his notebook. “Here, you see, I measure the increase in the area, based on how much magick I’m using. If you check this chart…”

  Her blue eyes narrowed as her finger traced the descending line. “It looks as if the amount of blood loss is decreasing even though your magick use is remaining the same or even increasing.”

  “Yes, exactly. And I have good way to measure it, but I find using magick less draining. I theorize this could be because the spell I’m using is one I created myself, so it takes less energy to make it work.”

  She glanced up. “I am not certain I follow.”

  “Think of it in terms of language. Norillian is not your native tongue, so reading and translating take more concentration than it would for you to read something written in Kessian. Or, a better example, when a cook with vast experience starts putting something together, they just do it their way, putting in what they know is right, and do it faster because that is their routine. They’re comfortable, so they just act, they don’t have to think.” Vlad opened his hands. “The spell to ignite brimstone, for example, starts with me visualizing the sun. But if I’ve lived my whole life in a cave and have never seen the sun, I would have to equate the sun to a torch, the torch to fire, and then use that to ignite the brimstone. By creating my own spell, I don’t have to work through the model someone else dreamed up, I work directly through what comes most easily for me.”

  She stepped back, her face darkening. “If this is true, then it would mean that every man could create his own magick.”

  “I’m not so certain.” The Prince opened his hands. “There are plenty of carpenters who can drive nails and saw wood, but ask them to design a set of shelves and that might just be beyond them. Just the act of reading, or knowing how to read and write, may make all the difference. In doing either, you translate from the real world to an abstraction. The word apple won’t feed you, but reading it will conjure up the right image, and can communicate to someone else what you want to eat.”

  Gisella stared toward the floor for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Which brings you back to the grimoire hidden in the Good Book. The people most likely to be able to read are going to be clergy. While I want your idea to be correct, I fear the consequences if it is.”

  “Here is the positive side of it, and why I think it is true. Mugwump is using magick to fly, but no one ever taught him a spell that would let him fly. There isn’t any, as nearly as I know. And as he has flown more, he has bled less than before. Using magick has to be natural for him, even instinctual. It could be that just as magick that is born of him will not hurt him very much, so magick we each create will take less out of us than spells we learn from another. Think of it: the brimstone spell is at least three and a half centuries old. Who, today, thinks as someone might have then? They believed the world was flat and that you could sail off the edge. That we could craft a more natural spell to trigger brimstone shouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “No, but it should be a secret.”

  “I agree.” If the Church had any idea what I have discovered, they would go after me as they likely have after Ezekiel Fire.

  He reached over and gathered up his gloves. “I will fly Mugwump briefly today without reins. We will see how that works, then I will work on the next iteration of these gloves.”

  She took the gloves from him and held them out so he could put them on. “You will be careful.”

  “Completely. I’ll be back well before dusk.” He pulled her to him and kissed her. “You know that I love you for more than being the mother of my children, yes?”

  She smiled and hugged him strongly. “Likewise, beloved husband. Never forget that.”

  The Prince entered the wurmrest and walked along the catwalk to the riverside wall. He worked a crank, drawing up the barred gate. Mugwump slowly stretched, then opened his mouth in what Vlad had decided was a dragonly grin. The creature swung his head around so the Prince could fit the disk harness onto his head and secure it in place. He then waited for the bridle and reins.

  Vlad shook his head. “Not today. Meet you outside.”

  Vlad shouldered the saddle, gathering loops of cinch straps in his other arm, and waited on the lawn for the dragon. When Mugwump emerged, Vlad fitted the saddle between his shoulders and tightened the harness in place. The dragon shifted and stretched, requiring Vlad to give another tug or two on various straps, but soon enough man and beast were satisfied.

  Vlad held a hand up and then began pacing his way along the lawn. The day before he’d gone twenty paces or roughly thirty yards. He considered that a significant distance because he was fairly certain that the clicking of the wheels on his gloves couldn’t be heard at that range. If Mugwump responded to the wheels, it was because of the magick. Because the dragon had responded, Vlad moved to twenty-five paces.

  Holding his hands behind his back, Vlad invoked the spell and worked the wheel on his right glove.

  Mugwump dutifully turned to the right until the clicking stopped. Vlad spun the wheels left and right in no particular order and the dragon moved as commanded. When Vlad spun them both together, the dragon advanced; when he backed them in three staccato clicks, Mugwump retreated.

  Vlad brought the dragon around to face him, then spun the wheels forward. He turned to walk toward the path to the training field and Mugwump caught up in no time.

  Vlad glanced sidelong into a big golden eye. “We know this spell works at forty yards. That’s a killing shot for a musket. Seems to work quickly enough, but if this magick will make my thaumagraph work, I need to know how fast magick flows.”

  Mugwump blinked slowly.

  “I do get the feeling you understand what I’m saying.” Vlad shook his head. “And sometimes you seem to wonder why I’m taking so long to understand things you take for granted.”

  The dragon swung his head to the right, gently knocking Vlad off course. Vlad stumbled to the side, then looked back. Had the dragon not nudged him, he’d have stepped into a chuck hole.

  The Prince laughed. “Is that your way of telling me I overlook the obvious?”

  The dragon unfurled his wings and raised his muzzle to the sky.

  “Yes-why are we walking when we could be flying?” Vlad laughed and settled his goggles on his eyes. He clambered up into the saddle, strapped himself in, and rolled both glove wheels forward.

  Mugwump began a lumbering run that quickly transformed into a graceful lope. With his head held low like that of a hunting feline, the dragon sped forward. Just as he began to gallop, he spread his wings again, then launched himself skyward with a powerful leap and beat of wings. Though Vlad had
experienced take-off before, he always grabbed onto his saddle horn. It felt as if he’d left his stomach on the ground.

  That little spark of fear died as Mugwump rose through the air. The Benjamin River became a ribbon of silver. Patchy green fields separated by darker green forest swaths covered the ground in a crazy-quilt pattern, which, though lacking regularity, did not lack for beauty. Even the road to Temperance held appeal as it lazily wended its way through vales and around hills.

  Vlad spun wheels left and right and Mugwump responded, his wings wide. When the Prince backed the wheels the dragon climbed, and a slow roll forward started a descent. The dragon had learned the commands easily enough, and if the calls he hooted toward the west were any indication, he enjoyed the flight as much as the Prince.

  Vlad reached down and patted him on the neck. “You’ve done well, Mugwump, but shadows are getting long. We need to go home.” He slid the wheels forward, then rolled the left one more to turn them back toward Prince Haven.

  Mugwump instead turned right, toward the setting sun.

  Vlad reinvoked the spell and worked the left wheel. He looked ahead and was pretty sure he could see the left disk rattling away, but he couldn’t quite be certain. Then he tried the right wheel, but again no response. Instead the dragon began to climb, his wings beating urgently.

  Vlad began to shiver.

  It wasn’t just from the cold.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  16 May 1767 Happy Valley Postsylvania, Mystria

  Nathaniel lowered his canteen and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Ain’t more than couple hours now. We’ll be there well afore dusk.”

  “Right, very good, Woods.” Rathfield stood in the center of the trail, leaning on his musket. “This will give us several hours of daylight for the people of Happy Valley to pack up as much as they can. Won’t be much-wagons won’t make it through the mountains.”

  The Steward looked up from the rock upon which he perched. “My people are not leaving, Colonel.”