Of Limited Loyalty cc-2

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Well, I reckon you know ’xactly how lettered I is, Caleb. I’d just make it worse for the Steward.” Nathaniel traced a finger through the wet circle his tankard had left on the table. “Pity, too, because the Steward, he ain’t a bad sort. I look outside, I see Thursday. The Steward, he sees Wednesday or Friday, maybe both all mixed up, but he ain’t a bad man. When Bumble arrested him, he could have run off and the Bishop never would have caught him. He didn’t. I think he believes God will see him through this.”

  “You traveled with him. You truly think he’s a good man?”

  The scout thought for a moment. “He stopped me from shooting Rufus Branch dead, which I could let be judged either way. I guess the man always was looking to help folks and promote peace. And the folks what died at Piety, he done took that on as a burden himself. Now, he was happy they was in Heaven, but sad that they died; and he done saved Colonel Rathfield’s life.”

  “How did the Colonel get injured?”

  Nathaniel held his hands up. “I don’t reckon I can say nothing about that.”

  Caleb leaned forward. “Here’s the problem. Six weeks ago he arrives home. No one is saying how. We know he didn’t walk with that leg. So people are asking questions. When they don’t have answers, they make things up.”

  “I see what you’re saying.” Nathaniel nodded, then sat back and raised his voice a bit. “Colonel Rathfield? I can tell you this: there was a night out there when there was just five of us trapped in a little draw thick with dire wolves. Packs might run to ten or a dozen, this was three of them, maybe four, all come together. Well Makepeace and me, Captain Strake and Kamiskwa, we all done kilt our share in the past, so we knows what we’s facing. And it was a hard fight. We was close to being overwhelmed when Colonel Rathfield he just ups and leaps on in. You ain’t never seen a man fight like that. He musta thought they was Ryngian Laureates, the way he went after them. When all was said and done, we skinned so many that we couldn’t carry all the hides; and the bulk of them belong to the Colonel.”

  Caleb dutifully scribbled notes during the recitation. Others in the tavern took in the story while pretending they weren’t listening. By mid-afternoon it would be circulating through Temperance and after the Gazette ’s next issue came out, the story would explain away everything. The heroism of the exploit would smother any questions about how the Colonel got home so quickly.

  That was one thing Nathaniel didn’t like about cityfolk-their willingness to dismiss important questions when something else more romantic and less confusing presented itself. The Anvil Lake campaign had pitted Mystrian and Norillian forces against a Ryngian contingent made up of pasmortes. The fact that they had fought against the living dead had been discounted and forgotten because the greater story was that the Mystrians had won the battle, redeeming a reputation sullied by their previous performance in a campaign in Auropa. And here, the romance of men fighting against beasts that everyone feared and emerging victorious would stop people from questioning how Rathfield traveled over two hundred miles in a night.

  Just because the pound sack the miller uses to sell them flour has bright colors, they ignore the fact that he’s only giving them fifteen ounces to their pound. Of course, here he was helping Caleb manufacture a story that would pull the wool over their eyes. Granted, it would also cover the fact that Mugwump could fly. Nathaniel had never really been too keen on the dragon, but Mugwump had saved his life every bit as much as Rathfield had, so he felt an obligation to protect him.

  Nathaniel leaned forward again. “I will tell you something you can say about Ezekiel Fire iffen you want to.”

  Caleb turned a page in his notebook. “Go ahead.”

  “He is pert near the sincerest man I done met, just this side of the Prince and a few others I won’t name because they’d be embarrassed by the fuss. Now, funny thing is that for most folks, sincere seems crazy on account of they ain’t sincere. Since they got things to hide, they believe everyone else does. And someone who don’t is either lying or insane. Ezekiel Fire ain’t neither, and that might be rare, but it ain’t no reason to burn.”

  Caleb looked up. “You really want me to print that? With your name attached?”

  “Cain’t do no harm.”

  “Bishop Bumble will make you pay for that.”

  “Well, now, the day I set a lot of store by what he thinks of me is the day I will just walk east and won’t look back ’til I’m drying myself off on the Ryngian shore. And if he’s thinking about what he can do to me, he’s an even bigger fool than I’d have imagined.”

  “I agree, it’s just…” Caleb frowned. “You’ve always spoken your mind, Nathaniel, but just not so openly. Three-four years ago you’d have spit in disgust and walked west to get shy of this sort of politics.”

  Nathaniel scratched at his throat. “Tain’t I like politics any more than I did. I reckon that if everyone is so a-feared of Bishop Bumble that a man will burn without comment being passed, someone needs to point out it ain’t right. Mayhap be that there ain’t no winning here, but that don’t mean Bumble shouldn’t be made to earn his victory.”

  The younger man nodded. “That’s a very good point, and one that extends beyond just Bishop Bumble. Have you heard about the Control Acts?”

  Nathaniel shook his head and slid his chair back. “Can’t say as I have, cain’t say as I want to.”

  “But they’re coming, Nathaniel, and there will be a fight.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but I have learned one thing in my years.” Nathaniel stood. “If the enemy is outside rifle shot range, ain’t a lot of winning going to be going on. Until then, it’s a lot of palaver and I do have better ways to spend my days. Thank you again for the ale. My best to your family.”

  Nathaniel left the tavern as dusk began to fall. He headed west along Justice, approaching Friendship. The stone silhouette of St. Martin’s Cathedral loomed at the corner. Another man might have found it ironic that Fire’s trial would be held at that intersection. For Nathaniel it was just another reason living outside the city made sense.

  He continued north on Friendship, following it as it curved toward the bay. Just before Faith, he entered a row of houses. A small, apple-cheeked woman who he’d known since before his mother had died, smiled. “I showed your visitor to your parlor, Nathaniel.”

  “Kind of you, Mrs. Lighter.” Nathaniel mounted the stairs and entered the two-room apartment at the top right. The foyer opened into the parlor, and the doorway beyond it into the bedroom, which fronted on Friendship. Since Catherine Strake had decorated the place, it had frilly and lacy things here and there, and colorful jugs and paintings from Norisle on shelves or hung on the walls. Nathaniel couldn’t recognize much of Owen in the place, but because he had company, he didn’t look that hard.

  The woman who turned, smiling, to face him, had brown hair that descended just past her shoulders. Her smile carried up to her hazel eyes. Slender and a head shorter than he, she wore a gray dress, with the white collar of her blouse covering the neckline. She reached out for him with her left hand, the gold band glinting. “I am sorry I could not get away last night, Nathaniel.”

  He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing it. Then he pulled her into an embrace and lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her, feeling her press herself hungrily against him. Her hair smelled faintly of rosemary and her kiss tasted so sweet that it banished memories of the ale. He held her tightly, drinking in her warmth and smiled at the little moan she uttered.

  He pulled back. “I have been away too long, Rachel, but ain’t never you been far from my thoughts.”

  She smiled and laid her head against his chest. “Nor you, mine. I so wanted to be here yesterday, but Charity had fever and I could not abandon her. Bethany agreed to watch them tonight.”

  Nathaniel kissed the top of her head. “Please be thanking her for me.”

  Rachel slipped from his arms, but caught his right hand in her left. “She still does not approve, but she is mo
re… understanding these days. And though she would not say it, I’ve heard that one of her uncle’s Captains saw my husband in the arms of another woman down in Fairlee. He spends more time down there now, and Bethany does not like his leaving me with children and the business to run.”

  “I don’t reckon I’m in no position to pass judgment on your husband.” Nathaniel fell silent. He’d have been happy to kill Zachariah Ward, and most folks would not be sad to see the man die. But he was a merchant, and a highly successful one, who would never challenge Nathaniel to any sort of a duel. For Nathaniel to challenge him would just be inviting the man to his own murder. Even though Ward had once hired Rufus Branch to kill him, Nathaniel wasn’t going to be the instigator in the man’s death.

  “I don’t wish to talk about him.” Rachel smiled and tugged on his hand. “I wish to just be with you.”

  The scout stood his ground. “You said Charity had a fever?”

  “Yes, she was the last to get it. Humble had it, but was over it quickly.” She stepped back to him and took his other hand in hers. “He is every bit as healthy as his father, and very much as handsome.”

  Nathaniel nodded, then let her pull him toward the bedroom. She laughed, bumping against a chair in the parlor, then paused in the doorway and kissed him again. “I have been waiting for your return, dreaming of it.”

  “Me as well, but…”

  “Yes?”

  Nathaniel looked down. “Bit of wear and tear this time out. Tain’t all healed.”

  “Then I shall have to be very careful.” Rachel led him to the bed and made him sit. She went down to a knee to remove his moccasins, then straightened and worked his leather tunic off. She’d gotten the lower hem to the level of his nipples, then slowed down and moved more carefully. She raised his arms and drew the tunic up by the sleeves, casting it aside on a chair.

  “What happened, Nathaniel? You’re all bandages and scratches and bites.”

  “Nothing good, I can tell you.” He reached out and pulled her to him, curling his legs around hers. He reached up and began to unbutton her dress. “I’m thinking, however, if you would be so kind, you’re the tonic that will heal my wounds, and make me forget how they got there in the first place.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  29 June 1767 St. Martin’s Cathedral Temperance Bay, Mystria

  As Ian Rathfield sat in the front pew, he was forced to marvel over the efficiency with which the Cathedral had been transformed from House of Worship to House of Justice. The altar had been moved to the side and a high bench had been erected in its place beneath the vaulted ceiling, with room for each judge. Though the finish matched that of the light wood used in the Cathedral’s construction, the bench’s height and sharpness of line robbed the building of any compassion.

  The coat of arms of each diocese hung before the judges, with Bishop Bumble in the middle. Bishop Harder, a large, swarthy man with black curls of hair growing from his ears and bushy eyebrows covering half his forehead, sat on Bumble’s right. Blackwood’s Bishop Southfield, a small, balding man with a gargantuan red nose, sat on his left. Each man wore a black robe and a black skull cap.

  To the left sat the prosecution table. Benjamin Beecher sat at it and shuffled through papers. He wore black pants, white socks to the knee, black shoes, and a black smock-coat. Even given Beecher’s slight of build, with thinning black hair, Ian found he could not dismiss the man out of hand. Not only did this come from his earlier encounters with the man, in which he found something disturbingly serpentine about his manner, but because of the way he sorted through documents. The man placed them in distinct piles, squaring them up with themselves and the edge of the table. He did so with the concentration Ian had seen on the faces of men preparing to shoot other men at point-blank range.

  Opposite him, another table had been arranged in front of the steps leading up to the apse. Steward Fire sat at it, wearing well-worn grey clothes. He’d been clapped in irons, to restrain him and limit his use of magick. Fire’s captors had even gone to the uncommon length of placing him in iron gauntlets. They also fixed a slotted mask to his lower face, presumably so iron could mute magick in his words. Had Ian been so bound, he would have felt as if he was a dog, but Fire bore up as best as could be expected. This, even though the short chains from collar to gauntlets and down to shackles kept him hunched forward.

  Bishop Bumble stood. “Your Honors, Mr. Beecher, brothers and sisters in the Lord: we gather here to assess the guilt or innocence of Ephraim Fox. He stands accused of heresy. He did knowingly and willfully, counter to the orders from his Church superiors, lead others into his heresy. He took them beyond the bounds of fellowship in the Church and established them without authority in lands beyond the mountains. His actions did, directly, lead to their worshipping idols, participating in blood rituals, and taking part in ritual human sacrifice. He is a known consorter with demons and a practitioner of Dark Arts.”

  Bishop Bumble had just begun to warm up, when a voice from one of the pews interrupted him. “I beg your pardon, Bishop Bumble, but I must ask: Are you prosecuting Ephraim Fox, or standing in judgment over him?”

  Bumble’s jowls quivered with unvoiced rage. “I preside here, Mr. Frost.”

  The speaker, a tow-headed young man, moved to the aisle and came forward. “I thought I would ask because you seem to be testifying against him.”

  “I fail to see how this is a concern of yours, Caleb.”

  “I am a parishioner, as you well know. I’ve listened to your many sermons on Faith and Justice. I’ve studied them. I have my degree in Divinity from Temperance College.” Caleb Frost stood next to Steward Fire. “In the interest of propriety, I thought I would stand for the accused, so none may suggest, Your Honor, that haste denied Justice.”

  “Very well, Mr. Frost.” Bumble seated himself. “Mr. Beecher, you will proceed.”

  Beecher stood. “We would call our first witness. Colonel Ian Rathfield.”

  Rathfield stood and raised his right hand.

  “Colonel, do you swear to tell the entirety of the truth, and only but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  Beecher moved piles around so one was centered before him. “Colonel Rathfield, when you found Ephraim Fox in Happy Valley, did you see evidence that his settlement there practiced plural marriage, in defiance of the Church’s 1567 prohibition against same?”

  “I had no opportunity to make that determination.”

  Beecher looked up. “Is it not true you saw evidence of men living in homes with more than one adult woman?”

  “I did not enter any such homes, nor did I speak with any of the people, so I do not know what their living circumstances were.”

  Bumble pounded a fist on the bench. “Need I remind the witness that he has sworn to tell the truth?”

  Ian met Bumble’s angry stare openly. “I have taken an oath before God to do so. I can tell you only what I know to be fact and still abide by that oath.”

  Beecher flipped one sheet over, and then back. “Very commendable, Colonel. Did you ever hear the Steward deny that plural marriage was practiced in Happy Valley?”

  “No.”

  “And did the living arrangements strike you as unusual in Happy Valley?”

  Ian hesitated. “There are many things in the west, Mr. Beecher, in all of Mystria, which seem unusual to me.”

  “You need to answer my question. Did the living arrangements there, or in Piety, seem unusual to you? A simple yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good.” Beecher shifted to another pile. “Did you find the Steward employing Rufus Branch as a trusted aide?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the Steward prevent him from being brought to justice for crimes he had committed in the Colonies?”

  “Yes.”

  Caleb rose from the pew behind the Steward. “I object.”

  Bumble’s head came up. “On what grounds?”

  “Ephraim Fox
’s association with Rufus Branch might have broken a law, but there are no church prohibitions against such an association. The Good Lord lived among thieves and fallen women, and prison chaplains actively work to redeem same. This line of questioning is immaterial.”

  Bumble’s nostril’s flared. “Mr. Beecher.”

  “Yes, your Grace.” The slender man nodded solemnly. “Did you, Colonel, see Mr. Branch working to translate golden tablets which the defendant said they had taken from a ruin in the mountains?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he describe these tablets as having been written by God in His own hand?”

  “Yes, he did.” Ian’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at Fire. Ian had never mentioned that detail to Beecher or Bumble, and he was certain neither Woods nor Strake would admit it. Fire must have told that to them, but why? Then he looked more closely at the man, the way he hunched down. He’s been beaten. He is protecting ribs. I wonder if the gauntlets hide more wounds?

  “Colonel?”

  Ian’s head came around. “Please repeat the question.”

  “In Piety, did you see Ephraim Fox offer an invocation to his Satanic master, then burn the Church.”

  “What? No.”

  “He did not burn the Church?”

  “Yes, yes, of course he did. The entire congregation was in there. It was the only thing to do.”

  Beecher nodded, his finger trailing down lines on a sheet. “So you just did not hear the invocation to diabolic forces?”

  “I wasn’t near enough to hear what he said. None of us were.”

  Beecher smiled easily, his brown eyes narrowed. “No one but Ephraim Fox and the people who had sacrificed themselves under his influence. Colonel, you were present when he used magick to kill Becca Green’s mother?”