Of Limited Loyalty cc-2

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “And you just didn’t think to explain all this to me?”

  The Shedashee sighed. “You think like a Mystrian, Nathaniel. It is as my father said. You use magick to fire a gun with the intent of hitting your target. The ball hits, and does more, but your intent is just to hit. That is enough to do what you need done in most cases. Very few men are those who are willing to study and understand more than what is enough, especially if enough serves them well.”

  Nathaniel dunked his loincloth and began rinsing it. “You’re saying that if you tried to explain, I’d have said one was as good as t’other?”

  “You can be stubborn.”

  “I reckon I can.” The Mystrian’s eyes tightened. “Now if I draw some things together here, I’d be thinking that your father done anchored magick in that tomahawk what was meant to kill that there troll.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that guarantee it would work?”

  “Do you hit with every shot?”

  “Fair enough.” Nathaniel wrung out the loincloth, tossed it to the bank, and reached for his leggings. “I reckon it’s my intent to be learning more on this here matter, Kamiskwa, and I would be much obliged for your help.”

  The warrior smiled. “Of course, my brother. Learn quickly. I fear that is the only way we’ll stay alive.”

  Vlad winced sympathetically as Shedashee swarmed over Mugwump. At Msitazi’s direction, warriors twisted the broken wing and set it. The dragon’s tail thrashed, but hit no one. The Prince smiled ruefully, wishing he’d had a tail to thrash when they’d set his arm, which had then been splinted and hung in a sling. He’d also had his rib tightly bound, and found the treatment bothered him more than the injury.

  The Prince withdrew toward the fort as Baker directed men in erecting the wurmrest tent over Mugwump. In addition to having broken a wing, the dragon appeared to have badly bruised his left hip and shoulder. The magickal blast which had knocked him down had blackened scales that had since crumbled into ash. The Prince had seen where the magick had hit. It appeared as if the energy had actually played along the stripes, since those scales had disappeared, leaving others intact.

  Count von Metternin sat in a chair someone had fetched for him, his right leg stretched out and splinted straight. Vlad assumed he was in as much pain or more than the Prince, but the Kessian gave little sign of his discomfort. “How are you feeling, Highness?”

  “I am well, as are you, I trust.” Vlad gave his friend a smile. “I have good news, news which I intended to share before fighting began but…”

  “We were preempted.”

  “Quite. You need to know that Princess Gisella is pregnant again.”

  The small man clapped his hands. “That is wonderful news. Congratulations. You didn’t tell me earlier because you assumed I would insist you remain behind?”

  “Yes.” Vlad glanced back toward Mugwump. “Part of me wishes I would have had and heeded that advice.”

  “I never could have kept you away.” Von Metternin smiled. “I shall consider that a good omen. Likewise the fact that Mugwump appears no more hurt than those foolish enough to ride him.”

  “I find myself less concerned over his injuries than the knowledge of dragons Msitazi is displaying. He knows more than Baker does, and Baker’s family has been wurmwrights to the Royal House for centuries.”

  Von Metternin leaned forward, his hands resting atop a thick walking stick a Ranger had hacked into shape for him. “You may have the secret of it there, Highness. Baker is a wurmwright. Mugwump is a dragon. It could be that Msitazi does know more.”

  “But how?”

  “I think, my friend, if you are honest with yourself, the question you wish answered is not ‘how,’ but ‘why’ you have not been privy to this knowledge. You had signs of it. Msitazi knew when Mugwump would emerge from his molt. That he could show you how scales pointed him to that conclusion allowed you to avoid asking how he knew what the scales would indicate. It was a mystery forgotten when we saw the wings.” The seated man shrugged. “And now you feel betrayed, because of the dragon and because Msitazi revealed hidden things about magick.”

  Vlad nodded. “It is true. I learn what I have learned and hid knowledge of it from the Church for fear of what they will do. And yet I fault the Shedashee for not revealing to us all they know about magick when their motivation clearly is the same as mine. I see the irony, but I feel that if I knew what they know, it would have been easier to prepare troops to face the Norghaest.”

  “I will suggest two things.” The Kessian held up a finger. “It could well be that without the green powder training you’ve already offered, men would be unable to understand anything the Shedashee might be inclined to teach.”

  “Good point. The second?”

  Von Metternin looked out at the battlefield. “I do not think anything would have prepared men for this.”

  “No.” Bodies were being dragged from the battlements and laid out up hill from the fort. The Shedashee had recovered their dead and moved them toward the west. By custom they would erect platforms and place the bodies on them, so carrion birds would devour them and carry them into the heavens. Later, relatives would collect and clean the bones, then carry them off to hidden caverns where they would be venerated. Plentiful’s leader, an older woman, had complained about allowing heathens to desecrate the valley, but Makepeace had cut her off and carried her away mid-rant.

  Out on the battlefield nothing moved, save for ravens, crows, and other carrion birds. Vlad spotted a couple of eagles tugging some red fibers apart. The birds picked their way over muddy ground and seemed to have as much trouble finding edible bits as Vlad did recognizing the remains of men. Oddly enough, the birds avoided the troll carcasses, but at the ramparts, tore at the demon bodies with great delight.

  Vlad leaned on the back of the Count’s chair. “On the parapet, before we saddled up, I had a vexing conversation with Msitazi. He said that I needed to learn, and that the Noragah did as well. When I asked for clarification, he said, ‘What you have yet to learn, they seek to remember.’ I can make little sense of that.”

  Von Metternin pointed his stick toward the brown scar that marked the troll hole’s collapse. “When the trolls first came, they were packed together, much in the way that Lord Rivendell assaulted the fortress at Anvil Lake.”

  “Yes, but the second time he spread them out.”

  “Exactly. He learned from what he saw.” The Count’s brow furrowed. “What if that first assault was set up to show them how we fight, and that the first formation was in keeping with Rufus’ experience in mass battle-namely Anvil Lake. But the second time, when the trolls spread out, it was someone trying a more effective strategy against the weapons and tactics we used.”

  “Do you think Rufus was that smart?”

  “I only met the man on a couple of occasions, but his temperament seemed such that he would not have retreated that first time since his trolls could have carried the rampart. He would have wanted to show us all his superiority. Perhaps, and the annals of Church lore would support the idea, he is possessed by a demon which is acting through him. That Norghaest demon, then, is learning about us to know what sort of foe it faces.”

  “So this was just a test?” Vlad shook his head. “All this to see how tough we are?”

  “Yes, my friend, I fear it is so.” The Count sighed. “And what the Norghaest learned is that sweeping us from the land will be no trouble at all.”

  Owen quickly got out of the way as Caleb stormed from the thaumagraph cabin. The young man, fury having reddened his face, didn’t acknowledge Owen. He figured Caleb likely didn’t even see him. Owen would have said something, but heard a sob from the cabin’s dimming interior.

  He entered. Bethany sat at the thaumagraph table, elbows planted on it, hands covering her face.

  “Is something wrong, Beth… Lieutenant Frost?”

  She glanced at him, then hid her face again for a moment. She brushed away tears and turned
toward him, her expression tense. “Don’t you start in on me, too, Captain Strake.”

  “What?”

  She stood and pointed a finger toward the door. “Caleb came in here to tell me how stupid I was to go out there. He said I could have been killed. And I know you said…” She leaned against the table. “You told me…”

  Owen wanted nothing so badly as to gather her in his arms. He couldn’t, so he snarled and pounded a fist against the wall.

  Bethany looked up, her eyes brimming. “Please don’t, Owen.”

  “No, Bethany.” Owen held his hands up, forcing them open. He’d cleaned the blood off them, though his cuffs remained stained and his clothes still stank. “That wasn’t about you. I was, I will, go out there and give Caleb a piece of my mind.”

  “No, let him go.” Her shoulders slumped. “He’d been proud of the idea of having me along until it dawned on him that I could end up as dead as anyone else. Now he wants me to go home. He says I can go with the wounded. I told him I wasn’t going. He got very angry.”

  Owen lowered his hands. “That’s because he doesn’t want to lose you.”

  “And now you’re here to tell me to go, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “Owen…” She took a step toward him, then stopped, her arms wrapping around her middle. “I can’t leave. I can’t abandon… everyone. But I would do it if you asked, so, please, don’t ask.”

  Owen threw his head back and laughed.

  Bethany glared at him. “Don’t you dare.”

  He crossed the room to her. “Bethany, I don’t want you to go. I didn’t come here to ask you to leave.” He reached around to the small of his back and slid a knife in a beaded sheath from inside his belt. “I came to give you this. It’s a better knife for cutting. And Justice Bone, he found a couple pistols some people left behind. He figures you can have the lend of them until we get back to Temperance, then you can return them.”

  She accepted the knife, holding it in her two hands, then looked up. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “You’re not angry with me?”

  “I don’t really like you disobeying an order, or convincing Corporal Brown to disobey with you…”

  “She didn’t. You ordered her to keep me safe, remember?”

  “Right.” He smiled. “You saved my life. This is the second time, really, because I’d not have been here except for your nursing five years ago. I came to say thank you.”

  Owen wanted to brush her tear away, and for half a heartbeat intended to, but he lost himself in watching tension drain from her face. Had she not looked down at the knife again, had she not smiled with childish delight, he would have drawn her to him and kissed her. But the knife’s distraction bought him enough time to recover himself,

  He took a step back.

  “You’re probably also going to want to get some leathers. They’ll be better for fighting than skirts. Corporal Brown can help you get outfitted.”

  “What? Yes.” Bethany set the knife down. “Owen, you’re welcome. And thank you for the knife, the advice, and your friendship.”

  He gave her a smile, then nodded. “You’re welcome.” He wanted to say more, but a discordant melody issued from the thaumagraph. “Sounds important, Lieutenant. I’ll leave you to your duty.”

  Michael A. Stackpole

  Of Limited Loyalty

  Chapter Fifty-five

  24 May 1768 Temperance Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Bishop Othniel Bumble smiled happily as Catherine Strake emerged from her apartment. “Oh, very good, I feared I had missed you.”

  “Bishop Bumble, what a pleasant surprise.” The smile on her face belied the tone in her voice. “Is there something with which I can be of help?”

  “I do believe, yes, very much so.” He nodded toward the door. “Perhaps we should discuss this indoors. If the clouds coming in off the sea are any sign, weather will be nasty very soon.” Though not, I suspect, as nasty as our conversation.

  Catherine pointed back up along Friendship. “I was actually on my way to the stable, to get the coach and head back to Prince Haven. Today was just a quick trip, you see, but we shall be back for services again on Sunday.”

  “I’m certain. And I am afraid I must insist.”

  “You’re scaring me, Bishop.”

  “Let’s hope it does not come to that, Mrs. Strake.”

  The woman reluctantly re-entered the house and mounted the steps. Bumble followed at a remove and at a dignified pace-that latter largely being dictated by his recurrent gout. He followed Catherine into the apartment. She took up a position in the middle of the room, barely giving him enough space to close the door.

  “What is this about?”

  “It is a matter of grave importance, Mrs. Strake. Let me assure you of that. Perhaps if you sit…”

  “Out with it.” She stood her ground.

  “Very well. This morning you arrived in town and gave an order for supplies to Peas Whole Goods. Do you know what was in that order?”

  Anger smoldering in her eyes, Catherine sniffed and lifted her chin. “The message came from the hand of Princess Gisella. I am not in the habit of reading private missives.”

  “Well, that does you some credit, doesn’t it, Mrs. Strake.” Bumble lifted his own chin and clasped his hands at the small of his back. “That order was for food, sundries, and contained an order for shot and brimstone, all to be consolidated and sent up to a town called Plentiful. Do you know where that is?”

  “Richlan, just south of the Bounty Border. And how does this concern me, Bishop?”

  The man chuckled. “Mr. Peas hired Ichabod Drayman to haul the supplies to Plentiful. He came to me because the form did not include proper identification numbers for the recipient in Plentiful, as dictated by the Shipping and Commerce Act. I had a number for Prince Vlad, having given him the honor of being the first enrollee in Temperance, but I got to thinking and did the math. Given when the Prince left and the time it would take to get to Plentiful, it is impossible for him to have communicated that order.”

  Catherine shrugged. “Perhaps he just sent a very fast runner, or a relay of them.”

  “Then why would the Princess use you to bring the order here? No, Mrs. Strake, there is deviltry afoot. The Prince with his Ryngian ways, his secret missions for your husband, the Steward’s escape: all much too convenient. The Prince is dabbling with diabolical magicks. He is every bit as dangerous as Ephraim Fox, and you are going to help me prove it.”

  Her eyes widened. “I will do nothing of the sort. You are an odious little man for even suggesting it.”

  “I do not believe, Catherine Strake, that you wish to anger me.” Bumble removed his hat, slipped past her, and appropriated a chair. He looked up and met her outrage with an open smile. “You see, I know your secrets.”

  She stared at him with an intensity that should have had his flesh melting off.

  “No denial, good. Sit down!”

  “Say what you came to say.”

  “Very well.” He inspected his fingernails. “I know that Miranda is not Owen’s daughter. I know you were your husband’s uncle’s mistress on the voyage here from Norisle, and I shall further speculate that you shared his bed well before that. Don’t bother to deny it. Lord Rivendell traveled on the same ship for much of that voyage. He saw a great deal and is not much given to keeping secrets.”

  Catherine Strake stared down at him, but relief flickered over her face for little more than an instant. Bumble, who had enjoyed long practice of watching people as they confessed sins, understood immediately. Yes, he had uncovered a secret, and one she wished hidden, but she had more. He took that as confirmation that she was, indeed, sleeping with General Rathfield. He would have confirmation from the man himself when he returned, one way or another.

  “Really, you should sit, my dear.”

  Catherine chewed her lower lip, then lowered herself to the edge of another chair. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Understan
d that your husband has lied to you, by omission if not outright. He knows of the Prince’s magick. That he did not tell you about it may have been a misguided attempt to save you in the event of the discovery of this perfidy, but no Church court will believe that. You and your daughter-a child who is not even of his blood-will face the same flames as Owen does. I don’t think you want that.”

  She shook her head woodenly.

  “So, you will convince the Princess to confide in you. She will confirm that the Prince is using unsanctioned magick. You will communicate the same to me, and then you and your daughter will be protected.”

  “Becca, too.”

  “That child is beyond redemption already.”

  Catherine’s head came up and her eyes blazed. “You leave her alone or I’ll see you in Perdition.”

  Bumble nodded slowly. He’d anticipated her wanting to save Becca, and he intended to surrender on that point. Her defense of the child increased her stake in the game. It also meant that later, he could threaten that stake again, and force her compliance in other matters. After all, she was not without her charms, as Duke Deathridge and General Rathfield had discovered. She would be very useful to him, on a personal level, or as part of a grander scheme.

  “Very well, the child is protected, too, but only if you are able to work quickly. I should want confirmation by Sunday.”

  Catherine nodded. “By Sunday, yes, I understand. I shall do my what I can.”

  Bumble stood and caressed her hair. “I know you will, child. It will be for the best. You’ll see.”

  Ian Rathfield sat back in his camp chair and rubbed his eyes. For the first time he wished that he’d taken Bumble up on his offer and had brought Lord Rivendell’s baggage to Plentiful. He did not want it for his own comfort, but for the appearance of elegance it would have offered. With the furnishings and the pavilion he could have shaped a Cathedral that would have been suitable for holding a service to honor the men who had fallen.