At the Queen_s command cc-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Others, in various states of decay, functioned as beasts of burden. Du Malphias referred to them as his little "ants," capable of shifting mountains one tiny piece at a time. When one of the beasts became broken, du Malphias or a couple of the higher-functioning pasmortes like Quarante-neuf, would affect a repair via magick deep in the bowels of the fortress.

  The ability of a pasmorte to use magick shocked Owen, but it made sense. They had become creatures of magick themselves, and the magicks they used were rather elementary. Just as Kamiskwa and Makepeace had repaired the canoes, so magick could reattach a severed arm, or strengthen a broken bone.

  Du Malphias came walking down the path from the upper fort. "Good morning, Captain Strake. How are you feeling?"

  "Pain is a three on your scale in my left leg, two in the right. Discomfort, but nothing insurmountable."

  "Excellent." The Tharyngian frowned. "I regret the necessity of this. Come with me to the smith."

  "Sir?"

  "I cannot have you getting up to mischief."

  Owen held his head up. "I pledge to you, sir, as an officer and a gentleman, that I have no intention of doing anything of that sort."

  The slender man's grey eyes tightened. "You understand, sir, that you stand before me a spy whose life is under immediate threat of extinction. Please accept the honor I do you in treating you like a dangerous foe. I have determined that iron shackles will not impede your recovery, therefore this prudent precaution is one that must be employed now. Quarante-neuf, if he does not follow me, drag him."

  Quarante-neuf took a step forward, but Owen started after du Malphias. "Please, sir, not so fast."

  The Tharyngian glanced back, then slowed his pace.

  "Thank you." Owen caught up with. "I have wanted to ask, sir, after my compatriot. How does he fare?"

  "He perished. Sepsis. Everything I tried, failed."

  Owen's stomach imploded. Not Makepeace! He scanned the lines of pasmortes. "Did you…?"

  Du Malphias waved the question aside. "The infection did significant damage to his spine and brain. He was of no use to me."

  "I should like to pay my respects."

  "I imagine." Du Malphias pointed at a stool next to the smith's anvil. "It pleased me, however, to give him a Viking funeral. I laid him and his equipment in a canoe, lit it afire, and sent it sailing into the lake. The current caught it. His ashes will have washed down the Roaring River and into the Misaawa. On his last journey he shall see more of this continent than he did in life."

  The smith, a burly man who wore a leather apron to protect a hirsute chest, took a pair of shackles from a burlap sack. He slid one on to Owen's right wrist, allowing the tabs from the upper and lower halves to stick through a thick, leather sheet. He wrapped the sheet around Owen's forearm, then drew a glowing red bolt of bronze from the fire. With tongs he slid it through the holes in the tabs, then hammered it flat against the anvil.

  Sparks flew and the metal quickly grew hot. Hairs on Owen's arm melted into a sickly sweet smoke. The smith pulled the leather away, then yanked Owen forward, dunking his arm to the elbow in a water trough. The bolt bubbled, and steam rose.

  Once the bubbling had stopped, he raised the wrist and showed it to du Malphias. The Laureate, who had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, nodded. "Proceed."

  The smith repeated the process with the other hand. Du Malphias studied the results. "We will try your native infusion on those burns, Captain."

  "Most kind, sir." Owen smiled despite the throbbing burns.

  "Almost done." From a pocket du Malphias drew a sharp metal stylus. He caught up each of Owen's hands in turn and inscribed an oddly angular series of symbols on the head of the bronze bolts. The Laureate then produced two brown leather bracers bearing a great resemblance to clerks'-sleeves. "You will wear these at all times over your shackles until directed to remove them. I would not have Quarante-neuf come to harm."

  It made sense. The iron shackles restricted Owen's ability to use magick and especially fire a gun. The touch of iron or steel so disrupted magick that, in olden days, the inability to hold an iron nail for any length of time was enough to convict a person of being a warlock.

  All of a sudden the mystery of the glove on Pierre Ilsavont's left hand became clear. He'd been given a left-handed glove because he had to grip the iron musket barrel to reload. For creatures like Quarante-neuf, iron could disrupt that which gave them a semblance of life.

  Owen accepted the leather sleeves, pulled them on and secured them with buckles and belts at wrist and forearm. Du Malphias inspected his work and smiled.

  "Very good, Captain Strake." The Laureate turned and spread his arms. "Though you would give me your word that you would be on your best behavior, I cannot grant you freedom of my camp. You are a most intelligent man…"

  "You're afraid I'll learn something that will hurt you?"

  Du Malphias looked at him incredulous, then laughed aloud. "Oh, dear me, no, monsieur. If I considered you that dangerous, I should have had you taken to pieces and used those pieces to repair my faithful servants. No, you will seek to learn much and you will exhaust yourself. Truly. You are barely able to work your crutches, and already you think of taking flight. I know this."

  Owen half-closed his emerald eyes. "If I complain that you impugn my honor, you will point out, yet again, I am a spy and, therefore, untrustworthy."

  "I believe we understand each other."

  "Then why keep me alive?" Owen glanced down at his legs. "You surely have learned enough."

  "An abundance of data is never a vice when it comes to science, Captain Strake." Du Malphias shrugged. "But this is not the only reason I keep you alive. Shall I be honest with you?"

  "If you like."

  "I have been given the resources to build all this. You've seen that to get a ship past my wall would be difficult and that is supposing the ship had gotten past Fort Cuivre and the other fortresses from here to the sea. Possible, but highly unlikely."

  The Tharyngian turned and pointed toward the east. "The most intelligent plan for Norisle would be to make a fort of its own over there, at the Tillie headwaters. This would hold me back and protect your colonies. It would also accept, de facto, a division of the Continent, which traps you on the coast and leaves us free to exploit the interior."

  Owen nodded.

  "But neither your masters nor mine can abide that sort of division. My enemies are hoping that your country will raise an army that destroys this fortress and kills me. This would mean that Norisle would divert forces that otherwise would be used to attack Tharyngia. An admirable goal."

  "And your goal, sir?"

  Du Malphias chuckled again. "There, I told you that you were intelligent. It occurs to me that if Norisle is unable to project enough force to protect the interior of Mystria, and because I know Tharyngia is completely unable to do the same, the vast heart of this continent is open for the taking. There is no reason I should not take it and, with my magicks, no power in the world that can wrest it from me once I have."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  August 16, 1763

  Tanner and Hound, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  N athaniel found Caleb Frost at the Tanner and Hound. The young man's surprise became delight. He rose from his table and shook Nathaniel's hand. Nathaniel could not but help return so broad a smile, even though he felt anything but joyous.

  Caleb made room for him on the bench. "So Strake lasted a bit longer out there, did he? I made five shillings betting you'd keep him out for a month. Let me buy you a pint."

  Nathaniel shook his head. "Tain't really a time for drinking. Not yet anyway. Ain't ale going to help."

  Caleb's smile evaporated. "What's wrong?"

  "I need to speak to your family." He produced the Prince's note.

  Caleb took it, recognized the wax seal, and stood. "I'll fetch my father. You can talk with him."

  "Has to be all of them. The adults, I'm thinking
. Your sister included."

  "But my mother won't…" Caleb stood. "You wait here. I will fetch my father home, then come get you."

  Nathaniel rose to his feet. "You get your father. I shall be at your house by mid-afternoon. Be away before your mother feels obliged to offer me tea."

  Caleb hesitated, then nodded. "Nathaniel, one thing you should know. Zachariah's gone down to Ashland. He hired in Esther Cask to be helping in the house. The girl may be a touch slow, but she's got keen eyes for her mistress' comings and going."

  "Obliged. Ain't the time to be seeing Rachel." Nathaniel slapped the other man on the shoulder. "Go. I'll be finding you."

  Nathaniel followed Caleb out of the tavern and felt a cold trickle twist down his spine. He'd spent a fair amount of time in taverns, and liked the Tanner and Hound as much as any, but being packed in close with bodies never suited him overmuch. He'd rather have a blizzard smothering him than a crush of men.

  Caleb headed west and Nathaniel east, toward the waterfront. He nodded greetings to people on the street. Those that knew him either smiled or refused to meet his eye. A couple of men crossed to the other side of the street. Those new to Mystria often stared at his Altashee leathers, and the longer they stared told him how recently they'd arrived.

  As much as he hated being crowded and confined and could never imagine being trapped on a ship for six hours much less six weeks, ships fascinated him. As a boy, when in Temperance, he'd come watch the ships unload. The mastheads, be they maidens, dragons, or something in between, just tickled him. At his youngest he thought they might come alive. As he grew older he wished they would, to tell the tales of what they'd seen. He was willing to swap wilderness adventure for sea story, but they remained mute, just bobbing and nodding either sage or senile, he could not determine.

  He told himself he would go to the waterfront just to see if the ships had gotten bigger. They had, and the largest of them, a ship in the Royal Navy, had anchored out in the harbor. He watched for a bit as sailors struggled to decorously load a young noblewoman and her courtiers onto a barge. Sea breezes caught voluminous skirts, creating all manner of problems. The sailors worked on that problem on one side, while others brought up an ornate coach in pieces. He smiled at the cursing and shouting, and wondered if the ship also contained a team of horses.

  Nathaniel watched the people, reading their faces as easily as he could read tracks in mud. Many looked unhappy. Most of them appeared tired. Worst of all, though, were the ones who just didn't care. They plodded along listlessly mostly redemptioneers with long years remaining on their service reminding him of du Malphias' pasmortes. He couldn't see much difference between them, and doubted the people could either.

  He glanced at the Government House tower clock. He'd never learned his letters, but his father had taught him ciphering and to read time. Marking time by the sun suited Nathaniel just fine; the day, after all, ended when the sun went down, not at some point on a clock. Still, Temperance ran to the clock and while he refused to be enslaved by it, he was willing to abide by it temporarily.

  I could go past, just to see if she is well. He thought about it for a long while, but refused. If he went to see Rachel, he'd not want to be leaving. Esther would report his presence to her master upon his return and, more like, to her kin in his absence. That would stir up a tussle Nathaniel'd not mind having a piece of, but not now.

  He smiled, easily imagining Owen Strake standing with him on one side and Kamiskwa on the other. The Casks and Branches and anyone else could come for them and they'd run home all bleedy and whipped. Owen had been a good man- still is-and Nathaniel's guts hollowed out when he thought of him. That surprised the Mystrian, because he didn't make friends easily and never would have thought a Norillian could be a friend. The Prince came as close as possible, and he'd been raised in Mystria most all his life.

  He and Kamiskwa had been having the Norillian on at the start, but not out of being cruel the way the Branches would have. Nathaniel had been prepared to take the man as far as he wanted. Nathaniel needed to see, however, what sort of man Owen was. The wilderness wasn't a place you could drag a man who couldn't carry his own weight. It was like a deer herd keeping the strong animals together and letting the weak pass. It was the natural order.

  Nathaniel shook his head. "He was about the least complaining man I ever done met." There'd been fire in him, and times he wanted to take a poke at Nathaniel, no doubting that, but he'd held himself back. And then, in the fight with the Ungarakii, he'd done just fine. Despite being wounded, he'd killed two of them, and shooting that one in the face required a steady hand and ice in the veins.

  But you still left him to die.

  Nathaniel bristled, playing the scene through his mind again. He would've ignored Owen, excepting when he said that the journals would save Mystria. Owen had said it to get him to leave. They both knew it. They both knew that was the only thing that would have worked. And Owen had used it.

  Another glance at the clock started Nathaniel on his trek up the hill to the Frost house. He smiled out of force of habit. He'd been welcome there from time to time, up until three years ago. He still remembered Mrs. Frost's towering anger. If Guy du Malphias ever came to Temperance, he'd meet his match with her in a rage.

  His long legs ate up the distance, so he found himself at the gate, waiting, as the tower clock struck three. The house door opened and Caleb bounded down to the gate. His father came out onto the porch and his mother stood in the doorway, clearly intent on barring passage.

  Caleb opened the gate. "She's not having it."

  "I imagine." Nathaniel walked behind him, but remained at the bottom of the steps. "Doctor, ma'am, I do recall your telling me n'er to darken your doorstep again. I apologize for violating your wishes. Wouldn't do it if it weren't powerful important."

  Doctor Frost turned to his wife. "It is about Captain Strake, Hettie."

  Resolution made her face into a marble mask. "He is not coming through my house. If you must speak to him, it shall be in the kitchen yard." She stepped back and closed the door, trapping father and son outside.

  Doctor Frost pointed to the path around the house. "After you, Mr. Woods."

  Caleb led the way and Nathaniel imagined he was feeling what a man on the way to the gallows might. He didn't look toward the windows, not wanting to see any faces there. He recalled the Frosts had a whole passel of children and imagined Mrs. Frost would be shooing them somewhere safe while he was on the property.

  Two chairs had been put into the yard. Caleb offered him one, but Nathaniel refused. "Go on, sit. Been thinking about this on my feet. Ain't sitting going to make it no easier for me." Nathaniel added a bit of volume to his voice so it would play on through the almost-closed kitchen door.

  "The long and the short of it is this: Captain Strake ain't coming back for a spell. Not sure how long. Might be he's dead, but I'm fair sure he ain't."

  The door opened and Bethany Frost slipped through it. "If he's not here, why are you?"

  Her accusation sank straight into his heart. "Well, Miss, I reckon that's on account of he's a brave man. Braver than me. He charged me with a duty, and made sure I did it. I give him my word to obey his orders. And I give him my word I'd be returning for him."

  Doctor Frost removed his spectacles and rubbed them on the hem of his coat. "Bethany, dear, get our guest a chair. Mr. Woods, I would have the whole of the story from you. As much as you can tell."

  Nathaniel accepted the chair, but waited to speak until Caleb returned with yet another chair having given his to his sister. Bethany sat at her father's right hand, clutching it. Caleb leaned forward, expectant, and she hung back, fearful.

  He told them of the trip in every detail, omitting only the idea that du Malphias could raise the dead. When he talked about the fighting, he showed them his thumb and the blood beneath the nail. He didn't need to embellish Owen's role or prowess. The Frosts took pride in their guest's abilities. Doctor Frost especially liked th
e endorsement his family's firm had gotten in Hattersburg and offered to send a note to the Bone family to tell them of Makepeace's situation.

  The telling had gone through the pealing of four and five, but they didn't notice. At the bottom of the third hour, two younger boys hauled a small table out into the yard, and Mrs. Frost appeared with a tray, teapot and cups. She poured wordlessly, then departed, though the door did not close fully after her.

  Bethany looked at her father. "They cannot just leave him out there, can they? Someone has to go after him."

  Doctor Frost patted her hand. "Bethany, Mr. Woods had told us the Prince will make arrangements. This is how things are done between nations. It may be slower than we like, but we must be patient."

  She looked at Nathaniel. "Couldn't you go in and get him?"

  "Well, Miss, it is as your father says. The Prince, he has hisself a plan."

  Her eyes became slits. "In all the stories of the Magehawk, I've never heard cowardice mentioned as one of his characteristics."

  "Bethany Frost!" Hettie Frost appeared through the doorway. "Mr. Woods may be an unrepentant sinner and a man of dubious moral character, but this gives you no right to insult him. As much as you might not care for him, and as little as I care for him, I will not tolerate such behavior. You will apologize this instant!"

  Bethany looked down. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Woods."

  "Ain't no apology needed, Miss." Nathaniel rested his hands on his knees. "I ain't a coward. Ain't no man alive what's been three days deep in the wilderness that is. But I reckon it does seem like I'm acting like one. I don't like it. Fact is, the Prince, he's one smart fellow. He reckons that anyone walking on in to Anvil Lake territory is a fool who is like to get hisself killed dead. And if they go to get Captain Strake out, they'll get him killed too." And ain't none of us want to be dead there.

  "I will, however, tell you this: Captain Strake is a strong man. Stronger than you imagine. Stronger than I suspected. I know, God as my witness, he's going to come through your front gate. Afore long you'll all be having a laugh about things. Until that time, and preparing for the war that will come, me and Kamiskwa is going to be going back to learn what can be learned. I swear to you we'll be back to tell you all everything we know."