At the Queen_s command cc-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Rivendell bowed deeply. He still wore red and gold, but linen garments which were more in keeping with Temperance's fashion sense. "Thank you, Highness, and you, Count von Metternin. I trust you have not spoiled my surprise."

  The Kessian bowed and clicked his heels. "As we discussed over dinner last evening, I am merely honored to bask in your genius."

  "Of course you are." Rivendell made directly for the model. "I have been devoting much time to thinking, gentlemen, thinking of a way to crack this nut. I've decided to call it the Fortress of Death. Brilliant, ain't it? Ain't it?"

  Rivendell then hesitated, tapping his teeth with a finger. "Perhaps it should be 'du Morte' to honor the Tharyngians. You'd like that, wouldn't you, von Metternin? Note that, Langford. No matter. Cannons on all sides, no way for us to build a ship and keep it on station, many things here, save for a singular vulnerability."

  The Prince peered closely at the model. "What would that be, Johnny?"

  "The cliffs, Highness." Rivendell beamed. "None of you thought of the cliffs. You see, we send an elite force of men scaling these cliffs, and using ropes and grapnels, they can be inside the fort, capture this corner, and turn the guns on the inner compound. Sweep the northern walls-we take them, and the fort is ours. Brilliant, ain't it? Ain't it?"

  Von Metternin clapped. "Bravo!"

  Vlad shook his head. "A bold stroke, Johnny, very bold, but where could we find soldiers who could make that climb? It would have to be in the dark, or so close to dawn they could not be seen. Yes, Major Forest, you have something to say?"

  The Mystrian officer nodded. "Begging your pardon, Highness, I have two companies of Mystrian Rangers. One from Fairlee, one from the Northlands. My men could do it."

  Vlad smiled. "Excellent."

  Rivendell laughed. "Major, with all due respect, I have the perfect warriors for the job. The Fourth Heavy Horse. Horses can't go up that cliff, so we'll dismount 'em and let them climb."

  The Prince chuckled lightly. "You jest, of course, my lord. Your cavalry has no experience scaling cliffs, do they?"

  "Don't need it, Highness, don't need it." Rivendell sniffed. "These are the finest young men from the finest houses in all of Norisle. They've been defending the realm since 1066. They shed their blood in the Holy Lands and have fought the Tharyngians for centuries. They have the finest of breeding, upbringing and education. If I tell them to go up those cliffs, they will…"

  "Fall back down again like the prats they are." An older man with thinning hair and disdain etched deep into his features flipped a coat off and draped it over Chandler's arms. "Dick Ventnor, Highness. Count von Metternin, Major Forest, I believe. Owen." His boot heels clicked crisply on the wooden floor as he made haste to the model. "Excellent, much as I imagined from reading your report, Highness."

  Rivendell bowed. "Duke Deathridge, a pleasure."

  "Straighten up, Johnny. You look every bit the popinjay."

  Vlad glanced at Owen. The man's face had become an impassive iron mask. "Duke Deathridge, we were given to suppose your ship would not be here for a week."

  "True, but the wager was whether or not I would be here, not my ship. Langford will pay my man when he arrives, Johnny. A packet boat overtook us, so I transferred to it, coming with the latest dispatches." The dark-eyed man stared at the model. "Southwest is a trap, of course. North is the only true avenue of assault. Cliff is a nice idea, but the cavalry would never make it. The Fourth has a hard enough time climbing out of bed."

  "You impugn their honor, sir."

  "And you would use them like tin soldiers, Johnny, but you cannot reset them for play when things do not turn out as you wish."

  Vlad pointed to Major Forest. "We have two companies of Mystrian Rangers, sharpshooters, and hand-picked men who can and will make that climb."

  Deathridge nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Two full companies?"

  "Yes, Duke Deathridge."

  "Fully capable woodsmen, Robert? The best Mystria has to offer?"

  "Yes."

  "And you'll be leading them?"

  Forest smiled. "I still have a thumb, so I will be leading them."

  "Very good."

  Rivendell blinked. "You cannot mean to have them go up the cliff, Dick. These are Mystrian troops. Have you forgotten the lessons of the Artennes Forest?"

  Deathridge's lip curled into a sneer. "I will ask you only once, Johnny, to remember who was there actually fighting the Mystrian troops on that day."

  "Then you should know better than anyone…"

  "I do, you ass, I know better than you or your father." Deathridge's voice lowered and slowed. Vlad visualized every word as an inch of steel sliding into Rivendell's guts. "If I had my druthers, I'd take Major Forest's men and send them to deal with du Malphias. I'd let your men eventually get to Anvil Lake, let them occupy the ruins of the fort, and hope they forget how to find their way back."

  Rivendell sniffed. "You do not have that option, sir. Parliament chose me to lead this expedition. You are here to observe."

  "And advise." Deathridge looked to the Prince. "What I would advise you, Highness, is to make Major Forest's Rangers an independent command. I have a mission for them of the utmost importance."

  "Yes, my lord?"

  Deathridge glanced at Rivendell's aide. "Langford, make yourself useful. You have a map of Mystria there? Yes, on that table. Now, man, we do not have all day."

  Langford, flustered, dropped journals and two maps, then dropped two more as he bent over to recover one of the first. He took it to a table and spread it out.

  The smoldering expression on Deathridge's face killed any humor in Langford's distress. Vlad realized that such was the force of Deathridge's personality that he, himself, was ready to spring into action had the man commanded it. Though he knew of the man only from histories and cryptic mentions in letters, Deathridge in the flesh surged past all legend. Descriptions that had seemed hyperbolic in the reading failed in comparison to the man's dark energy.

  With Rivendell bringing up the rear, the assembly moved to study the map once Langford laid it out.

  Deathridge pointed to the mouth of the Argent River. "Just before we sailed, agents on the Continent sent word that two Ryngian regiments of foot set off for Mystria. One regiment is bound for this Fortress of Death."

  "Du Morte," Rivendell corrected him.

  Deathridge fixed him with a stare that would have melted an anvil. "We believe du Malphias will be reunited with the Platine Regiment. The Silicium Regiment-finally rebuilt after Villerupt -will reinforce cities in Kebeton. They will place one battalion, here, at Fort Cuivre on Lac Verleau's eastern shore, at the Upper Argent outflow."

  The Prince's expression tightened. "Whoever controls that fort can pinch off supplies heading for du Malphias, as well any trade goods heading for Kebeton."

  "Exactly. Cuivre is the cornerstone to eliminating much of Tharyngia's trade." Deathridge looked up. "Major Forest, can your men take it?"

  "You'd be asking us to cover near three hundred miles as the crow flies, most all of it through Seven Nations land. The Tharyngians will know we are coming. We will have no artillery and will be outnumbered by the fort's garrison."

  Deathridge nodded. "Now you see why I won't ask Johnny's playmates on horseback to attempt it."

  Forest smiled slowly. "We can do it. I'll get to drawing up requisitions and all."

  "Good. You will be going out in advance of the main army, a scouting party in force. You will divert later. I shall write out full orders."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  Deathridge nodded. "As for you, Highness, I will want you to take charge of the Colonial Militia. I understand you have a regiment available. You will be our reserve, but I shall also need you to prepare roads through the wilderness. You have men who know their way around an ax?"

  The Prince laughed. "Every man in Mystria owns one and keeps it sharp. I have a militia company specifically…"

  "Militia! Never!" Rivendell prot
ested. "I will not be fighting them. I will never deploy them."

  "Then you are a fool, but I suspect this is apparent. Your influence at court and in Parliament has put you in charge of this expedition. I am able, however, to advise the militias, which I am doing. If you choose to ignore my advice, you do so at your peril."

  "My peril? We shall see about this, my lord."

  "Get off your high horse, Johnny. This is not a game." Deathridge waved Rivendell to the side. "I shall get this buffoon out of your way so you may do your planning. Captain Strake, I would dine with you this evening at my lodgings. I shall send a man with the details. I expect you will be here as a liaison until then."

  "Yes, sir." Owen hesitated. "If I might ask after my wife?"

  "Hardly the time, not the place." Deathridge's expression eased ever so slightly. "She was well last I saw her, and is anxious for your reunion."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  Deathridge nodded, then glanced again at the model. "Plan well, gentlemen. The fate of Mystria depends upon what you do. Now, Johnny, get you and your shadow out of here, and let real men work."

  Rivendell looked nothing so much like a sulking child as he walked out stiff-legged, head down, trailing Deathridge. Langford hurriedly gathered maps and the journals, leaving the Mystrian map on the desk, and scuttled after the other two.

  Vlad sighed when Chandler closed the door behind the visitors. "That, gentlemen, was fascinating. It may yet be early, but could I offer you a restorative drink? Chandler, whisky and water, please, all around."

  The Prince looked at Owen. "Your uncle makes quite an impression."

  "He's had years of practice." Owen shook his head. "He almost made me pity Rivendell."

  The Count accepted a drink from the servant. "Not looking forward to dining?"

  "I would sooner dine with the Laureate."

  "We all may get that chance." Vlad studied the map. "How fast can we realistically expect to travel? Ten miles a day?"

  Forest shook his head. "I'll get that out of my men, maybe twelve. Decent rivers for part of the way. Heading to Anvil, you should get six."

  "Do you concur, Owen? You've been there."

  Owen cupped his drink in both hands, but did not sample it. "Depends on how many wagons we need for supplies. I would send as much as I could ahead to Hattersburg up the Tillie. Definitely ship the cannon. The horses, too. Not that they will do any good at the fortress."

  "If we leave on the thirty-first, we will arrive at Anvil around the second of July. This gives us two months, perhaps three, for a siege." The Prince shook his head. "Getting the necessary food and fodder out there alone will be incredibly difficult. It is a logistical nightmare."

  The Count chuckled. "An idiot for a leader, an unrealistic timetable, insufficient forces to do the job: If one were not acquainted with the ways of royalty, one might think there was no intention for this effort to succeed."

  Rivendell closed the coach door before Langford could climb in. "Walk, Langford, and hurry. I shall join you presently after the Duke and I have our chat."

  Langford made to salute automatically, started to drop things, failed to catch them, and blushed.

  Deathridge pounded the coach roof with a fist. "Go!"

  The driver snapped a whip, and the black coach lurched into motion. Rivendell smiled. "Oh, Dick, I think we fooled them. They haven't a clue. That's right, ain't it? Ain't it?"

  "Yes, of course, as planned." Deathridge smiled every so slightly. "You played your part well."

  "And you, sir, and you." Rivendell smiled broadly. "Your arriving early was brilliant. Packet boat, you say."

  "Yes, and I shall want my twenty pounds, too."

  "Of course." Rivendell nodded. He had first met Deathridge on the Continent and had not liked him at all. Not much to like, since the man did not socialize as others did. Yet he always seemed to have someone's ear. The younger Rivendell, unlike his father, always did notice those who moved in the background and seemed to weather any storm without upset. When he found himself on the other side of the Mystrian argument from Deathridge, he had been apprehensive; and wholly terrified when the man had sent word he wished to speak with him in Launston.

  Deathridge tucked himself into the carriage's corner. "You will fight the Mystrian troops."

  "I shall not, sir. Wholly unreliable."

  "Of course they are, you fool. We need them destroyed so the Queen understands the idiocy of leaving her colonies without a strong garrison. You will take them to Anvil Lake, you will lay siege to the fortress, you will kill the Colonials and withdraw to build a fort at the outflow of the Tillie River, as planned. We prevent du Malphias from forming his own nation and keep him alive as a threat."

  Rivendell nodded. "I hate that it will appear that I lost the siege."

  Deathridge shook his head. "You only lose if we allow them to say that in Parliament. And we will not. Yours will be a 'strategic redeployment.' You will be hailed as a genius, and given more troops to destroy him next summer. And all of Mystria will see you as its savior. Tharyngia sends more troops to Mystria, we attack the Continent, and end the Laureate tyranny forever."

  "Yes, yes, of course." Rivendell's smile shrank a little. "Why was it you sent Forest's men off to that other place?"

  "If you had them at Anvil Lake, you would have been forced to use them. By sending them off to be killed, we make Mystria much more vulnerable. The whispers of independence will die." Deathridge's eyes half-closed. "The Prince will be removed as Governor-General. I believe you will be offered that post."

  Rivendell rubbed his hands together. "I get so much, and you ask so little in return."

  Deathridge shrugged. "See to it that my nephew dies, and I shall consider us more than even."

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  May 24, 1764

  Duke Deathridge's Residence, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  O wen slowly mounted the steps to his uncle's apartments. Duke Deathridge had taken rooms from Zachariah Warren. The shop's location proved convenient to the docks and the garrison armory. The choice made perfect sense and managed to offend Lord Rivendell, since renting from a shopkeeper was hardly suitable for a man of Deathridge's status.

  Owen felt as if he were a child again. His father had never been a disciplinarian, so those duties devolved to his grandfather or uncle. Grandfather simply had the help beat him. His uncle greatly relished his role and, it had often seemed to Owen, was intent on bleeding him dry of Mystrian blood.

  His uncle had never just inflicted pain. He always threw in humiliation. Owen's cheeks burned at the memory of the time his uncle had appeared at his Academy, had him strip off his breeches in the courtyard, then applied a riding crop to his buttocks and thighs for an imaginary offense. As it turned out, Richard Ventnor had actually committed that particular offense thirty years earlier, and his father had beaten him as he beat Owen.

  Owen doubted the invitation to dinner would include a beating. Still, he was willing to bet humiliation and mental torture would be on the menu. Owen knocked at the apartment door, wondering why he had even come.

  Harlmont, a wizened prune of a man whose subservient attitude had left him perpetually hunched, opened the door. The servant said nothing by way of greeting. He took Owen's hat, then waved him through to the sitting room.

  Richard Ventnor stood before a modest fire, holding a book in his left hand. He snapped it shut and set it on the mantle, then looked Owen up and down. "I have, I fear, grossly misjudged you."

  Owen hesitated. "I beg your pardon."

  "Harlmont, two whiskies. My best. Be generous and quick." Deathridge moved to a chair beside the fire, and nodded Owen toward its mate opposite. "I read the Prince's report-twice, in fact. The level of detail, the things you learned about these pasmortes, impressed me."

  Owen sat. "Lord Rivendell believes they are ghosts to frighten children."

  "Rivendell could not find east even if you started him at the dawn."


  "He will get men killed."

  Deathridge accepted a whisky and raised his glass to his nephew. "To men who see what is."

  Owen took his whisky and sipped. "Thank you."

  "To you goes the thanks. And an apology." Deathridge set his glass on a side table. "Had not your wife so eloquently pled your case, I would never have considered you for this assignment. I had little expectation of success. Certainly nothing on this level. You justified her faith in you, and opened my eyes."

  Owen frowned. "Did you know du Malphias was on his way when you sent me?"

  "It had been rumored, but he sailed after you did. Had I guessed at the depths of his depravity I would have…" His uncle's head came up. "No. I was going to say I would have informed you, but the truth is, I would have chosen someone else. I never imagined you to be as clever as you are."

  Owen shivered. "Are you well, Uncle?"

  The man laughed, and openly so. It had to have been the first time Owen had heard that sound. "I deserve that. I treated you poorly, Owen, for reasons that, I guess, you should know.

  "My brother, your stepfather, is a drunkard and a horrible gambler. Your maternal grandfather, Earl Featherstone, had lent Francis a great deal of money-more than our father was willing to repay. When your father died, your grandfather purchased Francis' marriage to your mother at the price of his debts. I, and my father, had hoped to use Francis to secure some other alliance. My discomfort at being thwarted was something I took out on you. I convinced myself you were a stupid boy and that if you were dead, it would be the best thing for all involved. I do not, however, stoop to murder."

  Owen gulped a decent slug of the whisky, letting it burn his throat so he would not scream. My existence thwarted his ambition, so that justifies how I was treated?