At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Owen might have been tempted to put the dream down to nothing at all, save that Catherine believed fervently in dreams. He had no idea what the presence of the animals meant. He forced himself to remember what he could, so he could write it all down for his next letter home. She could make of it what she wanted.

  He closed his eyes again just for another moment, and then remembered nothing until the light tapping on the door presaged its opening.

  An elderly valet entered bearing his coat, vest, and breeches freshly washed. Owen pulled himself up against the headboard as the man hung his clothes in the wardrobe. Wordlessly the servant stepped into the hallway again, then returned with freshly polished boots.

  Owen smiled. “Thank you.”

  “It is our pleasure to serve.” The old man returned the smile with sincerity. “Doctor Frost awaits your pleasure, Captain.”

  “Please convey my thanks. I shall be with him shortly.”

  The valet nodded and retreated, drawing the door closed behind him.

  Owen rose and stretched, then washed his face and hands in the bowl on the side table. He dried them with a towel, then pulled on his clothes. The trunk he’d brought from Norisle had been opened and the clothing stored in wardrobe and dresser. Instead of his boots, however, he chose hose and low shoes with big silver buckles.

  He descended the stairs and exited out through the kitchen to use the privy. He much preferred the outhouse, despite its being stuffy, to hanging his arse over the heads on the ship. Though the scent of salt air was more refreshing, getting splashed with cold sea spray was not.

  Upon exiting he discovered Bethany working a pump to fill a bucket. “Good morning, Miss. May I help?”

  She smiled. “Most kind, sir, and far better a greeting than I deserve.”

  Owen frowned, working the squeaky pump. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss.”

  Bethany wiped wet hands on an apron. “You will please forgive my conduct last evening, Captain Strake. Though it has been three years, I find myself still wanting to know of Ira. To discover that you had been there with him… it brought up many memories I had hoped I had put away.”

  Owen stopped pumping. “Please, Miss, I am the one to apologize. I meant to cause you no upset.”

  “Nor did you.” Her smile shrank. “You were truthful and honest. And kind.”

  Her implication that some men had lied about knowing Ian—presumably to get to know her better—did not surprise him. Nor did word that many men embraced Lord Rivendell’s lies about Mystrians. He’d seen such dishonorable behavior in the ranks, among the highborn and low. More among the highborn, in fact.

  “I believe you will find, Miss, that very few men wish to take responsibility for their actions and desires. Lying, being tactless, hurting others: all of these are easier than just standing up and being men.”

  Bethany laughed, but would not meet his gaze. “You sound like my brother.”

  “Something I suspect he would deny.”

  She lifted her face, her smile returning. “You have a point, Captain. But do not think ill of him. He’s not yet tamed his emotions, so he speaks his mind.”

  “Seldom a vice, save in the military.”

  “Always a vice when voiced as loudly as Caleb does.” She laid a hand on his arm. “But I delay you when you need breakfast. We have some put aside for you.”

  “Lead the way. I shall bring the water.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and deposited the bucket on a counter-top. She directed him into the dining room, where her father awaited him. Owen sat, and Bethany returned to the kitchen to bring him some bacon and biscuits with butter and honey. With another trip she added a pot of tea and two cups, pouring for him and her father.

  Dr. Frost slowly spun his steaming cup. “You’re up early, Captain.”

  Owen chewed quickly and swallowed hard. “Sir, it is mid-morning. I should have been awake much sooner.”

  “Most of our guests sleep in much later, and ask for dinner to be served to them on a tray.” Frost passed him a sealed message. “Colonel Langford was up early himself. He wishes to see you by noon.”

  Owen flipped the message over and back. “Do I need to read it?”

  The elder man shrugged. “You will find that while my wife has little time for gossip—or so she says—there is a very quick and efficient spy network among domestics. Your expedition will be heading out at the beginning of the week under the leadership of Rufus Branch. The Colonel will be telling you how long you will be gone and inform you of some of the hardships.”

  Owen broke a biscuit in half and began buttering it. “Shall I assume there are wagers being placed on how long before I return to Temperance and allow the expedition to continue without me? Not that a gentleman such as yourself would entertain wagers.”

  Frost’s eyes brightened. “You think too highly of me, sir. My father built a mercantile empire based on taking risks. I chose to become a Natural Philosopher, but I also take risks—those of a sporting nature. It is believed you will survive ten days or until you reach Grand Falls. It is also believed you will not run at first sight of the Twilight People; but that the first jeopard will have you screaming in terror.”

  Owen laughed. “Having seen the one in the Prince’s collection, I find that to be a smart bet to cover.”

  “Captain, I think you underestimate yourself. At least, I hope you do. I have a bit riding on your success.”

  “Will you tell me, sir, how you are betting?”

  Frost thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. You are the sort of man who would endure much to validate my trust in you. There is no need for you to know; and my fortunes will ride with my judgment of you.”

  Fully dressed in his uniform, Owen reported to army headquarters and was ushered in directly to see Colonel Langford. As predicted, the Colonel proceeded to outline the hardships in store for Owen, and hinted broadly that he could use a man of Owen’s skill in Temperance itself. “To be frank, Captain, it would be a better use of your skills than getting lost and killed in the woods.”

  “I am certain you are correct, Colonel.” Owen reached inside his jacket and produced a folded slip of paper. “But I do have my orders. Now, sir, if you could look this over, I believe it is all I will need to complete my mission.”

  Langford read the paper, his eyes narrowing. “You spent a great deal of time on this requisition, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir. On the passage I studied a Ryngian survey I found in a shop in Launston. De Verace’s Survey of 1641.”

  Langford looked up. “It has been translated?”

  “No, sir; I am fluent in Ryngian and Kessian. My grandfather had little tolerance for ignorance.” Owen held a hand out. “If you approve, sir, I will go to the Quartermaster and draw these things.”

  Langford dipped a quill and hastily scrawled his name at the bottom. “I applaud your industriousness, sir.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Owen accepted the paper, stood and saluted. “May God save the Queen, sir.”

  Langford, without rising from his desk, returned the salute. “And may He be kind on your person and soul.”

  Lieutenant Palmerston, the Quartermaster, a grizzled veteran with one eye, a handful of teeth, and a couple fingers shy of a fist on the left, studied Owen’s list. Then he laughed aloud. “Brimstone, firestones, and shot for two-hundred fifty rounds for your musket; a hundred for a pistol? Biscuit and dried beef for three months? Clothing, blankets, trade goods, gold? Oh, sir, begging your pardon, but you cannot be serious.”

  “I most certainly am, sir.” Owen’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you think I won’t need these things?”

  The Lieutenant caught himself and aborted a laugh. “Well, sir, it is just that the Colonel already requisitioned supplies for your expedition. Rufus Branch drew it up. I’ve checked it all proper like. There’s more than enough to cover your needs, sir.”

  Owen stroked a hand over his jaw. The Lieutenant presided over a warehouse that
seemed quite well-stocked. In fact, the only thing it seemed to be lacking was men working in it.

  “Might I have a look at the requisition?”

  Palmerston opened a drawer to his desk and brought out a three-page document. “All signed proper like.”

  He was correct. Colonel Langford had signed the last page and initialed all the others. And if Owen was not mistaken, the document had actually been written by Langford. Owen studied it and fought to keep his growing anger hidden.

  “Might I ask, Lieutenant, about this item here, about the beef for the trip. The charge for services, here.”

  “Oh, that’s just standard, sir.” The man scratched up under his eyepatch with a scarred finger. “You see, the cattle will be taken from our herd to Mr. Cask’s slaughter house, killed, and butchered. They will smoke it and salt it, you see, sir, so there is your service.”

  “But, Lieutenant, that will take time and the beef won’t be ready to go.”

  “No, sir, so we will issue beef here from our stores, and then that will replace it.” The Lieutenant nodded reassuringly. “Just the way it is done here, sir.”

  Owen shook his head. “But the butcher, he’ll take his customary forequarter, yes? And, forgive me, but don’t we have butchers in the Regiment? Shouldn’t they be doing that work?”

  “And they would, sir, but they have other things to be doing.”

  “I see.” Owen pointed to something else on the requisition. “Here they ask for brimstone and shot to make up five thousand rounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But they also ask for five hundred firestones. That much powder and shot only requires fifty firestones.”

  “Well, sir, in the wilderness…”

  Owen grabbed the Quartermaster’s jacket and yanked Palmerston across the desk. “I’ve fought on the Continent, sir, in pitched battles from which your unit ran. I’ve put a hundred-fifty, even two hundred shots through a firestone before it needed replacing. Those extra firestones, I would imagine, go for a pretty pence out here. You profit from that illegal trade, don’t you?”

  “Now see here, sir…”

  “No, Lieutenant, you listen to me. I came to do a job. Others may have been convinced to stay here in town while the Casks and the Branches did their work for them, but that is not me. War will be coming to Mystria. My job is to prepare for that war. If you’re not helping me do that, you’re giving aid and comfort to the enemy. That’s treason, sir, and I will prefer charges. Is this clear?”

  The Lieutenant nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Owen shoved him back into his chair. “Langford is profiteering. I know that. He sends trade goods back to Norisle as military cargo, avoiding tariffs. I shall assume, based on the orders concerning the beef, that the ‘service charge’ is paid back to him by the Cask family? And that you never quite get as many barrels of preserved beef as ought to come out of the number of cattle sent off to slaughter?”

  “Yes, sir. And one of the Casks is a tanner, too, sir, so he gets the hides. The bones are ground for meal, used in the fields.”

  The Captain nodded. “And one of the reasons that our butchers are not available to slaughter our beef is that Langford has them off working as laborers?”

  Palmerston’s face closed. “They work for Cask in the slaughter house.”

  Getting away with hiring troops out as day labor would be simple to hide. Even if the troops reported this activity—and most wouldn’t since they were just following orders and didn’t know any better—where would the reports go? If the officers weren’t part of the deal, rank and file soldiers likely wouldn’t be believed. Many of the officers were convinced that the extra work would be good for the scum in the ranks. Even more would consider the whole thing beneath the honor of a gentleman, so if there were to be a court-martial, Langford would get off with a mild reprimand.

  “How can you hide the loss of brimstone and firestones?” Mystria, for very sound reasons, was prohibited from manufacturing its own brimstone or firestones—both of which Her Majesty’s government sought to strictly control. For hundreds to be stolen each year and distributed on the black market could not escape notice.

  Palmerston fidgeted. “Well, sir, I am not the one who writes reports that go back to Horse Guards. But if I understand it, the Colonel makes up little operations against raiding Twilight People. He reports successfully repelling attacks, sir, with appropriate expenditures of brimstone and firestone. It seems, sir, that as long as he’s winning, no one in Launston has any complaints. He even praises men like you, sir, in his reports; so there are those who say these things happen. If the Colonel likes you, sir, you might even get a medal.”

  Owen’s stomach began to fold in on itself. “Tell me this, if you know it. The other expeditions, the ones the Casks and Branches did. How far did they go?”

  The Lieutenant sighed. “I don’t know for certain, sir, but I can tell you this. Come spring every year after these expeditions, Rufus Branch’s wife has had her a baby. She ain’t much to look at, and fear of Rufus would keep most men away if she was. But he hain’t beat her for taking another man to her bed, and the children are all ruddy and red like their father. I’d say, sir, most all what’s in those reports was dreamed up, and most like while he was sleeping in his own bed here in the South End.”

  Chapter Eight

  April 28, 1763

  The Frost Residence, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  The arrival of a breathless messenger saved Palmerston from any further interrogation. The Private, straightening his hat as he snapped to attention, saluted abruptly. “Begging your pardon, Captain Strake. The Colonel’s compliments, sir.”

  Owen straightened and returned the salute. “Yes, Private?”

  “The Colonel requests you come to Government House straight away, sir.” The soldier swallowed hard. “The Prince, sir, is in court and has requested the two of you attend him.”

  “Very well, Private. Please convey to the Colonel my intention to join him forthwith.”

  “If it pleases the Captain, the Colonel ordered me to conduct you there without delay.”

  “Yes, Private. Wait outside for me to join you.”

  The soldier departed and Owen turned to Palmerston. “You will write up a report concerning Langford’s illegal activities. You will make two copies. One you will entrust to Caleb Frost. The other you will prepare for me.”

  Palmerston’s eyes grew wide. “The Colonel, he’d kill me, sir.”

  “The only way you can prevent him from killing you, Lieutenant, is to prepare those reports. I will release them if any harm comes to you.” Owen tapped a finger on his own requisition. “You will prepare my supplies immediately and you will cut the other order down to fifty firestones, do you understand? I will come back and count them.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man sighed. “I wasn’t meaning no harm, what I did.”

  “I understand that, Lieutenant.” When the Tharyngian war ended, the army would shrink. Men like Palmerston would be retired on a fraction of their pay. The man likely had no other trade, no prospects, save for what he could put by. Avoiding poverty only made sense.

  “You lost your fingers and eye on the Continent, yes?”

  “Ryngian ambush. Musket-ball hit my barrel. Took two fingers. Stock splinter took my eye.”

  “I’m here to see that doesn’t happen again. Without good information, the Ryngians will ambush us just as you were ambushed. And from what you’ve told me, a survey that’s over a century old is more to be trusted than the one sent to Horse Guards last year. We can’t have that.”

  The Lieutenant nodded. “No, sir. I’ll do what you’ve told me to do, sir.”

  “Good.” Owen sighed. “Her Majesty will thank you.”

  “If it’s all the same, sir, I’d just as soon she didn’t even know I existed.”

  A man after my own heart. Owen threw the man a salute, then found the waiting soldier outside. They set off and entered the cit
y center from the south, passing beneath the shadow of St. Martin’s Cathedral. Like the Frost’s house, it had been built of granite, with flying buttresses and a gray slate roof. The bell tower rose to the height of fifty feet and had a cross atop it that went another twenty. It had been modeled on St. Paul’s in Launston, but lacked the ornate statuary in niches at the front. The bronze doors were smaller and had been shipped from Norisle, as no native industry could have produced them.

  To the west lay Government House. Like the Cathedral, it had been scaled down from its Norillian counterpart. Stone had not been wasted on more than the foundation—local timber had been used to finish it. Three stories tall, it had been built wide rather than deep. It occupied the whole of the western edge of the square and had three separate sets of doors: one for each wing, and the broader central doors toward which the Private led Owen.

  Colonel Langford waited impatiently inside the foyer, a relatively cramped space with creaking floorboards and tall windows. He dismissed the soldier with a snarl, then pulled Owen into a shadowed corner.

  “What did you say to the Prince yesterday?”

  Owen stood tall.“I do not believe the Prince intended you to be privy to our conversation, sir, little of which concerned you.”

  “Captain, I am ordering you.”

  “We spoke of my mission.” Owen opened his hands. “The Prince then invited me to take a look at his wurm. After that, I returned to Temperance.”

  “You didn’t talk about me?”

  “Aside from mentioning that I had reported my arrival to you, no, sir.”

  Langford pursed his lips. “Very well. Here is the thing of it. On occasion the Prince decides that his being Governor-General requires him to do more than his abominable Ryngianesque researches. He wishes to discuss your expedition.”

  Owen nodded.

  “You are required to be there. You will answer questions only if I give you leave to do so. Do you understand?”

  “My duty, sir, is to Her Majesty…”

  Langford’s face darkened. He thrust a finger at Owen’s nose. “Your duty, sir, depends upon my support. You will be spending the summer here, perhaps longer. You will need my help. If you know what is good for you, you will do as I tell you to do. You are a very long way from Norisle, Captain. Many things can happen here.”