At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Am I to interpret that as a threat, Colonel?”

  “I won’t insult your intelligence, Captain. Your success or failure is at my whim. You do not want to displease me.”

  Owen drew himself to attention, then saluted. “As you say, sir.”

  “Very well.” Langford crossed the foyer. A liveried servant in a wig bowed and then opened the door to the assembly room at the heart of Government House. That central room ran to the back of the building and was as wide as it was deep. Wooden pillars split it into thirds. Desks and chairs had been moved to the walls, but marks on the floor showed where they normally were arrayed as if for a parliament. Owen guessed that a regional legislature likely used the chamber when the Prince was not in residence.

  A throne had been centered toward the back and as they approached, Owen barely recognized the man seated in it. The Prince had donned a full wig, with the curled locks falling past his shoulder both front and back. His blue jacket and gold breeches shimmered brightly—the hallmark of their having been woven from wurmsilk. The jacket facings glowed with burnished red wurmleather, and the black buckles on his matching shoes had been carved from wurmscales.

  Colonel Langford stopped four paces shy of the throne and bowed. Owen, a step behind him, followed suit. He then retreated to the right, leaving Langford alone before the Prince.

  The three of them were by no means the only people in the room. Not only had some people preceded them, but more entered in their wake. They lined up as if the center of the room had an invisible carpet on which they were afraid to tread. Most reminded him of Dr. Frost—well-dressed in clothes stylishly fashioned from homespun wool and linen. The colors perforce ran to blacks and browns since indigo and other brighter hues had to be imported, but here and there a kerchief or vest lent a splash of color.

  Down toward the end, barely inside the doors, stood men who looked quite ill at ease. They wore buckskins, with fringes on the sleeves and down the side seams of the trousers. Beadwork decorated some of the clothes, but most showed only stains on thighs, shins, and at the sleeve-cuffs. These men had a rough, unkempt nature and their shifting postures betrayed an uneasiness with their surroundings.

  Prince Vlad raised a hand and the porter closed the doors. “Colonel Langford, so good of you to respond to our request so quickly. We trust we drew you away from nothing vital?”

  Langford smiled unctuously. “The Queen’s work is never done, Highness, but any service I can render you is always paramount.”

  “And you, Captain Strake, you were not inconvenienced by this request?”

  “No, Highness.” Owen shivered at the remote and imperious tone in the Prince’s voice—so unlike how he had sounded the day before.

  “Colonel, I am given to understand that you have retained Rufus Branch to guide Captain Strake.”

  “I have, sir. His knowledge of the area is unparalleled.”

  “Is it?” Prince Vlad frowned. “We should have thought Nathaniel Woods had traveled more extensively, especially in the area where Captain Strake’s orders require him to explore.”

  Langford bowed his head. “Of course, Highness. I should have said Mr. Branch’s knowledge is unparalleled among available guides.”

  The Prince clapped his hands. “Well, then, Colonel, we have excellent news for you. Mr. Woods is available for this assignment. He will arrive presently, so you will tell your… why, look, he is with us. Mr. Branch, you and your men will not be required. You’re free to go.”

  The ruffians at the far end of the room appeared quite surprised, but Langford’s rising voice cut off the dull roar of their conversation. “Highness, you cannot dismiss them.”

  “Did we hear you correctly, Colonel? We cannot dismiss them?”

  “Yes, Highness. They have a contract to provide services. It would be great hardship for them if it were to be set aside.”

  Prince Vlad’s chin came up. “Would it? These men appear to be hale and hearty to me. Could they not avail themselves better by going out and trapping something? We could not be paying them more than they would make trading and trapping, could we?”

  “It is a complicated matter, Highness.” Langford’s face grew hard. “An army matter, Highness. Quite outside the things you need worry about.”

  “We believe you will find, Colonel, that all your funding comes through the Ministry of the Exchequer, which is a civilian organization. It is, therefore, of concern to us. The fact is that Mr. Woods—a guide you have proclaimed to be superior to your selection—is available for two gold crowns. We believe this is a considerable savings over your proposed budget.”

  Langford began to sputter, but the Prince raised a hand. “We are not finished. It has come to our attention that there are rumors of your personal financial involvement with the Casks and Branches, Colonel, as well as other irregularities.”

  Langford’s face flushed. “Do you have proof, Highness, of these insulting accusations? Would you trust rumors over the word of a gentleman that contradicts them?”

  “No, Colonel, but I am duty bound to prepare a report and forward it to the proper authorities.”

  “But it would be baseless.”

  Owen took a step forward. “Begging Your Highness’ pardon; on my word as a gentleman, the Colonel’s financial dealings are as warped as an old, wurmrest door. If you wish, I shall compile what I have learned so far into a report ready for transport back to Norisle when the Coronet sails.”

  “Your offer is welcomed, Captain, but maybe a bit precipitant.” Vlad looked again to Colonel Langford. “In addition to guiding Captain Strake, we shall be asking Mr. Woods to continue his survey of flora and fauna. In anticipation of receiving new samples and new information, we shall be spending most of our time on our estate. You will find us singularly preoccupied, so that filing such a report may well be beyond our means. We shall be forced to take you at your word that you have no financial dealings with these men. Is this clear?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Very well. You are dismissed.”

  Langford bowed, then shot Owen a venomous glance.

  “And you, Captain Strake, I require you to remain here. I insist you dine with me this evening.”

  “You are most kind, Highness.”

  “It is not kindness.” The Prince nodded solemnly. “There are items in the packet you gave me which need discussing; and the sooner done, so much the better.”

  Langford and the others withdrew. Once the door had closed behind them, Vlad pulled off his wig, tossed it on the throne, and scratched his head vigorously with both hands. He made no pretense of smoothing his hair again, but turned and grinned at Owen.

  “I appreciate your support, though it was unexpected. Langford and I would have come to the same solution. You have succeeded in making yourself an enemy.”

  Owen nodded. “It would have happened regardless. Out of the five shillings in a crown, two must end up in Langford’s pocket, or those of his confederates. It is scandalous, of course, but if Langford’s people actually did the things they were overpaid to do, there would be some benefit. As it is…”

  “I know, and so do some in Horse Guards.” The Prince waved Owen after him, heading for a door in the south wall that opened into a small set of apartments. “I informed Horse Guards that the past reports were unreliable. No one believed me, however, until a spy in the heart of Feris, in the Ryngian Ministry of Colonial Affairs, located two outposts in places where our reports indicated there were none. While my reports are still disbelieved, various friends asked me to arrange for Nathaniel to move through those territories and ascertain the truth.”

  Owen’s nostril’s flared. “Did no one believe I would do my duty?”

  “On the surface, Captain, no one would. Despite your family’s position, you are hardly well regarded. You are a Colonial half-blood who liaised with a Colonial unit disgraced in battle. Need I paint you a more complete picture of why some cautious souls wished to guarantee accurate information
?”

  “No, Highness, I understand.”

  “Good.” The Prince smiled. “But you and I, for now, shall talk of specifics, and I shall write out some orders for my friend. Then we shall dine and you will go to your home for a well-deserved rest. Your arduous journey will begin very soon.”

  And it was, as the Prince predicted, an enjoyable evening of roast pheasant and local vegetables combined with valuable lessons that would aid Owen’s ability to survive in the wilderness. The Prince delivered each of them as an anecdote, both making them easier to remember and less offensive in the telling. By the end of the evening Owen knew he still had a great deal to learn, but he had acquired a great foundation upon which to build.

  He left the Prince with a smile on his face and a warm glow in his belly.

  Both of which vanished when, at the first shadowed corner, the butt of a musket cracked against his head.

  Chapter Nine

  April 28, 1763

  Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Owen awakened on the ground, dust in his mouth, a second before a booted foot caught him in the mid-section and lifted him back into the air. The Prince’s dinner gushed out, replacing the dry dust with the harsh wet of vomit. He landed on his side, bouncing, then drew his knees up to cover his belly.

  “Think you’re so smart, do you?” A man’s deep-voiced question invited laughter from his confederates. “Think you’re better’n us, do you?”

  Owen coughed, then spat. His stomach ached and the world swam. He could make out silhouettes—at least half a dozen—but there could have been more. The closest one to him, the man who had spoken, filled most of his vision—and that was a factor of his size, not just his proximity.

  “There he is, boys, all curled up. A little Norillian dog, ready to die.”

  More laughter, until another voice cut in.

  “Now, Rufus Branch, don’t appear you’re making constructive use of your time here.”

  “You stay out of this, Woods.” The large man thrust a finger at Owen. “You know his kind. He wears the red coat. He thinks he’s better’n any three of us.”

  Light laughter came from the alley-mouth. “You ain’t never been good at your sums, Rufus, but even you can see there’s a mite more than three of you here.”

  “You want to be evening up the odds?”

  “I get to scrapping, ain’t going to be even. Like as not I’d shoot you again.”

  Owen shook his head, partially clearing it, then pulled his hands and knees beneath himself. “Three to one? I’ve fought worse.”

  Woods, at the alley-mouth, was little more than a tall, slender silhouette with a gun cradled in his folded arms. “Belike that knock in your head scrambled your brains, Captain Strake.”

  “Not like he has any brains,” one of the others scoffed.

  Owen got to his feet and staggered to his left. He let one of the men catch him and push him back upright. Owen twisted, burying a fist in the man’s gut, then snapped a knee into his face. The man dropped fast. Spinning, he got his back against the building, then jacked his right elbow into the face of the man by his other side. The man’s head rebounded off the building and he flopped forward, covering his compatriot’s moaning body.

  It wasn’t the first time Owen had been jumped by a gang. He had one rule for such fights and applied it religiously: do as much damage as you can, however you can, and don’t stop.

  The man on his left hesitated, but the one on his right came burrowing in. Head ducked and arms wide, he went to tackle Owen. The soldier hit him hard over the left ear, dropping him to his knees, then kicked him in the chest. The man somersaulted back, cutting Rufus’ legs out from under him.

  Without waiting for the man on the left to act, Owen charged and caught him with an uppercut. Tooth fragments littered the dust. Owen grabbed the man’s jacket and tossed him onto Rufus’ back.

  Another man raised his fists and broadened his stance. Slightly smaller than Owen, he had a confident glint in his eyes. He darted forward, feinting with a left toward Owen’s head. Owen’s hands came up, leaving him open for the man to drive his right into Owen’s stomach.

  Pain exploded but didn’t slow Owen down. He snapped his head forward, smashing his forehead into the man’s face. Bones cracked. Blood gushed over Owen’s face. The man staggered back, hands rising to his ruined nose. Owen kicked out, catching him squarely in the groin. The blow lifted the man a foot or so in the air and dumped him, writhing, into the alley.

  Rufus roared and Owen spun. The giant had tossed one man off him and rose to his feet. A head taller than Owen, and with shoulders broad enough to fill the alley, Rufus Branch curled his hands into bucket-sized fists.

  “You should’ve stayed in Norisle.”

  Owen swallowed hard and set himself. He had one chance. A quick kick to a knee, crippling Rufus; then finding something big enough with which to brain him.

  All of a sudden Rufus’ head snapped forward, accompanied by the sound of a musket-butt being applied as a club. The man staggered and half turned. “Why’d you have to do that, Woods?”

  “You’re not worth the price of powder to reload.” Woods hit him again, catching him in the forehead.

  Rufus Branch collapsed.

  Woods lowered his gun. “The last of them went running off. He’ll bring friends. I’m thinking a retreat’s the smart play.”

  “Agreed.” Owen straightened up and felt around his right ear. His fingers came away wet. He stepped over Rufus and followed the Mystrian out of the alley. “You didn’t need to intervene.”

  “I reckon you coulda took Rufus, but he’d agone and busted you up some. The Prince hired me to guide you. Ain’t no good if you is crippled.”

  Owen stopped by a public wellhead and worked the pump, splashing cold water over his head and washing off his face. The shock brought a little clarity, but the aftermath left room for his body to report the aches and pains. Another wave of nausea washed over him, but he choked vomit back.

  Nathaniel Woods came around and looked at his ear. “Nasty gash. You’ll be needing some sewing to fix half your ear back on. Good thing Mistress Frost is handy with a needle and thread.”

  Owen straightened up again, sweeping dripping black hair out of his face. “They will be rethinking their offer of hospitality.”

  “It won’t surprise ’em none.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Caleb likely told them what to expect after he told me.”

  Owen looked back toward the alley. “He wasn’t…”

  “He don’t have much truck with the Branches.”

  The two men moved on through the dark city streets, heading uphill toward the Frost estate. “No love lost between you and Rufus.”

  “’bout right.”

  “You said you’d shot him before?”

  Nathaniel nodded. “He was needing it. Wanted to shoot him in the head, but it was so far up his hind parts, alls I got was his sitting-down meat.”

  Owen couldn’t tell if Nathaniel was joking or not. He got the very distinct sense that both in the alley and even now, Woods was measuring him. “So, tell me, Mr. Woods. Would you have intervened if it wasn’t part of your job?”

  Nathaniel Woods stopped in the middle of the street and ran a hand over his angular chin. “I’m thinking I might have. Spoiling Rufus’ fun’s one of the pleasures of my life.”

  “You’re not afraid of reprisals?”

  “Not particularly.” Nathaniel started moving again. “I’m thinking he’s a lot less favorable on being shot than I am on shooting him.”

  Owen pressed his handkerchief to the side of his head. “You’re not afraid of him shooting you first?”

  “He gets close enough to take that shot, I ain’t deserving of much more life.”

  They came to the Frost house. Owen opened the gate and waited for Woods to come in.

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Your arrival will cause enough commotion. I’ll give you a day to rest, then will meet you at your
supply depot.”

  Owen nodded. “I’ve already requisitioned supplies.”

  “So I’ve heard. We’ll get them right when I see you.” Nathaniel threw him a brief salute, then backed into the shadows.

  The Frosts’ front door opened. Caleb held up a lantern and Bethany came running out, skirts gathered in her hands. Though the light only illuminated part of her face, her widening eyes and opening mouth made his head hurt worse.

  “Caleb, quickly, help me.” Bethany tucked herself beneath Owen’s left arm and slipped a hand around his waist. “He’s bleeding.”

  “I can see that.” Caleb joined his sister on the other side, and the three of them managed to negotiate the doorway with surprising ease. Without another word between them, they took Owen to the kitchen and sat him in a chair.

  The mistress of the house fixed him with an iron stare. “I have seen worse. Bethany, take his jacket, brush it off, and start working on those stains. Caleb…”

  Her son held his hands up. “A tot of rum, I know.”

  “But none for yourself. You’re the reason he’s in this condition.”

  Owen shrugged his coat off. “Mrs. Frost, there is nothing Caleb could have done…”

  “Captain Strake, I would appreciate it if you do not presume to know Temperance or my son that well. When we learned you were dining with the Prince, we sent Caleb to wait for you. He did not do that.”

  “He told Nathaniel Woods…”

  “I am well aware of what he did.” Mrs. Frost took a clean cloth and dipped it in some hot water. She pulled his hand and handkerchief away from the wound and wiped blood away. “I know what a store the Prince sets by Mr. Woods, but that hardly makes him an angel.”

  She set the bloody cloth down and picked up a needle. She threaded it, then held it in the flame of a candle.