At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Since before the Invasion. Eight centuries.”

  “And afore that there was the Remian Empire, then the Mohammadeans and the Haxians. A good long time.”

  “Right.”

  “So all them kingdoms and empires, they’ve done fought over the same land for a long time. They make up rules. They keep the peace when they want peace. They make war when they desire war. All because they have a tiny land and everyone wants it.”

  Woods spread his arms. “Mystria is a big land. Bigger than you could imagine. We’re ten walks from the coast. The Mystrian continent is three hundred more walks westward. Maybe five hundred, just east to west, and that many north to south. Don’t nobody know. Ain’t nobody ever made it all the way. So all them rules what keep people content in a tiny plot of land, they don’t mean spit. Them rules is as useless as a law telling the sun, ‘Don’t shine.’”

  “Then you think Mystria should become independent.”

  Woods smiled. “It’s a notion. Keep things unspoiled, might be a good one.”

  Owen frowned. “You think people should be allowed to do what they want? No government? No authority?”

  Woods tapped a finger to his temple. “This land is for strong people. You have a right to what you can do, what you can produce. Bountiful land, too. Give me shot, powder, a firestone, and some traps, me and mine will make out good. What I can’t build, I trade for. Don’t need money or taxes or some Fire Warden or other telling me what I can or cannot do.”

  “But what if a man comes along and decides to take what is yours? You’re not suggesting that if you’re not strong enough to hold it, he should have it.”

  “Ain’t no need for a man to come take mine. Lots of empty hereabouts. He can just move on a-piece and make his own place.”

  “What if he’s lazy? What if he doesn’t want to move on? What if he decides to take a place from someone who is weaker than he is? What if he plunders and moves on?”

  “I reckon he finds himself on the outside of a musket-ball.”

  “And if the shooter has made a mistake and hits the wrong target?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “Ain’t saying things is perfect. It’s just there ain’t no government should come and take away everything you’ve worked for just on account of some voters decided they wanted it that way. Now you’re gonna say that there’s courts to deal with that. I’d allow as how you was right, if you could tell me a flash of gold might not influence a judge a time or three.”

  Owen laughed. “I will not argue that the current system is perfect, but at least it is a system. What you suggest is only a way that every man can die alone.”

  “Mayhap you’re right, Captain Strake.” Nathaniel shook his head. “But I’m thinking that sometimes that wouldn’t be a bad thing at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  May 15, 1763

  Saint Luke

  Bounty, Mystria

  Owen slept in the long house alone, but close enough to the cook-fire and covered with a tanner pelt that he slept warm and comfortably. During the night he woke from two dreams in which he was talking to Bethany Frost. He couldn’t remember the conversation, but in one of them they were walking hand in hand along the river near the Prince’s wurmrest.

  He wasn’t certain what to make of that. He’d normally have dismissed the dream as meaningless. He’d told countless soldiers who’d suffered nightmares on the eve of battle that they meant nothing and predicted less. At the time he’d firmly believed that.

  But all that was before he’d come to Mystria. Just the experience of the winding path pointed to more magick being alive in the world than he’d ever before imagined. Maybe it was just the land, with magick bubbling up like warm water from a spring. Maybe it was nothing at all, an illusion, but whenever he thought that, he recalled Kamiskwa’s repairing the canoe and use of other magicks far more powerful than he’d been taught were possible.

  He woke for the final time just after dawn and breakfasted on maize gruel. His hosts ground some maple sugar and mixed it into the gruel, turning the ordinary into a delight. The little girl sat next to him, eating as he did, smiling when he did, and giggling contentedly at nothing at all.

  In the light of a cook-fire he wrote a letter to the Prince. He described the circumstances around the discovery of the journal and ring. He included his speculation that the circles represented phases of the moon. He added material on the background of Pierre Ilsavont, though found it difficult to code the name using A Continent’s Calling.

  Once that note had been completed, he wrote to the Frosts. He didn’t want to alarm anyone so he stressed the amazing things he’d seen. He described the beauty of the falls and the friendliness of the Altashee. He refrained from mentioning much about magick. Given that the Frosts were members of Bishop Bumble’s congregation, he wasn’t certain how news that the Altashee could be so magickally powerful would go over. He thought Bethany would marvel at the fact, but others might not be so inclined.

  He finished the note less because he was finished writing than that the village began to liven and he had to prepare to travel. He thanked Bethany for her help in obtaining the journals and pens, her father for A Continent’s Calling, then folded and sealed the note. He addressed it to them and tucked it into the Ryngian journal.

  As the three men packed, Owen discovered that Msitazi’s family had worked through the night to prepare two gifts: a leather sheath for his musket and one for his pistol. Each had a long strap so he could carry the weapons across his chest, and a separate thong allowed him to bind the pistol to his belt so it wouldn’t flap about while running.

  Msitazi embraced Owen at the edge of the village, still proudly wearing the red coat. “May your walks be effortless, and may more Ungarakii die to build your legend.”

  Owen withdrew and gave him a salute. “I shall sing the praises of Great Chief Msitazi of the Altashee to my Queen.”

  Owen entrusted the journal, ring, and notes to Msitazi. “I will take your messages myself, Aodaga.” The Chieftain nodded toward the eldest of Nathaniel’s sons. “I shall have William accompany me. It is time he ventured out.”

  “Are you certain, Msitazi?”

  The elder man laughed. “You now sound like all my children. I am old, I am not dead. And there is much magick left in me.” His milky left eye sparkled as if it were not truly dead. “We will deliver your messages and I shall thank the Prince for his gifts.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow. “You want another look at Mugwump.”

  “The great warrior sees past the obvious.” Msitazi slapped him on the arm. “When you next return, we shall share great stories of our adventures.”

  They each said their good-byes to those they were leaving behind. Nathaniel, who had not slept in the long house, hugged and kissed his children and their mothers. Kamiskwa made the rounds of the village.

  The little girl came to Owen and offered him one of her dolls, the one she had given him when he seemed sad. He made ready to refuse it as politely as he could, but she remained adamant.

  Kamiskwa intervened to explain. “She is giving you this to keep you safe. You will have to return it to her when you come back.”

  Owen crouched and gave the girl a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  Kamiskwa likewise crouched and gave the girl a hug and kiss. He spoke to her softly. She smiled, took a step back, stared at Owen for a moment, then ran off giggling.

  “Who is she?”

  Kamiskwa smiled. “Agaskan, my youngest sister.”

  Owen tucked the doll into the bag that had once contained his clothes and found himself smiling. It occurred to him then that Doctor Frost, Prince Vlad, and now an Altashee child had each given him a gift to speed him on his journey.

  And that no one from Norisle had even made a pretense at doing the same.

  Kamiskwa, Nathaniel, and Owen departed Saint Luke for Hattersburg by mid-morning. They traveled lightly laden with little more than guns, powder, shot,
and supplies. The Altashee provided them with pemikan—dried meat combined with tallow and pressed into cakes. The food was packed into one pouch and the three of them alternated carrying it as they went.

  The trio set off at an easy pace—what Kamiskwa called a hunting-walk. Owen considered it a stroll, and used the time to ask questions, make calculations, and even take notes. His companions pointed out a few more useful plants, stopped to harvest some tart red berries, and generally enjoyed the countryside.

  The day’s rising heat had them stripping off their tunics. By noon they cut onto a well-worn trail so they took off their leggings. Though not nearly wide enough for a modern army to move along, the track did allow them to make good time. By dusk they reached the shore of a small lake.

  They made camp in a hollow a hundred yards or so from the shore. The area had clearly been used before—fire-blackened stones formed a circle at its heart. Nathaniel kneeled beside them. “Ryngians.”

  Owen picked his rifle up. “How can you tell?”

  Nathaniel pointed to the hollow beneath a large stone canted to the side. “Not much wood there. Probably find bones and scat over other side of the hill. Lazy, good-for-nothing bastards the lot of them. Kamiskwa, best we check the canoe.”

  “Canoe?”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Weren’t thinking we was a-walking Hattersburg way did you?”

  “You must have canoes hidden everywhere.”

  Nathaniel stood and waved Owen after him. They followed Kamiskwa over a small wrinkle of earth to the east and down into brushy ravine. Two trees had fallen across the ravine, providing a bridge for the brave, but the men ducked beneath them. There, half-hidden by bushes and the shadows of the log lay a birch-bark canoe approximately twelve feet long.

  Kamiskwa brushed away some leaves. “Looks sound.”

  “Good.” Nathaniel rubbed his nose. “We was happy to see Pierre dead on account of his joy in life was staving canoes in. He was just pure mean. Runs in the Ilsavont blood.”

  “People just leave these canoes out here?”

  “This ain’t Norisle. We ain’t all thieves. We cooperate. Around these shores is dozens of canoes. You come up, you work. You make one. You take it across the lake and put it away. You tell another man where it is because, the next lake on, or the next river, he’s got one you can use. Now there is those you don’t use.”

  Owen worked his way out of the ravine behind Nathaniel. “Yes?”

  “Ungarakii have several, most over to the eastern shore.”

  “And they’ll kill you if you use them?”

  “Nope.” Mischief sparked in Nathaniel’s brown eyes. “They make poor canoes.”

  Kamiskwa nodded. “Prone to leaking.”

  Owen stopped by the fire ring. “And that propensity, would it be something you help along a bit?” Nathaniel laughed. “It’s our way of encouraging Ungarakii to learn to swim.” “So, even if we’d not found the corpse, the Ungarakii would have been happy to kill us for sport?” “Well, don’t nobody out here kill just for sport. Don’t mean they don’t like killing, though. Ungarakii enjoy it an almighty lot.”

  The casual confidence with which Nathaniel made that statement sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. He said nothing, choosing instead to gather firewood. He set the first pile near the ring, then gathered more to replenish the storage area beneath the leaning rock.

  The fire offered light and warmth. The men took the opportunity to wash their loincloths and strung them from sticks to let them dry. Owen sat and wrote in his journal. He mostly recorded landmarks and basic information. The impressions he’d had from the day mostly involved Nathaniel’s attitudes toward the Ungarakii and Ryngians. Recording them seemed to be a violation of trust.

  The disgust with which Nathaniel had addressed the Ryngians’ selfish use of the clearing echoed his earlier comments about the squatters they’d seen on the way to the Prince’s estate. The idea that people might be wasteful offended him as much as absentee landlords controlling vast tracts of land.

  Owen looked up. “If I might, Mr.Woods, ask you a question: When you look out at the land, when you travel through it, what is it you see?”

  “Aside from the leaves and all, you mean?”

  “Yes. I’m asking philosophically.”

  Nathaniel groaned. “You’ll be a-wanting big words, then?”

  “Not required. You love the land, clearly.”

  “Well, mostly, I reckon, I want it to be unspoilt.” He sat silent for a moment, letting the crackle of the fire and the distant, mournful call of a loon fill the night. “I know men will bugger it all up. Chop down trees, make a farm, but that’s soes they’ll live. The Shedashee do that some, but they do it different. If they packed up Saint Luke tomorrow, how long before the land reclaimed it?”

  “A year?”

  “A season more like.” Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. “How long for Temperance to vanish?”

  “A generation?” Owen remembered marching along a portion of a Remian road in Tharyngia. “Much longer, maybe.”

  “Men is arrogant. Now their Good Book tells them that God made them out of mud just like everything else, but they reckon—on account of they disobeyed Him and got theirselves kicked out of that Paradise Garden—they is somehow better than the animals, plants, and dirt.” The scout shook his head. “They go to making rules and laws what is for the benefit of themselves. Lets them get more. Lets them keep more. Don’t matter they lie and cheat to get things.”

  Owen frowned. “You’re not just talking about the land, are you?”

  “Well, I don’t reckon I am.” Nathaniel hesitated, then smiled. “And I don’t reckon I want to speak more on that particular point. Fact is, however, men and their society do more harm than good often as not. That’s why I prefer keeping far from most folks.”

  “Is this a common theme among Mystrians?”

  “I don’t rightly know. Could be your little book will tell you. Don’t care. I ain’t a Mystrian.” Nathaniel held a hand up. “Yep, I was born here. Probably die here, too, iffen there’s a God who has a lick of sense. But I ain’t a part of their society. Don’t want nothing to do with it.”

  Owen frowned. “Then why not just live with the Altashee?”

  “There’s times, Captain Strake, when a man cain’t do what he’d like to do. Cain’t escape your history.”

  Kamiskwa snorted. “Not without trying.”

  “I reckon, Prince Kamiskwa, you’ve done forgot your original counsel in this matter.”

  Owen hadn’t a clue as to what they were talking about, and was equally certain that he’d not get an explanation out of either of them. Nathaniel had seldom spoken about himself. Owen guessed that part of the poking and testing he did was to see how much he could trust Owen. Clearly he’d not made a decision one way or the other and, until then, whatever secrets he harbored would remain hidden.

  The soldier couldn’t help but smile. He’d been in the man’s company for over ten days and could have written down all he knew about him on a single page. Catherine would have scolded him for not having learned more. He’d have explained that men don’t talk about things the way women do, and she’d have countered that he was just afraid to ask.

  Fear, however, had nothing to do with it. It was respect. He respected Nathaniel’s right to privacy. Who he was, what he did, had no effect on the expedition. If it did, if Nathaniel was a drunkard, then they would have had words.

  More importantly, the act of not asking built trust. Owen trusted Nathaniel to tell him anything that was important. So far Nathaniel had upheld his part of that bargain. Not asking personal questions became a silent vote of confidence in Nathaniel, engendering more trust.

  Owen figured part of Nathaniel’s attitude came from society’s reaction to something he’d done. Just having children by two women—and Shedashee women at that—to whom he was not married would be enough to raise eyebrows and bring down condemnation. He would have been a right devil to men like Bishop Bumble
. Many of those who spoke out against him would be hypocrites. Owen had heard countless superior officers lecture common soldiers on the sins of drink and debauchery, all the while themselves being drunk and just having departed a bordello.

  Owen went to sleep thinking on that point and managed, unexpectedly, to sleep through to the last watch. Once the sun rose to splash gold over the lake, the men ate, scattered all signs of their camp, and launched their canoe. Owen sat in the middle as the others propelled the small boat across crystal water.

  “I can paddle my share.”

  “Don’t you be worrying about that. You just keep your eyes on the shoreline.”

  “We’re beyond range for a shot.”

  “I reckon, but I want to know if there’s folks watching us.”

  Owen retrieved his telescope from his pouch. He swept the shoreline but saw nothing aside from a moose grazing in shallow water. The placid surface reflected the blue sky, save near the shore where the trees’ reflection rimmed the lake darkly.

  “It looks clear.”

  Kamiskwa, from the front of the canoe, grunted a single word. “Tekskog.”

  “Do you think, Kamiskwa? Hain’t never been one in this lake afore.” Nathaniel laughed. “Wouldn’t do much good if he saw one.”

  Owen sighed. “Should I be looking for something specific?”

  “Well, he’s a-wanting you to be looking for a lake monster. Like a big snake, horse’s head, lots of coils. The Prince probably put it on your list. He thinks it’s a big otter. Very big. Get enough coats out of it for your army, I’m thinking.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Can’t honestly say I’ve seen one, but I’ve heard tell of plenty who have.”

  Owen would have dismissed the idea save for two things. First, he had seen creatures in Mystria he’d never seen before. Second, what they de-scribed—granted without the fur—was a wurm in its early life stage. If there are wurms here and we can find them, we could raise and train them. The balance of Auropean power would forever be shifted.

  Over the next three and a half weeks they paddled over countless lakes and ponds, occasionally camping on islands, but only once making their way by canoe from one large body of water to the other. Mostly they stashed their canoe then trekked overland to the next lake to find another canoe and take a lend of it.