At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Agony exploded in Owen’s brain and mercifully snuffed out consciousness. As Owen’s world faded to black, the man raised the rifle again and Owen forced himself to smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  July 8, 1763

  Prince Haven

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Prince Vlad’s lungs burned. His goggles had not leaked much; the guttapercha sealed the glass well and the strip inside the leather mask molded tightly to his skin. The goggles provided amazing clarity beneath the waters of the Benjamin, though the lack of light past ten feet limited the view to the back of Mugwump’s head.

  His lungs demanded air. He pulled back on the reins and the wurm struck for the surface. Vlad grabbed the saddlehorn. The whipping of Mugwump’s tail sent shivers through the beast’s entire body. Combined with the water pressure, it would have been enough to tear him from the saddle. They rose swiftly, then shot into the air like an arrow, only to splash down again twenty yards upriver.

  The Prince laughed in spite of himself. Back on shore his wurmwright and a servant waited, one anxiously, the other with a towel and robe. Baker, the wurmwright, had been dead set against the idea of letting the Prince swim with the wurm since that just was not done. Because wurms began their lives as large water-serpents, conventional wisdom had it that they would escape if allowed to swim freely. Vlad had watched Mugwump splash happily when the wurmrest flooded, so he took a chance.

  Though the Prince had only been swimming the wurm for three weeks, Mugwump had taken commands more readily in water than in the field, and certainly seemed to enjoy himself more. The wurm showed greater speed in the water than on land, and proved adept at harvesting schools of fish. He looked forward to their daily swims, so much so that the Prince had even taken him out on a miserable, rainy day.

  The Prince tugged on the reins, turning Mugwump toward shore. But the beast ducked his whole head beneath the water, then brought it up again. Water sheeted off the scales and down his snout. He refused to turn and instead, twitching his tail slowly but steadily, headed upriver. He tucked his legs in along his belly as he did so, moving serenely.

  Vlad lifted his goggles and shaded his eyes with a hand. There in the distance, a canoe. Mugwump heard the sound of their paddles that far away? That must be a half-mile.

  The Prince gave Mugwump a touch of his heels. Even if he’d worn spurs with foot-long spikes the beast would have felt no pain. Mugwump, however, responded, cruising up the river easily. The Prince rode tall in his saddle, aware that soaking wet he cut a ridiculous figure. Still, given the nature of his mount, he suspected his visitor would not much notice.

  Within a hundred yards he recognized the man in the back of the canoe and raised a hand in greeting. The young boy in the bow pulled his paddle from the water and appeared ready to fend Mugwump off. The Prince pulled back on the reins and Mugwump slowed so that his propulsion matched the river precisely.

  Msitazi, wearing the bright red coat of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards, brought the canoe in close. “Greetings, Great Prince Vladimir.”

  “I welcome your visit, Great Chief Msitazi. I am honored.”

  “I present to you my grandson, William.”

  Nathaniel’s eldest, I would imagine. Despite the gray-green hue of the boy’s flesh, there was no mistaking his lean frame and strong nose. And his eyes, so wary, like his father.

  “Greetings, William.”

  “Thank you, Highness.”

  The Prince pointed back in the direction of his estate. “May I offer you hospitality? Unless, of course, you mean to make Temperance before nightfall.”

  “We have come to see you, Great Prince.” Msitazi smiled broadly. “I bring you a message from Aodaga.”

  “Who?”

  “The great killer of the Ungarakii.” Msitazi straightened the jacket. “Captain Owen Strake.”

  Prince Vlad sped Mugwump back to the estate and let Baker return him to the wurmrest. He took the towel from the servant, then sent him off to gather food. Then he helped William drag the canoe into his back lawn. The trio of men moved up to where just two months before the Prince had entertained Kamiskwa, Nathaniel, and Owen. He waited for his guests to seat themselves, then he sat as they did, cross-legged.

  Though he desperately wished to see Captain Strake’s message, he prepared himself to observe Shedashee convention and allow the chief to get to the message in his own time. Though frustrating, the Prince had come to realize that the native Mystrians did not view time as Norillians did. For them time was measured as sufficient or not. While the need for urgency did not go unrecognized, haste was considered closer to a sin than a mere vice and often the height of foolishness. To suggest otherwise was to forfeit Shedashee respect, and this was a thing not easily regained.

  Msitazi handed the Prince a gorgeously beaded belt four inches wide and a yard and a half long. “This my daughter Ishikis has made for you, Great Prince. I should consider it a great honor if you would take her for your wife.”

  Vlad accepted it. The shell and turquoise, coral, onyx, and malachite had all been worked into a beautiful mosaic that featured bears at either end and a creature much like Mugwump through the rest of the design. The colorful stones had come from afar and were of incalculable value to the Altashee. The gift was as much an honor as the offer of his daughter.

  “I regret that I must refuse your daughter’s hand, Great Msitazi. I sent notice of your previous offer to my aunt. She has not yet given me leave to marry. I shall write her again.”

  The elder Altashee smiled. “You men of Norisle, you mistake the true treasures of this land.”

  “I know you speak the truth.” Vlad stroked the belt with a hand. “Captain Strake also refused a similar offer?”

  “You shall write your aunt and ask her to send brave officers who do not have wives, please.”

  “I shall, indeed, do that. How is it that you wear Captain Strake’s coat?”

  “He gave it to me, and I gave him robes of great medicine. He has gone off on the great mission you have given him. He will need such medicine.”

  Msitazi opened a pouch and produced a sealed note. “Aodaga sent this for you. We brought it as directly as we could. We had a little adventure on the way.”

  Vlad accepted the note and broke the seal. He glanced at the date on the top of the first sheet. He traced a finger along through the numbers and did some figuring. His having committed A Continent’s Calling to memory made swift translation possible. Strake modestly described their trip so far and informed the Prince of details about a man who might no longer be dead.

  He read it over twice, just to make sure he was translating correctly, then looked up. “What did they say of this man who may have returned from the grave?”

  Msitazi’s face darkened. “Pierre Ilsavont. Magehawk did not like him. Shot him. They burned his head. He was supposed to have died during the bad winter. He was wendigo.”

  “Did they say anything of a man named Guy du Malphias?”

  “No. The wendigo kept company with Ungarakii. My son said they were off to hunt great prey. They were bound for Hattersburg.”

  Vlad nodded slowly. “The note mentions a journal and a ring.”

  William glanced at his grandfather, then opened his pouch and produced both of them. “I would not have let anyone have them, Highness.”

  “They were entrusted to you wisely, William. Your duty has been nobly and well accomplished.” The ring was, as noted in the message, unremarkable other than being of Tharyngian manufacture and very far from home. While it might excite some interest in Launston, likely it would be dismissed as indicating little or nothing.

  The journal, on the other hand, greatly excited the Prince. He began leafing through and found the missive addressed to Bethany Frost. He set it aside and continued to study the writing. What he noticed first, aside from the dreadful spelling and questionable grammar, was that the entries deteriorated over time. Sentences became shorter. Punctuation disappeared. T
he hand itself became larger and sloppier, with lines sloping across pages. The phases of the moon remained obvious, but the orb’s shape suffered mightily.

  Vlad looked up. “I beg your pardon. I am being rude.”

  Msitazi held a hand up. “Your face is mine when I study a track. Watch him, William, for he is wise and can concentrate. A warrior who strikes fast is valued, but one who is wise enough to know where to strike, he will be the victor.”

  The Prince smiled. “And, William, you are fortunate enough to have a man who is both fast and wise in your grandfather. Study him.”

  The boy beamed.

  The Prince stood and waved to his wurmwright. “Baker, come here.”

  The hefty man ran over, clearly afraid that the Shedashee might be somehow threatening the Prince. “Yes, Highness.”

  Vlad handed him the note to Bethany Frost. “Take my fastest horse and deliver this to the Frosts. Ask Doctor Frost, his wife, his daughter, and his son, Caleb, to be my guests this evening for dinner. They will return home in the morning. You will have Colonel Langford prepare a coach for them and an honor guard of his cavalry company. He’ll tell you that you are an idiot. You will tell him I said he was not to lead the cavalry, which is how he will know the order comes from me. The cavalry carry something of value back tomorrow. Their escort duty shall be a ruse should the enemy be watching. Have the guards bring a small strong box with them, including all keys for it.”

  “Yes, Highness. Should I be going now, Highness, or in a bit since your wurm needs feeding.”

  “Go now. I think Great Chief Msitazi and his grandson would help me feed the wurm. And on your way, tell the kitchen we shall have seven for dinner. It should be memorable.”

  “Highness, it’s a bit late in the day…”

  “Tell them that if I have to cook, they will have to feed the wurm.”

  “I think they will understand, Highness.”

  Throughout the discussion Msitazi’s face remained an emotionless onyx mask, but as Baker ran off, he smiled. “It is not power that enables one to rule, but the wisdom to know how much to employ and when.”

  “One always hopes for circumstances that allow for the deliberation that makes both power and wisdom possible.” The Prince waved his guests toward the wurmrest. “You will, of course, dine with me this evening as my guests. But first, shall we see to Mugwump’s comfort?”

  The boy clearly enjoyed feeding the wurm at least after he got past his initial fear. Mugwump appeared to enjoy his presence even more, gently nudging him and bringing his tail around to corral him. The boy shrieked delightedly and jabbered away at his grandfather. Prince Vlad was certain some great tales were going to be heard in Saint Luke upon their return.

  The Prince left the two of them to their own devices and retired to his laboratory to study the journal and ring. On closer examination, the only odd details he noted about the ring were some engraving and that a small sliver of brass had been carved from the band. It was possible the latter had happened by accident, but unlikely. The engraving inside the band was comprised, in part, of several symbols of arcane import. Compared with the crest on the outer face, these letters, like the sliver cut from the band, had been made very recently. The Prince accepted that both had been done deliberately and, therefore, had significance.

  The journal itself presented the Prince with clues both tantalizing and frustrating. Inside the back cover he found the symbols from the ring repeated. That confirmed their use as some sort of indexing scheme. Still, simple numbers would have sufficed to please an accountant or quartermaster. The symbols themselves had their roots in magick, and Owen’s suggestion in the letter that there was a magickal link to the ring suggested something rather sinister.

  The journal entries began almost normally, and would have appeared to be nothing more than a travelogue, save that the author gave no sense of his impressions or feelings. He described hills and valleys in the sort of language a civilian might think would please a surveyor. He did make an attempt, at first, to write down the paces it took to cross a stream, but precise measurements soon vanished. In fact, save for the lunar observations that prefaced every entry, any semblance of order or science evaporated halfway through.

  Toward the end, then, things became utter gibberish, the handwriting indecipherable. In two places the pencil’s point had snapped off, but whole lines had been written before the author found a new pencil and continued on.

  All in all, the journal entries were useless. They conveyed neither direction nor elevation. Vlad supposed that if one were familiar with the area being traveled, one might be able to correlate location to description. But if one were that familiar with the area, he’d not need the journal’s information.

  That fact, coupled with the idea that the ring could be tracked, started the Prince thinking. If one could track the ring and know where the person wearing it was at any given moment, then the person’s travel would become a survey in and of itself. Moreover, if the ring could communicate more than just location, but conditions, even in the most rudimentary sense, then the journal would be used to confirm the observations made through the link.

  The whole thing had the stink of Ryngian Thaumaturgy about it. Norillian magick built on long tradition, and Norillian mages were among some of the best in the world. Norillian magick was what made the Queen’s armies so effective—her line troops were second to none in combat.

  In the aftermath of the Tharyngian revolution, which elevated Science to the highest place in the Universe, magick had become yet one more area of study. While they had started with the same traditions as Norisle, the Ryngians had performed a systematic survey of magick to establish its underlying principles. This seemed a waste of time to many Norillians, and the newly published Tharyngian principles drew ridicule since it was well known that they just couldn’t be true.

  The necessity of touch in magick, for example, was indisputable. Folklore abounded with stories of mages laid low at the end of a spear, or of oracles able to read bones and identify who they had once belonged to. No one, until the Tharyngians, had bothered to ask how knowledge could be contained in those bones. They postulated the Laws of Similarity and Contagion to offer an explanation. In short, those things that looked similar had a link with each other, and those which had spent time in proximity to one another were similarly linked.

  That would suggest, then, that the ring and the sliver taken from it would have a link. While the tradition that the Prince had studied suggested that the link would be too weak to be of use, he wasn’t certain he accepted that anymore. The Shedashee appeared to be able to read links and, if Captain Strake’s letter was to be believed, they could read them with no great difficulty. And if Strake had learned this, could not a Tharyngian have done so, too, and started his fellows studying the possibilities?

  And worse yet, the letter hinted at necromancy. No Laureates endorsed it, and many decried it, but that didn’t mean it did not exist.

  The Prince sat back. If du Malphias had come to Mystria to study or employ magicks so foul his compatriots did not want him in their homeland, things had become dire indeed, and would become much worse.

  Chapter Thirty

  July 7, 1763

  Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

  Owen awoke naked and cold in a dark stone room, stretched out on a wooden slab. Thick leather straps secured his wrists, ankles, chest, and waist to the slab. Dull echoes of pain pulsed from his left thigh. A square of reddened cloth covered the hole. A glass vessel hung from the ceiling and dripped a greenish liquid on the cloth with maddening regularity.

  Something shuffled through the shadows at his feet. He couldn’t see what. He sensed the presence of at least one person, but whoever was there remained invisible. “Hello?” His voice came hoarse and ended in a cough. It shook his body and the pain increased marginally.

  The sharp click of boots on stone filtered into the chamber. The shuffling chased it, then paused. A match scratched on the wall, burstin
g into flame. A slender-fingered hand applied it to one hanging lamp and then to another. The man raised the match to his lips and blew it out.

  Du Malphias!

  The Tharyngian Laureate looked much as he had when Owen had seen him before, though now, without a hat, black hair on his crown and grey hair at his temples became plainly visible. The pattern repeated itself in his goatee. He stood at the foot of the slab, studying Owen, then shifted to the left. He raised a hand and flicked a fingernail against the hanging glass. It rang and he seemed to take some satisfaction from it.

  “You are a very fortunate man. Your perspicacity saved your life. The bullet had damaged your femoral artery, but the belt held things tight. Your packing the wound with that crude poultice likely has slowed infection. I should thank you for that. It has opened a new area of inquiry. I had no knowledge of the medicinal property of that plant and I am interested to see if it has uses beyond the obvious anesthetic qualities.”

  The man’s words came with a soothing evenness that surprised Owen, and emphasized the lyrical quality of his Ryngian accent. It almost seemed as if the man cared whether or not Owen lived.

  “Water.”

  “Perhaps, in a bit.” Du Malphias disappeared for a moment, then returned, holding up a deformed hunk of lead. “This, then, was the bullet which struck you. It must have been a ricochet, no? It broke your leg, but I have set the bone. The break, she was clean. If you live, you will again be able to walk. If you do not, this is a problem we will deal with later.”

  The Tharyngian glanced past Owen’s head. “Quarante-neuf, the stool, please, and the tray.”

  A large, shaved-headed man came around from the left and dragged a stool over to the slab’s side. Du Malphias perched upon it, surrendering none of his height. He accepted a small silver tray with metal tools on it and rested it across Owen’s ankles too far away for Owen to see what the tools were.