At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “But…”

  Du Malphias laughed. “Smart, yet unworldly. What do you truly know of magick?”

  “Few can do it, fewer can do it well. Blood is exacted for using magick. It is God’s Gift, to be used in his service.”

  Du Malphias held up unblemished hands. “Enough. What you understand of magick is what a dog understands of thunder. It is enough to make you hide under a bed. You are a child, because your masters wish for you to be a child.”

  “And you know better?”

  “Oh, I do. You were taught that magick was outlawed by the Remian Empire. This is the reason they exterminated Norisle’s Druids. Did you know that the Remians believed your Savior to be a magician? Consider the stories of his miracles. Are they not the tales of the greatest magick the world has ever seen? And were not his disciples who displayed similar gifts also martyred?”

  “Yes, but…”

  The Laureate waggled a finger. “No objections. You would protest that to call your Lord a magician is to slander him, but consider two things. First, who is it who has told you, down through the ages, that to be a magician is bad, only to have them reverse that course when they realized they needed magicians to fill their armies and fire their cannon and guns? And, second, how is it that the Remian Emperors, who sought and wielded power with skill or abandon, would destroy magicians when, as their history proved, they were more willing to absorb conquered people and use them as part of their Legions?”

  “You are trying to suggest that the crowned heads and the Church itself have suppressed magick while secretly hoarding it?”

  “No suggestion, monsieur.” Du Malphias shook his head. “Do you not find it curious that, with the advent of cannon and gun, all these noble houses were able, in a single generation, to suddenly manifest an ability to work magick? Let us assume you are a five. You would be powerful. Most troops in the ranks are twos, perhaps threes. Two volleys, then it is ‘fix bayonets,’ yes? And yet these nobles, they are, a six or a seven? Perhaps much more.”

  Owen shook his head. “That requires a conspiracy of silence lasting centuries. Someone would have confessed.”

  “Yes, but the Church, you must remember, found it very convenient to draw clergymen from the ranks of the nobility. A religion of magicians who control the common people. They direct witch hunts to destroy the powerful and disruptive. An upstart noble is declared a heretic or diabolist; is shunned, disbelieved, and killed. They have a perfect system using hatred and fear to enforce their rule. They would have maintained it forever, save for two things.”

  The Laureate clasped his hands behind his back. “The need for soldiers meant that they had to mitigate the sinfulness of magick. This gave people pride in their abilities. This is why, when we overthrew king and church, we had the mass support. Science had succeeded where a mad king had not. We made magick a science. No shame, only truth. And, in case you doubt me, let me assure you that hidden in the archives in Feris are ample documents—correspondence, confessions, and more—that verify this conspiracy. Had King Anselm not gone completely mad and broken with the Church, their united front would have concealed the conspiracy for good. In fact, there are those Laureates who believe we need to perpetuate it, saying the people of the world are not yet ready to understand.”

  “Hence your exile?”

  “One reason among many, and all inconsequential.” Du Malphias smiled quickly. “The second point is that every Old World power saw fit to ship their malcontents here. What they failed to consider was that many of them—perhaps even a majority—were able to work magicks. Being of the underclasses, or uneducated, they still lived in fear of witch hunts. And, quite by accident, Mystria has become a place where mages have bred with mages. You have seen what this does for the natives.”

  Owen nodded slowly. “Many of the redemptioneers were cursed.”

  “Now they are Auropa’s bane. The governments so fear that the secrets of magick will be shared with common people, they dare not let anyone with knowledge of advanced magick come here. Still, there are other conspiracies that see the value in sharing the secrets. I do not know if they will be enough to counter the forces which wish to continue the people’s suppression.”

  “You were allowed to come.”

  “They could not stop me from coming. It is a difference, a significant difference.”

  Echoes of Nathaniel’s words thundered in Owen’s head. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “You will forgive me, monsieur, but this makes my head hurt. I should rest.”

  Du Malphias nodded. “Of course, but I would have you indulge me for just a moment longer, please.”

  “Yes?”

  “A different subject.” The Laureate opened his arms. “You have studied my fortress. You are an intelligent man. How will your armies take it?”

  Owen jerked a thumb to his right. “They will come from the north. That is the clearest line of attack. This is the way they will take this fortress of death.”

  “La Fortresse du Morte. Clever, but overwrought. Only an idiot would use it. I do appreciate, however, that you mean title in two ways.” Du Malphias chuckled politely. “From the north, yes, rather obviously. I do plan additional construction. We will counter-tunnel, of course. But the north wall is not the weakest spot of my fortress, is it?”

  “No. It’s the high fort overlooking the lake. If we build a ship, load cannon on it, and float it out there, it can blast that wall into splinters. A concerted push by attacking troops—and suddenly we have the high ground. It will still be bloody, but this fort can be taken.”

  “Very good, monsieur. I do not disagree with your assessment.” Du Malphias shrugged. “I also believe you have not been wholly forthcoming.”

  “I assure you…”

  “Yes, yes, you will give me your word as an officer. Need we play this game again?”

  Owen shook his head, hair rising on his arms. In an instant, he took a step forward, then swung his crutch at du Malphias.

  The Laureate’s eyes shrank to bare slits. His left hand came up, blocking the crutch with a puff of mist. His right hand thrust forward, palm out. A flash, some heat, more mist. Owen couldn’t breathe. He flew back past Quarante-neuf, sprawling in the dirt. His breastbone throbbed.

  “Fetch him to his cell. Strap him down.”

  “As you desire, monsieur.”

  Owen rubbed his chest. It ached. Something had cracked. He coughed, igniting more pain, then struggled ineffectually against Quarante-neuf’s grasp.

  Du Malphias shook his head. “Yes, I shall be extracting information from you, Captain Strake. But you did not listen to me. You expected torture. You shall have it. You have earned it. I shall enjoy it. But, know this: I have other means that would have proved just as effective, and would have saved you great pain.”

  Owen nodded, believing.

  After all, in blocking the crutch and knocking Owen down, du Malphias had never actually touched him or the stick. Whatever he had done, it involved magick Owen had never seen before and had no immediate interest in ever seeing again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  August 24, 1763

  Tanner and Hound, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  "I do declare, Caleb, you spend more time here than might be advisable.” Nathaniel Woods pulled a chair back from Caleb’s table. Nathaniel sniffed the man’s bowl of stew. “Cain’t be the food here is good.”

  “The summer ale’s getting sour, and the raspberry-wheat beer isn’t ready yet.” Caleb closed a book. Not being able to read, Nathaniel had no idea what it was, but it bore a strong resemblance to the book he’d seen Owen carrying. “I’d go home but my mother is still upset about your visit the other day.”

  “Well, I reckon I’d apologize but I’m thinking that won’t help much.”

  Caleb shook his head. “She’s not upset with you—not that she’s forgiven you, nor is she likely to. It’s Beth. She took the news about Captain Strake hard.”

  Na
thaniel recalled the tears and the quavering quality of her voice. “Your sister, she’s a smart woman. Strong, too. Got steel in her spine, like your ma. Owen set a store by her.”

  “I know.” Caleb took a spoonful of the stew, looked at it, then let it subside into the slowly congealing mass. “I was short with Captain Strake, you see. My mother and sister are afraid that he’s thinking my attitude is their attitude. Makes things uncomfortable.”

  “I think you’d be finding that Owen didn’t take no dislike to you. He weren’t the kind of man to get a hate on all easy like.”

  “I know, still.” Caleb sighed. “You and Kamiskwa are going to look for him. I want to go.”

  The woodsman sat back. “You might want to be taking a second to think on that.”

  “I’ve thought long and hard about it. I shoot good and have my own musket. I know the woods and I’m strong.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “You’re still a mite young.”

  “Older than you were when you first went out.”

  Nathaniel raised his hands. “No disputing that. And I ain’t saying you couldn’t do it. What I am saying is that you don’t know what you’re taking on.”

  Caleb frowned. “You made it pretty plain.”

  “Nope.” Nathaniel stood, waved Caleb toward the door. The young man followed. Outside, Nathaniel pointed to the sky. “What do you see there?”

  Caleb rolled his eyes. “Geese, down from New Tharyngia heading south. I can also spot moose, tanner, bears, jeopards, and rabbits. I’ll hit if I shoot, too.”

  Nathaniel sighed. “And the calendar date today?”

  “Feast day of St. Bartholomew, the twenty-fourth of August.”

  “And that tells you?”

  Caleb stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Winter’s coming. Early and bad.” Nathaniel pointed west. “More bear sign and jeopard sign—they’re coming out of the mountains early. Look at any of the dogs around about. Winter coats coming in. Smart young man like you ought to round up some friends, go chop a store of firewood. I’m thinking it’ll sell dear inside a six weeks.”

  “I can dress warmly.”

  “It ain’t I doubt you, Caleb Frost. I’d be happy to have you with me. Kamiskwa feels the same way. Fact is, though, the Prince gets his say on this.”

  “You’ll mention me to him?”

  “I will that.”Nathaniel slapped him on the back. “Now, I was wanting to ask you a favor…”

  “Get away from him, Caleb, he’s a traitor.”

  Nathaniel turned slowly toward the sound of the voice. “You’re looking a mite thinner, I reckon, than when I seen you last.”

  Cotton Quince spat at his feet. “You betrayed me.”

  “That so?” Nathaniel watched the slender man’s hands curl into fists. “I reckon you don’t got no idea what you is jabbering about.”

  Caleb moved between the two of them. “I’d suggest, gentlemen, that the street is not the place for this discussion.”

  “Ain’t no cause for no discussion at all.” Nathaniel nodded toward Quince, lowering his voice. “This here boy was off to Hattersburg adding words to that book your father gave Captain Strake. He called your father’s honor into question. Owen took exception. Makepeace Bone likewise. That about did for Mr. Quince in Hattersburg.”

  “That did for me everywhere. I was made a laughingstock.”

  Caleb’s eyes tightened. “You called my father’s honor into question?”

  Quince glanced at the ground. “I didn’t realize who had given Strake that book.”

  “Ask him if he was adding things to it.”

  “Well?”

  Quince shifted his shoulders. “I’d made a remark in a couple other places. People liked it.” He stabbed a finger at Nathaniel. “But he should have stopped his friends. And would have, but he is working for the Queen’s coin. He isn’t one of us.”

  “No, I ain’t.” Nathaniel shook his head, looking from one young man to the other. “I hain’t got no idea what you are up to, beyond being pure idiots. Ideas like you have are fine for your debating societies, but only mean trouble out on the frontier. People out there ain’t got no time for that nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense.”

  “It is, Caleb, iffen your circumstances is poor.” Nathaniel opened his arms. “I just tole you that winter is a-coming fast and will be bad. Early winter means poor harvest. Livestock won’t have fodder. They die. Men have to eat seed. Ain’t going to be good hunting. Them folks out there ain’t gonna be caring if some woman an ocean away gives a fig about them. They’ll be hungry and cold, and filling their minds with airy thoughts ain’t going to solve their problems.”

  Quince snorted. “You’ll be fed and warm on the Queen’s coin.”

  “I reckon that what I choose to do with my money is my choice.” Nathaniel folded his arms over his chest. “And I reckon you should leave me out of your scheming.”

  Quince looked from Nathaniel to Caleb and back, then shook his head. “Very well. Caleb, good day. As for you, Mr. Woods, rot in Hell.”

  Quince stormed off.

  Caleb turned to Nathaniel. “Why did you lie about being one of us?”

  Nathaniel looked him straight in the eye. “I ain’t. Curiosity done got the better of me. I attended a meeting. Two. But that don’t mean I throwed-in with your ‘Sons of Freedom.’ And there ain’t no cause for someone like Quince to be even knowing I was ever there.”

  Caleb held his hands up. “I never told him. I barely know him to speak to. Seen him at meetings is all.”

  “I’m thinking I believe you on that.” Nathaniel smiled. “As for Quince, I reckon he needs beating with a smart-stick. I don’t reckon nobody makes one big enough.”

  Caleb grinned. “I’ll let the right people know he has been editing A Continent’s Calling.”

  “It was a pretty turn of phrase he used.” Nathaniel nodded. “Might be he ought to be writing more than speaking.”

  The younger Frost nodded. “I’ll mention that. Now you said you had a question for me? Back inside? I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Nathaniel braced him on both shoulders. “Another time. Weren’t terrible important.”

  “You’ll ask the Prince about my going with you?”

  “I shall. Tomorrow, maybe day after.”

  Caleb smiled. “You’re back in town to escort the Princess to meet the Prince?”

  “Could be.” Nathaniel smiled. “My regards to your family, please.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The young man headed back into the Tanner and Hound. Nathaniel watched him go, then shivered. He’d wanted to ask if Zachariah Warren was still out of town, but now he was kind of hoping that he wasn’t. A dust-up would suit Nathaniel just fine. If Warren wasn’t in town, a Branch or a Cask might have to stand in.

  He headed across Temperance toward the North End. On Generosity, where it curved toward the ocean, he came to Warren’s Fine Wares. Wider and deeper than it was tall, the wooden building rose to three stories. The top two had rooms for rent and the taverns across the street did a lot of custom for the residents. The entire bottom floor consisted of an open room in which the various real goods had been arranged. Furniture mostly, with bolts of cloth, silver, and dinnerware in the back, it displayed the very best imported items from Norisle. Wide doors in the back allowed carts to load easily.

  Nathaniel watched from across the street for a minute or three. He debated going in. Wasn’t any reason he couldn’t. Warren had never publicly told him to stay out. Wouldn’t have really mattered if he had—at least Nathaniel didn’t care about Zachariah’s feelings on the matter.

  Rachel’s, on the other hand, mattered more than anything.

  He raked fingers back through his hair and put a smile on his face before wandering across the street. He opened the door and a tiny bell jingled. Two people, a man and a woman, looked over. New off a boat. They studied him with surprise and interest, but they never glanced toward Rachel.r />
  Locals would have.

  She was engrossed in making an entry in a ledger book at the back counter. Nathaniel loved seeing her that way, concentrating. She wore her dark hair gathered into a bun, but wisps escaped at her temples. Full lips slightly parted, the pink tip of her tongue at the corner of her mouth, delicate fingers tracing along a page to the left. She wrote on the right page with a fluid and efficient motion as beautiful as a deer gliding through the woods.

  Then she looked up, her hazel gaze meeting his eyes. She smiled brilliantly for a heartbeat, then caught herself. Her smile shrank. She set her pen back in the inkwell. She tugged at her grey dress, then came from behind the counter. “It is so very good to see you, Mr. Woods. Have you come for more trade scraps?”

  “I have.” He nodded to the couple admiring a silver service and crossed to the back corner near the rack with bolts of cloth. Next to it sat a box with scraps—too small for quilting in most cases, or oddly shaped and unsuited for much of anything.

  “The box is almost full.” Rachel smiled at him. “How much will you need?”

  He smiled, his heart pounding faster. “I reckon I’d gladly take it all. I have gold.” He fished in a pouch and pulled out three gold pounds, holding them above her outstretched palm. “This be enough?”

  She nodded and caught the coins.

  Oh, how he wanted to place each one in her hand, just to let his fingers brush her palm. He knew her flesh well, both as she had caressed him, and he had caressed her. He felt clumsy at times, for she was so small and soft, and he rangy, his hands calloused, his thumbnail usually rough and darkened beneath with blood.

  She closed her hand, letting a fingertip touch his thumb. Just a tiny touch. No one watching could suggest impropriety or intimacy, no matter how strongly they suspected. And yet, for him, it was rain in a drought.

  He nodded. “I don’t reckon I can be taking it right now. Is there a better time?”

  “This evening, if you wish. I shall bundle it up for you.”

  “Thank you most kindly.”