At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Owen groaned, his breastbone still aching.

  Quarante-neuf loomed out of the shadows. He draped a heavy piece of canvas over Owen. “This may help.”

  Owen shook his head. “I need to move. If I lay here I shall die.”

  He threw back the covers and sat up. He wrapped a blanket around himself. He reached a hand out and Quarante-neuf took it, easing him to his feet. Owen chuckled.

  The pasmorte cocked his head. “What amuses you, sir?”

  “You’re dead and yet your flesh is warmer than mine? How is that?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  Owen slowly straightened, his spine popping as he did so. “Did he give you vivalius recently?”

  “I do not require it as often as the others.”

  That made sense. As nearly as Owen could determine, the pasmortes in the most advanced states of decay needed the most. To heal Owen’s wounds, du Malphias employed mere droplets. He’d watched ragged collections of flesh and bones bathe in it. He had no idea if it warmed their flesh, but it did vitalize them.

  Owen took a step, then another. In another demonstration of power, du Malphias hobbled him by magick. If Owen tried to take a full stride, pain shot up his hamstring, over his rump, and into his back. It hurt worse than being shot. Sometimes it left him breathless.

  He forced himself to ignore the pain.

  Owen clutched at Quarante-neuf’s shoulder when his left leg buckled. The pasmorte caught him. “You must be careful, sir.”

  “I have a duty to escape.”

  “But, Captain Strake, the Laureate will have you killed if you defy him.”

  “I think, my friend, if I shall end up dead, I should like to die a man.”

  The pasmorte walked with him, supporting him. “You called me ‘friend.’”

  “You keep me alive.” Owen looked up at him. “Your service is compelled. You are not my enemy.”

  “No.”

  Owen smiled. “I know, from your voice, you are Mystrian.”

  The pasmorte shook his head. “I do not recall.”

  Owen would have taken that as a blanket dismissal, but the words trailed off ruefully. Over the time he had been in Quarante-neuf’s care, Owen had noticed subtle changes. Pierre Ilsavont, according to his son, had memories of his previous life. Quarante-neuf might have some as well. He might be hiding that information for a variety of reasons. Do the dead desire privacy?

  “Please remember this, then: You are my friend. I cannot thank you enough for helping me, no matter what comes.”

  “You are welcome, sir.”

  They continued walking around the cell. Owen hissed when the pain spiked. Quarante-neuf would pause, ready to catch him. Owen leaned on him when his legs quivered so violently that he wasn’t sure if he could take another step. Then he would push on.

  Quarante-neuf nodded encouragingly. “You must continue. She is waiting for you, your wife.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow. “How did you…?”

  “You spoke her name in your sleep.”

  Owen hesitated. He recalled the dream, when he was so cold. She had come with a thick blanket. She had laid it over him, then crawled beneath it. She held him, whispering that everything would be fine.

  Bethany.

  “That was not my wife.” Owen struggled along several more steps. “It was a woman I met in Mystria. Another friend.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Not that sort of friend. She is a lovely young woman, is Bethany.”

  The pasmorte nodded. “It is a beautiful name.”

  “True, but we must never speak it aloud again.” Owen glanced toward the door. “Your master is an evil man. If he suspects, he will find a way to harm her. I will not let that happen. Promise me.”

  “As best I am able, Captain.” The dead man shook his head. “I would have no harm come to your friend.”

  Owen shivered again. He was fooling himself if he thought du Malphias did not already know about Bethany, about everything. Owen couldn’t remember what he’d revealed under torture, but he’d have given anything up to stop it. He tried lying, repeatedly, and even kept one lie alive over three sessions, but finally broke down and admitted it had been a lie. All he’d done was purchase time and earn himself the thaumaturgical shackling.

  I must escape. He labored under no illusion that his escape would protect his friends and his nation against du Malphias. The man was evil in ways beyond human comprehension, and incredibly powerful. The way he had assaulted Owen, the way he’d tortured him, implied depths of magick skill Owen had never even imagined could exist.

  “To escape, Quarante-neuf, I will need your help.”

  “I do not know what I can do.”

  “I will need food and clothing. And I will need nails. Four nails, no, six. Maybe a dozen. Iron nails.” Owen shuffled around to look at Quarante-neuf. “Can you get those things for me?”

  The pasmorte considered for a moment, then nodded. “The Laureate has me under a compulsion to keep you safe.”

  “Then how can you can watch him torture me?”

  “I am also constrained from harming him.” Quarante-neuf shook his head. “It does not mean I cannot hate him. I just cannot harm him.”

  Owen nodded. “If you gather these things for me, you will be making me safe. Distancing me from du Malphias will keep him safe.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The pasmorte smiled. “It shall please me to be of service to you both.”

  Quarante-neuf was good to his word. He collected everything Owen requested and concealed it somewhere in the fortress. He did not tell Owen where, so Owen could not reveal the location of the cache under torture.

  As Owen identified new needs, he worded his requests carefully. “I would feel much safer if…” prefaced all of them. When Quarante-neuf told him of his success, Owen always thanked him with, “I feel much safer now.”

  The nails trickled in. Owen hid them inside the leather sleeves, sliding them between the shackle and his skin. It pleased him to carry the keys to his escape at all times and that du Malphias never noticed. When Owen was alone he’d pull one out and sharpen it against the cell’s stone floor. He worked it until it was needle sharp, then started on another.

  Du Malphias refrained from more torture, though he hardly became civil. He allowed Quarante-neuf to bring Owen out for some fresh air. He took great delight in the pain the hobbling caused. He seemed largely unconcerned about where Owen traveled, though Owen had no doubt that du Malphias catalogued every step.

  The Laureate had taken to revising the fortress yet again, but his pasmortes worked with only a fraction of the industry they had previously exhibited. Du Malphias had begun the construction of a stone wall inside the north palisade wall. He offset it by four yards and was filling the space between the walls with smaller stones and debris. While cannon could destroy the outer wooden wall easily, the rubble would flow down to seal the breach immediately. Any troops trying to race in would find themselves at the bottom of a gravel slope staring up at soldiers on a stone wall.

  And, clearly, if he had the time, du Malphias would replace the palisade wall with stone, forcing his enemies to expend more time and brimstone to bring it down.

  Owen limped over to where du Malphias stood. “Do you know why they have slowed?”

  The Laureate half-closed his eyes. “I have my theories.”

  “And you shall be testing them?”

  “I may.” He waved a hand toward a tattered crew dragging a large rock along. “It is their metabolism. When I first began my experiments, I chose the vampyr model—a creature that would feed on blood. Alas, they did not work well. Aside from an annoying tendency to scintillate in daylight, the vampyr created a logistical nightmare. In nature, a predator must consume forty times its own weight to sustain itself. The vampyr, then, would require a small city to make an army viable.

  “The pasmortes, on the other hand, have a greatly reduced metabolism. They need to be fed very little, but i
t takes them a long time to process what they have consumed to repair themselves. Just keeping their muscles warm enough to function uses up most all of their energy. Thus they cannot repair themselves, so they move more slowly, have much less energy, and eventually break down.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? What do you see, Captain Strake?” The Laureate smiled. “Is this place any less of a killing ground? Hardly. And lest you make a fearful mistake, you must remember that, as with the hardly lamented Monsieur Ilsavont, my pasmortes are capable of using muskets and cannon. Were Norisle to present an army to me here, even now, I could destroy it. And next spring, when I am reinforced with a more conventional force, your people will not be able to take this fortress.”

  He studied Owen’s face for a moment. “You do not believe me.”

  “I believe this is a formidable fortress.” Owen winced as he straightened up. “What I do not believe is that any fortress is unconquerable.”

  “Do you believe your God will smash this place? Or will He merely employ one of your generals as His agent to do so?” The Tharyngian laughed. “Ah, the shock on your face. If your God existed, would He not smite me for my insolence?”

  “God moves in mysterious ways.”

  “Always the excuse when He fails you.” Du Malphias clasped his hands at the small of his back. “This is what I find curious about you Norillians. You cling to superstition when it has clearly ceased to be of service. Tell me, Captain, were you motivated in war to do things because you feared Perdition?”

  “No.”

  “Neither were our people. Aside from hopeful prayers before an attack, and the mournful petitions of the mortally wounded, God could easily be removed from warfare. For every man who claims he survived by a miracle, I can show you hundreds for whom a miracle failed to materialize. Shot and shell seem curiously indiscriminate when it comes to whom they kill.”

  “Perhaps God has a greater purpose which we cannot fathom.”

  “Another excuse. I would have thought better of you, Captain. You mouth platitudes which, I am certain, you do not believe.” Du Malphias smiled cruelly. “So, I propose a test.”

  Owen’s flesh puckered. “I am not a theologian.”

  “Nor am I, so we are well matched. You see that post over there?”

  Forty yards uphill a post had been sunk into the ground. “Yes.”

  “Run to it. If your God speeds you before two of my pasmortes catch you, you are free to go. I swear this by your God.” The Tharyngian shrugged. “If you fail, that is the end of you and this insipid notion of a God.”

  Du Malphias almost looks bored. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.” Du Malphias yawned against the back of his hand, then nodded at a pair of pasmortes hauling on a stone. “You and you, kill him.”

  Two of the pastorates dropped their rope and began to shuffle toward Owen. One fell forward onto all fours and began to lope. Their jaws hung open, then snapped shut with solid clicks.

  Fear jolted Owen. He turned to run. Pain ripped up the back of his legs. He cried out, slipping, dropping to a knee. He scrambled to get up again, more pain drilling into him.

  Du Malphias laughed.

  I will not give him the satisfaction! Owen heaved himself up and clawed at the ground. No giving up. No losing!

  On came the pasmortes. As sluggish as they had been hauling on the rope, they picked up speed. One had an eye hanging by the stalk, bouncing off a cheek that was mostly bone. What was left of the other’s tongue waggled out of its mouth.

  Owen twisted around to keep an eye on them. He shuffled sideways up the hill. Pain continued with each step, but if he locked his knees, it didn’t hurt as much. Teetering and tottering, he hopped along sideways. He dug at the ground with his hands, dirt impacting under his nails. One foot slipped. He almost fell, but he kept going. Pushing off with the other foot, he whipped his body around, dragging the recalcitrant leg.

  Twenty yards. Ten. Owen kept on, gaining ground with his arms more than legs. The sharpened iron nails dug into his forearms. He ignored that pain and kept scrambling uphill. I can make it.

  The pasmortes closed steadily. The one gnawed off half its tongue while the other took great leaps forward. The second closed the gap quickly. It gathered itself to pounce. Owen swung his body wide as it leaped. It crashed down, its forearms collapsing. It hit face first. Its neck snapped. The skull popped up, the eye whipping free, both bouncing back down the hill.

  Owen whirled around and dove. He twisted in the air, his fingers outstretched. He felt wood. He grabbed it. His body hit the ground hard. “I won!”

  Then the other pasmorte landed on his chest. It raised both hands, fingers clawed. A gobbet of tongue hit Owen in the face.

  But before it could rake its boney fingers through his flesh, Quarante-neuf grabbed the other pasmorte around the waist and yanked. He lifted it over his head, holding on tightly despite the creature’s angry snarling. Quarante-neuf shifted his grip to the thing’s neck and leg, then hurled the creature down. Ribs shattered as the victory post punched through the pasmorte’s chest.

  Quarante-neuf helped Owen to his feet. The Norillian soldier nodded toward du Malphias. “I reached the post, Monsieur. Will you honor your word?”

  “Were I a man of God, you would be headed on your way.” The Laureate shrugged. “I am a man of Science. Science demands repeatability. We shall test you again, in the coming days. If you succeed then, freedom will be yours.”

  Owen’s eyes tightened. To you it is testing. To me it is training for my escape. “I believe it will, Monsieur, I believe it will.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  September 11, 1763

  Benjamin River

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Nathaniel waved good-bye to Prince Vlad and Princess Gisella, tossing free the tow-rope attached to Mugwump’s saddle. Both royals wore goggles and laughed as the wurm turned back downstream. Nathaniel still felt uneasy around Mugwump, even after spending time around the creature. The wurm appeared a bit bigger and quicker than before, and the colors on its scales really stood out. But he could understand the Prince and Princess’ attachment to the wurm.

  Mugwump gave Nathaniel a sidelong glance, as if having read his thoughts, then ducked under the water as he passed back by the canoe.

  Nathaniel dipped a paddle quickly, fighting the wake of the beast’s passage. Now, you’d not have been attempting to swamp us, would you? He dug deep into the water to maintain the canoe’s upstream momentum.

  “I don’t know about you, Kamiskwa, but I’m right happy ’bout getting shed of that place. I’m thinking I couldn’ta stood another week.”

  “You wanted to stay while Rachel was a guest.”

  “Well, now, that’s true, though weren’t as much smooth sailing as I’da preferred.” His presence while Rachel was at the estate created some friction with the Frost family and the Bumbles. Doctor Frost had been cordial, but his wife and daughter had been as cold to him as they had been warm to Rachel. The Bumbles had been sour about everything, but Nathaniel was practiced in ignoring folks like them.

  Nathaniel didn’t get private time to speak with Doctor Frost. Overall Nathaniel’s behavior had been courteous and circumspect, which led to a slight thawing on the part of the Frost women—and much of their continued reserve he put down to his being blamed, in part, for Captain Strake’s disappearance.

  “People is curious.” Nathaniel glanced back over his shoulder. “What did you make of that Lilith Bumble?”

  “Pretty, like a jeopard.”

  “Yep. Seemed like she had her sights set on the Count.”

  “I do not fear for him.”

  “No, I reckon he seen what we seen.” Nathaniel paddled harder, pulling them up a small set of rapids. “He did manage to keep the Bumbles entertained.”

  Out of respect for the Prince, Nathaniel had been on his best behavior. He and Rachel had managed to slip away for walks in the fields and to go fishi
ng. She’d always loved fishing, and that particular afternoon glowed warmly in his memory. Just the two of them by the river, letting lines tied to corks bob in the water, watching clouds roll by. For the first time in the longest while he’d felt completely relaxed.

  The Prince had said nothing to him before or after those excursions, but he hadn’t needed to. Since they had done nothing untoward, no dishonor could fall to the Prince. Moreover, if anyone did make false claims, they would be insulting the Prince. He used his prestige to provide Nathaniel and Rachel a chance to be alone, and Nathaniel owed him a debt of gratitude for that.

  “Magehawk, I must ask.”

  “Yes?”

  Kamiskwa pointed his paddle at a bundle in the middle of the canoe. “Why did you bring the fancy clothes?”

  Nathaniel smiled. “Well, I was amembering how much of a shine your father took to Owen’s coat.”

  The Altashee snorted. “You know that was so Captain Strake would have appropriate clothes for our journey.”

  “Well, I done noticed your father ain’t taken that coat off since.”

  “Nor will he. Captain Strake killed Ungarakii.”

  “I need to ask you a question, brother mine.”

  “Yes, Magehawk?”

  Nathaniel glanced back just for a heartbeat. “Did you be thinking I’d not notice that my bundle was a mite heavier than when I packed it? Heavier by the suit of clothes you was made to wear at that dinner.”

  “If you were to attire yourself in the proper Norillian style in Saint Luke, I would not want you to feel alone.”

  That brought Nathaniel full around, his paddle resting against his thighs. “You liked being all gussied up, didn’t you?”

  “Natahe.”

  “Oh, now don’t you go and be telling me you don’t understand. You know right well what I was asking.” Nathaniel turned back an applied himself to his paddle. “Natahe, my left foot.”