At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “I await your plan, Captain Woods.” Forest chuckled. “Let’s hope your trick saves a lot of blood.”

  Beecher shook his head. “Duplicity is not honorable! I forbid this.”

  Forest’s expression tightened. “You need to understand two things, Mr. Beecher. The first is that you are here as a courtesy to Bishop Bumble. Your duties consist of providing spiritual comfort. Second, war itself is not honorable. There is no honor in slaughtering men. Moral right, perhaps, especially when your family and your freedom are under attack, but never honor. Dying with honor is a myth promulgated to ease the grief of survivors, nothing more.”

  Beecher stiffened. “I shall write the Bishop about this.”

  “Please do. Do it now, in fact.” Forest nodded to the cleric. “My men and I have a war to plan.”

  Chapter Sixty

  July 25, 1764

  On the Shores of Anvil Lake, Mystria

  Though it remained high summer and Prince Vlad had pulled a blanket around himself, he could not shake the chill. The Mystrian contingent arrived at Anvil Lake by mid-morning. The whole of the space in which he had considered putting Fort Hope had already been cleared. Stumps had been pulled, holes filled, and ground leveled. The lumber had been trimmed and stacked neatly, waiting for construction.

  The Tharyngians had even supplied a sign proclaiming the site to be Fort Hope. Prince Vlad had not confided that name to but a handful and the enemy already knew it. The Ryngian’s skill at ferreting out information impressed the Prince.

  And it explains why we faced so little harassment on the way here.

  Clearing the site of Fort Hope was not the lone improvement the Ryngians had supplied. They cut a fifteen-foot-wide road to the southwest, presumably running all the way past the Roaring River outlet and right up to the Fortress of Death. Count von Metternin and Owen had already traveled a ways upon it and returned to report that excess wood had been split into firewood and stacked for their use.

  Vlad had immediately sent runners back to fetch Lord Rivendell. He dispatched work parties to clear campsites well away from the foundation of Fort Hope. While it would have been easier to let the men set up camp there, it was also possible that du Malphias had positioned mortar emplacements in the woods and had them angled to drop explosives on the cleared ground. Vlad organized hunting parties to scour the hills looking for those sites and set pickets out along the road.

  He wished he had Nathaniel or Kamiskwa on site. Either of them could have told him how long ago the work had been done. He was guessing, given that bare shoots were the only undergrowth at Fort Hope, that the ground had been prepared two weeks previously. He also suspected the road had been cut at fifteen feet to mock their meager eight-foot effort.

  The Prince left Mugwump to Baker’s care and found Owen. “Why would he do this?”

  Owen frowned. “Winter slowed the pasmortes down. All this work means they are revitalized. I would bet that the winter’s dead from Kebeton City never made it into the ground. He will have the Platine Regiment, and whatever dead he could ship west.”

  Count von Metternin joined them. “This is a foul business. The road extends fifty miles and is twice as wide as ours. In two weeks he has cut what it would have taken us a month and cleared this space. When we come to the Roaring River, I am certain there will be a bridge.”

  Lord Rivendell and Colonel Langford rode up. Rivendell surveyed the area and smiled broadly. “Bravo, Highness. This is splendid. Splendid. Your men have outdone yourselves.”

  “Not our work, Lord Rivendell.” The Prince nodded toward the sign. “Du Malphias did this. He even cut us a lovely path to his domain.”

  “Doubtless thinking I will be merciful in my gratitude. Excellent. A broad boulevard—that’s their word, ain’t it—for our victory march. Even Harry’s men won’t be too sad to march it.”

  “I believe you are missing my point.”

  “Trying to think like a soldier, are you, Highness? Leave that to the professionals.” Rivendell stood in his stirrups and looked at the road. “He’s not the sort to ambush us.”

  Vlad frowned. “But he did send the Ungarakii to attack you on the road.”

  “He’s not responsible for the actions of his heathen allies, Highness. They don’t understand our ways of war. But we showed them.” Rivendell turned to his aide. “Make a note of that, Langford. Du Malphias showed me the honor due for my actions at Villerupt. We’ll have an entire chapter about such honor in my book.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Canoe approaching, under a white flag.”

  The Mystrian sentry’s shout brought all eyes to the shore. A birch-bark canoe glided over placid water reflecting the blue sky and high clouds. A soldier in the Platine Regiment’s uniform held a white flag aloft, while two civilians provided propulsion. Sentries ran knee-deep to help drag the boat ashore, but only the soldier alighted.

  He marched stiffly up the beach, then saluted. “I am Major Lebouf. Do I have the honor of addressing Prince Vladimir?”

  “You do.”

  Rivendell rode forward. “I am the commander of this expedition. Anything you have to say you should address to me.”

  The Major smiled politely. “And you would be Lord Rivendell?”

  “I would.”

  “Then my master has a special greeting for you. He says he looks forward to meeting you face to face, since the last time you met, he only saw your back.”

  Rivendell blanched, then lashed out with his riding crop. He caught Langford across the chest. “Do not write that down, you idiot.”

  Langford snapped the journal shut.

  Prince Vlad waved the sentries back to their posts while they could still contain their mirth. “You have a message, Major?”

  “Yes. The Esteemed Laureate Guy du Malphias requests the pleasure of your company, under a white flag, for dinner this evening. If you proceed up the road for ten miles, you will find the pavilion he has created. He asks that you join him by seven. He said he would be pleased if you brought Lord Rivendell, Colonels Langford, Thornbury, and Exeter with you. With apologies, he did not include Count von Metternin.”

  “I see.”

  Rivendell swept off his hat. “Please convey to your master that we accept his invitations. We shall be pleased to discuss terms of surrender as well.”

  The Major smiled. “He has anticipated you, sir. He said he would decline your kind offer, as he is not prepared to accept your surrender yet.”

  “My surrender? My surrender?” The color which had previously left Rivendell’s face flushed back swiftly. “It is not our surrender of which I speak.”

  Vlad held up a hand. “Please tell the Laureate that we will join him.”

  “I shall, thank you.” The Major bowed, then turned toward Owen. “And you, sir, would be Captain Strake?”

  “I am.”

  The Ryngian officer reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a sealed missive. “I was asked to give this to you.”

  Owen accepted it, but did not break the seal. “You’ve done your duty.”

  The Major returned to the canoe, and Owen shoved it back into the lake. The paddlers steadied the boat as the Major sat, then bent to the task of propelling it across the water.

  Rivendell pointed his crop at Owen. “I will have that note from the enemy, Captain Strake.”

  Owen ignored him, broke the seal and read. He grunted. “Just an apology for not including me in the dinner. Given the circumstances of my previous departure, he found me an ungracious guest.”

  “Give it here.”

  Owen’s face darkened. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “You are a man who is known to be familiar with ciphers and who, beyond all belief, escaped to Temperance with two broken legs.”

  “So you believe I am du Malphias’ agent.”

  “I think it is also curious that his native allies killed our soldiers, but let you live.” Rivendell sneered. “Langford, you are getting this down, are yo
u not?”

  The scratch of a pencil on paper answered him.

  Vlad sighed and held his hand out. Owen gave him the note. The Prince read it, then looked up at Rivendell. “I should remind you, sir, that I am the expert in ciphers. This note contains none, and is exactly what Captain Strake reported it to be. Now, unless you want to call me a liar or suggest I am in the Laureate’s employ, I think you should get to your wardrobe and prepare yourself for this evening’s dinner.”

  The Prince looked at himself in the small hand mirror von Metternin held up. “This will have to do.”

  The Kessian shook his head. “You will be the vulture at a peacock ball, highness. I have waistcoats and shoes that will fit you.”

  Vlad laughed. “I appreciate the offer, but homespun will be fine. I represent the people of Mystria—as Rivendell is oft wont to remind me—so I shall be attired as they are. I do appreciate, however, the loan of clean hose.”

  “I would lend you one more thing.” The Count withdrew a small, double-barreled, over-and-under pistol. “Take this. Kill the Laureate. We will be done with this business.”

  The Prince stared at the weapon. “But that would be murder, and under a white flag.”

  “My friend, you are smarter than to believe that. Du Malphias will be waging war under the white flag. He will scare Rivendell, or make him overconfident. This campaign will be won over dinner this evening. You can win it with one shot.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can. It is easy. Point. Shoot. It is never hard.”

  Vlad glanced down. “You are a soldier.”

  “By the blood of God, you have never killed a man, have you?”

  The Prince met the man’s incredulous stare. “I’ve seen them die. I’ve never killed one.”

  Von Metternin returned the pistol to his pocket. “How I envy you, and pity you. Firing the shot is easy. Living with the consequences is not. I do not think, however, I would lose sleep over killing du Malphias.”

  Vlad smiled. “Then I hope, my friend, that the opportunity falls to you.”

  The Prince remained silent on the ride to the dinner simply because he did not want to invite his companions to speak. Langford and Rivendell led the way. Colonel Harry Thornbury of the Cavalry and Colonel Anthony Exeter of the Fourth Foot came next. The Prince rode in the back next to a self-invited guest, Bishop Bumble. The Bishop bore the white flag.

  Vlad contented himself with studying the landscape. Wildflowers splashed color into tiny spots where the sun managed to knife its way through the leafy green canopy. In the darker spots lichens and mosses, mushrooms and shelf-fungus took over, with wonderful golds and reds to contrast with the flowers’ blues and yellows. Just enough of a breeze came off the lake to make the flowers and leaves dance, animating a mosaic of color and light.

  Blue jays chattered and a couple of squirrels scolded from on high. He saw signs of where bears had climbed trees, or moose and tanners had scraped their horns against them. Rabbits scampered through the brush almost unseen and ravens watched them pass, offering haunting commentary.

  Any other time, I would have enjoyed this ride. The source of his displeasure was his companions. He would have welcomed them looking about, too, knowing that they were searching for tactical advantages even while he was studying beauty. They were not even doing that. Taking their cue from Rivendell, they sat their horses with straight spines, eyes forward, faces tilted up, and remained that way as if posing for portraits.

  Not even sight of the pavilion broke their composure. Vlad had expected a large tent erected in the middle of the road, but du Malphias had other ideas. His pavilion had been fashioned from a stand of birches. A dozen of the trees bent inward, curving softly to form a high ceiling. A wooden floor had been fitted together tightly, with the wood sanded, lacquered and polished until it glowed from the sun’s dying light. A long table had six chairs set at it, likewise shaped of native woods and left blonde in keeping with the nature of the pavilion. Cloth streamers of blue, red, and green to honor the various military units floated playfully in the breeze.

  Back a bit, deeper in the woods, a large tent had been erected to serve as the cooking station.

  Soldiers of the Platine Regiment took charge of their mounts and conducted them to the pavilion. The Laureate stood at the head, dressed in white and gold. He opened his arms and smiled.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. Highness, I would have you here at my right hand and Lord Rivendell opposite me. Lieutenant Laforge, we will need another place setting, down there, on the other side of Colonel Langford. And you are, sir?”

  Bumble tried to look imposing. He failed. He had shed thirty pounds. His clothing hung on him poorly and when he further sucked in his stomach, his breeches threatened to fall to his knees. “I am the Right Reverend Bishop Othniel Bumble of the Church of Norisle, Temperance.”

  “This could be more interesting than I expected. Please, gentlemen, sit.”

  The moment they had pulled their chairs up to the table, service began. While soldiers stood all around, civilians served them. A comely lass had been assigned to attend to Prince Vlad; nondescript men to deal with the middle of the table, and a beautiful young boy attended to Rivendell’s every pleasure. As the sun’s light began to die, and the soldiers lit lanterns, Vlad could not be certain, but the pallor of the girl’s skin suggested she was a pasmorte. Which would make all of the servants pasmortes.

  As hosts went, du Malphias had to be the greatest on the continent in spite of the rustic nature of his banquet hall. Each course had its own wine, and each wine had its own glass, which the servants presented and kept filled. They began the evening with fresh-caught salmon, followed by roasted duck with mushrooms and wild rice, then moose with a quince compote and fresh peas. Each course arrived on its own plate, covered with a silver turtle, which the servants removed with a flourish when the Laureate gave them the sign.

  In addition to providing fine fare, du Malphias likewise encouraged discussion among his guests. He skillfully set the military men to refighting the Villerupt campaign through their anecdotes, while speaking to Vlad of a variety of experiments he’d conducted in Mystria. The man had no trouble following multiple conversations and offering cogent commentary on all.

  Vlad’s chill returned. He is a genius. The Count is right. The battle is being won even now.

  When it came time for dessert and cognac poured into glasses, du Malphias stood. “Before we reveal the dessert—and I assure you it shall be a surprise—I should offer a toast to the brave men who will serve in the battle to come. Serve now and serve forever.”

  The others raised their glasses and drank.

  Rivendell rose, raising his glass. “And a toast to those who will lose the battle. May they never fear treatment at the hands of an honorable foe.”

  The Laureate smiled and drank, but his eyes became cold.

  Rivendell meant his toast one way, but du Malphias read it another. And Rivendell will rue his comments.

  Du Malphias seated himself after Rivendell had returned to his chair, then nodded. The servants lifted the silver domes from the dessert plates.

  Vlad stared down. A small, single-barreled pistol similar to Count von Metternin’s, sat centered on the plate and garnished with a sprig of rosemary.

  Rivendell picked the pistol up. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The Laureate smiled. “I mean to show you something. Please, all of you, take your pistol and shoot your servant.”

  Bumble’s eyes grew wide. “Are you mad?”

  “No, not at all.” Du Malphias smiled. “Highness, if I might.”

  Vlad nodded.

  Du Malphias appropriated the Prince’s pistol and shot the serving girl in the stomach. She flew back into one of birches, then struggled to her feet, still holding the silver plate cover. She approached the table, a black hole burned in her blouse, and smiled. “Will that be all, Highness?”

  Vlad, his hands shaking, could not an
swer.

  The three colonels picked up their pistols and shot their servants. Rivendell made a great show of aiming, then fired. The pretty boy spun away. It looked as if, unlike the others, he might stay down. Rivendell brandished the pistol triumphantly, then his expression soured as the young man regained his feet.

  Bumble refused to touch the pistol. “I never learned that magick.”

  “You may all keep your pistols as my gift. I have boxes for them, along with bullet molds and measuring tools. You will understand if I decline to provide brimstone, but the firestones are new and of the highest Tharyngian quality.”

  He nodded toward the servants. “Captain Strake has told you of my pasmortes. All of them can and do use firearms. In addition to the regiment-and-a-half of regular soldiers in my command, I have hundreds of my pasmortes. They never tire, they do not eat, they do not sleep, they know no fear. And any of my soldiers who fall shall return as pasmortes. Your efforts to destroy my fortress are futile.”

  He picked up his cognac glass and smiled. “To the health of your troops, gentlemen. May they remain hardy, or else they will be mine.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  July 25, 1764

  La Fortresse du Morte

  On the Shores of Anvil Lake, Mystria

  Owen watched with the forward pickets for the leaders’ return. If du Malphias had intended to unsettle Lord Rivendell with his dinner, he succeeded very well. All of the officers appeared subdued and even a bit queasy. Rivendell didn’t even rouse himself to abuse Owen. He just looked at him with haunted eyes and rode on past.

  Prince Vlad settled in near Fort Hope and invited Owen and von Metternin to join him in his tent. He poured three small tots of brandy and offered one to each man. “I should have taken your pistol, Count Joachim.”

  “Indeed? Why?”

  The Prince proceeded to describe the evening’s finale. He pointed to the wooden box on his camp desk. “The pistol is yours, Captain Strake. You’ll doubtlessly have better use for it than I will.”