At the Queen's Command (13 page)

Beecher leaned forward, raising his glass. “And it is a good thing that God grants you that prayer for you are His agent in the war against the Atheists.”

The Bishop and Dr. Frost exchanged glances at Beecher’s outburst. Frost could not suppress an indulgent chuckle. “Not all Tharyngians are Atheists, Mr. Beecher.”

“Their revolution overthrew God’s ordained King and established the rule of the Laureates. They refuse to acknowledge God as their superior.”

Bumble set his glass down. “Mr. Beecher, I have suggested you need more precision in your thinking and words. It is vital for your career. Doctor Frost is correct. The Laureates tolerate worship. Many of them are Deists, and most are Agnostics. Only a select few are Atheists. That is their nature. They assign Science the highest order and acknowledge that Science can neither confirm nor deny the existence of God.”

“And they shall burn in Hell for that.”

“Indeed they shall, but this does not make them Atheists, merely wrong.” The Bishop smiled at Owen. “What would you do, sir, if you had a man like Mr. Beecher in your command?”

“That is what we have sergeants for.”

Beecher sat back. “I am certain none of them are Atheists, are they, Captain? War not being a thing to promote such nonsense.”

Though Owen knew better, he rose to the bait Beecher had so carelessly offered. “To be frank, Mr. Beecher, war is the last thing to promote a belief in God. When you’ve seen a man’s head blown open by a musket-ball, with a chunk of his skull missing, and he sits there reciting nursery rhymes or begging for his mother, you wonder what sort of a God could condone war. And I understand and
believe
that these men will be rewarded in Heaven, but I cannot help but wonder if even an eternity of pleasure is just recompense for sitting with your guts in your lap, or watching a surgeon take your arm off with a saw.”

Beecher paled. “I only meant…”

“I know what you meant, sir, and I know the fallaciousness of it. Perhaps, Mr. Beecher, if the opportunity ever presents itself for you to join a military expedition, you will take it. You will learn a great deal about men, war, and yourself.”

“Quite right.” The Bishop nodded solemnly. “You know, Captain, I offered the blessing before the Mystrian Rangers sailed for Norisle. I gave quite a good sermon but I wish I had heard your words. I would have gone. Perhaps, had I been there, I could have stiffened their spines or, at least, eased their torments.”

Until his last comment, Owen was prepared to open fire on the Bishop, too. Genuine compassion issued through his voice, checking Owen’s anger. “I believe, sir, both of you would have benefited from that experience. Contrary to what you may have read, the Mystrian Rangers did make you all proud.”

The Bishop raised his glass. “To their health and salvation.”

Owen drank, wishing for more of one than the other.

Talk turned from things philosophical to local, so Owen excused himself. The Bishop promised to invite him to dinner upon his return. Owen accepted in advance and left them in the yard. He fully intended to head to his room, but as he cut through the darkened dining room, he caught sight of Bethany sitting alone in the front yard.

She looked up as he appeared before her. “Good evening, Captain. Would you like to sit?”

“Thank you.” Owen looked at his hands. “I might be mistaken, Miss, but did Bishop Bumble upset you during dinner?”

Bethany sighed. “He has preached from the Gospel according to Rivendell before. While you spoke of the war, he was praising God that Norisle had brave men like you to defend it. You see, most of the Rangers were indifferent about Church and not all of them were sober when he offered his blessing.”

“Was your Ira among them?”

She shook her head. “Ira attended every Sunday. At college he was studying for the clergy. The Bishop had offered to go with the Rangers. My uncle put it to a vote. The soldiers said no. They said Ira was the only minister they needed.”

Things began to fit together more clearly. “I see. And Beecher, was he a bother?”

“Harmless. A puppy.” Bethany smiled. “He’s enchanted with Lilith. He’ll never win her. Better men have tried.”

“Better men like Nathaniel Woods?”

“Woods? Ha!” Bethany shook her head. “The Bishop would have Woods burned for a witch if he came near her. And Nathaniel would gladly jump into the flames.”

“I didn’t have the impression you disliked her.”

“I hide things very well, Captain Strake.” She laid both her hands on his forearm. “On your journey you will see many wonderful and dangerous things. But in no greater jeopardy will you be than you were this evening.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were being measured to be Lilith’s husband.”

Owen held up his left hand and flicked his thumbnail against the ring. “But I’m married.”

“Mystria is home to the ambitious, Captain.” Her eyes grew dark. “They find the ends justifying the means, so there are no lengths to which they will not go.”

“You suggest many horrible things, Miss Frost.”

“More so than you know, Captain.” Bethany squeezed his arm. “Be careful, please, as you go, and especially as you return.”

Chapter Thirteen

May 2, 1763

The Frost Residence, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O
wen got up before dawn, dressing himself by candlelight in his uniform, from his tri-corner hat with blue cockade, to boots with polished spurs. He filled his pack with extra clothes, rolled his blanket and put that on top, and pulled the pack on. He then donned his ammunition pouches, slid the pistol into a holster at his right thigh, and shouldered his musket—the bayonet for which hung from a sash at his left hip.

His duty rituals consisted mostly of caring for his weapons. The musket, when placed with the butt on the ground, ended up three inches taller than he was—the bayonet added another foot and a half. The steel barrel alone was forty-two inches long. It ended in a curved brass fitting made of two pieces. The centermost bit could be unscrewed and removed, revealing a narrow hole at the barrel’s base and a hollow in the large brass piece. A firestone would be set in that hollow, then tightened down with the center-bit. A hole in the retention collar allowed a portion of the firestone to protrude, so he could thumb it and magickally ignite the brimstone.

The long gun he’d drawn from stores had seen better days. He’d cleaned it, washing, swabbing,, and oiling the barrel inside and out. He’d also cleaned and oiled the stock, then tightened down every screw he could find and replaced those he could not. He made sure the ramrod would remain in place while he traveled. Without it, he couldn’t load the gun, changing the musket into a club.

The Frosts, minus Caleb, had risen early enough to see him off. Mrs. Frost handed him a loaf of bread and some cheese all wrapped up in cloth. Bethany gave him an envelope with two quills just in case of disaster. He thanked them both, his throat tightening.

His reaction surprised him, and it took him a moment to figure out why. Though they were strangers to him, they’d fed him, repaired his clothes, sewed up his wounds, and otherwise seen to his welfare. They’d done it out of a sense of duty to the Crown.
And because they are just nice people.

Ultimately they had treated him more kindly than his family ever had, and when they wished him a safe journey, he knew they actually meant it.

Doctor Frost walked him to the gate. “I have enjoyed our all-too-brief association, Captain Strake. I very much look forward to your return.”

“You and your family have been wonderful. I hope I have not been a burden.”

“Nonsense, sir, it has been a delight.” Frost drew a small book from his coat pocket. “I know you don’t want extra weight on your trip, but I thought you might find this intriguing.”

The tiny volume had been bound in black leather with the title “A Continent’s Calling” incised in gold on the cover. Doctor Frost smiled carefully. “It was written by Samuel Haste. It inspired our debate on whether or not Mystria would be better off as its own nation. Some of your countrymen would take it as a work of treason, but I hope you find it to be something else. Mr. Haste truly loves this land and dreams of all it can become. You should understand that, and that many people share his dream.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Owen slipped the book into his coat pocket. “I expect to be back before September. I would call upon you then.”

“Captain, we insist you stay with us upon your return.” The man smiled. “In fact, I think Major Forest might be heading north around that time, so I shall see to it that you are reacquainted.”

“Most kind.” Owen gave the man a brief salute. “Until then.”

Owen headed off along Diligence quickly, planning to meet Woods at Westgate as the sun rose. Out toward the city’s edge, where the prosperous built their stately homes, no one stirred on the broad streets. Down toward the docks the sounds of the city waking echoed through alleys and crowded neighborhoods.

The day had started with a bit of crispness in the air, but it would burn off quickly. Still, it made for easy walking and Owen couldn’t help but smile. His brief trip out of the city had hinted at how much there was to explore, and he was anxious to get started.

“Walk your legs clean off at that pace, Captain.”

Owen spun, leveling the musket. “Woods!”

“Thinking I was Rufus?”

“I didn’t expect… I thought we were meeting at Westgate.”

Wood detached himself from shadows. “So’d some other folks. Word got out.”

“I told no one.”

“Never ’spected you did.” Woods yawned and jerked a thumb to the left. “We’ll head over to Justice and go out through the pig yards.”

Owen shouldered the musket again. “Are you afraid Rufus is watching us?”

“Ain’t ’fraid, just cautious. Careless word here, a word sold there, might be finding trouble we ain’t needing.”

Owen followed him. “Are you suggesting that the Tharyngians are actively spying in our colonies?”

“Are you believing they’re not?”

“No, Mr. Woods, I would imagine they are. I was asking, to be more precise, if you have any knowledge of Tharyngian spies in Temperance Bay.”

“Don’t suppose I do.” Woods looked back over his shoulder at Owen. “Don’t know that I care. Ryngian and Norillian fights don’t much concern me.”

“How can that be?” Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What the Ryngians want to do to us should be every man’s concern.”

“I reckon we’ll be disagreeing about that, Captain.” Woods picked his way between two barns and around a pig pen. “Mind you, we’ll be having plenty of time to gum that to death.”

“I should think this is an issue that needs settling more quickly.”

“More pressing things to deal with first, Captain.”

Owen’s guide set off at a trot, crossing the road and heading off through a meadow full of green grass. He trotted toward the dark treeline. His fringed buckskins made him stand out, but he moved quickly enough that he seemed a ghost. He reached the trees a few steps ahead of Owen and promptly disappeared.

Owen got into the trees, then crouched, looking back through bushes toward the city. A few lanterns burned in windows, and dark smoke rose from chimneys, but nothing indicated pursuit. Owen took that as a good sign, though he resented the fear trickling through his belly.

A branch snapped off to his right. Owen spun quickly, trying to bring his musket up. The barrel smacked a sapling hard. The impact unbalanced him, dumping him on his backside as surprise flooded through him.

A dark-skinned humanoid loomed over him. He’d clearly
not
broken the branch. He wore a loincloth and leggings. Save for a beaded armlet from which dangled two feathers, he remained naked from the waist up. His long, dark hair had been gathered into a thick braid bound with leather. His amber eyes, narrowed as they were, reminded Owen of a cat.

The dark man smiled, white teeth splitting a shadowed face.

Nathaniel crouched at Owen’s side. “Captain Owen Strake, you’d be meeting my brother, Kamiskwa. He’s of the Altashee.”

Owen gathered his feet beneath him and brushed leaves from his coat. “He’s one of the Twilight People.”

“He is.” Nathaniel stood and picked a leaf off Owen’s coat. “Come sun-up you’ll see more green than grey in his skin.”

“Does he speak?”

“Only when he has something to say.” Nathaniel chuckled softly. “That’ll be coming soon enough, Captain. Kamiskwa is always free with an opinion.”

Owen offered the Altashee his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Woods pushed Owen’s hand down and away. “The Twilight People don’t do things like we do. They’re wary.”

“Because of Major Hopkins.”

“Not entirely, Captain.” Woods retrieved the musket and handed it to Owen. “Magick works by touch. Don’t know a man, you don’t let him touch you. Gives him a chance to hurt you.”

Owen nodded. “Of course, no offense intended.”

Kamiskwa chuckled, and made a comment. Woods joined him, held a hand up. “Nothing bad. He just said that any who thought you’d be back in Temperance within the week was wrong.”

Owen smiled. “Thank you, Kamiskwa.”

“Don’t be thanking him.” Woods patted the Altashee on the shoulder. “He says you have ten days.”

The trio took off at a solid pace and made good time even in the pre-dawn darkness. Kamiskwa remained half-invisible as he ranged ahead. The game paths he chose went around hills instead of over them. The tracks doubled-back on themselves, as any animal trail will, but the men moved faster along them than they would have if they’d resorted to bushwhacking straight through.

Woods brought up the rear and stopped fairly often to watch their backtrail. He’d come trotting up, his rifle sheathed in a beaded doeskin case. He always had a big smile on his face. He shook his head at Owen’s mute inquiries and urged him on with a nod.

They set a good pace. Owen kept up despite carrying twice as much as either man. Woods had his rifle, shot pouch, a knife and tomahawk. Kamiskwa bore a musket, but his had been cut down into the carbine model the cavalry most often used. He carried a knife and had a length of knobbed wood slung over his back. It had been inlaid with mother of pearl and featured a triangular blade on the back of the knob.