At the Queen's Command (68 page)

“But to make the changes in your people, you will have to become part of them. You have a start, as Captain Woods. They respect you and will listen to you. If you remain apart, your influence will dry up and blow away.”

The Mystrian shifted his shoulders uneasily. “I ain’t never going to be citified.”

“I know this, but you might have to become more Mystrian.”

“That stings more than getting shot.”

Kamiskwa shook his head. “You would sacrifice yourself for the Altashee. And I would sacrifice our future for you to remain as you are.”

“’Praps there is some room in the middle for meeting.”

The Altashee thought for a moment, then nodded. “If there is not, we will create it.”

“I like that. We make the choice and others have to live with it.” Nathaniel laughed. “Ain’t gonna be a lot that likes it, but I reckon they will get over it.”

Kamiskwa pulled Nathaniel into a hug. “Be well, brother mine, and not too long away.”

Nathaniel returned the hug, then pulled back. “Need to get down to Temperance, let folks know I done survived.”

“My regards to Rachel.” Kamiskwa smiled. “I have packed the two small uniforms you took for William and Thomas; and the silver gorgets for their mothers, and the silver buckles for your daughter.”

“Thank you. Tell them I will see them soon.” Nathaniel looked up at the sky and thin streams of clouds. “Early winter, you reckon?”

“Late, but cold.”

“Good.” Nathaniel smiled. “I gots me some ideas about getting the Prince one of them wooly rhinocer-whatevers he wants. Might have time to get it before the snow flies.”

“If it can be done, Magehawk can do it.” Kamiskwa took a step back, half disappearing into the twilight. “I look forward to hearing your plans. Soon.”

“Soon.” Nathaniel watched Kamiskwa go, and almost headed out after him. He would have, too, save for his friend having reminded him that he was Captain Woods. He had responsibilities. He had men who looked up to him, some figuring he’d even somehow saved their lives. If he were just to abandon them, it would rob them of part of their pride. It was as if his being there and treating them as if he liked them, kept all the fear they’d felt on the battlefield at bay.

He did like his men—the ones he’d gone to Fort Cuivre with and then brought down on the ship. The others, well, they’d gotten it into their minds that a lucky shot that had killed someone trying to kill them had come from his rifle. Pure nonsense, and he’d tried to convince a few of the absurdity of their notions, but they weren’t having it. Their belief connected them to him—same as men were connected to the Prince through what he did.

Nathaniel sighed. He’d been willing to accept the responsibility of leading men into battle, but he’d not figured that the responsibility would extend beyond that. He’d made a lifetime commitment, and it wasn’t one that would go away just because it would make his life easier.

The Mystrian made his way into Gates’ Tavern, shaking hands and getting his back slapped. He smiled, nodded to men, called a few by name. Someone shoved a mug of ale into his hand and he took a gulp. It surprised him. He figured Gates must have gone and gotten a new, young horse for pissing into his casks, and he hoped it was one of the best stolen from Captain Percy Abberwick.

He moved deeper into the room, raised his mug toward the Bone brothers. The three of them had come through things without a scratch, though Makepeace was still nursing his bruised arm. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the swivel-guns on the sloop, even after the Summerland boys offered to teach him the proper spell. When he learned of what the Prince and Count had done on Mugwump, he’d been in absolute awe.

The Prince and the Count book-ended Princess Gisella. The rest of the men took note of her, of course. As they told their stories, they played up to her and were certain to let her know that Prince Vlad and Count Joachim had been the heroes. She seemed to delight in every story, even though it was the same story told over and over again. She looked up at Vlad with pure worship on her face at the end of each one.

Wasn’t a man in the place who wouldn’t have killed a whole Tharyngian regiment to have a woman look at him that way.

Me, included. Nathaniel smiled, thinking of Rachel. The cavalry would arrive in Temperance long before the rest of the soldiers. She’d know he survived. Word would get to her somehow, despite her husband’s doing his best to hide it from her. That had worked once, and she’d vowed that it never would again.

Nathaniel would see her when he got to Temperance. She’d be there, somewhere, in a crowd, and he’d see her. Her husband would be watching her like a hawk, but it wouldn’t matter. He could have all the Branches and Casks in the world set between Nathaniel and his wife, and it couldn’t keep them apart.

He laughed to himself. Nathaniel never had been much of a one for whatiffing, but Zachariah Warren had done him more of a service than he could have imagined, and likely had saved many lives. Had he not tricked Rachel into marrying him, she would have married Nathaniel. He would have moved to town and probably would have gotten fat. He’d have learned a trade, turned his back on the wilderness and hunting and trapping and exploring.

I’da become one of them men what looks up to me. He shivered and felt a bit of an ache in his belly. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he’d have been saddle-broke so easily, but the prospect scared him. Both because of who it meant he would have become and because his inability to be broken meant he’d be denied certain pleasures in his life.

It struck him that here he was, in a room jammed with people, and yet he found himself utterly alone. They thought sure they knew him—and some did, far better than most. Yet men like the Bone brothers had a bond with each other that he really didn’t have with anyone else. Maybe Owen, there near the Prince; sort of with the Prince, but otherwise, his closest connection had headed off to Saint Luke as the sun went down.

Realizing he was alone among many didn’t provoke melancholy. Nathaniel wasn’t inclined that way, and certainly wasn’t going to tolerate that sort of a mood. A man gave in to melancholy, he figured, if he wanted to, or he wasn’t smart enough to figure out what it was that made him happy.

Right now that would be getting some fresh air, relieving my bladder, and figuring out where I’m going to bed down for the night. He wasn’t really feeling that tired, but it was getting to the time in August when shooting stars would pour through the night sky. He’d enjoyed watching that ever since he was a boy, when his father had shared that wonder with him. Even with the full moon and thin clouds, the show would be grand.

He squeezed back through the crowd and went out the back door. He headed toward the privy, but all of a sudden the ache in his belly stabbed front to back. He doubled over and dropped to a knee. His guts had gone liquid and he clenched his teeth against the pain. Then something slammed hard against his head and he pitched forward.

He blacked out, but for how long he couldn’t really tell. Couldn’t have been long because his stomach still hurt and he stank. His bowels had let go and his arms and legs trembled. He’d been poisoned. In the ale. He tried to remember who had given it to him, but it was just a hand through the crowd.

Rough hands jerked him into a sitting position against a wall. A dark silhouette backlit by the full moon hovered above him, then a stinging slap snapped his head around. “Wake up, Woods.”

Nathaniel forced himself to focus. “Rufus.”

“Mr. Warren, he don’t want his wife mooncalfing after you no more. Kinda hoped you’d get it in the fighting, but you is damned lucky. Have to do it myself.” Rufus straightened up, swimming out of focus. Two more silhouettes stood center and off to the right. “Now you die, sitting in your own shit. Make it easy to forgit you.”

Nathaniel tried to get to his feet, but Rufus hit him with the butt of his musket square in the chest. Nathaniel sank back, smacking his head on the wall. “You hurtin’?”

Nathaniel spat. “Not ’specially.”

“Too bad.” Rufus reversed the musket and pressed the muzzle to his belly. “Mr. Warren, he wanted you to die in pain.”

Nathaniel forced a smile onto his face. “When I get my hands on you, I’m going to learn you all about pain. Him, too.”

“Ain’t gonna happen. Your time on this earth is up.”

Nathaniel’s vision began to dim as Rufus dropped his thumb on the firestone. The pain in his stomach spiked. Nathaniel screamed. The musket boomed, and Nathaniel’s world went black.

Nathaniel had never attended much church, and when he had, he’d not paid particular attention to what was being said from the pulpit. Most of it involved Hell and damnation, so as he returned to consciousness, he was expecting demons to be stabbing him and lakes of fire and the unending cries of souls in torment.

What he got was the creak of a bed and the crunch of fresh straw. He opened an eye and while the preaching hadn’t much talked about Heaven, what he did remember gave him cause to be thinking that it wouldn’t much look like a room in Gates’ Tavern.

And Justice Bone, he wasn’t looking much like an angel. He sat at the foot of the bed, a small pistol in each hand, watching the door. He glanced over when Nathaniel shifted his weight, then nodded. “Water there in the mug iffen you is thirsty.”

Nathaniel groaned and rubbed his hands over his belly. “I ain’t shot.”

“Nope.”

“Mouth tastes like I been eating burned leather and bitterroot.”

“Yep.”

Nathaniel eased himself on to his right side and took the mug of water. He sipped, ready for his guts to protest, but they tolerated the water well enough. He took a mouthful but let it slowly trickle down.

He rolled onto his back again. “Morning?”

“Afternoon.”

“Want to be telling me what happened?”

Justice nodded. “Noticed you going out. The weaselly little Branch followed. Time I got out, you’d been drug off a-ways. Rufus was a-jawing at you. He went to shoot you, but I shot him first.”

“Kill him?”

“Hit him in his sit-down parts. He done run off while I took care of his brothers. The weasel’s dead. Gutted him. Other one will probably live, but ain’t going to be using his right arm none.” Justice shrugged. “Men choosing up a squad to be going after Rufus.”

“Tell ’em no.” Nathaniel had to catch his breath. “I will be finding him.”

“I reckoned you’d say that. Trib told them all we was having to wait for you to give your blessing.” Justice smiled. “The Prince, he done figured what they poisoned you with. Make you drink a tea of crushed charcoal and bitterroot. Stunk to heaven. You threw up a bit. Got you cleaned up and put to bed.”

“Thank you.”

“I told you I would be watching out.”

“You did.” Nathaniel nodded slowly. “You hear what Rufus said?”

“Didn’t need to. I seen enough to know. What you want to do about it is your business. Want help, I’m in.”

Nathaniel nodded. He could lay charges against Zachariah Warren and most all folks would believe him. But a jury would hear Warren deny he had ever hired Rufus to do anything. Some would think that Warren was defending his wife’s honor against Nathaniel’s advances. Even those who knew the true story would still be thinking Nathaniel had brought this on himself.

“I reckon I will be thinking on that for a bit.” He smiled. “Which cheek?”

“Left.”

“I once shot him in the right.” Nathaniel laughed. “Next time, more to the center, and a lot higher.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

September 17, 1764

Temperance, Temperance Bay, Mystria

W
ith their desire to be home swiftly, the Mystrian troops set out from Hattersburg on the fourteenth and made very good time along the road they had previously hacked out of the wilderness. The wounded—including Caleb Frost and escorted by Princess Gisella—traveled ahead down the river on barges and then by ship to Temperance. The wounded reached Temperance before the bulk of the Norillian cavalry, though Rivendell and his staff joined them on board.

Owen remained in Prince Vlad’s party, on orders from Rivendell. Rivendell even gave him Hodge Dunsby as his aide, as the bantam soldier had been by his side constantly. Rivendell clearly intended to write up reports casting Owen in an extremely negative light, but Owen had moved past caring.

He had come to Mystria in hopes of doing his duty and perhaps winning enough fame and glory that he and his wife could become free of his family. He had accomplished his goal and more, but not in the way he had hoped. He realized this as he walked with men—some of whom, though wounded, refused to admit they were hurt—and sail home. These men had taken up arms against an enemy even though fighting was neither their profession, nor had they trained at it. They responded to a call to handle a situation that threatened everyone. For them, it wasn’t a quest for personal glory or treasure or fame. That wasn’t to say that some hadn’t also hoped to prove something to themselves or others, but those personal motives had been subordinated to the betterment of all.

What struck him most strongly was the affection he felt for these men. The Mystrians had accepted him and Dunsby not because of Owen’s connection to the Prince, but because of what they had done in the fight. He and Dunsby had bearded the lion in his den. They had forced du Malphias to surrender. And Owen had done it dressed like one of them, not some arrogant, no-good Norillian officer!

My future, if it is anywhere, is here, in Mystria.

That realization filled him with dread. Catherine loved him, but he wasn’t sure she could come to love Mystria. The land demanded more of its people than she could ever give. If he wanted to keep her, he would have to return to Norisle and a life he hated. It would tear his heart out. Here I am home.

The idea that he had to choose between his wife’s happiness and his own filled Owen with melancholy. He feared she was slipping away—and the haunting vision he’d had of her while on the winding path seemed likely. While letters from their loved ones in Temperance had caught up with soldiers in Hattersburg, she had sent him nothing. Does she know what I am thinking?