At the Queen's Command (7 page)

Bethany’s lips pressed together and tears glistened. She nodded, then kissed her father’s cheek. Wordlessly she left the room. Her mother followed her.

Dr. Frost patted Owen’s arm. “Eat, sir, don’t let it get cold. I appreciate your saying what you did. You have to understand something about us Mystrians—things that not even my son understands. Norisle cast the first of us out because we were undesirable. Some of us were criminals. Some of us thought the Church was too strict. The Virtuans thought it too lax. And some of us were simply thought lazy or stupid and shipped away to die in the colonies.

“Many did, but this land vitalized those who survived. It gave us strength. It gave us opportunity. So now we’re like some big puppy, full of energy, and we want to please our master. We do what we can, but getting swatted, it sits poorly.”

Owen nodded. “I understand, sir, far better than you can imagine.”

Caleb refilled his wine glass. “But it is more than that, Father. The very philosophers and great thinkers you teach about at college, they are saying that the rights of Men are not bestowed upon us by kings and queens. They are our birthright as Men. They say we cede power to the nobility in return for guidance and assistance. When we get neither, they have broken the contract through which they get power.”

Dr. Frost slowly rotated his wine glass. “You make it sound so simple, Caleb.”

“It
is
simple, Father.” He tapped a finger against the table. “It is a simple matter of theft. Power is being stolen from us.”

“No, Caleb, it is not that simple. We are born of Norillian traditions. Our laws, the customs by which these colonies are governed, are based in Norillian Common Law. The colonies themselves function with Royal Charters. Our Governors are appointed by the Queen. Her nephew is our Governor-General. Norisle has given us a very great deal. We cannot unilaterally declare any previous debts null and void because we are displeased with the current situation. We would cut ourselves off from our beginnings. If we do that, we forget who we are.”

“Perhaps it is time, Father, for us to cease trying to remember, and for us to just decide who we are.”

Dr. Frost laughed. “Bravo, Caleb. To parrot so effectively the pamphlets that circulate
in camera
is an art. Captain, what do you think of the rights of Men and nobility?”

Owen looked up from swiping a piece of bread through the empty bowl. “To be honest, sir, the army does not encourage philosophical discussions, nor does it leave much time for them. In the army we revere tradition, so I agree with you there. But, I suppose, were I the puppy, there would come a point where taking a bite out of my master’s hand might seem appealing.”

“Ha!” Caleb smiled and refilled Owen’s glass. “You see, Father!”

“Well now, Master Frost, I’m not saying I agree with you. Men aren’t puppies. A puppy isn’t aware that a beating will follow that biting. A man should know better, and know if he wants to invite that beating.”

Caleb’s eyes sharpened. “But, Captain, is a man a man when he accepts that someone else says he’s inferior and never tests that assumption? As my father said, Mystrians were cast upon this shore because we were expendable. Everyone in Norisle would have been happy if we had died. Fact is, we didn’t. My grandfather came over as an indentured servant to a miller. Worked his way out of his obligation, then turned to trading. In thirty years he made enough to build this house, endow part of the College, and send ships to every corner of the globe. Yet there’s not fishmonger in Highgate or a lowly clerk in the City that doesn’t believe himself better than the best of us.”

Owen ran a hand over his jaw. He’d seen the same treatment at school and within the army, but there, to react was to be punished quickly and severely. Did curbing his desire to defend himself make him less of a man? Did it stop his shots from hitting targets?

Dr. Frost raised his wine glass. “I submit, gentlemen, that this discussion, which is really the eternal struggle of children to gain the recognition of parents, will not be resolved this evening. Let us, therefore, table it and discuss more pleasant things.

“After all,” Dr. Frost’s smile wavered for the first time, “if your reason for coming here, Captain Strake, is true, the least pleasant of man’s inventions will be coming to our shores. And, I suspect, it is an immigrant which will be most reluctant to leave.”

Chapter Seven

April 28, 1763
 

The Frost Residence, Temperance
 

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O
wen awoke with a start, reaching out for his wife. His dream had been vivid enough that he sought warmth in the emptiness where she should have lain. Her absence disoriented him. It was several hours past dawn, marking this as the latest he’d slept in months, and it likewise confused him.

He tried to sit upright, but the soft mattress resisted his effort. He surrendered, the feather pillow molding itself to mute bird-calls from outside. He smiled and tried to capture the dream’s fleeting images.

Catherine had joined him in Mystria. They attended a ball at the Prince’s home. The center of his laboratory had been cleared and the bear and the jeopard took part in the dance. The moose appeared also. Well-mannered, all the animals, enjoying themselves while a regimental band played. The Prince danced with Catherine and she smiled as broadly as ever he had seen. And then she came to him and clung to him and they found themselves in his bed, making love.

Owen might have been tempted to put the dream down to nothing at all, save that Catherine believed fervently in dreams. He had no idea what the presence of the animals meant. He forced himself to remember what he could, so he could write it all down for his next letter home. She could make of it what she wanted.

He closed his eyes again just for another moment, and then remembered nothing until the light tapping on the door presaged its opening.

An elderly valet entered bearing his coat, vest, and breeches freshly washed. Owen pulled himself up against the headboard as the man hung his clothes in the wardrobe. Wordlessly the servant stepped into the hallway again, then returned with freshly polished boots.

Owen smiled. “Thank you.”

“It is our pleasure to serve.” The old man returned the smile with sincerity. “Doctor Frost awaits your pleasure, Captain.”

“Please convey my thanks. I shall be with him shortly.”

The valet nodded and retreated, drawing the door closed behind him.

Owen rose and stretched, then washed his face and hands in the bowl on the side table. He dried them with a towel, then pulled on his clothes. The trunk he’d brought from Norisle had been opened and the clothing stored in wardrobe and dresser. Instead of his boots, however, he chose hose and low shoes with big silver buckles.

He descended the stairs and exited out through the kitchen to use the privy. He much preferred the outhouse, despite its being stuffy, to hanging his arse over the heads on the ship. Though the scent of salt air was more refreshing, getting splashed with cold sea spray was not.

Upon exiting he discovered Bethany working a pump to fill a bucket. “Good morning, Miss. May I help?”

She smiled. “Most kind, sir, and far better a greeting than I deserve.”

Owen frowned, working the squeaky pump. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss.”

Bethany wiped wet hands on an apron. “You will please forgive my conduct last evening, Captain Strake. Though it has been three years, I find myself still wanting to know of Ira. To discover that you had been there with him… it brought up many memories I had hoped I had put away.”

Owen stopped pumping. “Please, Miss, I am the one to apologize. I meant to cause you no upset.”

“Nor did you.” Her smile shrank. “You were truthful and honest. And kind.”

Her implication that some men had lied about knowing Ian—presumably to get to know her better—did not surprise him. Nor did word that many men embraced Lord Rivendell’s lies about Mystrians. He’d seen such dishonorable behavior in the ranks, among the highborn and low.
More among the highborn, in fact.

“I believe you will find, Miss, that very few men wish to take responsibility for their actions and desires. Lying, being tactless, hurting others: all of these are easier than just standing up and being men.”

Bethany laughed, but would not meet his gaze. “You sound like my brother.”

“Something I suspect he would deny.”

She lifted her face, her smile returning. “You have a point, Captain. But do not think ill of him. He’s not yet tamed his emotions, so he speaks his mind.”

“Seldom a vice, save in the military.”

“Always a vice when voiced as loudly as Caleb does.” She laid a hand on his arm. “But I delay you when you need breakfast. We have some put aside for you.”

“Lead the way. I shall bring the water.”

He followed her into the kitchen and deposited the bucket on a counter-top. She directed him into the dining room, where her father awaited him. Owen sat, and Bethany returned to the kitchen to bring him some bacon and biscuits with butter and honey. With another trip she added a pot of tea and two cups, pouring for him and her father.

Dr. Frost slowly spun his steaming cup. “You’re up early, Captain.”

Owen chewed quickly and swallowed hard. “Sir, it is mid-morning. I should have been awake much sooner.”

“Most of our guests sleep in much later, and ask for dinner to be served to them on a tray.” Frost passed him a sealed message. “Colonel Langford was up early himself. He wishes to see you by noon.”

Owen flipped the message over and back. “Do I need to read it?”

The elder man shrugged. “You will find that while my wife has little time for gossip—or so she says—there is a very quick and efficient spy network among domestics. Your expedition will be heading out at the beginning of the week under the leadership of Rufus Branch. The Colonel will be telling you how long you will be gone and inform you of some of the hardships.”

Owen broke a biscuit in half and began buttering it. “Shall I assume there are wagers being placed on how long before I return to Temperance and allow the expedition to continue without me? Not that a gentleman such as yourself would entertain wagers.”

Frost’s eyes brightened. “You think too highly of me, sir. My father built a mercantile empire based on taking risks. I chose to become a Natural Philosopher, but I also take risks—those of a sporting nature. It is believed you will survive ten days or until you reach Grand Falls. It is also believed you will not run at first sight of the Twilight People; but that the first jeopard will have you screaming in terror.”

Owen laughed. “Having seen the one in the Prince’s collection, I find that to be a smart bet to cover.”

“Captain, I think you underestimate yourself. At least, I hope you do. I have a bit riding on your success.”

“Will you tell me, sir, how you are betting?”

Frost thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. You are the sort of man who would endure much to validate my trust in you. There is no need for you to know; and my fortunes will ride with my judgment of you.”

Fully dressed in his uniform, Owen reported to army headquarters and was ushered in directly to see Colonel Langford. As predicted, the Colonel proceeded to outline the hardships in store for Owen, and hinted broadly that he could use a man of Owen’s skill in Temperance itself. “To be frank, Captain, it would be a better use of your skills than getting lost and killed in the woods.”

“I am certain you are correct, Colonel.” Owen reached inside his jacket and produced a folded slip of paper. “But I do have my orders. Now, sir, if you could look this over, I believe it is all I will need to complete my mission.”

Langford read the paper, his eyes narrowing. “You spent a great deal of time on this requisition, Captain.”

“Yes, sir. On the passage I studied a Ryngian survey I found in a shop in Launston. De Verace’s Survey of 1641.”

Langford looked up. “It has been translated?”

“No, sir; I am fluent in Ryngian and Kessian. My grandfather had little tolerance for ignorance.” Owen held a hand out. “If you approve, sir, I will go to the Quartermaster and draw these things.”

Langford dipped a quill and hastily scrawled his name at the bottom. “I applaud your industriousness, sir.”

“Thank you, sir.” Owen accepted the paper, stood and saluted. “May God save the Queen, sir.”

Langford, without rising from his desk, returned the salute. “And may He be kind on your person and soul.”

Lieutenant Palmerston, the Quartermaster, a grizzled veteran with one eye, a handful of teeth, and a couple fingers shy of a fist on the left, studied Owen’s list. Then he laughed aloud. “Brimstone, firestones, and shot for two-hundred fifty rounds for your musket; a hundred for a pistol? Biscuit and dried beef for three months? Clothing, blankets, trade goods, gold? Oh, sir, begging your pardon, but you cannot be serious.”

“I most certainly am, sir.” Owen’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you think I won’t need these things?”

The Lieutenant caught himself and aborted a laugh. “Well, sir, it is just that the Colonel already requisitioned supplies for your expedition. Rufus Branch drew it up. I’ve checked it all proper like. There’s more than enough to cover your needs, sir.”

Owen stroked a hand over his jaw. The Lieutenant presided over a warehouse that seemed quite well-stocked. In fact, the only thing it seemed to be lacking was men working in it.

“Might I have a look at the requisition?”

Palmerston opened a drawer to his desk and brought out a three-page document. “All signed proper like.”

He was correct. Colonel Langford had signed the last page and initialed all the others. And if Owen was not mistaken, the document had actually been written by Langford. Owen studied it and fought to keep his growing anger hidden.

“Might I ask, Lieutenant, about this item here, about the beef for the trip. The charge for services, here.”

“Oh, that’s just standard, sir.” The man scratched up under his eyepatch with a scarred finger. “You see, the cattle will be taken from our herd to Mr. Cask’s slaughter house, killed, and butchered. They will smoke it and salt it, you see, sir, so there is your service.”