Michael Stackpole: Of Limited Loyalty

At another time, in another place, Vlad might not have cared at all about the plot. After all, weren’t the nobility proven superior to the common man? Were they not ordained by God to rule? That was certainly what the Church taught-which was quite a trick if the Church and nobility were an oligarchy of magicians. If they were not the best, would not God strike them down?

Vlad would have accepted that as the truth, and likely taken his place among them, save for his time in Mystria. The colonists had been the dregs of society, cast onto a far shore to live or die. They didn’t die; they thrived. They created a vibrant society that encouraged free thinking and exploration. Their energy created an economy that kept Mystria alive. At Anvil Lake they proved themselves the equal of Norillian troops in terms of courage, and perhaps just a little bit better in terms of warfare in the New World.

Isn’t that proof that they are the better men?

A hand tapped lightly on his door, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Yes, beloved.”

“Your guests, darling, have arrived.” Gisella came to his desk, picked up a brush, and removed the dust from his coat. “Your good shoes are just inside the house. I think you will be fine otherwise.”

“Owen’s wife?”

Gisella smiled and gave her husband a quick kiss. “In Colonel Rathfield, she has a distraction. I gather he is willing to indulge her taste for court gossip.”

“I’m sure.”

She stepped back, eying him carefully. “Out with it.”

Vlad laughed. “Forgive me. I grow suspicious in my old age.”

“You are not old.” She playfully threatened him with the brush. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking that Colonel Rathfield is here to observe more than the land to the west. If anything amiss is said about my aunt, he’ll relay it to her. Likewise any news about Owen will reach his uncle. I’m not certain whether Rathfield is playing at politics, or just trying to do his duty as he sees it. Either way, he could cause trouble.”

Gisella applied the brush to his shoulder, then slipped her arms around his neck. “But you are loyal to the Crown, my Prince. The Queen has nothing to fear from you, so you have nothing to fear from her.”

Vlad hugged his wife tightly. “Let’s hope it is as you say or, my dear, that the ocean can insulate us from her baseless wrath.”

5 April 1767 Prince Haven, Temperance Bay, Mystria

As the members of the expedition gathered on the lawn near the wurmrest, Owen could not help but smile. Seven men of disparate backgrounds and inclinations were bound for lands unknown to them, in service to a distant ruler that none, save one, had ever met in person. It took Owen back four years. A journey measured in more than miles or time.

Nathaniel Woods, slender and of above average height, with long brown hair ungathered and light brown eyes, would lead the expedition no matter what Colonel Rathfield believed. Born in Mystria and more at home in the forests than in town, Nathaniel had a keen love for the land. He wore beaded buckskin leggings and a loincloth, moccasins and a leather tunic with fringed sleeves. The knife at his belt was the only weapon on him; his rifle and a tomahawk had already been stowed in his canoe.

With him stood Kamiskwa, a prince of the Altashee, one of the Twilight People. Rathfield tried not to stare at him, but to no avail. Owen could understand, as the Mystrian native looked unlike any human being in Auropa. Shorter yet more heavily muscled than Nathaniel, Kamiskwa’s flesh had a gray cast to it with greenish undertones, which all but made him invisible in the forest. His long, evergreen hair had been braided and knotted off with a beaded leather cord. Restless amber eyes moved quickly, as might those of a predator. Like Nathaniel, he wore moccasins, leggings, and a loincloth, the latter woven with a bear-paw design that proclaimed his descent from Msitazi, the leader of the Altashee. He wore a knife and had a warclub slung over his back. A variety of tattoos and scars marked him, but his coloration made them difficult to see.

Count Joachim von Metternin of Kesse-Saxeburg had attired himself most ostentatiously. He wore bleached buckskins as close to white as possible. The tunic had been beaded in the Shedashee style by Ishikis, one of Kamiskwa’s sisters, but the image was of lion rampant in coral-the von Metternin family crest. Perched on his head, hiding all but a few errant locks of brown hair, was a white foxskin cap with the ears still upthrust and the tail dangling at the back of the neck. The Count had shot the fox himself and was inordinately proud of that fact, so he wore the cap at every suitable opportunity.

Though von Metternin was not a small man, Makepeace Bone dwarfed him. Tall and powerfully built, the first thing anyone noticed was a trio of scars raking forward from his crown to his left eyebrow. They were a memento of an encounter with an angry bear that Makepeace managed to kill with his bare hands. Born of a family professing the Virtuan faith, Makepeace, along with two of his brothers-Tribulation and Justice-had helped win the battle at Anvil Lake. Makepeace wore buckskins with no decoration and, save for the smile splitting a thick brown beard, one might have thought he would be given to considerable melancholy.

Owen and Hodge Dunsby had also donned skins for traveling. Owen chose to wear the leggings, loincloth, and tunic given to him by Msitazi. His tunic featured a beaded bear paw. Hodge’s clothes were more modest but he’d killed the deer himself, tanned the hides, cut and sewed them together with minimal help. Though his inexperience showed, his pride in self-sufficiency lit his face brightly.

Owen found Rathfield’s outfit distressing. When Owen had headed out for the first time, he’d insisted on wearing his uniform. Beginning with his boots, it had begun to deteriorate almost immediately. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa managed to convince him to adopt more practical attire. I was a complete fool, and had they not coerced me into sensible clothes, I should have been naked and humiliated three weeks out of Temperance. Owen had been hoping that Rathfield would be as foolish and arrogant as he’d been-a petty desire, he acknowledged, but he’d revel in the man’s ignorance.

Rathfield, however, had arrived in Mystria prepared for his journey. He wore buckskins and moccasins similar to those the others wore, save that these had been tailored in Launston, based on a drawing of Mystrian native garb. Rathfield had also specified that the leather be dyed such that two broad black stripes ran from shoulder to waist in the front, and two red stripes angled up from his breastbone toward the shoulders, mirroring the pattern on the Fifth Northlands Cavalry uniform.

Prince Vlad stepped forward to make the final introductions. “Colonel, I believe you have yet to meet Mr. Nathaniel Woods, Mr. Makepeace Bone, and Prince Kamiskwa.”

Rathfield offered Nathaniel and Makepeace both his hand, but after they shook, he clasped both hands behind his back and bowed his head toward Kamiskwa, in the Shedashee style of greeting. Since magick works at a touch, the Shedashee see a handshake as a potential attack. Owen wasn’t certain how Rathfield had learned that much about the Shedashee, but was getting a sinking feeling that it was through having read Owen’s book.

That didn’t please Owen, but nothing about Rathfield had. Having housed Rathfield for over a week had not improved the situation. Owen knew he’d been arrogant when he came to Mystria, but he hadn’t been that arrogant. That Rathfield would be learning from mistakes that had cost Owen dearly hardly seemed fair. And though Rathfield’s very presence had lightened Catherine’s mood substantially, Owen still didn’t like him.