Michael Stackpole: Of Limited Loyalty

“What? That is outrageous!”

Caleb held a hand up. “Your assets were purchased at sheriff’s auction. My uncle, Balthazar, purchased everything, lock, stock, and barrel. He opened the Frost Press. We publish the Frost Weekly Gazette, as well as books and pamphlets by Captain Strake and Samuel Haste. We also did an edition of your book, To the Fortress of Death.”

“Ah ha!” Wattling shot a finger into the air. “You commit the very crime you have accused me of committing.”

Owen snorted. “The court found that your book was my book, so all rights to it are mine.”

“And here, Horace, is what will really turn your stomach.” Caleb chuckled coldly. “We sent your book to the Mystrian Rangers, along with a copy of Captain Strake’s book. Both have gone all over Mystria. Your book so outrages people, they buy dozens of copies of Captain Strake’s book. William, who is now our pressman, can barely keep up with demand.”

“This will not stand!” Frothed spittle collected at the corners of his mouth. “This will be overturned and you will be paying me for the work of mine you have stolen.”

Owen now stepped forward. “Caleb has not told you the worst of it.”

“How can it be any worse?”

“Your property was forfeit to satisfy civil penalties. The criminal penalties, however, are still to be addressed.” Owen opened his hands. “You stand convicted, but have yet to be sentenced. The court is willing to listen to witnesses who swear to your character. If you show signs of contrition, if you have work, and are a man of substance, the judge may be inclined to pass a very light sentence.”

Wattling’s knees gave way. Owen caught him before he went down. Caleb rescued the parcel. Hodge Dunsby, Owen’s messenger, came up on Wattling’s right and helped Owen straighten him.

“Good to see you, Mr. Dunsby.”

“And you, Captain, Mr. Frost.”

“You’re looking good, Hodge.” Caleb tucked Wattling’s parcel under his arm. “The thing of it is this, Horace: Frost Press needs another pressman. You can have that job. You’ll live above the press. You’ll be in charge of getting out the Gazette.”

“A pressman? I am an editor.”

“My sister is the editor.”

“A woman?”

Owen smiled. “The passages she worked hardest on in my book are the only ones you refrained from editing, Mr. Wattling.”

“That is immaterial, sir. No woman has the proper temperament or intellect to deal with the nuances of words.”

Caleb’s eyes and voice tightened. “Are you saying my sister is stupid?”

Wattling appeared, for a moment, inclined to reply in the affirmative, but the fire in Caleb’s eyes sent a shiver through him. He shook both Owen and Hodge off. “Gentlemen, this whole problem is because of the involvement of women. Captain Strake, had you kept proper control of your wife, none of this ever would have happened.”

“You say that, but you have left your own wife back in Norisle, if I am informed correctly.” Owen clasped his hands behind his back. He feigned indignation because, in reality, he owed Wattling a debt. Catherine’s pride at Owen’s book had quickly evaporated. She had not spared him the sharper side of her tongue when telling him everything that was wrong with Mystria. Doctor Frost, Caleb’s father, suggested some women had such moods after they’d borne a child and urged Owen to endure. Owen did, devoting himself to their daughter and hoping for leavening in his wife’s demeanor. Until Wattling made himself a target of her ire, however, she had been content to gnaw on Owen.

“You leave my wife out of this.”

“You should have left mine out, Mr. Wattling.”

Wattling snorted. “My portrait of you is not wrong. Were you a true man, you would have her under control.”

Caleb stepped back, his expression slackened with astonishment. Before he could offer a comment, however, Hodge Dunsby hauled off and cuffed Wattling in the back of the head, knocking him a step forward. “You listen here, Horace Wattling. I don’t got too many letters, but some as do read me what you said about Captain Strake. I was there, right before that Fortress of Death, and I’d have been dead long since but for Captain Strake ordering me to my feet. He led me through fire and shot, through Tharyngian regiments into the lair of Guy du Malphias his own self. Now maybe he gone and done married himself a willful woman. That marks him a braver man than you will ever be. And what he did out there to Anvil Lake confirms it.”

“I will not be lectured to by some gutter-spawn coward!”

The young, brown-haired man spat at Wattling’s feet. “Then take some advice. You call Captain Strake a coward around here, there’s men what’ll dispute that with switch, sword, or shot. And if that isn’t enough, you’ll like as not make his wife mad all over again.”

Owen raised both hands. “Thank you, Hodge. Here’s the thing of it, Mr. Wattling: I’ll speak for you to the judge. The Prince will as well. The judge will suspend your sentence. Spend a year or two working hard, and you’ll be free to do your own business. Take Caleb’s offer. You really don’t want to see the inside of what passes for a prison in Mystria.”

Wattling’s lower lip began to quiver. Owen feared he would cry. “It isn’t fair, what you’ve done. It’s counter to Norillian law.”

“But, Horace, you’re no longer in Norisle.” Caleb patted him on the shoulder. “Back there you’d already be in irons. We’re offering you a chance, just like all of our ancestors had. What you did was wrong, but it doesn’t have to haunt you forever.”

“I’m too old to start over.”

“Better that than jail, isn’t it?” Caleb shrugged. “Two years, you can change your name and…”

“No, never!” Wattling shook his head vehemently. “I may be trapped into being your servant, but I shall never become one of you. You’re all the spawn of criminals. Over here, given a society of your peers, it’s no wonder you are able to twist the laws to mock honest men. Well, you have me. You’ve robbed me of my resources, you have stacked the courts against me, I have no choice but to bow to your will. It does not mean, however, that I accept your warped concept of justice. I shall make certain people know what you have done.”

Caleb smiled. “Write it down. If my sister likes it, we’ll even publish it.”

Various emotions fought across Wattling’s face, and the battlefield reddened. Before he could explode, however, a tall, strongly built blond man wearing a Norillian Army uniform came up the gangway and paused between Caleb and Hodge. “Are you well, Mr. Wattling?”

Wattling nodded quickly. “As best I can be, Colonel.”

The man’s red coat had black facings with two red stripes. The black vest beneath likewise had the stripes. Owen recognized the regiment easily. Fifth Northland Cavalry. Two curled dragon ensigns in silver decorated each black lapel, marking the man as having been afforded the courtesy rank of wurmrider. Had they been gold, it would have meant he’d been assigned one of the wingless dragons for combat.

Owen offered the man his hand. “I’m Owen Strake. This is Caleb Frost, and you traveled with Hodge Dunsby. Mr. Wattling you already know.”

The officer, being slightly taller and heavier than Owen, met him with a firm grip, yet did not try to overpower him. “Strake, formerly of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards?”

“The same.” Owen freed his hand from the other man’s. “And you are?”

“Ian Rathfield.” The Queen’s officer smiled easily. “Your uncle sent me to finish the job he’d given you.”

27 March 1767 Government House, Temperance Bay, Mystria