Michael Stackpole: Of Limited Loyalty

The Norillian chuckled. “Surely we have nothing to fear from animals.”

Owen led the way back along Generosity, then turned west on Kindness. “Not much to fear, really. The wolves mostly have gone back up-country. Bears are heading into the mountains. We’re too far north for axebeaks.” Owen shot a sidelong glance at the Prince. “I don’t recall many signs of a jeopard this winter.”

Vlad shrugged. “One rarely sees a jeopard before it’s too late.”

“True.”

Rathfield looked from one man to the other and back again. “I do believe you are having me on. Wolves? Jeopards? You’ve made them up to frighten visitors. You’ll find I do not frighten easily.”

Vlad shot a quick salute to the sentries at Westgate. “I assure you, Colonel, we would not attempt to frighten a man of your obvious bravery. However, wolves are far from extinct here in Mystria. In fact, they appear to be considerably larger than the variety that has been hunted out in Norisle. And they do exist. The winter of ’65, just like that of ’63, came on quickly and very harshly. We had wolves at the doorstep. Captain Strake and his wife were staying with me until their home was built. On the very night his daughter was born, he killed three dire wolves.”

Owen nodded. “Shot two, killed the last with an ax.”

“Really?” Rathfield studied Owen a bit more intently for a moment. “And jeopards?”

“Biggest cat you’ll ever see, Colonel. Long curved fangs, very sharp claws. Brown or grey in the summer, winter coat grows in thick and white. Big enough to take one of these horses down, and fast enough in a sprint to catch it.” Owen patted the pistol. “Not very fond of loud noises, which is why I keep this with me.”

“I see.”

Vlad laughed. “Not likely. Nor will you hear it, save screaming in the distance. If it’s close, you might smell it.”

As they rode west along the Bounty Trail, Owen tried looking at it with the same eyes as Colonel Rathfield. Things had already changed significantly in the four years since the first time Owen had made the same ride. More houses had been raised, more land cleared, and stone bridges had been built over a few streams. Still, to Norillian eyes, the place would seem largely wild and sparsely populated.

For Owen it remained a land that surprised and delighted him. Going on an expedition thrilled him, and not just for it getting him away from his wife. Mystria had so many wonders and secrets that he wished to see. The whisper of wind through pines, the lonely call of loons in the night, the scent of a field of bright daisies, and even the chill of seeing where a jeopard had sharpened its claws on a tree made him smile. He’d spent too long on his estate and in town-he needed to get back to the land he loved. That this might be an opportunity to save it from Crown foolishness only made the expedition that much better.

As they rode, Prince Vlad played host and guide, pointing out the natural features and commenting on interesting tidbits his researches had discovered about a variety of the plants. “Of course, Colonel, for your expedition, I shall prepare you a list of plants and animals of which, if you are able, I should be most pleased to have samples.”

“A jeopard among them?”

“We have one, but more are welcome.” The Prince smiled. “And we mounted the wolves Captain Strake killed. I’d be delighted to show them to you. They are in my laboratory.”

“It would be an honor, Highness.”

You have no idea. Owen watched Rathfield from the corner of his eye. The man looked at the landscape much as Owen had, judging it by its suitability for waging war. He’d been told that two companies of men would be slow, and he measured that claim against everything he saw. Initially he discounted that idea, but as the forest closed around the trail, and the trail wound itself uphill and down, his assessment shifted. His concentration suggested he was compiling recommendations that would allow him to fulfill his mission.

Owen found that particular idea unsettling. Having been raised in Norisle, he found himself more reluctant than most Mystrians to ascribe hostile motives to the Crown. Still, when he’d come this way looking to move troops along, it was to bring a war to Tharyngian forces. Rathfield intended the same thing, but that the troops be used against Mystrians.

And yet, four years ago, I would have accepted that same mission. Now the idea of doing that sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. Unbidden came the memory of his uncle asking him to pass along the true identity of the writer known as Samuel Haste. Owen harbored no illusions that the request was born simply of his uncle’s idle curiosity.

Just because Owen wasn’t automatically inclined to think badly of the Norillian court, it didn’t mean he didn’t understand why others did. Just a year previously, Parliament had passed the document tax, which not only imposed a duty on imported paper, but also required payment for any transaction involving papers-from the production of a Will to the printing of the Frost Weekly Gazette. Mystrians flat refused to pay it and sent the Queen a petition of protest on a sheepskin. Tax collectors-locals who had hired on for a portion of the taxes collected-got run out of town and had their businesses boycotted. Before the petition reached Launston, the document tax had died.

Three months after news of the tax had reached Mystria, reports of its repeal arrived from Norisle. The bill repealing the tax had been greeted happily, but men like Caleb Frost and his father carefully pointed out that the bill affirmed the right of Parliament to impose future taxes on the Crown’s citizens no matter where they lived.

Most Mystrians dismissed that idea saying, “I’ll be paying ole Queen Mags when she comes to me with her hand out.” They assumed the ocean insulated them from her wrath, but Colonel Rathfield’s presence suggested otherwise. How long until refusal to pay taxes is seen as sedition?

Rathfield rode ahead and, for a heartbeat, unbridled fury raced through Owen. What if Rathfield was a precursor? What if the information he’d gather would convince the Queen to send troops to Mystria? If I knew it would, if I knew that was his intention, what would I do?

He glanced at the pistol. Mystria was a vast place, full of all manner of dangers. Would leaving a man in an unmarked grave be so hideous a sin if it saved countless lives?

Owen shivered, and hoped he would never have to answer that question.

27 March 1767 Prince Haven, Temperance Bay, Mystria

Prince Vlad bid his traveling companions farewell at the drive leading to Owen’s home, then continued on the extra two miles to his estate. He scribbled notes about how far the snow had receded on the southern side of hills versus the northern into his notebook, and looked for anything else remarkable. He was certain there were things, but the import of Colonel Rathfield’s arrival distracted him.

Since the founding of the colonies, Norisle had treated Mystria with benign neglect. The Colonists paid duties and tariffs, accepting them as part of doing business with their mother country. Mystrians made few demands on Norisle and because most of the Norillian nobility saw the Mystrians as criminals and cowards, they certainly would never allow themselves to think they might actually need them.

The long and expensive war with Tharyngia had changed things. Norisle had, effectively, bankrupted itself prosecuting the war and, after ten long years, ended up with some of Tharyngia’s holdings in the new world. While the Spice Island acquisitions were immediately lucrative and New Tharyngia was an untapped resource, neither was sufficient to staunch the economic wounds suffered from the war.