Michael Stackpole: Of Limited Loyalty

“I’ll make certain there’s no access to the roofs.” Vlad shook his head. “I do have some news from town. We are going to have guests for dinner. Captain Strake, his wife, and Colonel Ian Rathfield.”

Gisella looked up, surprise widening her blue eyes. “The hero of Rondeville? He’s here? Why?”

“Purportedly on a similar mission to Owen’s, but of much greater potential trouble.” Vlad sighed wearily. “At least with Owen there was a very distinct threat, a very visible enemy. Rathfield has been sent out to see how far west colonists have gotten, with an eye toward returning with them to chartered colonies.”

Gisella stroked Rowena’s brow. “It will be a long expedition. You’ll send Owen and Nathaniel. Will you be joining them?”

“No.”

“But you would like to.” She smiled openly. “No, Vladimir, do not protest to the contrary. The man I love loves this land very much, and wishes to know more about it. You would gladly head west with the least bit of provocation. I only wish I could go with you.”

He laughed lightly, then frowned. “I will make you a promise, beloved, that we shall go west. We, together, will see sights no other human beings have seen. The only thing I love more than this land and our children is you, and I can think of no greater joy than sharing Mystria’s wonders with you.”

“Then you will go on this expedition.”

He shook his head. “Were it possible, perhaps, but it is not. The Temperance Bay Colonial assembly will be meeting come May, and I need to be here to support the cooler heads among then. I’ve already had petitions from other legislatures requesting things from the Crown.”

“And there is training.”

He smiled back over his shoulder at his son who was struggling mightily to get back out of his clothes. “There is that, too. My uncle, his namesake, was said to be able to read at three.”

“That’s not what I meant, husband.”

He nodded. “Yes, there will be the spring militia muster, and I need to be here for that. ’Twould be good if Nathaniel was here as well, of course.”

Gisella reached up and tugged his shirt once, sharply. “My dearest love, our children you will educate. Soldiers you will drill. Mugwump requires training.”

“I am sorry, my dear. I’ll pay more attention to semantics in future. Yes, Mugwump does need training.” Vlad smiled to himself. In many ways the wurm-despite his having wings, Vlad had studiously avoided calling Mugwump a dragon-resembled Richard in terms of energy and determination to go exploring. The successful molt had imbued the wurm with a puppyish sense of wonder about the world. This included wing-assisted flying hops, which clearly presaged full flight, but growth of the wings had not caught up with the body, making the short flights end prematurely and somewhat comically.

“I am going to ask Count von Metternin to travel west. He will be able to mediate between Colonel Rathfield and the others.”

“Will you invite him to dinner this evening?”

Vlad thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d rather have a chance to brief your countryman before he meets Rathfield. I’ll have to go over documents from Launston before I can do that.”

His wife nodded, then handed him their daughter before adjusting her gown and standing. “Will you want Catherine Strake and me involved in any discussions?”

He cradled Rowena in his left arm, then reached up and stroked his wife’s cheek. “I would welcome your insight, beloved, but I fear her reaction. Owen must go, but that means that she cannot sail back to Norisle this year. The girl is too young to make the voyage.”

Gisella kissed his hand. “I would gladly keep Miranda here, if it would grant Catherine the chance to leave.”

“I can’t imagine she would abandon her child.” Vlad wasn’t sure if he was saying that because he thought Catherine loved the child, or because she was aware that no matter how disagreeable her position in Mystria, deserting her husband and child would hold her up to the sort of social ridicule that she hated. She is ruled by her own ambition and the judgment of others. She is caught within miseries of her own making.

“I think you’re right about her, dearest. Regardless, I shall arrange for us to be able to take tea and work at needlepoint while you discuss substantive matters.” Gisella smiled. “Perhaps it will be a good night for her and she can contribute. She can be quite clever.”

“I would tell you that I will make it up to you if she is in a mood, but I’m not certain that is within my power.”

“We’ll keep her glass full during dinner, and ply her with port afterward.” His wife’s eyes twinkled. “She is not the only clever one here.”

“Oh, how well I know that.” Vlad kissed her again, then handed her their daughter. “The people of Mystria do not know how much they owe to you. You keep me sane.”

“No, darling, I just let you be you.” Reaching up, she squeezed his shoulder as she slipped past. “And you being you is what will be their salvation.”

27 March 1767 Strake House, Temperance Bay, Mystria

Owen waited for Prince Vlad to fade from view before turning his horse down the drive to Strake House. Rathfield said nothing while they waited. Owen expected him to fall in for the short ride to the house, but the Norillian officer remained where he was. Owen reined about again. “Is there something you wish to say, Colonel?”

Rathfield squared his shoulders. “There are a few things I do think you should know, Mr. Strake.”

“I may have resigned my commission, Colonel, but were we in Norisle, you would still afford me the courtesy of addressing me by rank.” Owen’s eyes tightened. “And, for the record, I currently hold the rank of Captain in the Mystrian Rangers.”

“I was aware of that, sir, and wished to avoid the embarrassment of reminding you how far you had fallen.” Rathfield snorted. “I understand why you might have resigned your commission. Were I in your position, I might well have done so myself. I would have respected that. But to so thoroughly and scurrilously besmirch the reputation of a well-respected commander who snatched victory from the jaws of defeat at Anvil Lake; that, sir, is an offense which cannot be forgiven.”

Owen arched an eyebrow. “By what account, save for any fantasy which Lord Rivendell wrote up and submitted to Horse Guards himself, do you mark Rivendell as being respected or the victor at Anvil Lake? Have you read my account of the battle, or only Wattling’s fantasy based upon it? Have you had private correspondence from soldiers who were there and thoroughly embarrassed by their failure, or have you some more objective account? Perhaps you’ve read Laureate du Malphias’ account of the battle.”

“Do not think me a fool, Strake. I’ve read Wattling’s book, and I can read between the lines. I know John Rivendell is not a genius, but I also know it was a matter of numbers. Victory was inevitable.”

Owen drew in a breath slowly and forced himself to tamp down his rising anger. Though born of a Mystrian father, he had been raised in Norisle on his stepfather’s family estate. He had faced the Norillian prejudices that came with his obviously Mystrian surname. In the Tharyngian War he’d seen Mystrian soldiers go toe-to-toe with the best Ryngian forces in the field, yet the loss of battles were blamed on them. And the battle of Anvil Lake had been one in which Prince Vlad had led Mystrian troops to rout Ryngian forces, yet Lord Rivendell and his Norillian troops claimed the victory for their own.

“Colonel, you may think that numbers made victory inevitable, but history is rife with examples where a handful of men have fought and successfully defied the might of empires. You judge Mystrian troops and their performance based on stories told by those who have a vested interest in denying how good Mystrian troops really are. Rivendell may claim the victory at Anvil Lake, but he never mentions the taking of Fort Cuivre by an inferior Mystrian force.”