Michael Stackpole: Of Limited Loyalty

Owen held a hand up to forestall a comment. “More to your point: yes, I dared tell the truth about Anvil Lake. I told it for one specific reason-had Rivendell listened to his advisors, he would have lost far fewer men. You’ve been in combat, Colonel. You know the horrors of men torn asunder. Is not saving their lives worth exposing incompetence?”

“You forget yourself, Strake.” Rathfield shook his head slowly, as if speaking to an idiot child. “The decisions to promote or remove an officer are made by Generals, not subordinate officers. If they chose to leave Lord Rivendell in place, this is their right. And those men in the ranks sign up fully aware of the risks their duty to the Crown entails. They march into battle proud of their service. You suggest they are cowards.”

Owen laughed. “No, sir, I suggest they are a limited resource and should be preserved.” Guy du Malphias had realized this very thing. Because Tharyngia’s colonies in the new world had fewer people than Norisle’s colonies, New Tharyngia was doomed. To even things up he had created the pasmortes — reanimated corpses that, depending on their level of decay, could serve as everything from slave labor to skilled, autonomous agents. The fortress at Anvil Lake had been packed with them, and killing them was no simple thing. Had Prince Vlad not intervened to turn the tide of battle, the Norillian troops that had been sent to destroy the fortress would have become its new generation of defenders.

“You speak like a merchant, sir, not a soldier-a tradesman devoid of honor.”

“Perhaps it is because I think more of war as a trade than an honor.”

“That trade would have included following orders, I believe.”

Owen nodded. Rathfield’s lips were moving, but Owen heard his uncle’s words coming out of his mouth. Richard Ventnor, Duke Deathridge, had ordered Owen to secure all of du Malphias’ papers from Anvil Lake. Owen had recovered them, but had not turned them over to his uncle. He’d been certain that the papers included the secrets of raising the dead. That was not information Owen wanted to see in his uncle’s hands.

“You refer to the recovery of du Malphias’ papers, I believe. My uncle knows I found them and immediately turned them over to the Crown. It was my assumption then, and yet is, that Prince Vlad would make them available to Norillian authorities as soon as possible.” Owen shrugged. “Or did I misinterpret what my uncle requested of me?”

“I would hardly know your uncle’s mind.”

“But you’ve spoken to him more recently than I.”

“True. I sought him out when I was given this assignment.” Rathfield tapped a gloved finger against his chin. “He suggested that you had forgotten that duty to family is exceedingly important.”

“I could take that as a suborning of treason.”

“Your uncle?” Rathfield threw his head back in a genuine laugh. “My dear boy, you have no idea how far he has risen, do you? Because of his victory on the Continent, the Queen trusts him most highly. He is her right-hand man on all things international.”

Owen stroked a hand along his jaw. Not knowing his uncle as well as Owen did, Rathfield likely believed that the Crown was simply considering Mystria as part of the empire and, therefore, warding it against external predation. Owen could see a deeper game. While learning the magick that created pasmortes would be a powerful thing to use against Tharyngia, likewise it would be a splendid tool a man could use to carve his own empire out of Mystria. Du Malphias had intended to do that, and Owen could see his uncle using the same opportunity.

My having given the documents to Prince Vlad would be seen as a step toward independence for Mystria if the Queen no longer trusted her nephew. Owen forced himself to smile. “I’m pleased to hear my uncle is doing so well. My choice was the expedient one and, truly, the only one possible. The papers would have to be copied here to prevent their being lost in transit to Norisle. Who better to trust with that job?”

“You may have a point, but the Prince’s lack of alacrity is the cause for some concern.”

“Would you like me to mention this to the Prince?”

“You shouldn’t bother him with it. I believe he has had correspondence from the court as regards it.”

So, the answer is yes, but you don’t want to admit to it. Owen leaned forward in the saddle, both hands on the horn. “Is there anything else you wished to address before you enjoy the hospitality of my home?”

“I would not address it, save that you seem to have adopted the frighteningly annoying custom of Mystrians to be abrupt, inappropriate, and direct. The fact of the matter is simple, Strake: you’re not truly of my class and you’ve risen well above what ought to be your station. I say this with all due respect to your mother and her fine lineage. Blood will out, and your Mystrian blood is telling in you. This expedition is at the behest of the Crown. I am in command. Things will be done as I direct, when I direct them, and I shall tolerate no insubordination. I will hold you to a higher standard than any of the Mystrian miscreants with whom I am saddled. Are we clear on this?”

Owen could not help himself. He began to laugh.

Rathfield stiffened. “You have been warned, Strake.”

Owen stopped laughing, but his smile would not die. “Understand something, Colonel. The Crown’s authority extends only in so far as you can enforce it. Here in Temperance Bay or Bounty or south-that’s pretty far. Two days’ ride from here there are whole villages populated by people who’ve never seen Norisle and who think the Queen is something out of a faery story. When we get further out, you’ll see places where there aren’t many people, and where the only law is Nature’s law. You think Mystrians won’t care about the Crown? Jeopards and wolves will care even less.”

Owen straightened up in the saddle and opened his hands. “As for your holding me to a high standard, understand what that means. You can write me up in reports and say bad things, but everyone will expect that. If you try to flog me-flog any of us-it won’t be tolerated. If you choose to demand satisfaction of me, I’ll decline as the Prince doesn’t favor dueling. Others who will be joining us, however, have different opinions, and they’re a lot deadlier than I am.

“So, Colonel, your being here is pretty much like your being in Rondeville. You’re on your own. How you best decide to proceed is up to you.”

Rathfield considered for a moment, and then nodded. “I see. I will take your words under advisement, though I warn you that I meant what I said.”

“I understand that.”

“Good. As long as we understand each other, I believe we can work together.” Rathfield pointed south. “Shall we?”

“By all means.” Owen gave his horse a touch of the heel. “Welcome to my home.”

The drive to Strake House snaked through woods, which had been thinned of larger trees. The road worked its way around hills simply because that had been less expensive than digging through them-and level roads were more practical in the winter when the snow came. The serpentine track opened onto a wide lot with a barn on the left, smokehouse to the right, and the main house in the middle. Beyond the main house, down by the Benjamin River, stood a small boathouse and dock.

“I know it’s not much, but…”

“It is impressive.”

The main house had been built on a stone foundation. They’d excavated down to bedrock, which gave the house an eight-foot-high cellar for food storage in winter. The rectangular building rose to two stories, with chimneys at either end and fireplaces sufficient to heat four upstairs bedrooms. The pitched roof hid an attic. The main floor boasted a kitchen toward the back on the right side, a dining room to the front on that side, a sewing room back left, and a library and parlor left front. Stones finished the corners, but clapboards otherwise covered the house, and the roof had been done in cedar shingles.