Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Rivendell blanched, then lashed out with his riding crop. He caught Langford across the chest. "Do not write that down, you idiot."

Langford snapped the journal shut.

Prince Vlad waved the sentries back to their posts while they could still contain their mirth. "You have a message, Major?"

"Yes. The Esteemed Laureate Guy du Malphias requests the pleasure of your company, under a white flag, for dinner this evening. If you proceed up the road for ten miles, you will find the pavilion he has created. He asks that you join him by seven. He said he would be pleased if you brought Lord Rivendell, Colonels Langford, Thornbury, and Exeter with you. With apologies, he did not include Count von Metternin."

"I see."

Rivendell swept off his hat. "Please convey to your master that we accept his invitations. We shall be pleased to discuss terms of surrender as well."

The Major smiled. "He has anticipated you, sir. He said he would decline your kind offer, as he is not prepared to accept your surrender yet."

"My surrender? My surrender?" The color which had previously left Rivendell's face flushed back swiftly. "It is not our surrender of which I speak."

Vlad held up a hand. "Please tell the Laureate that we will join him."

"I shall, thank you." The Major bowed, then turned toward Owen. "And you, sir, would be Captain Strake?"

"I am."

The Ryngian officer reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a sealed missive. "I was asked to give this to you."

Owen accepted it, but did not break the seal. "You've done your duty."

The Major returned to the canoe, and Owen shoved it back into the lake. The paddlers steadied the boat as the Major sat, then bent to the task of propelling it across the water.

Rivendell pointed his crop at Owen. "I will have that note from the enemy, Captain Strake."

Owen ignored him, broke the seal and read. He grunted. "Just an apology for not including me in the dinner. Given the circumstances of my previous departure, he found me an ungracious guest."

"Give it here."

Owen's face darkened. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"You are a man who is known to be familiar with ciphers and who, beyond all belief, escaped to Temperance with two broken legs."

"So you believe I am du Malphias' agent."

"I think it is also curious that his native allies killed our soldiers, but let you live." Rivendell sneered. "Langford, you are getting this down, are you not?"

The scratch of a pencil on paper answered him.

Vlad sighed and held his hand out. Owen gave him the note. The Prince read it, then looked up at Rivendell. "I should remind you, sir, that I am the expert in ciphers. This note contains none, and is exactly what Captain Strake reported it to be. Now, unless you want to call me a liar or suggest I am in the Laureate's employ, I think you should get to your wardrobe and prepare yourself for this evening's dinner."

The Prince looked at himself in the small hand mirror von Metternin held up. "This will have to do."

The Kessian shook his head. "You will be the vulture at a peacock ball, highness. I have waistcoats and shoes that will fit you."

Vlad laughed. "I appreciate the offer, but homespun will be fine. I represent the people of Mystria-as Rivendell is oft wont to remind me-so I shall be attired as they are. I do appreciate, however, the loan of clean hose."

"I would lend you one more thing." The Count withdrew a small, double-barreled, over-and-under pistol. "Take this. Kill the Laureate. We will be done with this business."

The Prince stared at the weapon. "But that would be murder, and under a white flag."

"My friend, you are smarter than to believe that. Du Malphias will be waging war under the white flag. He will scare Rivendell, or make him overconfident. This campaign will be won over dinner this evening. You can win it with one shot."

"I can't do it."

"Of course you can. It is easy. Point. Shoot. It is never hard."

Vlad glanced down. "You are a soldier."

"By the blood of God, you have never killed a man, have you?"

The Prince met the man's incredulous stare. "I've seen them die. I've never killed one."

Von Metternin returned the pistol to his pocket. "How I envy you, and pity you. Firing the shot is easy. Living with the consequences is not. I do not think, however, I would lose sleep over killing du Malphias."

Vlad smiled. "Then I hope, my friend, that the opportunity falls to you."

The Prince remained silent on the ride to the dinner simply because he did not want to invite his companions to speak. Langford and Rivendell led the way. Colonel Harry Thornbury of the Cavalry and Colonel Anthony Exeter of the Fourth Foot came next. The Prince rode in the back next to a self-invited guest, Bishop Bumble. The Bishop bore the white flag.

Vlad contented himself with studying the landscape. Wildflowers splashed color into tiny spots where the sun managed to knife its way through the leafy green canopy. In the darker spots lichens and mosses, mushrooms and shelf-fungus took over, with wonderful golds and reds to contrast with the flowers' blues and yellows. Just enough of a breeze came off the lake to make the flowers and leaves dance, animating a mosaic of color and light.

Blue jays chattered and a couple of squirrels scolded from on high. He saw signs of where bears had climbed trees, or moose and tanners had scraped their horns against them. Rabbits scampered through the brush almost unseen and ravens watched them pass, offering haunting commentary.

Any other time, I would have enjoyed this ride. The source of his displeasure was his companions. He would have welcomed them looking about, too, knowing that they were searching for tactical advantages even while he was studying beauty. They were not even doing that. Taking their cue from Rivendell, they sat their horses with straight spines, eyes forward, faces tilted up, and remained that way as if posing for portraits.

Not even sight of the pavilion broke their composure. Vlad had expected a large tent erected in the middle of the road, but du Malphias had other ideas. His pavilion had been fashioned from a stand of birches. A dozen of the trees bent inward, curving softly to form a high ceiling. A wooden floor had been fitted together tightly, with the wood sanded, lacquered and polished until it glowed from the sun's dying light. A long table had six chairs set at it, likewise shaped of native woods and left blonde in keeping with the nature of the pavilion. Cloth streamers of blue, red, and green to honor the various military units floated playfully in the breeze.

Back a bit, deeper in the woods, a large tent had been erected to serve as the cooking station.

Soldiers of the Platine Regiment took charge of their mounts and conducted them to the pavilion. The Laureate stood at the head, dressed in white and gold. He opened his arms and smiled.

"Welcome, gentlemen. Highness, I would have you here at my right hand and Lord Rivendell opposite me. Lieutenant Laforge, we will need another place setting, down there, on the other side of Colonel Langford. And you are, sir?"

Bumble tried to look imposing. He failed. He had shed thirty pounds. His clothing hung on him poorly and when he further sucked in his stomach, his breeches threatened to fall to his knees. "I am the Right Reverend Bishop Othniel Bumble of the Church of Norisle, Temperance."

"This could be more interesting than I expected. Please, gentlemen, sit."

The moment they had pulled their chairs up to the table, service began. While soldiers stood all around, civilians served them. A comely lass had been assigned to attend to Prince Vlad; nondescript men to deal with the middle of the table, and a beautiful young boy attended to Rivendell's every pleasure. As the sun's light began to die, and the soldiers lit lanterns, Vlad could not be certain, but the pallor of the girl's skin suggested she was a pasmorte. Which would make all of the servants pasmortes.