Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"Your offer is welcomed, Captain, but maybe a bit precipitant." Vlad looked again to Colonel Langford. "In addition to guiding Captain Strake, we shall be asking Mr. Woods to continue his survey of flora and fauna. In anticipation of receiving new samples and new information, we shall be spending most of our time on our estate. You will find us singularly preoccupied, so that filing such a report may well be beyond our means. We shall be forced to take you at your word that you have no financial dealings with these men. Is this clear?"

"Yes, Highness."

"Very well. You are dismissed."

Langford bowed, then shot Owen a venomous glance.

"And you, Captain Strake, I require you to remain here. I insist you dine with me this evening."

"You are most kind, Highness."

"It is not kindness." The Prince nodded solemnly. "There are items in the packet you gave me which need discussing; and the sooner done, so much the better."

Langford and the others withdrew. Once the door had closed behind them, Vlad pulled off his wig, tossed it on the throne, and scratched his head vigorously with both hands. He made no pretense of smoothing his hair again, but turned and grinned at Owen.

"I appreciate your support, though it was unexpected. Langford and I would have come to the same solution. You have succeeded in making yourself an enemy."

Owen nodded. "It would have happened regardless. Out of the five shillings in a crown, two must end up in Langford's pocket, or those of his confederates. It is scandalous, of course, but if Langford's people actually did the things they were overpaid to do, there would be some benefit. As it is…"

"I know, and so do some in Horse Guards." The Prince waved Owen after him, heading for a door in the south wall that opened into a small set of apartments. "I informed Horse Guards that the past reports were unreliable. No one believed me, however, until a spy in the heart of Feris, in the Ryngian Ministry of Colonial Affairs, located two outposts in places where our reports indicated there were none. While my reports are still disbelieved, various friends asked me to arrange for Nathaniel to move through those territories and ascertain the truth."

Owen's nostril's flared. "Did no one believe I would do my duty?"

"On the surface, Captain, no one would. Despite your family's position, you are hardly well regarded. You are a Colonial half-blood who liaised with a Colonial unit disgraced in battle. Need I paint you a more complete picture of why some cautious souls wished to guarantee accurate information?"

"No, Highness, I understand."

"Good." The Prince smiled. "But you and I, for now, shall talk of specifics, and I shall write out some orders for my friend. Then we shall dine and you will go to your home for a well-deserved rest. Your arduous journey will begin very soon."

And it was, as the Prince predicted, an enjoyable evening of roast pheasant and local vegetables combined with valuable lessons that would aid Owen's ability to survive in the wilderness. The Prince delivered each of them as an anecdote, both making them easier to remember and less offensive in the telling. By the end of the evening Owen knew he still had a great deal to learn, but he had acquired a great foundation upon which to build.

He left the Prince with a smile on his face and a warm glow in his belly.

Both of which vanished when, at the first shadowed corner, the butt of a musket cracked against his head.

April 28, 1763

Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O wen awakened on the ground, dust in his mouth, a second before a booted foot caught him in the mid-section and lifted him back into the air. The Prince's dinner gushed out, replacing the dry dust with the harsh wet of vomit. He landed on his side, bouncing, then drew his knees up to cover his belly.

"Think you're so smart, do you?" A man's deep-voiced question invited laughter from his confederates. "Think you're better'n us, do you?"

Owen coughed, then spat. His stomach ached and the world swam. He could make out silhouettes-at least half a dozen-but there could have been more. The closest one to him, the man who had spoken, filled most of his vision-and that was a factor of his size, not just his proximity.

"There he is, boys, all curled up. A little Norillian dog, ready to die."

More laughter, until another voice cut in.

"Now, Rufus Branch, don't appear you're making constructive use of your time here."

"You stay out of this, Woods." The large man thrust a finger at Owen. "You know his kind. He wears the red coat. He thinks he's better'n any three of us."

Light laughter came from the alley-mouth. "You ain't never been good at your sums, Rufus, but even you can see there's a mite more than three of you here."

"You want to be evening up the odds?"

"I get to scrapping, ain't going to be even. Like as not I'd shoot you again. "

Owen shook his head, partially clearing it, then pulled his hands and knees beneath himself. "Three to one? I've fought worse."

Woods, at the alley-mouth, was little more than a tall, slender silhouette with a gun cradled in his folded arms. "Belike that knock in your head scrambled your brains, Captain Strake."

"Not like he has any brains," one of the others scoffed.

Owen got to his feet and staggered to his left. He let one of the men catch him and push him back upright. Owen twisted, burying a fist in the man's gut, then snapped a knee into his face. The man dropped fast. Spinning, he got his back against the building, then jacked his right elbow into the face of the man by his other side. The man's head rebounded off the building and he flopped forward, covering his compatriot's moaning body.

It wasn't the first time Owen had been jumped by a gang. He had one rule for such fights and applied it religiously: do as much damage as you can, however you can, and don't stop.

The man on his left hesitated, but the one on his right came burrowing in. Head ducked and arms wide, he went to tackle Owen. The soldier hit him hard over the left ear, dropping him to his knees, then kicked him in the chest. The man somersaulted back, cutting Rufus' legs out from under him.

Without waiting for the man on the left to act, Owen charged and caught him with an uppercut. Tooth fragments littered the dust. Owen grabbed the man's jacket and tossed him onto Rufus' back.

Another man raised his fists and broadened his stance. Slightly smaller than Owen, he had a confident glint in his eyes. He darted forward, feinting with a left toward Owen's head. Owen's hands came up, leaving him open for the man to drive his right into Owen's stomach.

Pain exploded but didn't slow Owen down. He snapped his head forward, smashing his forehead into the man's face. Bones cracked. Blood gushed over Owen's face. The man staggered back, hands rising to his ruined nose. Owen kicked out, catching him squarely in the groin. The blow lifted the man a foot or so in the air and dumped him, writhing, into the alley.

Rufus roared and Owen spun. The giant had tossed one man off him and rose to his feet. A head taller than Owen, and with shoulders broad enough to fill the alley, Rufus Branch curled his hands into bucket-sized fists.

"You should've stayed in Norisle."

Owen swallowed hard and set himself. He had one chance. A quick kick to a knee, crippling Rufus; then finding something big enough with which to brain him.

All of a sudden Rufus' head snapped forward, accompanied by the sound of a musket-butt being applied as a club. The man staggered and half turned. "Why'd you have to do that, Woods?"

"You're not worth the price of powder to reload." Woods hit him again, catching him in the forehead.

Rufus Branch collapsed.

Woods lowered his gun. "The last of them went running off. He'll bring friends. I'm thinking a retreat's the smart play."