Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"You must be writing her, to tell her you are well despite things, yes?" She sat and hunched over his coat. "Caleb told me you are married. You must miss her."

"I do, Miss, yes, very much." Owen set the quill and penknife down. "I'm not certain she would care to know what has happened. Not about this, anyway."

Bethany looked up, surprise cocking her head. "When Ira was gone I wanted to know everything, every detail. He wrote some-had someone write I mean-and my uncle wrote. We got letters in bunches, of course. Some long after…"

"I can imagine how much that hurt."

She shook her head. "Not as much as not knowing. Men think that not telling saves us worry, but we know. We know when something is not being said, and that makes us worry more. We know you are not telling us something that will worry us, and that leaves it to us to imagine something truly terrible."

"Alas, my wife is not of a temperament to deal with visceral details." Owen half-smiled. "She could never have done what your mother did."

"I know."

"What?" Owen frowned. "You presume a great deal, Miss Frost."

"No offense intended, Captain." She held up his jacket. "I have noticed an indifferent pattern to the repairs. Your wife is not intimate with a needle and thread."

"You notice my handiwork, I'm afraid."

"I am certain she would want you to look your best, so I shall redo some things." Bethany smiled and got out a small pair of scissors. "Go ahead, write. I love the sound of a quill on paper. I find it very soothing. It is one of the reasons I enjoy writing."

"What do you write?"

Bethany looked up, her eyes widened. "Silly things, Captain. Scraps of poetry. Things that shall never see the light of day."

"You shouldn't be ashamed of what you write, Miss Frost. I am certain you have talent." Owen sighed. "I'm afraid I am a better seamster than a writer, but I shall work at it. But I don't think a letter is the thing. I shall commence keeping a journal. That will be good for this journey. I shall start tonight. Tomorrow I shall have to purchase journals to accompany me."

"It should be my pleasure to find you a stationer, Captain Strake, if you so

desire." She smiled. "With one proviso."

"And that is?"

"When you return, I wish to read it all."

April 29, 1763

The Frost Residence, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O wen awoke feeling as if he'd been trampled by horses, then dragged a mile behind them. His head throbbed and his stomach pulsed painfully. It didn't help that he could smell bread baking. It made his mouth water, and his stomach knotted in protest.

He rebelled at the thought of leaving bed.

But leave you must. Laughing at himself, he threw back the covers and levered himself out of bed. The fact was that he had once been trampled by a horse, and had been dragged behind others. That had been bad. He rubbed his stomach and the purple bruise over it, then pulled on breeches, stocking, shoes, and his second-best shirt.

He traced a small, vertical bit of stitchery on the right side. A corresponding scar twisted his flesh beneath-not having been sewed up as neatly as the shirt. He could still feel a twinge as the lance hit him, feel the pressure as it skittered off a rib, and the triumphant look on the Lancer's face before Owen shot his lower jaw off.

He shivered and unbandaged his head before the round table-mirror next to the water bow. The bandage had remained clean, but blood seepage had stained the cloth over the wound. He used a little water to loosen it, then gently pulled it away.

A little redness, slightly swollen, and a bit warm to the touch, but it looked good. Mrs. Frost's stitchery had been tight and the wound had already crusted over. In a week or so he could clip the stitches and pull them out. Let his brown hair grow a bit and no one would ever notice the scar.

Owen washed up in the bowl, then shaved using that same mirror. He had always enjoyed the ritual of shaving-his having an angular face making it easier than for others. He found something soothing about the routine, about lathering his face, then applying cold, razor-sharp steel to his throat. Hearing the scrape of metal across flesh as the hairs popped reminded him that he was still alive, even when pain made him wish he was not.

He headed downstairs and found Doctor Frost in the dining room reading a broadsheet with the title "Wattling's Weekly" emblazoned across the top. "Good morning, Doctor."

"And you, Captain. I understand you had an eventful evening."

Owen nodded. "Which your wife and daughter did their best to repair."

"Your coat is hanging in the kitchen by the door." Doctor Frost folded the paper. "A new paper."

"Mr. Wattling was on the ship. I am surprised he managed to publish so quickly."

"It's old news from Norisle." Frost smiled. "Nothing of your encounter last night, and no report on the debate at the college."

"Debate, sir?"

"Please, sit. Martha, the Captain will have his breakfast now. I told them to fix you some weak tea with honey and some ginger. Good for the stomach. Bread, no butter." Frost slid Owen's chair back with a foot. "Two stories are circulating concerning your encounter last night."

Owen sat. "Indeed."

"One has you and Nathaniel Woods insulting the Branches and their getting the worst of a thrashing. Nothing for them to brag upon. They've run afoul of Woods before with similar results."

A servant brought the tea and bread. Owen sipped carefully and his stomach eased slowly. "The other story?"

"A group of Twilight People slipped into the city and attacked you, but Nathaniel Woods told them to go away."

Owen frowned. "Why would that story have any currency?"

"You wear the red coat. The Twilight People were of the Ungarakii and in Tharyngian employ. The story serves those who hate the Twilight People. If they are painted as loyal to the Laureates in Feris, reports will get back to Launston and more soldiers will come to drive the natives away."

Owen dipped a corner of the bread into his tea, then took a bite. "I don't see the logic of that. I rode from here to the Prince's estate. There is plenty of unoccupied land."

Doctor Frost sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. "That is a matter of contention, Captain. The Twilight People migrate seasonally, so what we see as open is land they require for hunting, or that might be sacred to them. They do not develop the land as we do. Because they do not engage in animal husbandry or much more than subsistence farming, they require far larger tracts than we do. When someone decides to go out, clear some ground, and set up a farm, the Twilight People take offense. Not close to the city, mind you, but out there, in the wilderness."

"Langford could send troops to punish the raiders."

"He could, but most of the settlers involved are squatting on land claimed by the Crown. Speculators, however, want those lands, so the pressure will increase to destroy the Twilight People." Frost sat back. "That discussion formed part of the debate last evening. The larger question was whether or not Mystria would do better as its own nation, or subject to the Crown."

Owen's eyes tightened. "That discussion could be construed as treason, Doctor Frost."

The older man smiled. "Not the discussion, sir, but advocacy of independence-and no one advocated that. What we did discuss, however, was whether or not the Crown was negligent in its conduct toward us. Benign negligence in the minds of most but, alas, not all."

"I'm not certain I follow, sir."

"Let me give you one simple example. The southern colonies are prohibited from selling cotton to anyone but Norillian merchants. They are paid a price set by the Crown, a price which is considerably below that offered by the Tharyngians."