Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"The Tharyngians are our enemies, Doctor. You cannot be suggesting we would trade with the enemy."

"No, but Norillian merchants buy our raw cotton, then sell to agents of the Alandalusians at a great profit. They, in turn, sell it to the Tharyngians." Frost raised a finger. "And, more to the point, the cotton that ends up in Norisle is milled there, then shipped back here. The cloth is sold at a considerable mark-up. Because we have ample rivers, we could produce our own cloth here, even more cheaply than in Norisle. We could even ship and sell it cheaply in Norisle, but the Crown prohibits us having any native industry."

"I will admit, sir, that this seems, on the surface, to make no sense, but…"

Frost chuckled and patted a hand against the broadsheet. "It makes perfect sense, Captain, when you realize that it is the men made rich in the various trades who have the Queen's ear. They are the men who sit in Lords or have their agents elected to Commons. They tell the Queen that were we to have our own mills, it would ruin the Norillian economy. They remind her that we are the children of convicts, dissidents, and redemptioneers and, therefore, inherently untrustworthy."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "You argue against yourself, sir. You suggest you are not defectives. If this is true, and you were given industry, you would succeed in your ventures, ruining Norisle's economy. The Crown is either ignorant, or terribly wise."

"I prefer 'unthinking,' Captain." Frost lifted up the paper. "Consider, if a press can be shipped here and set up in two days, do you think it possible that a mill will not be someday duplicated? Might some man ruined by a rival not come here and build one? Might not a Ryngian cede us that knowledge to ruin Norisle?"

Owen nodded. "Either could happen. Each would be illegal."

"If you were given the orders, would you destroy those mills?"

"It would be my duty."

"But could you get all of them, Captain?"

Owen shook his head. "They would still be illegal."

"And inevitable." Frost smiled. "Change is an irresistible force, Captain. Progress cannot be hobbled, just harnessed. And, if not harnessed, it will run out of control."

The soldier shivered. "You have given me much to think about, sir. Had my brains not been scrambled, I might have given you a better argument."

"You acquitted yourself well, Captain. This is the joy of being a Natural Philosopher. The world is my treasure. I am free to think and imagine. My passion is illuminating the minds of the young." He leaned in again. "I would ask of you a favor, however."

"If I may be of service, sir."

"You will be going into areas where not many have gone before. If it does not compromise your duty, I would appreciate copies of your charts-the rivers, you see. We huddle on a narrow strip of the coast. If we are ever to thrive, we will move inland, and the rivers are the routes we will follow."

Owen hesitated for a moment. The information he would obtain was for the Crown. By rights, its distribution would depend on his superiors. But Nathaniel Woods could just as easily communicate same to the Frosts-and Colonel Langford would certainly sell them the information. Frost's possession of it was inevitable. Just like change.

"It would be an honor, sir."

"Very good, thank you." Frost clapped his hands and looked up as Bethany came in from the kitchen, fastening a light cloak around her shoulders. "Are you come to conduct the Captain about town?"

"Are you done torturing him?" A white bonnet restrained her light brown hair, save for a curl over her forehead.

"For now, yes." Frost slid his chair back and stood. "A pleasure, Captain."

Owen stood and shook the man's hand. "And mine, sir."

"Take good care of my daughter." Frost pumped his arm warmly. "Until this evening. Good hunting."

As they moved through Temperance, Owen studied people with new eyes. His red coat and even his second-best shirt had been woven tightly-more tightly than clothes worn by anyone but the most prosperous. Many men wore breeches that had been patched repeatedly, and often needed yet another patch or two. More commonly they went without shoes or stockings, and few possessed proper coats.

Prior to his discussion with Doctor Frost, Owen had been inclined to put their slovenly appearance down to their nature. Norisle's feckless and destitute-those in thrall to spirits and indolence-dressed similarly. He thought them incapable of rising above their nature, lacking character. Even those brought into the army and trained for better retreated to their baser selves when given any idle time.

"Did you not hear me, Captain?"

Owen blinked. "My apologies, Miss Frost. My mind was off and away."

Bethany laughed easily. "You are like my father in that regard. I should have expected this after his speaking with you this morning."

"He does challenge a man."

"That he does." She opened a hand toward a small alley off Fortitude Street. "You may find the journals you want here, on Scrivener Street; or you might want to obtain logs closer to the dock."

"We should look here."

"Very well. What was it my father had you thinking about?"

"Things well outside my purpose here."

A frown wrinkled her brow. "My dear Captain Strake, do not think me some addlepated girl. I am my father's daughter and capable of handling myself in discourse."

"No offense intended, Miss. We discussed the lack of a native textile industry." Owen jerked his head back toward Fortitude. "Consequently I was noticing what people wore."

"It gets very cold for some come winter." She paused before the door of Burns and Company, Booksellers. "We might try here."

Owen opened the door into a small shop crowded with shelves. A bell tinkled from above the door. A small man wearing spectacles appeared from deeper within the shop. Two large volumes filled his hands. "Good day, Miss Frost. May I help you?"

Bethany eclipsed Owen. "I hope you will, Mr. Burns. Captain Strake desires two journals, three hundred pages each, your best paper, leather covers, and oilskin wraps. He'll need an inkstick and a half-dozen quills."

The man smiled, setting the books on a small, drop-leaf desk in the corner. "I can bind up the journals, send them around to your house, Miss Frost, by eventide."

Owen nodded. "That would be satisfactory."

"As for the quills, well, I have something here you might like better, Captain." Burns pulled a narrow wooden box from the desk and slid the top off.

Two turned wooden cylinders rested on a red velvet bed along with three silver wedges. The man handed one of the wedges to Owen. The metal had been hammered incredibly thin, and curved along its length. It tapered to a point and had been split halfway up the middle.

"Local silversmith, he makes these. They're nibs, fit into these holders. Last longer than a quill and don't need sharpening."

"The work is incredibly delicate." Owen held it out for Bethany to see, slowly turning it in his fingers. "Do you know how he does this?"

Burns shrugged. "Not being cursed, I don't know for sure, but he uses a firestone in the process. Has it at the end of a thumb, in a glove you see, so he can work the metal while hammering."

Which is why it's silver. Iron and steel dampened magick, all but destroying the ability of any but the strongest user to make it work. Stories of heroes who could enchant a sword abounded, but Owen had never seen that ability in action.

The bookseller ducked his head. "And no offense meant, Captain."

"None taken." Owen nodded solemnly. "Soldiers greet that appellation proudly. We might be bound for Hell, but we'll send the enemy there to welcome us."

"And we are right happy you do that, sir." Burns smiled. "Will you be taking these?"

"Yes." Owen handed back the nib. "Reckon the bill, please."