Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Owen chuckled. "Lord Rivendell saw no fighting. Those whom he later interviewed-including his son-spent time working with a rasp and then embellished their roles greatly."

"You've read it, then?"

"My wife insisted." Owen shivered. "Catherine could not bear to read it, but implored me to do so. She hoped I was mentioned. There was nothing of me in there, of course, though it did please her that Rivendell praised my uncle as if he were the very avatar of some ancient and terrible god of war."

"More of Rivendell's lies?"

Owen frowned. "No. When it comes to war, my uncle has a fearsome talent. What was written of him was likely the only truth in the whole book."

Bethany smiled and put an egg in her basket. "Is she nice, your wife?"

"Yes. We married in the spring before Villerupt. She lives at my grandfather's estate."

"And she chose not to come with you to Mystria?"

"She is not terribly adventurous, Miss."

"I had wanted to go to the Low Countries with Ira, but it would not have been proper, as we were not wed. Some of the other wives did go. My uncle met his wife there, in fact. She was widowed in battle. She nursed him back to health. I find it romantic, but do not say that in front of my mother."

"I shall heed your warning." Owen trailed after Bethany, wondering if he would have noticed her had she come with the Colonials. Likely not, though the way she moved through the market bespoke an energy that would have been welcome in the camp.

"Did Catherine go to the Continent?"

"Yes, but never to camp." Owen smiled. "She is rather delicate and enamored of dances and gowns. She eschews early morning walks because of dew and detests mud. She sometimes suffers from the vapors and to be setting up a tent during a downpour after a swampy march would lay her in the grave."

"Sounds like one of the Fairlee girls my uncle wishes to marry to Caleb." Bethany settled the small basket of eggs in his larger basket, then linked her arm in his. "It is time for us to return home."

Owen looked up and read the time from the clock on Government House. "It is, indeed. I will walk you back, then I have to meet Nathaniel Woods at the Stores Depot."

A shiver ran through Bethany.

"What is the matter?"

"I do not care for the man, Captain Strake. I know the Prince favors him, and he is the best guide in the colony, perhaps all the colonies, but that does not excuse his behavior."

"What behavior would that be?"

"I am not a gossip, sir."

Owen patted her hand. "I did not mean to suggest you were, Miss Frost. I apologize for any such implication. Will his behavior compromise my mission?"

"I shouldn't think so. Away from Temperance he should be better." Bethany frowned. "Little help, I know. And don't go asking my brother about him. Caleb all but worships him. But please do be careful."

"I will. I promise." Owen purposefully broadened his smile. "I'm sure my mission shall be as peaceful as this trip through the market, though the company will not be close to so delightful."

Owen found the disconcerted expression on Lieutenant Palmerston's face gratifying, though he wished he'd been the cause of it. Instead of that, he had Palmerston look to him for relief, with an amused Nathaniel Woods watching.

Palmerston held his hands up. "Captain Strake, I did as you asked. I gathered all your supplies and had them done up nice and complete." He pointed to a pile on one side of the depot floor. "But then this gentleman came in and he ruined everything."

Owen glanced at Woods, who was standing beside a much smaller pile. "I thought, sir, we were meeting here at half past two. Did I mistake the time?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "Seen you marketing with the Frost girl. Figured I'd come down here, see what was what."

Owen looked at the two piles. The larger one contained most everything from Owen's original list, including bolts of cloth, beads, other trade goods, some ironwork, some books, two casks of salted beef, two cases of biscuit, blankets, tack and saddles, and feed for horses.

The other pile looked tiny by comparison. Woods had pulled aside a single musket, a pistol, shot and brimstone, a sextant, a pouch with food, another with pre-rolled cartridges for the guns, a knife, a small ax, two canteens, a single blanket, and a backpack that could carry the extra shot as well as his journals, a small telescope, and a change of socks.

"Lieutenant Palmerston, would you excuse us for a moment?"

The Quartermaster quickly exited the building, closing the door behind him, but not all the way.

Owen completed the closing. "Mr. Woods, I appreciate your association with the Prince. You know your business. But, sir, I have a mission."

Woods leaned back against the wall. "You're to scout out where the Ryngians are and report back. And while you're at it, you'll make friends with the Twilight People and convince them to be fighting for the Queen when the war comes this way?"

Owen hesitated. "Did the Prince tell you that?"

"Ain't no need." Woods slowly shook his head. "Norillians been trying to do that thing since my pap was a boy. Now you're thinking them blankets and that cloth will be a way to buy some good will, ain'tcha?"

"You suggest it won't, sir?"

"Well, now, ever hear of Major Hopkins?"

"Afraid not."

"Tain't much of a surprise. Thirty years ago, Major Hopkins brought the Twilight People blankets tainted with the Blood Pox. Thought the Altashee would just wrap themselves up and die. Didn't happen."

"I was unaware of that."

"Not many are. Know why his plan didn't work?"

"No."

Woods' eyes tightened. "The Altashee ain't idiots. The men bringing the blankets all had pox scars. The Altashee sussed out what was going on. They got them some powerful medicine magicks. You tote them blankets and they'll figure you're out to kill 'em."

Owen shook his head. "They stay, then. The Twilight People, they still trade for cloth, yes?"

"Some. From a post where the cloth has been sitting around for six months or more, and where whites buy it and wear it."

"The horse fodder?"

"Don't need feed for horses we ain't gonna have."

"I see." Owen looked from one pile to another. He had a choice to make. He could demand that Woods justify every exclusion, or he could ask why he'd selected the things in the small pile. The latter course would be more productive, though he itched to go through the former. It was his expedition, after all.

Or is it?

"How many rounds for each weapon?"

"Two hundred and a half for your long gun; a hundred for the pistol and seven firestones total."

Dust motes danced in the light illuminating the small pile. "That's twice as many firestones as needed."

Woods shook his head. "You ever actually put a hundred shots through a firestone?"

Owen frowned. "More. They were army stones like these and rated for a hundred shots."

"Out here we reckon the man making firestones has a brother in that there Parliament what sends him work. Got paid good for 'em, but he's a long ways away. If one of them shatters after ten or fifteen or fifty shots, you ain't gonna survive long enough to be a-complaining to him."

"You've made your point."

"Out there ain't no Fire Wardens for to sell us a spare firestone or three. The rule is 'a pinch more powder and keep your stone bright.' That'll put your shot where you want it."

"Since you have rejected the foodstuffs, shall I assume we will be living off the land?"

"You can't imagine the bounty out there, Captain." Woods smiled and his gaze became distant. "You'll be glad you don't have weevil biscuits and sour beef. What we can't kill or pick, we'll trade for. We'll even get you some better clothes."

"I think not, sir." Owen held his head up. "I am an officer of Her Majesty's Army. I shall wear my uniform proudly."