Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"Your clothes ain't going to last."

"It really doesn't matter, Mr. Woods." Owen kept his voice firm. "This mission will take us into enemy territory. If I travel out of uniform and were captured, I would be hung as a spy. I am not a spy. I shall not comport myself as one."

Woods had been grinning as if he was going to laugh, but his expression sobered quickly enough. "You're set on that?"

"I am, sir."

"The matter is closed. I respect your conviction, sir." Woods shook his head. "Not sure I understand it, but I 'spect that's a piece of civilization I'm not meant to be comprehending. Will you be adding anything else to your kit?"

"I have a few personal effects. Journals. Pens." Owen thought, then shook his head. "Unless you think there is something else. I am sure there will be room in my pack."

Woods nodded. "I reckon we're covered."

"And Mr. Woods…"

"Yes, Captain Strake?"

"This is my expedition, isn't it?"

"It's all yours, sir." Woods gave him a tiny salute. "I'm just along so's you can find your way to the end of it."

May 1, 1763

St. Martin's Cathedral, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O wen found himself with the luxury of a couple of hours before the grand Sunday dinner Mrs. Frost had promised earlier in the week. Owen had joined the family at services. Bishop Othniel Bumble had held forth in a fiery sermon about duty to the Crown. After the service, the Frosts invited the Bishop, his family, and his aid, Reverend Benjamin Beecher to join them for dinner.

Owen occupied himself by organizing his journals. He decided one would be a workbook for notes and sketches while traveling. The second would be the mission journal. He would copy and organize things from the workbook to guarantee the information's accuracy.

While this was his intent, in sitting down to practice with his metal nibs, he realized his plan would not work. The workbook observations about Mystria expanded beyond their original scope. He found himself evaluating the people and their customs. Commentary required context, so his writing became voluminous.

He found himself motivated, in part, by Lord Rivendell's book. That Rivendell's tome could be taken as the definitive account of Villerupt revolted him. He wanted his impressions of Mystria to educate readers about the people and their true courage.

This created problems. The assault, for example, did not paint a pretty picture of Mystrian behavior. Owen chose to write things down as plainly as he could. He hoped that his portraits of the Frosts and even Nathaniel Woods would balance any negative impressions gleaned from the actions of people like the Branches.

Owen had filled several pages with an even hand when one of the younger Frosts tapped on his door. Owen pulled on the plain coat he'd worn to church and descended. The dining table had been set up in the kitchen yard, on a green lawn.

The rotund Bishop Bumble regarded him with a flash of displeasure before a smile lit his ruddy face to the point of buffoonery. He threw his arms wide and waddled forward. "So good to see you again, Captain Strake. May I present to you my wife, Livinia, and my niece, Lilith."

Livinia Bumble suffered in comparison to her husband and Mrs. Frost, being slight of frame and colorless to the point of appearing gray. She did make an effort at smiling, but it exhausted her. Owen would have taken her to be entirely timid, but her blue eyes remained sharp and seemed to miss nothing.

Owen bowed and kissed her proffered hand, then smiled at the other member of the Bumble party. Lilith was everything her aunt was not. Tall and flame-haired, the young woman smiled dazzlingly, fully aware of the effect. Though she wore a gown styled as simply as her aunt's, and cut from the same cloth, her bright blue eyes and the spray of freckles across her cheeks rescued her from being drab.

Lilith curtsied as Owen took her hand. "You honor me, Captain Strake."

Owen kissed it, then straightened. "My pleasure, Miss Bumble."

He then offered his hand to the fourth member of the Bumble party. "Good to see you again, Reverend Beecher."

Beecher, who looked a match for Livinia save for being taller, nodded curtly. "I see you fare better on land than on the sea."

"Which is why I serve in Her Majesty's Army and not the Royal Navy." Owen shook the man's hand firmly, resisting the temptation to crush it. Beecher had not been unkind on the ship. More than once he'd joined Owen at the heads, vomiting over the side.

Mrs. Frost called them all to dinner. The Bishop sat at Dr. Frost's right hand, in the space Caleb would have occupied had he been present. Owen sat on the left, with Lilith at his side and Bethany opposite her. Beecher sat at Bethany's right. The children ranged between the young adults and the end of the table where the two matriarchs sat.

The meal consisted of three courses. It began with a fish chowder containing maize and potatoes in a milk broth. Onions and pepper had been added, the latter in a profligate quantity. Owen's throat closed with the first spoonful, but eased after a little wine.

The Bishop noticed. "You will find, Captain, that spices are not as dear here as they are in Norisle. We tend to demonstrate our fortune with their overuse."

Doctor Frost snorted. "And we drink very expensive wine to wash spice away."

"Praise God you can afford it, yes, Archibald."

"Quite, Othniel. To your health, Captain."

A steaming haunch of beef came next. Doctor Frost carved, offering a small lecture on the primacy of red meat as he cut. The Bishop got the King's cut, but the slice that ended up on Owen's plate nearly matched it. The cuts got progressively smaller, save for the last two, which went to Hettie and Livinia.

Bowls brimming with green beans and squash circulated. Never having had the latter, Owen watched how much others took. Butter and more pepper had been used in the squash, so when it came his turn, he served himself a conservative portion. His first taste, however, pleased him so much he kept an eye on the bowl in case there was any left over.

Conversation remained light during the meal. Owen had once been told that a gentleman "is neither a bore nor seated next to one at dinner." Doctor Frost's comments ranged on subjects far and wide, while Lilith remained coquettish and flattering. Owen did his best to cope with each, offering a couple of stories of his time fighting on the Continent. For the most part, however, he kept quiet.

This was not entirely out of manners. Bethany, though she smiled at both men on either side of her, did not appear to be her lively self. From what Owen could overhear, Beecher's attempts at conversation consisted of repeating selections from the great sermons. His delivery would have taxed the patience of a stone.

Bishop Bumble did not speak much to Bethany, save for a few mumbled comments during Owen's tales. Bethany reacted stiffly to the comments. Color drained from her face and she chewed mechanically for a time after that. Though she recovered enough to laugh politely at Owen's stories, Bumble clearly had upset her.

To the delight of the children, a pudding with berries and raisins finished the meal. They were served first, then the women excused themselves and herded the youngsters away. Beecher slid down into Bethany's chair-uttering a sigh Owen would have preferred not to have heard.

Doctor Frost poured a small cut-crystal glass of sherry for each man, then hoisted his in the air. "To the Queen's health."

Owen quaffed the sweet wine. It burned all the way down, but gently, at least to his throat. Beecher appeared to have more difficulty with it, much to the silent amusement of the two older gentlemen.

The Bishop refilled their glasses, then set the bottle in the center of the table. "Captain Strake, I would ask you a question."