Michael Stackpole: At the Queen_s command

But men were not numbers even though casualty lists suggested otherwise. Numbers do not scream. They do not cry out for their mothers. Owen shivered. Numbers do not beg to die.

Captain Tar broke through his thoughts. "It occurs to me, Captain, that men like Wattling want to believe they understand the reality of war."

"That is the folly of many men."

"Can anyone understand battle if they have not been there? I've not seen much fighting-fended off a pirate or two-but holding a Mate so the doctor can saw his leg off stays with a man."

Owen straightened up. "Wattling was partly right. Soldiers and sailors, we choose our lot. Seeing a weeping man staggering beneath the weight of his wife's headless body makes you wonder what war would do to Temperance."

Tar turned toward their destination. "It's a long way between New Tharyngia and Temperance Bay."

"Let's just hope it stays that way." Owen gave the man a smile. "And if my mission is successful, it will."

April 27, 1763

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O wen Strake disembarked from the Coronet once the longboats had pulled it to the dock. His papers had been sent ahead with the Harbormaster, bound for Her Majesty's military headquarters. The Prince's Life Guards had been stationed in Temperance, in deference to Prince Vladimir's presence as Colonial Governor-General. The Guards had earned their assignment as a result of their failures fighting the Tharyngians-and hated it.

Though happy to be off the ship, reorienting himself to walking on solid ground presented challenges. Owen stumbled a bit, clearly appearing drunk to a pair of women who hurried out of his sight. Their long, somber grey clothing along with the disgust on their faces suggested they were of the Virtuan sect, which had founded both the Temperance Bay and larger Bounty colonies. While more liberal individuals had flooded Temperance in the pursuit of commerce, the Virtuan influence could be seen in a singular lack of visible public houses or bawdy houses near the wharves.

Both existed in Temperance. The Virtuans had gathered them in the South End, on the other shore of the Benjamin River-swampy land that festered with noxious vapors and biting midges. He had to admire the Virtuans' pragmatic nature. They could not prevent men from indulging in vices, so they guaranteed that torment for sinfulness began at the moment of indulgence.

Likewise their practicality showed in the way the city had been laid out. The hills made a grid impractical, so they began with a hub at the wharves and sent seven spoke roads radiating out. Arcing roads cut across the hills and, further out, new spoke roads kept the space between blocks somewhat uniform. Six bridges crossed the Benjamin, which was one more than the city needed now, and three more than when founded.

Owen enquired of the Harbormaster where the Guards were located and set off on Fortitude Street. He worked his way up the gentle slope, then cut south on Generosity. Shortly, on the left, he found the headquarters. It appeared as nothing more than a house with a small sign in the narrow front yard. Save for the sign, and two Guards standing either side of the door, he could have walked past it without a clue as to its purpose.

The guards, in their red coats with buff facing, and tall, bearskin hats, neither saluted nor seemed to notice Owen at all. He entered and reported to a Sergeant Major sitting in what should have been a parlor. The man bade him wait, then slipped down the hall to another room.

Owen looked about, feeling uneasy. The room had wainscoting, a chair rail and plaster over lathe to finish it, yet had an incomplete quality. Soot from the stone fireplace stained the whitewashed wall, but that was hardly unusual.

Then it struck him. His wife would have caught it immediately. The room is utterly devoid of decoration. Back home in Norisle some cherished treasures would have a place of honor on the mantle. A picture of the Queen would have hung on a wall. Other pictures, or a shelf with books, or even a carving on a wooden panel would provide some character. A flag, a hanging of some sort, something to add color at the very least.

It is terribly sterile. He wasn't sure if this was an artifact of Virtuan influence or that Colonel Langford was one of those humorless men who believed that Saturday floggings and Sunday services were the keys to maintaining a ready fighting force. Were that true, however, there should have been at least one wooden cross to display allegiance with the Church of Norisle.

The Sergeant Major returned and conducted him to Colonel Langford's office. He announced Owen, then retreated, pulling the door closed behind him.

Owen saluted and the man returned it half-heartedly, never even looking up from his desk. Unlike the bare receiving room, the office was jammed with shelves bowed beneath the weight of books. Papers rose in piles on the desk, held down by a powder horn, two odd skulls, and several stone implements Owen could not identify.

"Sit please, Captain." Langford pointed with the end of the quill, then went on to scratch another line into a ledger. The man's powdered wig rested on a stand on a table by the window. His bald pate was beaded with sweat, and grime soiled his jacket's cuffs.

Owen did as he was bid. "Have you, sir, had a chance-"

Langford hissed at him, looked up for a heartbeat, then scribbled another line. He then sighed and dipped his pen again before sitting back. The man's glasses magnified his tired blue eyes and the bags beneath them.

"I have read your orders, sir. The Home Offices and Foreign Bureau have no understanding of Mystria." Langford made another note and smirked. "I do not like having you here, sir. The wars on the Continent are not something we wish to have spilling over here."

"Colonel…"

The quill flicked Owen to silence. "No, sir, I shall hear none of it. You will follow orders and report home. Let that be the end of this foolishness."

Owen frowned. "I do not understand, sir, your ire."

"I do not expect you do, Captain, nor will you."

"I believe, sir, your perspective in this matter would be helpful to my mission's success."

"Success, Captain? You are as much a fool as those who sent you." Langford set his quill down, then closed the inkpot's metal lid. "Let me put it simply. We have forty thousand troops ready for this summer's campaigning on the Continent. They will fight in an area that comprises roughly one tenth of the Crown Colonies-an area that has roads, has been settled for centuries, and is so close to Norisle that children could construct a raft that could easily make the journey. By contrast, it took you seven weeks to get here-and a swift crossing that was. We have three thousand regular troops on this side of the ocean, and can raise twice that in militia. Even if we were to do that, the lack of roads or any other sort of transport means attacking New Tharyngia is impossible. A campaign would also require us to deal with the Nations of Twilight People who inhabit the wilderness. Impossible."

Langford pointed toward the northeast. "You, sir, will be heading into a trackless green Hell populated with infernal beasts and people, and all for naught."

"These are my orders, sir."

Langford snorted. "You are not the first they've sent. Sensible men have remained here and hired accounts written by others. Follow their example, sir."

Owen stood and enjoyed Langford's little fright as Owen loomed over his superior. "I shall assume, sir, this suggestion is a test to see if I will follow orders; and suitable disciplinary actions would have been taken if I agreed to it."

Langford's hand started toward his quill, then he thought better of it. "Yes, a test. Very good, Captain, you passed. Cannot be too careful."