Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"But…" Owen frowned. Du Malphias had to be north and perhaps even west of them.

Msitazi held up a hand. "This man has the wiles of a fox. He has anchored his magick far away to deceive. Were you to track him by the ring, you would face disaster."

Nathaniel sat back. "I reckon then we're gonna be a-hunting him regular."

"Yes, of course, but we need to send the ring and the journal back to Prince Vlad."

Msitazi smiled. "I shall see to this, in honor of what you have done for the Altashee, Captain Strake. And tonight you will sleep over there, near the fire. It is a position of honor."

"You are most kind, Chief Msitazi."

The Chief's smile broadened. "I will send one of my daughters to sleep with you."

"Thank you, but I am married."

Nathaniel laughed. "Just to keep you warm, Captain."

"I think I will be fine, Mr. Woods. I have my blanket and my wool coat."

Msitazi nodded very solemnly. "That is a very fine coat. Very colorful. I like your coat."

"Thank you."

"I like your coat very much."

Owen was about to repeat his thanks, when Nathaniel kicked him in the shin. "What was that for?"

Nathaniel lowered his voice. "Give him the coat."

"What?" Owen leaned in toward him. "I can't. It's my uniform. I am on a mission. If I am caught on Tharyngian territory out of uniform, I shall be shot for a spy."

"You already been done shot at on account of that coat, Captain. Give him your coat."

Owen shot a sidelong glance at the elder Altashee. He smiled back.

"It would be an honor, Chief Msitazi, for you to have my coat."

The Altashee clapped his hands and a young woman went to fetch the coat. She returned quickly and presented it to Owen. He, in turn, handed it to Msitazi, who immediately pulled it on.

Though about as broad of shoulder as Owen, the Altashee had a bit of a belly, so the coat fit awkwardly. Still, Msitazi smiled widely, happily toying with the brass buttons and running his fingers along the gold braid.

Owen handed across his hat as well, and the Chieftain clapped his hands. The Norillian officer could do nothing but smile. Not at the ridiculousness of a woodland savage dressing up in his uniform, but from the pure pleasure the man exhibited as he got up and strutted around. A couple of women deeper in the long house made comments, and Msitazi barked back at them, but they just laughed.

That little bit of byplay took Owen leagues away. He saw himself back in Launston, recounting his adventures before the Royal Geographical Society. Well-dressed men and handsomely draped women, all the cream of society, would titter and smile as he related this moment. They would feel superior, and yet, at the moment, Owen felt anything but.

And he found himself resenting his future audience's reaction.

Msitazi clung to the jacket's blue facings and smiled. "This is grand. You will wait here, Captain, for my return. You are a warrior, and I shall not let any of the Shedashee mistake you for anything less."

May 14, 1763

Saint Luke

Bounty, Mystria

O nce the door flap had settled back into place, Owen glanced over at Kamiskwa. "Was your father serious about having one of your sisters sleep with me?"

"His offer was quite sincere, Captain. You are a warrior. You have killed Ungarakii. You are a powerful visitor from afar. To do less would have been rude."

Nathaniel smiled. "And Msitazi is a cagey one. Iffen you did get a child on one of his daughters, that child would be very powerful in the ways of magick."

Owen scrubbed a hand over his face. "I am mindful of our previous discussion, but this is so alien…"

Kamiskwa patted Owen's shoulder. "Your rules suit your land, Captain. Ours are for our land. Respect is more honorable than understanding, and politeness soothes misunderstanding."

Before the discussion continued, Msitazi returned and seated himself again. He offered Owen a bag similar to the ones the others used. The flap and the bag had been embroidered and set with beads and bits of shell depicting a bear sharpening his claws on a tree.

"I would not have it said that Msitazi allowed a friend to go naked. In here you will find clothing and moccasins. I will tell you of this clothing. These are the clothes that I wore many years ago when I stole my first wife from the Lanatashee. I was not a craven warrior, one to steal into their camp and sneak away like the weasel. I went as a man. I walked to her and took her by the hand and led her to my home. Some came to oppose me, their greatest warriors amongst them, but none could wrest her hand from mine."

Owen brushed his hand over the bag's surface. "You honor me greatly, Msitazi, but these clothes should go to your son."

"My son needs none of my glory. He makes his own." Msitazi smiled. "He simply needs good friends, and in these clothes, so shall you be known."

Owen dressed in Msitazi's clothing. The leggings, moccasins, and tunic were all made of soft doeskin so pale it approached white. Another beadwork bear decorated the chest. Fringe lined the sleeves and leggings. The material felt very warm against his skin. Wearing it he felt even more a part of Mystria.

For the first time he had to wear a loincloth. It wasn't terribly hard to figure out how to make it fit. He used his own belt to secure it. He played with it until the tails hung evenly front and back. It pleased him that the linen cloth itself had a broad blue stripe down the middle, and red stripes at the edges, mirroring the front of his regimental coat.

His donning the clothes brought a change in how the Altashee treated him. Children stared, but more in wonder at the honor bestowed upon him than the unusual sight he'd been coming into their village. The same little girl who had run away screaming came and sat quietly next to him as he wrote in his journal, playing with two corn husk and rag dolls. Every so often she would look up and smile, clearly feeling safe in his presence.

Again the contrast with his own people struck him as odd. He recalled a grand ball that had been given for a dowager aunt who had reached the age of seventy. Though Owen had not been adopted by his stepfather, his presence was still required. He'd been fitted for a proper set of clothes and given a wig that had been expertly prepared and powdered. He'd even suffered through a couple of rudimentary dancing lessons. The dance master decided he was beyond hope and should beg off dancing for an imagined "wound from the war, any war, anywhere."

And despite his having served the Queen honorably in a number of conflicts, women stared and laughed at him behind their fans. Men came up and greeted him, dropping names and clearly making fun of him with their airs and insinuations. He played dumb, taking some pleasure in their being too stupid to understand he couldn't be as obtuse as they thought him and still have done his job. That, however, formed just a tiny silver lining to the cloud of his being an outsider.

And then Catherine appeared. Young and very pretty, she was just growing out of the coltish stage marking the transition from adolescence to womanhood. She wore her dark hair up, but had teased three ringlets loose. The fashion of the day dictated that only two should have been present, but she flouted convention.

She passed by him once, her brown eyes studying him above the lace edge of her fan. Then she returned in her pale yellow gown and snapped that fan shut in a gloved hand. "I hope you can save me, Lieutenant?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss…"

"Catherine Litton. My grandmother is your aunt's best friend. I have lived with her since my parents, missionaries, died of cholera in the Punjar."

"My sympathies at your loss, Miss Litton."

She leaned in, smelling sweetly of apple blossoms. "I shall need you to rescue me. They shall begin the dancing soon, and Percy Harlington has already vowed to kill any man who dances with me. It frightens me, so I would ask you to walk with me through the gardens to save me."