Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Others, in various states of decay, functioned as beasts of burden. Du Malphias referred to them as his little "ants," capable of shifting mountains one tiny piece at a time. When one of the beasts became broken, du Malphias or a couple of the higher-functioning pasmortes like Quarante-neuf, would affect a repair via magick deep in the bowels of the fortress.

The ability of a pasmorte to use magick shocked Owen, but it made sense. They had become creatures of magick themselves, and the magicks they used were rather elementary. Just as Kamiskwa and Makepeace had repaired the canoes, so magick could reattach a severed arm, or strengthen a broken bone.

Du Malphias came walking down the path from the upper fort. "Good morning, Captain Strake. How are you feeling?"

"Pain is a three on your scale in my left leg, two in the right. Discomfort, but nothing insurmountable."

"Excellent." The Tharyngian frowned. "I regret the necessity of this. Come with me to the smith."

"Sir?"

"I cannot have you getting up to mischief."

Owen held his head up. "I pledge to you, sir, as an officer and a gentleman, that I have no intention of doing anything of that sort."

The slender man's grey eyes tightened. "You understand, sir, that you stand before me a spy whose life is under immediate threat of extinction. Please accept the honor I do you in treating you like a dangerous foe. I have determined that iron shackles will not impede your recovery, therefore this prudent precaution is one that must be employed now. Quarante-neuf, if he does not follow me, drag him."

Quarante-neuf took a step forward, but Owen started after du Malphias. "Please, sir, not so fast."

The Tharyngian glanced back, then slowed his pace.

"Thank you." Owen caught up with. "I have wanted to ask, sir, after my compatriot. How does he fare?"

"He perished. Sepsis. Everything I tried, failed."

Owen's stomach imploded. Not Makepeace! He scanned the lines of pasmortes. "Did you…?"

Du Malphias waved the question aside. "The infection did significant damage to his spine and brain. He was of no use to me."

"I should like to pay my respects."

"I imagine." Du Malphias pointed at a stool next to the smith's anvil. "It pleased me, however, to give him a Viking funeral. I laid him and his equipment in a canoe, lit it afire, and sent it sailing into the lake. The current caught it. His ashes will have washed down the Roaring River and into the Misaawa. On his last journey he shall see more of this continent than he did in life."

The smith, a burly man who wore a leather apron to protect a hirsute chest, took a pair of shackles from a burlap sack. He slid one on to Owen's right wrist, allowing the tabs from the upper and lower halves to stick through a thick, leather sheet. He wrapped the sheet around Owen's forearm, then drew a glowing red bolt of bronze from the fire. With tongs he slid it through the holes in the tabs, then hammered it flat against the anvil.

Sparks flew and the metal quickly grew hot. Hairs on Owen's arm melted into a sickly sweet smoke. The smith pulled the leather away, then yanked Owen forward, dunking his arm to the elbow in a water trough. The bolt bubbled, and steam rose.

Once the bubbling had stopped, he raised the wrist and showed it to du Malphias. The Laureate, who had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, nodded. "Proceed."

The smith repeated the process with the other hand. Du Malphias studied the results. "We will try your native infusion on those burns, Captain."

"Most kind, sir." Owen smiled despite the throbbing burns.

"Almost done." From a pocket du Malphias drew a sharp metal stylus. He caught up each of Owen's hands in turn and inscribed an oddly angular series of symbols on the head of the bronze bolts. The Laureate then produced two brown leather bracers bearing a great resemblance to clerks'-sleeves. "You will wear these at all times over your shackles until directed to remove them. I would not have Quarante-neuf come to harm."

It made sense. The iron shackles restricted Owen's ability to use magick and especially fire a gun. The touch of iron or steel so disrupted magick that, in olden days, the inability to hold an iron nail for any length of time was enough to convict a person of being a warlock.

All of a sudden the mystery of the glove on Pierre Ilsavont's left hand became clear. He'd been given a left-handed glove because he had to grip the iron musket barrel to reload. For creatures like Quarante-neuf, iron could disrupt that which gave them a semblance of life.

Owen accepted the leather sleeves, pulled them on and secured them with buckles and belts at wrist and forearm. Du Malphias inspected his work and smiled.

"Very good, Captain Strake." The Laureate turned and spread his arms. "Though you would give me your word that you would be on your best behavior, I cannot grant you freedom of my camp. You are a most intelligent man…"

"You're afraid I'll learn something that will hurt you?"

Du Malphias looked at him incredulous, then laughed aloud. "Oh, dear me, no, monsieur. If I considered you that dangerous, I should have had you taken to pieces and used those pieces to repair my faithful servants. No, you will seek to learn much and you will exhaust yourself. Truly. You are barely able to work your crutches, and already you think of taking flight. I know this."

Owen half-closed his emerald eyes. "If I complain that you impugn my honor, you will point out, yet again, I am a spy and, therefore, untrustworthy."

"I believe we understand each other."

"Then why keep me alive?" Owen glanced down at his legs. "You surely have learned enough."

"An abundance of data is never a vice when it comes to science, Captain Strake." Du Malphias shrugged. "But this is not the only reason I keep you alive. Shall I be honest with you?"

"If you like."

"I have been given the resources to build all this. You've seen that to get a ship past my wall would be difficult and that is supposing the ship had gotten past Fort Cuivre and the other fortresses from here to the sea. Possible, but highly unlikely."

The Tharyngian turned and pointed toward the east. "The most intelligent plan for Norisle would be to make a fort of its own over there, at the Tillie headwaters. This would hold me back and protect your colonies. It would also accept, de facto, a division of the Continent, which traps you on the coast and leaves us free to exploit the interior."

Owen nodded.

"But neither your masters nor mine can abide that sort of division. My enemies are hoping that your country will raise an army that destroys this fortress and kills me. This would mean that Norisle would divert forces that otherwise would be used to attack Tharyngia. An admirable goal."

"And your goal, sir?"

Du Malphias chuckled again. "There, I told you that you were intelligent. It occurs to me that if Norisle is unable to project enough force to protect the interior of Mystria, and because I know Tharyngia is completely unable to do the same, the vast heart of this continent is open for the taking. There is no reason I should not take it and, with my magicks, no power in the world that can wrest it from me once I have."

August 16, 1763

Tanner and Hound, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

N athaniel found Caleb Frost at the Tanner and Hound. The young man's surprise became delight. He rose from his table and shook Nathaniel's hand. Nathaniel could not but help return so broad a smile, even though he felt anything but joyous.

Caleb made room for him on the bench. "So Strake lasted a bit longer out there, did he? I made five shillings betting you'd keep him out for a month. Let me buy you a pint."

Nathaniel shook his head. "Tain't really a time for drinking. Not yet anyway. Ain't ale going to help."