Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Owen laughed. "A cripple, dangerous?"

"Your legs are broken, not your mind." The Tharyngian snapped a telescope open. "Would you like a closer look at anything to refine your calculations?"

"I have no idea…"

"Captain Strake, do not insult my intelligence. If you were stupid, you would not have been given the job of finding me. You are a spy, yes, but perhaps also an assassin. I should fashion for you gauntlets. An iron mask, perhaps? How much magick can you use, Captain?"

Owen held up his shackled wrists. "Now, none. Without, read my nails if you wish an answer."

"You could read mine, monsieur, and learn nothing of my skill or power."

"But…"

Du Malphias laughed. "Smart, yet unworldly. What do you truly know of magick?"

"Few can do it, fewer can do it well. Blood is exacted for using magick. It is God's Gift, to be used in his service."

Du Malphias held up unblemished hands. "Enough. What you understand of magick is what a dog understands of thunder. It is enough to make you hide under a bed. You are a child, because your masters wish for you to be a child."

"And you know better?"

"Oh, I do. You were taught that magick was outlawed by the Remian Empire. This is the reason they exterminated Norisle's Druids. Did you know that the Remians believed your Savior to be a magician? Consider the stories of his miracles. Are they not the tales of the greatest magick the world has ever seen? And were not his disciples who displayed similar gifts also martyred?"

"Yes, but…"

The Laureate waggled a finger. "No objections. You would protest that to call your Lord a magician is to slander him, but consider two things. First, who is it who has told you, down through the ages, that to be a magician is bad, only to have them reverse that course when they realized they needed magicians to fill their armies and fire their cannon and guns? And, second, how is it that the Remian Emperors, who sought and wielded power with skill or abandon, would destroy magicians when, as their history proved, they were more willing to absorb conquered people and use them as part of their Legions?"

"You are trying to suggest that the crowned heads and the Church itself have suppressed magick while secretly hoarding it?"

"No suggestion, monsieur." Du Malphias shook his head. "Do you not find it curious that, with the advent of cannon and gun, all these noble houses were able, in a single generation, to suddenly manifest an ability to work magick? Let us assume you are a five. You would be powerful. Most troops in the ranks are twos, perhaps threes. Two volleys, then it is 'fix bayonets,' yes? And yet these nobles, they are, a six or a seven? Perhaps much more."

Owen shook his head. "That requires a conspiracy of silence lasting centuries. Someone would have confessed."

"Yes, but the Church, you must remember, found it very convenient to draw clergymen from the ranks of the nobility. A religion of magicians who control the common people. They direct witch hunts to destroy the powerful and disruptive. An upstart noble is declared a heretic or diabolist; is shunned, disbelieved, and killed. They have a perfect system using hatred and fear to enforce their rule. They would have maintained it forever, save for two things."

The Laureate clasped his hands behind his back. "The need for soldiers meant that they had to mitigate the sinfulness of magick. This gave people pride in their abilities. This is why, when we overthrew king and church, we had the mass support. Science had succeeded where a mad king had not. We made magick a science. No shame, only truth. And, in case you doubt me, let me assure you that hidden in the archives in Feris are ample documents-correspondence, confessions, and more-that verify this conspiracy. Had King Anselm not gone completely mad and broken with the Church, their united front would have concealed the conspiracy for good. In fact, there are those Laureates who believe we need to perpetuate it, saying the people of the world are not yet ready to understand."

"Hence your exile?"

"One reason among many, and all inconsequential." Du Malphias smiled quickly. "The second point is that every Old World power saw fit to ship their malcontents here. What they failed to consider was that many of them-perhaps even a majority-were able to work magicks. Being of the underclasses, or uneducated, they still lived in fear of witch hunts. And, quite by accident, Mystria has become a place where mages have bred with mages. You have seen what this does for the natives."

Owen nodded slowly. "Many of the redemptioneers were cursed."

"Now they are Auropa's bane. The governments so fear that the secrets of magick will be shared with common people, they dare not let anyone with knowledge of advanced magick come here. Still, there are other conspiracies that see the value in sharing the secrets. I do not know if they will be enough to counter the forces which wish to continue the people's suppression."

"You were allowed to come."

"They could not stop me from coming. It is a difference, a significant difference."

Echoes of Nathaniel's words thundered in Owen's head. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "You will forgive me, monsieur, but this makes my head hurt. I should rest."

Du Malphias nodded. "Of course, but I would have you indulge me for just a moment longer, please."

"Yes?"

"A different subject." The Laureate opened his arms. "You have studied my fortress. You are an intelligent man. How will your armies take it?"

Owen jerked a thumb to his right. "They will come from the north. That is the clearest line of attack. This is the way they will take this fortress of death."

" La Fortresse du Morte. Clever, but overwrought. Only an idiot would use it. I do appreciate, however, that you mean title in two ways." Du Malphias chuckled politely. "From the north, yes, rather obviously. I do plan additional construction. We will counter-tunnel, of course. But the north wall is not the weakest spot of my fortress, is it?"

"No. It's the high fort overlooking the lake. If we build a ship, load cannon on it, and float it out there, it can blast that wall into splinters. A concerted push by attacking troops-and suddenly we have the high ground. It will still be bloody, but this fort can be taken."

"Very good, monsieur. I do not disagree with your assessment." Du Malphias shrugged. "I also believe you have not been wholly forthcoming."

"I assure you…"

"Yes, yes, you will give me your word as an officer. Need we play this game again?"

Owen shook his head, hair rising on his arms. In an instant, he took a step forward, then swung his crutch at du Malphias.

The Laureate's eyes shrank to bare slits. His left hand came up, blocking the crutch with a puff of mist. His right hand thrust forward, palm out. A flash, some heat, more mist. Owen couldn't breathe. He flew back past Quarante-neuf, sprawling in the dirt. His breastbone throbbed.

"Fetch him to his cell. Strap him down."

"As you desire, monsieur."

Owen rubbed his chest. It ached. Something had cracked. He coughed, igniting more pain, then struggled ineffectually against Quarante-neuf's grasp.

Du Malphias shook his head. "Yes, I shall be extracting information from you, Captain Strake. But you did not listen to me. You expected torture. You shall have it. You have earned it. I shall enjoy it. But, know this: I have other means that would have proved just as effective, and would have saved you great pain."

Owen nodded, believing.

After all, in blocking the crutch and knocking Owen down, du Malphias had never actually touched him or the stick. Whatever he had done, it involved magick Owen had never seen before and had no immediate interest in ever seeing again.