Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Vlad stared at the model, wishing that Bumble's God would decide to smite the real fortress. "It would certainly be convenient."

"What would be convenient, my lord?"

Her soft voice surprised him because of the hushed reverence and maturity in it. She had slipped through the door easily enough, being smaller than the average Teutonic woman. She wore her blonde hair long and loose. It had the warmth and glow of honey. Freckles distributed themselves playfully over a face that was a bit wider than Vlad expected, but her dark blue eyes were full of intelligence and curiosity. She wore a simple dress of local manufacture, quite modest and yet fetching upon her.

Vlad stepped to the side and bowed deeply. "Highness, you honor me."

She curtsied. "You did not hear me knock, Highness?"

Vlad glanced past her. "No, I fear…"

She shook her head, an insuppressible smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I have been told you are a man of great deliberation and concentration. Now I see it first hand. This pleases me, to know that unobserved you are as when you are observed."

Vlad looked at her curiously, his pulse quickening. "Thank you. I am as you see me, though usually not attired thusly."

"My lord looks very good in those clothes."

Vlad half-closed his eyes. "Please tell your tutors they have schooled you well."

"What do you mean?" Her brows arrowed up, not down.

Normally that question would have been asked in an offended tone but hers suggested consternation. "I mean that you are well schooled in the art of flattery, but I am not so much of a fool as to imagine that a girl like you could find me in the least attractive. We both understand this will be a diplomatic marriage."

She glanced down. "Is this how you see it?"

Vlad rubbed his chin. "Have I misjudged you?"

"I should think, my lord, that a man of your intelligence, one who reveres the scientific method, would consider more of an investigation before drawing a conclusion." Gisella's head came up. "If I believed this to be a marriage of convenience only, what reason would I have for any deception? Our fate is quite out of our hands. We would be wed, I would give you children, and everyone save ourselves would be satisfied."

Vlad nodded slowly. "You have a point, but this is still little from which to reach a conclusion."

She clasped her hands behind her back. "Count Joachim said you did not ask after me and, instead, wished him to observe you for me. He has, and has laughed much in reporting to me. He said that we could not have been better matched were we shaped by artisans for that purpose.

"You might ask why I was chosen for you. I have older sisters who could have been sent." Vlad slowly smiled. She has no trouble speaking her mind. "Why you then?"

"To be rid of me." She turned and peered closely at the caged raven. "I have never had much tolerance for the court and nobles who have the intelligence bred out of them. I find stories of valor and courage boring. I find more beauty in a butterfly's wing than in all the world's jewelry. Neither my father nor any of his court can tolerate my asking 'why?' I much prefer reading to needlepoint or other female arts."

"And what do you read?"

She smiled, flashing even white teeth. "Norillian, Kessian, high and low, Remian, Archelian, and I even convinced my Norillian tutor to teach me Ryngian. I do not know your mother's native tongue, but I should wish to learn it."

"Very good on the languages. Subjects, girl."

Her eyes brightened. "The classics, of course, philosophy and science. I have read the Bible and will admit to being quite a reader of travelogues. I have long wanted to visit Mystria."

Vlad nodded, then opened his arms. "And what do you think of my laboratory?"

Gisella smiled. "It needs dusting."

He raised an eyebrow.

"And I should love to spend hours here studying everything, if my lord would permit it."

Vlad smiled. "I do believe, Princess Gisella, this could be arranged."

September 1, 1763

Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

o wen awoke with a start, clutching his blankets tighter. He shivered, cold air finding him through both. A draft poured into his cell beneath the wooden door, flooding the dark room.

He rolled onto his side and drew his legs up. They protested, less from the wounds than those other things du Malphias had proved he could do. The man had studied enough anatomy to have charted nerve paths. A touch here, a caress there, and it felt as if he was scourging Owen's flesh. He body reacted, yet the flesh remained untorn and unbruised.

And it wasn't always a touch. As he had done in stopping the crutch, du Malphias was able to use magick at a distance. Owen didn't know how, and had been in too much pain to make any serious observations, but du Malphias had been able to affect him from at least a yard away. Perhaps more.

Owen groaned, his breastbone still aching.

Quarante-neuf loomed out of the shadows. He draped a heavy piece of canvas over Owen. "This may help."

Owen shook his head. "I need to move. If I lay here I shall die."

He threw back the covers and sat up. He wrapped a blanket around himself. He reached a hand out and Quarante-neuf took it, easing him to his feet. Owen chuckled.

The pasmorte cocked his head. "What amuses you, sir?"

"You're dead and yet your flesh is warmer than mine? How is that?"

"I do not know, sir."

Owen slowly straightened, his spine popping as he did so. "Did he give you vivalius recently?"

"I do not require it as often as the others."

That made sense. As nearly as Owen could determine, the pasmortes in the most advanced states of decay needed the most. To heal Owen's wounds, du Malphias employed mere droplets. He'd watched ragged collections of flesh and bones bathe in it. He had no idea if it warmed their flesh, but it did vitalize them.

Owen took a step, then another. In another demonstration of power, du Malphias hobbled him by magick. If Owen tried to take a full stride, pain shot up his hamstring, over his rump, and into his back. It hurt worse than being shot. Sometimes it left him breathless.

He forced himself to ignore the pain.

Owen clutched at Quarante-neuf's shoulder when his left leg buckled. The pasmorte caught him. "You must be careful, sir."

"I have a duty to escape."

"But, Captain Strake, the Laureate will have you killed if you defy him."

"I think, my friend, if I shall end up dead, I should like to die a man."

The pasmorte walked with him, supporting him. "You called me 'friend.'"

"You keep me alive." Owen looked up at him. "Your service is compelled. You are not my enemy."

"No."

Owen smiled. "I know, from your voice, you are Mystrian."

The pasmorte shook his head. "I do not recall."

Owen would have taken that as a blanket dismissal, but the words trailed off ruefully. Over the time he had been in Quarante-neuf's care, Owen had noticed subtle changes. Pierre Ilsavont, according to his son, had memories of his previous life. Quarante-neuf might have some as well. He might be hiding that information for a variety of reasons. Do the dead desire privacy?

"Please remember this, then: You are my friend. I cannot thank you enough for helping me, no matter what comes."

"You are welcome, sir."

They continued walking around the cell. Owen hissed when the pain spiked. Quarante-neuf would pause, ready to catch him. Owen leaned on him when his legs quivered so violently that he wasn't sure if he could take another step. Then he would push on.

Quarante-neuf nodded encouragingly. "You must continue. She is waiting for you, your wife."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "How did you…?"

"You spoke her name in your sleep."