Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Fear jolted Owen. He turned to run. Pain ripped up the back of his legs. He cried out, slipping, dropping to a knee. He scrambled to get up again, more pain drilling into him.

Du Malphias laughed.

I will not give him the satisfaction! Owen heaved himself up and clawed at the ground. No giving up. No losing!

On came the pasmortes. As sluggish as they had been hauling on the rope, they picked up speed. One had an eye hanging by the stalk, bouncing off a cheek that was mostly bone. What was left of the other's tongue waggled out of its mouth.

Owen twisted around to keep an eye on them. He shuffled sideways up the hill. Pain continued with each step, but if he locked his knees, it didn't hurt as much. Teetering and tottering, he hopped along sideways. He dug at the ground with his hands, dirt impacting under his nails. One foot slipped. He almost fell, but he kept going. Pushing off with the other foot, he whipped his body around, dragging the recalcitrant leg.

Twenty yards. Ten. Owen kept on, gaining ground with his arms more than legs. The sharpened iron nails dug into his forearms. He ignored that pain and kept scrambling uphill. I can make it.

The pasmortes closed steadily. The one gnawed off half its tongue while the other took great leaps forward. The second closed the gap quickly. It gathered itself to pounce. Owen swung his body wide as it leaped. It crashed down, its forearms collapsing. It hit face first. Its neck snapped. The skull popped up, the eye whipping free, both bouncing back down the hill.

Owen whirled around and dove. He twisted in the air, his fingers outstretched. He felt wood. He grabbed it. His body hit the ground hard. "I won!"

Then the other pasmorte landed on his chest. It raised both hands, fingers clawed. A gobbet of tongue hit Owen in the face.

But before it could rake its boney fingers through his flesh, Quarante-neuf grabbed the other pasmorte around the waist and yanked. He lifted it over his head, holding on tightly despite the creature's angry snarling. Quarante-neuf shifted his grip to the thing's neck and leg, then hurled the creature down. Ribs shattered as the victory post punched through the pasmorte' s chest.

Quarante-neuf helped Owen to his feet. The Norillian soldier nodded toward du Malphias. "I reached the post, Monsieur. Will you honor your word?"

"Were I a man of God, you would be headed on your way." The Laureate shrugged. "I am a man of Science. Science demands repeatability. We shall test you again, in the coming days. If you succeed then, freedom will be yours."

Owen's eyes tightened. To you it is testing. To me it is training for my escape. "I believe it will, Monsieur, I believe it will.

September 11, 1763

Benjamin River

Temperance Bay, Mystria

N athaniel waved good-bye to Prince Vlad and Princess Gisella, tossing free the tow-rope attached to Mugwump's saddle. Both royals wore goggles and laughed as the wurm turned back downstream. Nathaniel still felt uneasy around Mugwump, even after spending time around the creature. The wurm appeared a bit bigger and quicker than before, and the colors on its scales really stood out. But he could understand the Prince and Princess' attachment to the wurm.

Mugwump gave Nathaniel a sidelong glance, as if having read his thoughts, then ducked under the water as he passed back by the canoe.

Nathaniel dipped a paddle quickly, fighting the wake of the beast's passage. Now, you'd not have been attempting to swamp us, would you? He dug deep into the water to maintain the canoe's upstream momentum.

"I don't know about you, Kamiskwa, but I'm right happy 'bout getting shed of that place. I'm thinking I couldn'ta stood another week."

"You wanted to stay while Rachel was a guest."

"Well, now, that's true, though weren't as much smooth sailing as I'da preferred." His presence while Rachel was at the estate created some friction with the Frost family and the Bumbles. Doctor Frost had been cordial, but his wife and daughter had been as cold to him as they had been warm to Rachel. The Bumbles had been sour about everything, but Nathaniel was practiced in ignoring folks like them.

Nathaniel didn't get private time to speak with Doctor Frost. Overall Nathaniel's behavior had been courteous and circumspect, which led to a slight thawing on the part of the Frost women-and much of their continued reserve he put down to his being blamed, in part, for Captain Strake's disappearance.

"People is curious." Nathaniel glanced back over his shoulder. "What did you make of that Lilith Bumble?"

"Pretty, like a jeopard."

"Yep. Seemed like she had her sights set on the Count."

"I do not fear for him."

"No, I reckon he seen what we seen." Nathaniel paddled harder, pulling them up a small set of rapids. "He did manage to keep the Bumbles entertained."

Out of respect for the Prince, Nathaniel had been on his best behavior. He and Rachel had managed to slip away for walks in the fields and to go fishing. She'd always loved fishing, and that particular afternoon glowed warmly in his memory. Just the two of them by the river, letting lines tied to corks bob in the water, watching clouds roll by. For the first time in the longest while he'd felt completely relaxed.

The Prince had said nothing to him before or after those excursions, but he hadn't needed to. Since they had done nothing untoward, no dishonor could fall to the Prince. Moreover, if anyone did make false claims, they would be insulting the Prince. He used his prestige to provide Nathaniel and Rachel a chance to be alone, and Nathaniel owed him a debt of gratitude for that.

"Magehawk, I must ask."

"Yes?"

Kamiskwa pointed his paddle at a bundle in the middle of the canoe. "Why did you bring the fancy clothes?"

Nathaniel smiled. "Well, I was amembering how much of a shine your father took to Owen's coat."

The Altashee snorted. "You know that was so Captain Strake would have appropriate clothes for our journey."

"Well, I done noticed your father ain't taken that coat off since."

"Nor will he. Captain Strake killed Ungarakii."

"I need to ask you a question, brother mine."

"Yes, Magehawk?"

Nathaniel glanced back just for a heartbeat. "Did you be thinking I'd not notice that my bundle was a mite heavier than when I packed it? Heavier by the suit of clothes you was made to wear at that dinner."

"If you were to attire yourself in the proper Norillian style in Saint Luke, I would not want you to feel alone."

That brought Nathaniel full around, his paddle resting against his thighs. "You liked being all gussied up, didn't you?"

" Natahe."

"Oh, now don't you go and be telling me you don't understand. You know right well what I was asking." Nathaniel turned back an applied himself to his paddle. " Natahe, my left foot."

He added outrage to his words, but was happy his friend couldn't see his smile. The simple fact was that Kamiskwa wore Mystrian clothes very well. He'd been given breeches and a long coat in black, with white hose and shirt. Black shoes with silver buckles and a dark green neck-cloth had been added to finish his outfit. He'd found a string of malachite beads in his bag and used it to tie his hair back. The whole thing gave him a slightly diabolical cast, but one that looked good.

By contrast, Nathaniel had just looked awkward. His shoes had felt too short, or so he thought, until the Count took him aside and pointed out that he had them on the wrong feet. There didn't seem a way to know that, and Nathaniel had never heard of shoes meant for each specific foot-clear foolishness, that was. But when he switched them they did feel better. Still, the hose scratched. He managed to misbutton the coat, and the shirt sleeves ended in lace that only had one purpose-to soak up gravy faster than a biscuit.