Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

By morning Hisser had stopped moving. They built a pyre and laid him on it. Makepeace said a few words and they watched it burn down. It delayed them for half a day, but Nathaniel figured they owed it to Hisser or, at least, to whomever he'd been. They scattered the ashes into the river.

Using two canoes, they headed toward Temperance. Makepeace volunteered to be in the canoe with Ilsavont. They tied the pasmorte up for transportation, stuffing him into the bow. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa usually ranged ahead, but occasionally they were close enough to hear Makepeace speaking to the Ryngian.

"'Pears Makepeace ain't too happy with Etienne's Godlessness."

"Cutting out Ilsavont's tongue would be easier than enduring his cursing."

"Well now, I reckon the Prince will want to ask him some questions."

From the point where Makepeace had offered words over Hisser, Etienne had taken to speaking an endless stream of profanity. The words alternated through several Shedashee dialects: Norillian, Tharyngian, and a couple other tongues Nathaniel couldn't identify. Makepeace had countered with Scripture, starting from Genesis and working his way on up. Nathaniel couldn't swear Makepeace got everything right-he was fair certain a Remian Governor hadn't threatened to shoot the Good Lord-but the pure delight in Makepeace's voice disinclined Nathaniel to be asking any questions.

At night Makepeace would continue his recitations, volunteering to take the first watch so he could continue. After that, Etienne would beg Nathaniel to kill him.

"Oh, I reckon you'll be dying, don't you be worrying about that." Nathaniel smiled. "Prince Vladimir, he's a smart man. Does a powerful lot of thinking. He done wanted us to bring him back a pasmorte, and we have."

"You are a fool, Woods, if you think he wants to know how to kill me." Etienne looked disgusted enough to spit. "You know how. Crush a skull. Cut off the head. You knew that from my father."

"Then why is it he wants you?"

"To learn how to make more like me." The pasmorte shook his head. "You think I am stupid. That I always was stupid, no?"

"Weren't nothing you ever did took much thought."

"But I see things, no? I do. People everywhere. People dying. 'Such a waste,' they say when someone dies young. But du Malphias, he can make use of them. People, they will sell him their dead. He can use them to clear forests and till fields. We do not complain, we eat little, we do not sleep. And if one of us fails like my little friend, there will be more to take his place."

"Keep talking like that and I'll wake Makepeace."

"But you know I am right. A man, he comes out here, he clears a farm, he works it, he makes a life. This is good, no?"

"It is."

"Imagine the rich man, who buys the dead, has them work for him. When the single man has a bad harvest, his family suffers. He cannot repay debts, so the rich man, he buys the farm. He needs no food for his laborers. He can sell cheaply and still profit. But that is not the worst."

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. "Do tell."

"That rich man, he fears only one thing. Death. And Monsieur du Malphias can ensure he will not die. How much will men pay for that, Woods, eh? You might be tempted yourself."

Nathaniel shook his head. "Not with you as an example. I'll take my God-given and count it as good."

"But so many others will not, monsieur." Etienne smiled. "Bring me to your Prince. Let him learn my secrets, and you guarantee the dead shall rule the living forever more."

Etienne appeared to have talked himself out, which was good. Saved Nathaniel putting a bullet through his skull. He didn't appreciate the pasmorte saying those things about the Prince. Nathaniel didn't believe a word of it, but the others things, they rang true. Nathaniel had no trouble making a list of wealthy men who would buy immortality-with Zachariah Warren at the top.

He smiled and patted his cartridge case. "I reckon I'll be saving a bullet or three for a good purpose."

The next day they started down the river in good spirits. Though snow still covered the ground, the sky started clear and the sun burned hot. Snow started melting off branches and a gentle, warm breeze came up from the south. The men stripped off their heavy robes and paddled only to steer, content to let the river bring them to the Prince's estate.

After two days they caught sight of the steam plume from the wurmrest. Coming around the last bend, Nathaniel put them on course so the breeze would guide them straight to the Prince's landing.

Up on the grounds, two figures stood wrapped in cloaks, with Mugwump nosing the snow out of his way. Nathaniel raised a paddle and one of them pointed. Smaller, with golden hair-it had to be the Princess.

Beside her the Prince raised hands to his mouth. He shouted something, but the breeze carried his words off. The Prince started toward the dock.

The wurm raised his head. Nostrils dilated, then his tail flicked. The beast whipped around and in two quick bounds, plunged past the Prince and through the shore ice. His tail lashed, spraying the Prince, then vanished without a trace. Nathaniel looked into the water but saw nothing until the wurm surfaced again.

Mugwump came up fast, right beneath Makepeace's canoe. The beast's nose flipped the fragile craft into the air, snapping it in two. Makepeace tumbled backward. The pasmorte spun upward, lazily, struggling ineffectively against the ropes binding him.

And Mugwump, hanging in the air for an impossibly long time, opened his jaws and devoured Etienne Ilsavont in one big gulp.

November 23, 1763

Prince Haven

Temperance Bay, Mystria

V lad stared disbelieving, a hand outstretched, as Mugwump snatched the man out of the air. The wurm's body slowly twisted, his tail all the way clear of the water. Mugwump splashed down on his back, sending spray and a wave that almost swamped the other canoe. And yet, despite the splash, there was no mistaking a second opening and closing of jaws, and a large lump moving down the wurm's throat.

Wurms had eaten riders before, or so the stories said. The riders had always been evil, unsavory men-again, according to the stories. It always seemed they had provoked the wurms into it and deserved their fates.

Then Mugwump surfaced again, a sputtering man draped across his muzzle. The Prince waited for the head flip that would propel the man into the air, then a quick snatch for another bite. The tail flicked and Mugwump sped toward the shore, a wave breaking high as he came up out of the water and straight onto the snowy lawn.

Vlad instinctively ran over, gathering Gisella behind him, shielding her with his body. "Don't run. He might see you as prey."

She held onto his shoulders, shivering. "Yes, my lord."

Mugwump lowered his head, letting the man roll to the ground. The wurm stared at the Prince, the golden eyes full of curiosity. The wurm nosed the man again, flipping him over onto his stomach, where he vomited and started muttering a psalm.

Vlad raised a hand, uncertain of what do to, but perceiving no threat. "What is it? What am I missing?"

The wurm's eyes half closed, then he turned and trundled off to the wurmrest, head held proudly high.

Is that it, or is that what I want to see?

Nathaniel and Kamiskwa, came running over, guns in hand. The Altashee knelt by the man Mugwump had rescued. The man vomited again, then gathered himself on all fours. "Ain't supposed to breathe drink. I will be fine."

Vlad looked at Nathaniel. "Who did Mugwump kill?"

"Ain't like he killed him. I done that. Twice." Nathaniel shook his head. "Etienne Ilsavont. He was a pasmorte like his father. Your bullet worked like a charm."

"You shall have to tell me everything. First, however, we should get inside and fetch your companion some dry clothes."