Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

The Prince sighed. "1800 men."

"No-one regiment of horse, so it's more like 1350, provided they all make the passage, yes? Oh, and a company of cannon, must have those." Rivendell smiled broadly. "Handpicked the units myself. Many school chums leading them, you see, all tip-top. It's more than enough, I assure you."

"Your confidence pleases me." Irritation rippled through Vlad's voice, but his face betrayed none of it. "I should inform you that I have a regiment of local militia called up-companies from Summerland, Bounty, Temperance Bay, Blackwood, Oakland, and Queensland. In addition, Major Forest is bringing a company of Fairlee sharpshooters and we will supplement that with men drawn from the northland."

"Good, we'll need groomsmen and the like, splendid planning."

"If you would allow me to finish, Johnny."

"By all means, Highness." Rivendell began another unctuous bow, but he would have smashed his face into the model, so he aborted it. Instead he waved indulgently.

"I also have a company of lumberjacks and engineers who will be able to supplement your strength." The Prince turned and walked to a desk on which he had laid out a map of Anvil Lake. "As I noted in my report, the best strategy is to build our own fort here, at the Tillie outflow."

Rivendell smiled, not bothering to approach the map. "That might seem the thing, Highness, but defensive wars are never won. Hit him hard and hit him harder, that's the way it's done. By the first of June we'll be there, and the first of July right back here."

Vlad looked over at him. "Are you serious?"

"Quite."

The Prince's eyes tightened. "Let me understand you, Johnny. You've not read my report. Langford read you bits, and you dismissed the pieces you didn't like. You bring too few men, a third of them being cavalry which is worthless in the wilderness. You expect to make a six-week journey in two weeks, despite a complete lack of roads, lay siege to a fortress staffed with God alone knows how many and what, and be back here before August?"

"Precisely." Rivendell held his hands up. "Others thought it couldn't be done, but I convinced them. With your help, Highness, we could be done sooner."

"Without Mystrian troops, you will fail completely."

"We might be a little late…"

"Not fail getting there, fail to win the siege!" The Prince pounded his fist on the table. "You're not listening at all."

Rivendell's gaiety vanished. "Understand two things, Prince Vladimir. I am, by the will of the Parliament and with your aunt's blessing, the Military Governor of all Mystria. In the realm of military affairs I outrank you, sir. Do not force me to see how far my power extends in other matters."

Vlad stared at him, open-mouthed, then slowly closed it.

Rivendell thrust a finger at him. "Second, and most important, I will not be fighting Mystrian troops. I know very well their meager abilities and their complete lack of military discipline. I will not put them into the field because I cannot trust them. I would not disgrace the Tharyngians by exhibiting such troops before them."

Count von Metternin grasped Vlad by the elbow. "Perhaps, Highness, Lord Rivendell should be excused from further discussion. The voyage, after all-he shall be needing to rest."

The Prince slowly nodded. "Of course. When can we expect Duke Deathridge?"

"Two weeks, three. Had a wager on the passage, you know." Rivendell's smile returned. "I do feel fatigued. I shall retire, then perhaps we shall dine together, Highness. Over wine and in good fellowship we can make things work."

"I am sure, my lord."

"That's the spirit, ain't it?" The man bowed again with great pomp, and withdrew with Langford trailing in his wake.

The Prince waited until the door closed behind them, then checked. He opened it, peered out, and closed it again. "I fear, Count von Metternin, that it will take much more than medals to impress Johnny. How the two of you restrained yourselves from challenging him to a duel, I do not know. You, Count, with his remark about the enemy and you, Captain, with that slander about your wife."

Owen shook his head. "I have endured asses such as him all my life. My wife would have been disappointed if I had slain him over such a thing as gossip."

The Count's eyes narrowed. "There are times, my friend, when these asses beg to be killed."

Vlad smiled. "Agreed."

Owen glanced down. "This may be true, but he is not the first to suggest untoward things out of spite and for sport."

Both men stared at him, questions on their faces but, mercifully, did not ask.

Owen hung his head. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. This is neither the time nor the place."

"Please, Owen, I would welcome a distraction before I turn around and challenge that insolent fool to a duel." The Prince turned a chair around from the desk. "Sit. Chandler! Whisky, now, a bottle and glasses."

Owen sat, slumping onto elbows planted on thighs. Frustration pounded at his temples. Chandler arrived with whisky and glasses on a tray and abandoned it quickly. The Prince poured, and Owen just stared down into the glass of amber liquid. The vapors reached him and he wanted to smile, but didn't have the strength.

"It is nothing of which I am proud, gentlemen. When my mother married Francis Ventnor, I was very young. I did not understand that I had become a bastard. I was the ugly stepchild who would not go away. That's it with the Ventnors. They didn't want me, but they fiercely guarded me. I was property-an unwitting redemptioneer with no expiration on my contract.

"Growing up, my cousins had everything. I told you, Highness, of the wurmwright who took me in. He did the family a service. They repaid him by firing him, once I had entered the army. That is the way my family is. They gave me nothing and sought to strip me of everything. They largely succeeded."

Owen sipped the whisky. "Then I found Catherine, who wanted me for me. And I wanted her. We wed and, during the Villerupt campaign, Catharine followed me to the war. My uncle's wife remained in Norisle. When I had duty on the line and he had a social function to attend, he would borrow her. I thought it most kind of him. She loved parties and she would weep in fear on my shoulder when we were together. I thought gaiety would please her. I wanted her happy."

The Count snorted with disgust. "And stories came to you of her and your uncle?"

Owen took a gulp of the whisky and enjoyed it burning its way down his throat. "Not of my uncle, but with everyone else. Officers who despised me took great delight in spinning tales of seeing her bedded by another. Never them, of course, just some elusive Major with another regiment, or some dashing officer from another nation."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "Lies promulgated to hurt you."

Owen looked up. "I can see that now. One night, I drank too much and found a man who looked like a man the latest tale had been told about. I… I dishonored myself."

He looked at his hands, turning the right one over. White, wormlike scars striped his knuckles. Most of them had been earned fighting the Tharyngians, but Owen could see those he'd gotten beating a man senseless.

"I was going tell Catherine what I had done, but before I could she told me of her disgust for a friend's husband. He had fought a duel over similar gossip about his wife. She said the man dishonored his wife by believing the rumor and acting upon it. She clung to me, happy I would never believe such horrible lies about her."

Owen searched the men's faces. "How could I tell her after that? I love her and know she is not a whore. So, I maintained my silence. Ultimately, I accepted this posting so I could accomplish something grand enough that the two of us could escape my family's corrupting influences."

Von Metternin laughed gently. "Be proud of your restraint, Captain. You conquered your worst self and decided to reach for a lofty goal."