Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

Rivendell looked nothing so much like a sulking child as he walked out stiff-legged, head down, trailing Deathridge. Langford hurriedly gathered maps and the journals, leaving the Mystrian map on the desk, and scuttled after the other two.

Vlad sighed when Chandler closed the door behind the visitors. "That, gentlemen, was fascinating. It may yet be early, but could I offer you a restorative drink? Chandler, whisky and water, please, all around."

The Prince looked at Owen. "Your uncle makes quite an impression."

"He's had years of practice." Owen shook his head. "He almost made me pity Rivendell."

The Count accepted a drink from the servant. "Not looking forward to dining?"

"I would sooner dine with the Laureate."

"We all may get that chance." Vlad studied the map. "How fast can we realistically expect to travel? Ten miles a day?"

Forest shook his head. "I'll get that out of my men, maybe twelve. Decent rivers for part of the way. Heading to Anvil, you should get six."

"Do you concur, Owen? You've been there."

Owen cupped his drink in both hands, but did not sample it. "Depends on how many wagons we need for supplies. I would send as much as I could ahead to Hattersburg up the Tillie. Definitely ship the cannon. The horses, too. Not that they will do any good at the fortress."

"If we leave on the thirty-first, we will arrive at Anvil around the second of July. This gives us two months, perhaps three, for a siege." The Prince shook his head. "Getting the necessary food and fodder out there alone will be incredibly difficult. It is a logistical nightmare."

The Count chuckled. "An idiot for a leader, an unrealistic timetable, insufficient forces to do the job: If one were not acquainted with the ways of royalty, one might think there was no intention for this effort to succeed."

Rivendell closed the coach door before Langford could climb in. "Walk, Langford, and hurry. I shall join you presently after the Duke and I have our chat."

Langford made to salute automatically, started to drop things, failed to catch them, and blushed.

Deathridge pounded the coach roof with a fist. "Go!"

The driver snapped a whip, and the black coach lurched into motion. Rivendell smiled. "Oh, Dick, I think we fooled them. They haven't a clue. That's right, ain't it? Ain't it?"

"Yes, of course, as planned." Deathridge smiled every so slightly. "You played your part well."

"And you, sir, and you." Rivendell smiled broadly. "Your arriving early was brilliant. Packet boat, you say."

"Yes, and I shall want my twenty pounds, too."

"Of course." Rivendell nodded. He had first met Deathridge on the Continent and had not liked him at all. Not much to like, since the man did not socialize as others did. Yet he always seemed to have someone's ear. The younger Rivendell, unlike his father, always did notice those who moved in the background and seemed to weather any storm without upset. When he found himself on the other side of the Mystrian argument from Deathridge, he had been apprehensive; and wholly terrified when the man had sent word he wished to speak with him in Launston.

Deathridge tucked himself into the carriage's corner. "You will fight the Mystrian troops."

"I shall not, sir. Wholly unreliable."

"Of course they are, you fool. We need them destroyed so the Queen understands the idiocy of leaving her colonies without a strong garrison. You will take them to Anvil Lake, you will lay siege to the fortress, you will kill the Colonials and withdraw to build a fort at the outflow of the Tillie River, as planned. We prevent du Malphias from forming his own nation and keep him alive as a threat."

Rivendell nodded. "I hate that it will appear that I lost the siege."

Deathridge shook his head. "You only lose if we allow them to say that in Parliament. And we will not. Yours will be a 'strategic redeployment.' You will be hailed as a genius, and given more troops to destroy him next summer. And all of Mystria will see you as its savior. Tharyngia sends more troops to Mystria, we attack the Continent, and end the Laureate tyranny forever."

"Yes, yes, of course." Rivendell's smile shrank a little. "Why was it you sent Forest's men off to that other place?"

"If you had them at Anvil Lake, you would have been forced to use them. By sending them off to be killed, we make Mystria much more vulnerable. The whispers of independence will die." Deathridge's eyes half-closed. "The Prince will be removed as Governor-General. I believe you will be offered that post."

Rivendell rubbed his hands together. "I get so much, and you ask so little in return."

Deathridge shrugged. "See to it that my nephew dies, and I shall consider us more than even."

May 24, 1764

Duke Deathridge's Residence, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O wen slowly mounted the steps to his uncle's apartments. Duke Deathridge had taken rooms from Zachariah Warren. The shop's location proved convenient to the docks and the garrison armory. The choice made perfect sense and managed to offend Lord Rivendell, since renting from a shopkeeper was hardly suitable for a man of Deathridge's status.

Owen felt as if he were a child again. His father had never been a disciplinarian, so those duties devolved to his grandfather or uncle. Grandfather simply had the help beat him. His uncle greatly relished his role and, it had often seemed to Owen, was intent on bleeding him dry of Mystrian blood.

His uncle had never just inflicted pain. He always threw in humiliation. Owen's cheeks burned at the memory of the time his uncle had appeared at his Academy, had him strip off his breeches in the courtyard, then applied a riding crop to his buttocks and thighs for an imaginary offense. As it turned out, Richard Ventnor had actually committed that particular offense thirty years earlier, and his father had beaten him as he beat Owen.

Owen doubted the invitation to dinner would include a beating. Still, he was willing to bet humiliation and mental torture would be on the menu. Owen knocked at the apartment door, wondering why he had even come.

Harlmont, a wizened prune of a man whose subservient attitude had left him perpetually hunched, opened the door. The servant said nothing by way of greeting. He took Owen's hat, then waved him through to the sitting room.

Richard Ventnor stood before a modest fire, holding a book in his left hand. He snapped it shut and set it on the mantle, then looked Owen up and down. "I have, I fear, grossly misjudged you."

Owen hesitated. "I beg your pardon."

"Harlmont, two whiskies. My best. Be generous and quick." Deathridge moved to a chair beside the fire, and nodded Owen toward its mate opposite. "I read the Prince's report-twice, in fact. The level of detail, the things you learned about these pasmortes, impressed me."

Owen sat. "Lord Rivendell believes they are ghosts to frighten children."

"Rivendell could not find east even if you started him at the dawn."

"He will get men killed."

Deathridge accepted a whisky and raised his glass to his nephew. "To men who see what is."

Owen took his whisky and sipped. "Thank you."

"To you goes the thanks. And an apology." Deathridge set his glass on a side table. "Had not your wife so eloquently pled your case, I would never have considered you for this assignment. I had little expectation of success. Certainly nothing on this level. You justified her faith in you, and opened my eyes."

Owen frowned. "Did you know du Malphias was on his way when you sent me?"

"It had been rumored, but he sailed after you did. Had I guessed at the depths of his depravity I would have…" His uncle's head came up. "No. I was going to say I would have informed you, but the truth is, I would have chosen someone else. I never imagined you to be as clever as you are."