At the Queen's Command (11 page)

“Did you not hear me, Captain?”

Owen blinked. “My apologies, Miss Frost. My mind was off and away.”

Bethany laughed easily. “You are like my father in that regard. I should have expected this after his speaking with you this morning.”

“He does challenge a man.”

“That he does.” She opened a hand toward a small alley off Fortitude Street. “You may find the journals you want here, on Scrivener Street; or you might want to obtain logs closer to the dock.”

“We should look here.”

“Very well. What was it my father had you thinking about?”

“Things well outside my purpose here.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. “My dear Captain Strake, do not think me some addlepated girl. I am my father’s daughter and capable of handling myself in discourse.”

“No offense intended, Miss. We discussed the lack of a native textile industry.” Owen jerked his head back toward Fortitude. “Consequently I was noticing what people wore.”

“It gets very cold for some come winter.” She paused before the door of Burns and Company, Booksellers. “We might try here.”

Owen opened the door into a small shop crowded with shelves. A bell tinkled from above the door. A small man wearing spectacles appeared from deeper within the shop. Two large volumes filled his hands. “Good day, Miss Frost. May I help you?”

Bethany eclipsed Owen. “I hope you will, Mr. Burns. Captain Strake desires two journals, three hundred pages each, your best paper, leather covers, and oilskin wraps. He’ll need an inkstick and a half-dozen quills.”

The man smiled, setting the books on a small, drop-leaf desk in the corner. “I can bind up the journals, send them around to your house, Miss Frost, by eventide.”

Owen nodded. “That would be satisfactory.”

“As for the quills, well, I have something here you might like better, Captain.” Burns pulled a narrow wooden box from the desk and slid the top off.

Two turned wooden cylinders rested on a red velvet bed along with three silver wedges. The man handed one of the wedges to Owen. The metal had been hammered incredibly thin, and curved along its length. It tapered to a point and had been split halfway up the middle.

“Local silversmith, he makes these. They’re nibs, fit into these holders. Last longer than a quill and don’t need sharpening.”

“The work is incredibly delicate.” Owen held it out for Bethany to see, slowly turning it in his fingers. “Do you know how he does this?”

Burns shrugged. “Not being
cursed
, I don’t know for sure, but he uses a firestone in the process. Has it at the end of a thumb, in a glove you see, so he can work the metal while hammering.”

Which is why it’s silver
. Iron and steel dampened magick, all but destroying the ability of any but the strongest user to make it work. Stories of heroes who could enchant a sword abounded, but Owen had never seen that ability in action.

The bookseller ducked his head. “And no offense meant, Captain.”

“None taken.” Owen nodded solemnly. “Soldiers greet that appellation proudly. We might be bound for Hell, but we’ll send the enemy there to welcome us.”

“And we are right happy you do that, sir.” Burns smiled. “Will you be taking these?”

“Yes.” Owen handed back the nib. “Reckon the bill, please.”

“Gladly, sir. Shall I have the pens sent round with the journals?”

“Please.”

The man scratched some figures on a scrap of paper. “That will be a crown, three and eight.”

Owen slipped a hand into his pocket for his purse, but Bethany laid a hand on his wrist. “That is outrageous. We are leaving now, Captain Strake.”

“What?”

Bethany turned on the bookseller. “Mr. Burns, my family has traded with you for many years. We recommend you highly. This should cost no more than a crown and ten, or four shillings eleven.”

“But, Miss…”

“Mr. Burns, you are charging Captain Strake more because he wears the red coat—and you just praised him for his defense of our nation. You would charge no Mystrian so dearly.”

The bookseller blushed, then looked at his paper again. “Yes, of course, Miss, I added incorrectly. A crown and four. The pens, you see, are consigned. I cannot bargain.”

Owen gave the man a gold crown and four copper pence. “Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure, sir.” Burns bowed his head. “And good day to you, Miss Frost.”

“Mister Burns.” Bethany preceded Owen from the shop and moved quickly down Scrivener Street.

Owen caught up to her with a couple long strides. “His price—I would have paid as much in Launston.”

“But we are not
in
Launston.” She pointed back toward the shop. “His family comes from charcoal burners. His children go round to homes and shops and public houses offering to clean lamps for the black, which is what he uses to make his ink.”

“Enterprising.”

“It is, and he’s a sharp man with his figuring. His prices are the best for his wares, which is why he has our custom.” She shook her head. “But to prey upon someone like you.”

Owen smiled. “Soldiers are used to having merchants take advantage.”

“That hardly makes it right.” Bethany shook her head. “He was willing to overcharge you because you are a stranger. You, a Queen’s officer, a stranger. Too many men get to thinking like that, and the men of Norisle
will
be strangers. And then, Captain, a bill will be delivered that can only be paid in blood.”

Chapter Eleven

April 29, 1763

Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

H
aving successfully conducted the tasks he needed to complete, Owen Strake accompanied Bethany Frost on her errands. He suspected that some of them were contrived so they could spend more time together. He imagined she hoped he could remember more about Ira Hill. Regardless, he enjoyed the time spent in her company. Her laughter warmed his heart, and the way she faced the bookseller down appealed to him.

Catherine never would have done that. Instead she would have paid the asking price, then engineered an effort by other wives to utterly ruin the bookseller. The difference in approach was clearly a difference between the two women. It also marked a difference between the societies on either side of the ocean. Mystrians tended toward being direct and open. Though alien to Owen, he found himself warming to this approach.

Owen carried a basket as Bethany picked through bunches of radishes and early carrots. “If you would not mind, Miss Frost, I was wondering what the prevailing attitude about
the cursed
is within the colonies.”

She laughed easily. “You should not let Mr. Burns’ attitude concern you, Captain. People are quite accepting here. The vast majority of the colonists came from the cursed classes. Having the curse made life here much easier those first years.”

That made perfect sense. Magick remained largely benign because users could only effect what they could touch, and because iron and steel were proofed against it. Any warrior armed with an iron weapon could slay a sorcerer with relative impunity. Magick use remained largely hidden down through the years. Anyone suspected of being powerful was either ostracized or destroyed.

It wasn’t until brimstone’s introduction from the Orient, and the spells that made firestones functional, that magick became important. The nobility bred the curse back into their bloodlines—though common were the rumors that they just revealed what they had hidden for many generations—and the cursed underclasses became valued for their ability to fight wars.

And yet, anyone who appears too adept will quickly earn a perilous assignment.

Bethany placed two bunches of radishes in the basket. “The curse helped not only because hunting staved off starvation, but the Twilight People respect magick. They did not know of brimstone or firestones, or iron, for that matter, but learned very quickly. In return, they shared some of their knowledge of Mystria. Had we neither guns nor magick, I think they would have wiped us out.”

Owen frowned as they moved on toward another stall. “Your father said there are some who hate the Twilight People.”

“Hate and fear.” Bethany nodded. “They want their lands, not to live on, but to hold and sell to others. Speculators. Greed drives them. It’s said the Twilight People use the same word for greed as for insanity. I do not think they are far wrong.”

“
Are
the Twilight People a threat?”

She laughed and rested a hand on his arm. “I fear, Captain, that what you know of the Twilight People comes from reading books of the same caliber as Lord Rivendell’s work. In the northeast we have two very large groupings of tribes: the Confederation and the Seven Nations. The Seven Nations range out further west and are heavily influenced by the Ryngians. The Confederation deals more with us. And yet, within each grouping, the tribes have their own affinities and alliances, which shift on a whim. While I never have felt in danger here in Temperance, there have been times traveling when I have not felt wholly safe.”

Bethany spoke so plainly that Owen found it easy to imagine her astride a horse, a pistol in each hand, fighting off marauders and highwaymen alike. He glanced at her hands, but only caught a fleeting glimpse of her thumbs.

She caught his eye, then held her hands out, thumbs uppermost. Her voice sank to a whisper. “Yes, Captain, my family is cursed. I have shot, but not recently, as you can see.”

He nodded.

She quickly caught his right hand and brushed her thumb over his rough thumbnail. Each line on it marked a battle, and the smoothness near the cuticle betrayed his long voyage to Mystria. The blood from those battles had long since faded from beneath his nail, but the nail’s corduroy surface revealed hard fighting.

“The marks are genuine. I have not
rasped
my way to glory.”

“There is none of that here, Captain.” She released his hand. “The Virtuans admire courage and hate boastfulness. Lord Rivendell’s book was frowned upon mostly because of its tone, not what it said about Mystrians. In Temperance, at least.”

“The book had little to recommend it.”

“Few here see a use for it.”

Owen shrugged. “It will hold a door open in a wind.”

Bethany giggled, then selected a small bundle of rosemary and added it to the basket. “So, tell me, Captain, what are you? A Six or an Eight? Caleb is a Six, though he claims Seven.”

“I am actually a Thirteen.”

She blinked. “Ira was a Ten and the best we had to send.”

Owen smiled. “It has nothing to do with my Norillian blood, Miss Frost. My mother’s people boast of being Sixes, but they lie and lie badly. Even my stepfather and the Ventnor family can produce, at best, an Eight. No matter. The measure is false.”

“How can you say that? You can load and shoot thirteen times before magick exhausts you. This gives you a great advantage.”

“It would, Miss, if in battle a soldier could get off more than three shots before the enemy was upon him with bayonet, lance, and ax.”

From his basket Bethany took a smaller basket and began to gather a dozen eggs into it. “That was not the impression of battle given by the Rivendell book.”

Owen chuckled. “Lord Rivendell saw no fighting. Those whom he later interviewed—including his son—spent time working with a rasp and then embellished their roles greatly.”

“You’ve read it, then?”

“My wife insisted.” Owen shivered. “Catherine could not bear to read it, but implored me to do so. She hoped I was mentioned. There was nothing of me in there, of course, though it did please her that Rivendell praised my uncle as if he were the very avatar of some ancient and terrible god of war.”

“More of Rivendell’s lies?”

Owen frowned. “No. When it comes to war, my uncle has a fearsome talent. What was written of him was likely the only truth in the whole book.”

Bethany smiled and put an egg in her basket. “Is she nice, your wife?”

“Yes. We married in the spring before Villerupt. She lives at my grandfather’s estate.”

“And she chose not to come with you to Mystria?”

“She is not terribly adventurous, Miss.”

“I had wanted to go to the Low Countries with Ira, but it would not have been proper, as we were not wed. Some of the other wives did go. My uncle met his wife there, in fact. She was widowed in battle. She nursed him back to health. I find it romantic, but do not say that in front of my mother.”

“I shall heed your warning.” Owen trailed after Bethany, wondering if he would have noticed her had she come with the Colonials. Likely not, though the way she moved through the market bespoke an energy that would have been welcome in the camp.

“Did Catherine go to the Continent?”

“Yes, but never to camp.” Owen smiled. “She is rather delicate and enamored of dances and gowns. She eschews early morning walks because of dew and detests mud. She sometimes suffers from the vapors and to be setting up a tent during a downpour after a swampy march would lay her in the grave.”

“Sounds like one of the Fairlee girls my uncle wishes to marry to Caleb.” Bethany settled the small basket of eggs in his larger basket, then linked her arm in his. “It is time for us to return home.”

Owen looked up and read the time from the clock on Government House. “It is, indeed. I will walk you back, then I have to meet Nathaniel Woods at the Stores Depot.”

A shiver ran through Bethany.

“What is the matter?”

“I do not care for the man, Captain Strake. I know the Prince favors him, and he is the best guide in the colony, perhaps
all
the colonies, but that does not excuse his behavior.”

“What behavior would that be?”

“I am not a gossip, sir.”

Owen patted her hand. “I did not mean to suggest you were, Miss Frost. I apologize for any such implication. Will his behavior compromise my mission?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Away from Temperance he should be better.” Bethany frowned. “Little help, I know. And don’t go asking my brother about him. Caleb all but worships him. But please do be careful.”

“I will. I promise.” Owen purposefully broadened his smile. “I’m sure my mission shall be as peaceful as this trip through the market, though the company will not be close to so delightful.”