At the Queen's Command (18 page)

“Add a bigger canoe and a bigger river.” Nathaniel walked over, slung his rifle across his back, and hefted the canoe with Kamiskwa. They started off through the woods along a well-worn path.

Owen gathered up his things, including the paddles, and followed. Like Woods, he slung his musket across his back. Bringing it to hand would take a while, so he slipped the pistol into his right hand. He kept his thumb off the firestone, but kept watch as they moved.

They followed no trail, just picked their way between trees and over hummocks. Five hundred feet from the river, near a large standing stone, they overturned the canoe in a sandy depression. Woods motioned for Owen to give him the paddles, which he tucked under the canoe.

“You’ll just leave this here?”

“Won’t nobody touch it.” Nathaniel nodded. “Mystrians will know it’s Shedashee, and won’t want to be caught dead taking a lend of it. The Shedashee will know it’s Kamiskwa’s and ain’t gonna take it for similar reasons.”

Owen studied the canoe more closely. “How will they know? There’s not a mark on it.”

“Not to you and me, but in magick…” Nathaniel shrugged. “As I said afore, the Shedashee is better at magick than we is. Kamiskwa made the canoe, so there ain’t no mistaking who it belongs to.”

Gathering their equipment, they set off on a trail paralleling the falls. It gently cut back and forth across the face of the foothills. It leveled out now and again, affording them a chance to rest. After about an hour they reached the gorge’s far end and made camp in a clearing that had seen much use.

Owen surveyed the river above the falls. Broad and shallow, with lots of rocks and trees that spring floods had tumbled down from the mountains, it was useless for commerce or troop transport. “If du Malphias is going to use the Benjamin, he’d have to start down below.”

“He’d be having plenty of eyes on him.” Nathaniel pointed south across the river. “T’other side there is Lanatashee territory. They’s in the Confederation, though me and Kamiskwa don’t have much truck with them. Altashee this side. Iffen he was a-coming, you’d know.”

Owen glanced toward Kamiskwa. “Would your people stop him?”

The Altashee looked up. “Wars between white men do not interest us much. You fight to possess things. You want to control land. We wish to live with it. War is too serious to unleash for silly reasons.”

“But you would let us know he was coming.”

Kamiskwa smiled. “And we would watch you fight.”

Owen nodded. “Nothing could induce you…”

“The Altashee, they ain’t mercenaries like Seven Nations tribes. Ungarakii would fight for the promise of warm spit on a hot day. Don’t ’spect the Ryngians is paying them much more than that.”

“Will we be running into hostiles, do you think?”

Kamiskwa laughed. “No Ungarakii has the courage to come into Altashee land. They dream of it, but such dreams become nightmares.”

The Norillian soldier smiled. “Very good.”

“Don’t mean we won’t be setting watches.” Nathaniel unlimbered his rifle. “Some times them Ungarakii do dream, and takes a dose of lead to wake them up again.”

Chapter Eighteen

May 7, 1763

Bounty, Mystria

I
n their first day away from the river, they moved as quickly as practical through the forest, following meandering game trails when they could, cutting through ravines, splashing through streams, or going directly over hills when that shortened the distance significantly. Kamiskwa led them, setting a challenging but not terribly difficult course. Owen sensed in him a desire to return to his family—a sentiment he’d never shared and found himself envying.

Within the first four hours they suffered the first casualty. Though Owen’s boots had been issued by a quartermaster at Horse Guards, they split at the seams and the left sole flapped open at the toe. Where the boots weren’t falling apart, they rubbed his feet raw. The pain at his heels competed with the burning of his shoulders and thighs.

Owen searched his pack for some cord to bind up the shoe, but Kamiskwa knelt and pulled his boots off. “Salve your feet. Put on more stockings.”

Owen did as he was bidden. The salve stung a bit at first, especially on the heel, then a cool numbness spread over his feet. “The salve helps, but I wish I could be dangling my feet in a stream.”

Nathaniel leaned on his rifle. “Be time for that later. That salve, it has
mogiqua
in it. That’s the numbness.” He reached over and plucked a frond from a fernlike plant. “Good for most anything what ails a man.”

Kamiskwa applied his smaller knife to Owen’s boots. He cut away the lowers, then split the uppers along the seams. He drilled holes around the upper portion’s perimeter, then dug leather thongs from his pack. He threaded the thongs, then laced Owen’s feet into them. The excess leather wrapped up over his toes, and up the back of his heel, giving him some basic protection.

The makeshift moccasins only required parts of one boot, but Kamiskwa insisted he keep the other half. “These will not last too long.”

“Thank you.” Owen stood and flexed his feet. The moccasins felt good, but he didn’t like being out of uniform. He recalled how miserable the army had appeared during the retreat from Villerupt and hated it. He wanted to show the Tharyngians that pride still existed among the Norillians.

At least I am not barefoot.

Kamiskwa rose, sheathed his knife, and started off again. Following game trails made the walking relatively easy. Bushwhacking caused Owen all sorts of problems. The brush tore at his clothes, whipped his face, and threatened to yank his musket from his grasp. His hat hit the ground more than once.

Kamiskwa seemed to delight in plowing through berry bushes. Since he and Nathaniel wore leather leggings they had no problems. The thorns shredded Owen’s pants and stockings. Even being able to grab a handful of berries on the way didn’t make up for the clawing he endured.

Running up through streams eliminated the problem with branches and thorns, but caused other difficulties. The leather lacings stretched when wet, so Owen had to pause and tighten them. And while the water did help soothe his feet at first, his feet chilled quickly. He found himself freezing from the waist down and sweating profusely under his coat.

Despite his pain and discomfort, Owen did notice one thing he considered significant. Whenever they reached the reverse slope of some hill and he could get a view of the distance, Kamiskwa had them pointed unerringly in the same direction—north-northwest.

“It’s as if Kamiskwa has a compass.” Owen offered Nathaniel his canteen during a stop.

The Mystrian drank. “Kamiskwa’s sense of direction
is
that good, and he’s lived in this area for his whole life, but there are signs he watches for. Sees them with magick.”

“That’s not possible. Magick only works with things you can touch.”

“Could be that’s true. Then again, the Shedashee is better at magick than us.” Nathaniel pointed at a large rock coming up on the right. “They train people to be pathfinders. Give them magick to mark stones and trees. He can see it or feel it.”

“But how?”

“Well, I’ve given that some thought.” Nathaniel swept a hand through air. “You feel the air iffen you do that?”

Owen nodded. “Of course.”

“I reckon the air carries the sense of the magick to him.”

“Again, not possible.”

“No?” Nathaniel smiled. “You don’t touch the brimstone when you shoot your musket, but it fires all the same.”

“But that’s because the firestones are created special to transfer the magick.” Owen watched Nathaniel’s smile grow and stopped talking. He couldn’t deny the logic of Nathaniel’s example, but if it were true, then a number of assumptions about how his world worked suddenly came into question. It was

a bit more than he cared to think about at the moment.

“Must be because he’s powerful in magick.”

Nathaniel laughed as they started moving again. “And could be that you’re not privy to magicks that would let you see how powerful you are.”

“What?”

“Well, Captain, my thinking goes like this: if the Twilight People are more powerful than we are, at least we know how powerful we
might
be. And a powerful man, he might throw his weight around.”

“I can see that.” Owen ducked beneath a branch and started down the hill after Kamiskwa. “Your point?”

“My point is that magick would have to be controlled.” Woods cut between pine trees beside him. “Look at firestones. You can only buy them from Fire Wardens. You use too many too fast, they don’t sell to you. You don’t bring in an old one for new, you don’t get a new one. And if you’re caught using a substitute, depending on the magistrate, you could lose your thumbs.”

“That’s an extreme punishment.”

“Granted, but why the limit on firestones? And why do you have to learn magick from a patent mage?”

“They don’t want people hurting themselves. You have to know your limit.” Owen held up a thumb. “Magick can hurt you, even when used correctly.”

“I ain’t thinking the government cares ’bout people hurting themselves.” Nathaniel snorted. “I’m thinking that they don’t care if redemptioneers and beggars die on the voyage over, long as it’s not too
many
die.”

“You hear stories of people dying from using magick.”

“But have you ever seen it?”

“No.” Owen snarled. “You seem to take a certain delight in trying to vex me.”

“Ain’t that, Captain.” Nathaniel gave him a solemn nod. “You’re a smart man. Them’s some questions need a smart man thinking on ’em.”

By late afternoon they reached a wide stream and crossed. Kamiskwa led them on for another half-hour, then signaled for them to slow. Nathaniel shucked the sheath from his rifle. Owen drew the pistol. Both of them crouched and followed Kamiskwa into the brush.

They came to a small depression in the ground lined with a carpet of leaves from several autumns. A man’s body lay huddled there, knees drawn up toward the chest, but arms not hugging them in. There was no question that he was dead. Maggots writhed beneath his skin, something had gnawed off his ears and lips. Birds had been harvesting hair and a larger beast had begun feasting on his calves.

Owen went to a knee. “It looks as if he’s been shot.”

Nathaniel poked the body with a stick. “Clothes are practically falling apart. Bullet hole in the vest, but not in the shirt beneath.”

Owen pointed instead at the man’s head. “I meant his skull.”

The other two grunted. The man’s skull had a hole in it, not quite cleanly round. A ball had hit at an angle and had gone in near the temple. It had come out toward the back of the skull, still on that side, and had blown a chunk of bone away.

“Who would murder a man out here? Why?” Owen grabbed a stick and hooked the edge of a satchel tucked beneath the body. “And why would they leave this if they killed him?”

“Bigger problem than that, I’m thinking.”

“Yes, Mr. Woods?”

Nathaniel stood. “Assuming he fell where he was shot, ain’t no point around here high enough to put a shot in at that angle. And if he were shot below, why drag him up here?”

Kamiskwa stood and folded his arms across his chest. “Another problem.”

Owen looked up. “What?”

“The wound that killed him. Look close.”

Owen did as instructed. He bent down, holding his breath against the stench. “Holy Mother of God.”

The bones in the skull: they’d begun to heal.

Chapter Nineteen

May 9, 1763

Bounty, Mystria

O
wen carefully poked the skull with his stick. The triangular piece of bone near the exit wound didn’t move. Though the fracture lines of the bone were clearly visible, they’d begun to lock together.

“That’s just not possible. How did you know, Kamiskwa?”

The Altashee shook his head. “Magick taint. Something evil.”

Owen shifted the stick around and snaked the pouch from beneath the body. The right hand came into view and had a bronze ring around the appropriate finger. “Mr. Woods, can you get that ring?”

“I’m not of a mind to be robbing graves.”

“Nor am I, but this is a mystery I’d like to solve.” Owen untied the thongs and opened the pouch. He pulled out a journal very much like the one he’d been keeping, and a half-dozen pencils. “They’re round. Not of Norillian manufacture. Are they made here?”

Neither man knew. “I’m thinking I’ve seen round in New Tharyngia, but I ain’t claiming that’s the whole truth.”

“No knife to sharpen them. This one was gnawed.” He opened the journal. Penciled lines and sketches filled many pages. The text appeared to be in Ryngian, but it didn’t make much sense. It also deteriorated over the course of keeping the journal. The letters got bigger and slanted down the page, with sentences occasionally spilling across the gutter onto the next page.

“I can’t make any sense of this, but here’s an interesting thing. No dates, but there are all these circles that are shaded. I think that’s the moon. He didn’t know the date, so he drew the moon each night.” Owen closed the book. “It is in Ryngian, though. Du Malphias sending out his own scouts?”

Nathaniel reached down and snapped the ring finger off, then pulled the ring off and flicked some leathery flesh away. “Maggots say he’s been dead for two days. Flesh and bone, I’d put him at dead six months anyway. That’s a mite before your man arrived.”

Owen accepted the ring and held it up. A simple signet ring, it had been cast in bronze. The flat surface had the letter “P” engraved into it, and the legend “1/3” below. “First company, Third battalion, Phosphorus Regiment. They were destroyed at Villerupt. If he was there, he’s been dead for three years. That’s impossible. He must have once served, came to Mystria to start over, and he died here.”

Nathaniel nodded. “As good an explanation as any.”

Owen stood, slipping the journal, pencils, and ring into his pouch. “The Prince will find the journal an interesting puzzle.”

Kamiskwa agreed with a nod, and they set off again. They pushed past dusk, then made a cold camp. They split the night into shifts, with Kamiskwa agreeing to take the last one and rouse them when it was time to move out. Woods took the first, leaving Owen for the middle of the night.