At the Queen's Command (21 page)

Owen frowned. “But not a good one, either.”

“Ain’t the worst.”

A hand threw the long house door flap open and an older, heavyset Altashee emerged. He straightened up, showing streaks of hair so white amidst the green that it seemed to glow. He smiled at Kamiskwa and opened his arms. Kamiskwa flew to him and they embraced.

They parted, then the old man hugged Nathaniel. They exchanged comments and both of them laughed. Owen noticed the old man’s left eye was milky-white, but saw no battle scar in or around the socket. The two men seemed quite familiar and Owen sensed the connection was more than just Nathaniel’s being Kamiskwa’s friend.

Finally, Nathaniel turned away and waved a hand toward Owen. “Great Chief Msitazi, this is Captain Owen Strake of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards.”

Owen pulled himself to attention and saluted. He made a horrible sight, with his stockings and trousers shredded, coated in mud and with scratches bleeding beneath. Leaf litter, burrs, and bits of thorny branches clung to his jacket. His hat had faired the best, but salt stains rimmed the black felt.

The old Altashee drew himself up and returned the salute. “It has been a long time since the Queen has sent a man to me.”

Owen wanted to immediately explain that he wasn’t an official envoy, but there wasn’t any way to do that without dishonoring the man’s comment. Owen cleared his throat. “Her Majesty cherishes the friendship of the Great Chief Msitazi of the Altashee.”

Msitazi laughed and made a comment that made both Kamiskwa and Nathaniel smile.

Owen opened his hands. “Did I…?”

The Chief shook his head. “Captain, I know your Queen has no idea who I am. But you are polite. I like this.”

Nathaniel jerked a thumb at Owen. “You’ll be liking the fact that Captain Strake here done killed hisself two Ungarakii back two-three walks of here. He’d a-killed more, but me and Kamiskwa was selfish and got a pair each ourselves.”

Msitazi looked Owen up and down. “Never has your Queen sent a warrior to me. You must come inside.” He turned, and reentered the long house.

Kamiskwa and Nathaniel began shucking off all their gear and piling it near the long house. Kamiskwa barked an order at two boys. They immediately plunked themselves down beside the equipment and warned others off.

Kamiskwa smiled. “Guards against curiosity. Please, Captain, take off your coat, trousers, stockings and shoes?”

Nathaniel was already stripping down, and Kamiskwa pulled off his leggings. They kicked them into a pile, adding their moccasins, and an Altashee maiden approached with a basket to gather them up.

Owen hesitated.

Woods slapped him on the back. “Don’t be shy, Captain. Tain’t nothing she hain’t seen before.”

The maiden giggled.

Owen blushed, then turned his back and stripped off his muddy clothes. Fortunately his blouse tails hung down far enough to protect his modesty. He gathered his things up and placed them in her basket, nodding his thanks.

He joined the others in the long house. Msitazi sat on a blanket with Kamiskwa at his right hand and Nathaniel at his left. Owen took up a place across from him. In the long house’s dim interior the Twilight People’s faces all but disappeared for eyes and teeth.

“Where did you find the Ungarakii?”

“They were in Longmeadow, Father. They were scouting for the Tharyngians.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Had them a man with them, Pierre Ilsavont. Might could be he’s a
wendigo
.”

The elder sat back. “Did you destroy it?”

“Burned the head.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Left the Ungarakii for the crows.”

Msitazi’s laughter filled the long house. “You warm my heart, Magehawk.”

Magehawk?
Owen killed the question on his lips. “Great Chief Msitazi, we found a ring on a corpse out there. Kamiskwa says he can feel strong magick on it. I believe that this magick could link back to a man Prince Vlad wishes us to hunt.”

The Altashee closed his right eye and turned his face toward the long house’s exterior wall. “I see the ring. It has a thread that extends to the dawn.”

“But…” Owen frowned. Du Malphias had to be north and perhaps even west of them.

Msitazi held up a hand. “This man has the wiles of a fox. He has anchored his magick far away to deceive. Were you to track him by the ring, you would face disaster.”

Nathaniel sat back. “I reckon then we’re gonna be a-hunting him regular.”

“Yes, of course, but we need to send the ring and the journal back to Prince Vlad.”

Msitazi smiled. “I shall see to this, in honor of what you have done for the Altashee, Captain Strake. And tonight you will sleep over there, near the fire. It is a position of honor.”

“You are most kind, Chief Msitazi.”

The Chief’s smile broadened. “I will send one of my daughters to sleep with you.”

“Thank you, but I am married.”

Nathaniel laughed. “Just to keep you warm, Captain.”

“I think I will be fine, Mr. Woods. I have my blanket and my wool coat.”

Msitazi nodded very solemnly. “That is a very fine coat. Very colorful. I like your coat.”

“Thank you.”

“I like your coat very much.”

Owen was about to repeat his thanks, when Nathaniel kicked him in the shin. “What was that for?”

Nathaniel lowered his voice. “Give him the coat.”

“What?” Owen leaned in toward him. “I can’t. It’s my uniform. I am on a mission. If I am caught on Tharyngian territory out of uniform, I shall be shot for a spy.”

“You already been done shot at on account of that coat, Captain. Give him your coat.”

Owen shot a sidelong glance at the elder Altashee. He smiled back.

“It would be an honor, Chief Msitazi, for you to have my coat.”

The Altashee clapped his hands and a young woman went to fetch the coat. She returned quickly and presented it to Owen. He, in turn, handed it to Msitazi, who immediately pulled it on.

Though about as broad of shoulder as Owen, the Altashee had a bit of a belly, so the coat fit awkwardly. Still, Msitazi smiled widely, happily toying with the brass buttons and running his fingers along the gold braid.

Owen handed across his hat as well, and the Chieftain clapped his hands. The Norillian officer could do nothing but smile. Not at the ridiculousness of a woodland savage dressing up in his uniform, but from the pure pleasure the man exhibited as he got up and strutted around. A couple of women deeper in the long house made comments, and Msitazi barked back at them, but they just laughed.

That little bit of byplay took Owen leagues away. He saw himself back in Launston, recounting his adventures before the Royal Geographical Society. Well-dressed men and handsomely draped women, all the cream of society, would titter and smile as he related this moment. They would feel superior, and yet, at the moment, Owen felt anything but.

And he found himself resenting his future audience’s reaction.

Msitazi clung to the jacket’s blue facings and smiled. “This is grand. You will wait here, Captain, for my return. You are a warrior, and I shall not let any of the Shedashee mistake you for anything less.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

May 14, 1763

Saint Luke

Bounty, Mystria

O
nce the door flap had settled back into place, Owen glanced over at Kamiskwa. “Was your father serious about having one of your sisters sleep with me?”

“His offer was quite sincere, Captain. You are a warrior. You have killed Ungarakii. You are a powerful visitor from afar. To do less would have been rude.”

Nathaniel smiled. “And Msitazi is a cagey one. Iffen you did get a child on one of his daughters, that child would be very powerful in the ways of magick.”

Owen scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am mindful of our previous discussion, but this is so alien…”

Kamiskwa patted Owen’s shoulder. “Your rules suit your land, Captain. Ours are for our land. Respect is more honorable than understanding, and politeness soothes misunderstanding.”

Before the discussion continued, Msitazi returned and seated himself again. He offered Owen a bag similar to the ones the others used. The flap and the bag had been embroidered and set with beads and bits of shell depicting a bear sharpening his claws on a tree.

“I would not have it said that Msitazi allowed a friend to go naked. In here you will find clothing and moccasins. I will tell you of this clothing. These are the clothes that I wore many years ago when I stole my first wife from the Lanatashee. I was not a craven warrior, one to steal into their camp and sneak away like the weasel. I went as a man. I walked to her and took her by the hand and led her to my home. Some came to oppose me, their greatest warriors amongst them, but none could wrest her hand from mine.”

Owen brushed his hand over the bag’s surface. “You honor me greatly, Msitazi, but these clothes should go to your son.”

“My son needs none of my glory. He makes his own.” Msitazi smiled. “He simply needs good friends, and in these clothes, so shall you be known.”

Owen dressed in Msitazi’s clothing. The leggings, moccasins, and tunic were all made of soft doeskin so pale it approached white. Another beadwork bear decorated the chest. Fringe lined the sleeves and leggings. The material felt very warm against his skin. Wearing it he felt even more a part of Mystria.

For the first time he had to wear a loincloth. It wasn’t terribly hard to figure out how to make it fit. He used his own belt to secure it. He played with it until the tails hung evenly front and back. It pleased him that the linen cloth itself had a broad blue stripe down the middle, and red stripes at the edges, mirroring the front of his regimental coat.

His donning the clothes brought a change in how the Altashee treated him. Children stared, but more in wonder at the honor bestowed upon him than the unusual sight he’d been coming into their village. The same little girl who had run away screaming came and sat quietly next to him as he wrote in his journal, playing with two corn husk and rag dolls. Every so often she would look up and smile, clearly feeling safe in his presence.

Again the contrast with his own people struck him as odd. He recalled a grand ball that had been given for a dowager aunt who had reached the age of seventy. Though Owen had not been adopted by his stepfather, his presence was still required. He’d been fitted for a proper set of clothes and given a wig that had been expertly prepared and powdered. He’d even suffered through a couple of rudimentary dancing lessons. The dance master decided he was beyond hope and should beg off dancing for an imagined “wound from the war, any war, anywhere.”

And despite his having served the Queen honorably in a number of conflicts, women stared and laughed at him behind their fans. Men came up and greeted him, dropping names and clearly making fun of him with their airs and insinuations. He played dumb, taking some pleasure in their being too stupid to understand he couldn’t be as obtuse as they thought him and still have done his job. That, however, formed just a tiny silver lining to the cloud of his being an outsider.

And then Catherine appeared. Young and very pretty, she was just growing out of the coltish stage marking the transition from adolescence to womanhood. She wore her dark hair up, but had teased three ringlets loose. The fashion of the day dictated that only two should have been present, but she flouted convention.

She passed by him once, her brown eyes studying him above the lace edge of her fan. Then she returned in her pale yellow gown and snapped that fan shut in a gloved hand. “I hope you can save me, Lieutenant?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss…”

“Catherine Litton. My grandmother is your aunt’s best friend. I have lived with her since my parents, missionaries, died of cholera in the Punjar.”

“My sympathies at your loss, Miss Litton.”

She leaned in, smelling sweetly of apple blossoms. “I shall need you to rescue me. They shall begin the dancing soon, and Percy Harlington has already vowed to kill any man who dances with me. It frightens me, so I would ask you to walk with me through the gardens to save me.”

Owen later discovered—after he and Catherine had wed—that she was seldom so timid at cotillions, receptions, or galas. She loved dancing, and gossiping, tittering laughter from behind a fan. Never cruel things, only pointing out how a person had failed, completely, to abide by social convention. The rules for proper seasonal dress seemed far more complex and less forgiving than the Military Code of Justice. Catherine, however, understood it all better than any barrister, and often corrected Owen’s dress as they headed off for a night of fun.

That first night they walked in the gardens for a bit, then stopped outside the Ryngian windows and peered back in from the darkness at the gaily lit party. Catherine laughed and told him all sorts of things about the people inside. Owen learned which men were dancing with their mistresses while their wives glared, and watched a beautiful young widow playing three ardent suitors off against each other. Catherine layered meaning onto things he’d always noticed but had never understood. With her at his side, a world he had rejected because of how it treated him suddenly became oddly interesting and filled with new depths of hypocrisy.

And he recognized, later, that Catherine had set her heart on more than rescue. She told him she fell under his spell because of his gallantry that night. He had been her hero, and would forever love him for it.

Catherine accepted me just as this little girl has, but to the others of my own kind, I remained an outsider. Here, however, I am welcomed.

He would consign none of his memory about that dance to the journal. Instead he concentrated on the Altashee and how their opinion of him had changed. The fact that Msitazi and Kamiskwa lauded him as a great warrior meant the Altashee accepted him as such. When he went for a short walk, looking for a couple of plants on the Prince’s list, six boys had followed him, walking as he did, then squatting in a group to study what he studied. He caught no mockery in how they acted, just the hope that they, too, by doing what he did, could become a great warrior.