At the Queen's Command (37 page)

Nathaniel shook his head. “I wouldn’t never murder him.”

“I know.” The Prince nodded solemnly. He believed Nathaniel, and even believed that Nathaniel believed his words, but then Nathaniel didn’t know of the Prince’s other violation of trust. Four years earlier, when Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had been out on a hunting expedition, word had come that Zachariah Warren, in a drunken rage, had beaten his wife and exerted his marital rights. Vlad had bought the silence of the two female servants in the Warren house and had sent them to his mother’s plantation in Fairlee.

He also summoned Zachariah Warren to Government House and explained very carefully how, if he ever hit his wife again, his business would burn to the ground. The Prince informed him that no bank in Norisle would ever again grant him any sort of credit, and the Prince would see to it that he was driven into utter ruin. Vlad had assured him that the only way he would be able to care for his family was to kill himself so they could be awarded a private pension for widows and orphans.

Warren had blustered, claiming he had every right to use his wife as he desired. The Prince had countered that he would use his office to do to Warren whatever the merchant did to his wife. “Which do you wish to be happier, Mr. Warren—yourself or the Crown?”

After some deliberation, Warren saw the wisdom of Vlad’s counsel.

Had Nathaniel ever learned what Warren had done, there would have been no stopping him from murder. The Prince valued the man too much to allow that to happen.
If he ever learns I knew…
It was a calculated risk keeping that secret from Nathaniel; but one the Prince had no choice but to make.

The Prince smiled. “I sometimes place too much importance on these affairs of state. Were I in Launston, I would be more used to them. And, truth be told, learning I am to wed is a bit confusing.”

Nathaniel nodded, his anger apparently abated. “Packet boat got in with the tide. Had a letter from your father. The Princess asked to be allowed to bring it to you. Didn’t figure it would hurt none.”

“That’s fine.” Vlad smiled. It would doubtless be a letter of wise advice, urging calm, deliberation, and prayer.
Always prayer
. “Any other news?”

“None of importance soes I know.” Nathaniel frowned. “Oh, one thing, if I could ask a favor, Highness.”

“Yes?”

“You should be a-telling me and Kamiskwa to go off to hunt something.”

“Because?”

Nathaniel’s face soured. “On account of your Princess has got herself an idea about picnics. The Count, he has a good eye, so he’s gone and got me and Kamiskwa measured for some fanciful clothes. You, too, mind, but you look a mite better in them than we do.”

The Prince laughed. “Are you afraid of dressing for a dinner?”

“Not me, Highness. It’s Kamiskwa.” Nathaniel looked around, then lowered his voice. “He ain’t never took to civilized clothes.”

“I shall see if Her Highness will excuse your presence.” The Prince brandished the note. “Let me go see to this, and then we can deal with your problem.”

“Thank you, Highness.”

Vlad retreated to his laboratory and cracked the letter’s seal. Couched in very precise and flowery language, the Count had outlined the reason for the Princess’ tardiness and the source of Nathaniel’s anxiety. The Princess had determined to host a picnic and was supplying everything from furnishings to guests. In addition to herself and the Count, Mrs. Warren, Doctor Frost, his wife and daughter, would come Bishop Bumble, his wife and niece. She was supplying the food, wine, furnishings, and all other necessities to fulfill all social obligations.

He set the note down. The Frosts were most welcome. Likewise Rachel Warren, whom he had never met. Bishop Bumble, on the other hand, was someone the Prince tolerated in very small doses. To be specific, only on Easter and the Feast of the Nativity, when, as the Queen’s representative in Mystria, he was required to attend Church services.

Bumble had gained some renown for his sermons. He’d even had them collected in a volume and had sent Vlad a copy. The man urged morality, fidelity, and adherence to the laws of God and the Crown. All good material, especially from the standpoint of someone desirous of maintaining societal stability.

And yet, whenever the Prince attended his services, the sermon became one directed at the ungodliness of Tharyngia. Bumble pointed out how that nation had once been great, but when it abandoned God and overthrew its rightful ruler, that all ended. In his thinking, science and its methods required the rejection of God. After all, anything God wished man to know could be found in the pages of the Good Book. If it was not there, it was unnecessary.

Bumble’s one previous visit to the estate had left an indelible impression. Every other visitor stepped into the laboratory with a slack-jawed expression of wonder and amazement. That always delighted the Prince. Bumble proved the exception. His face closed, his words became clipped, and he sought to leave as quickly as possible.

If I abandoned this place while he was here, the laboratory would burn, I am certain of it.
Men like Bumble could not separate ideology from methodology. Vlad walked over to the model of du Malphias’ fortress. Careful measurements and other things demanded by science had created an invaluable tool for fighting the Ryngians; but to Bumble it would be fruit of a poisonous tree.

Vlad stared at the model, wishing that Bumble’s God would decide to smite the real fortress. “It would certainly be convenient.”

“What would be convenient, my lord?”

Her soft voice surprised him because of the hushed reverence and maturity in it. She had slipped through the door easily enough, being smaller than the average Teutonic woman. She wore her blonde hair long and loose. It had the warmth and glow of honey. Freckles distributed themselves playfully over a face that was a bit wider than Vlad expected, but her dark blue eyes were full of intelligence and curiosity. She wore a simple dress of local manufacture, quite modest and yet fetching upon her.

Vlad stepped to the side and bowed deeply. “Highness, you honor me.”

She curtsied. “You did not hear me knock, Highness?”

Vlad glanced past her. “No, I fear…”

She shook her head, an insuppressible smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I have been told you are a man of great deliberation and concentration. Now I see it first hand. This pleases me, to know that unobserved you are as when you are observed.”

Vlad looked at her curiously, his pulse quickening. “Thank you. I am as you see me, though usually not attired thusly.”

“My lord looks very good in those clothes.”

Vlad half-closed his eyes. “Please tell your tutors they have schooled you well.”

“What do you mean?” Her brows arrowed up, not down.

Normally that question would have been asked in an offended tone but hers suggested consternation. “I mean that you are well schooled in the art of flattery, but I am not so much of a fool as to imagine that a girl like you could find me in the least attractive. We both understand this will be a diplomatic marriage.”

She glanced down. “Is this how you see it?”

Vlad rubbed his chin. “Have I misjudged you?”

“I should think, my lord, that a man of your intelligence, one who reveres the scientific method, would consider more of an investigation before drawing a conclusion.” Gisella’s head came up. “If I believed this to be a marriage of convenience only, what reason would I have for any deception? Our fate is quite out of our hands. We would be wed, I would give you children, and everyone save ourselves would be satisfied.”

Vlad nodded slowly. “You have a point, but this is still little from which to reach a conclusion.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “Count Joachim said you did not ask after me and, instead, wished him to observe you for me. He has, and has laughed much in reporting to me. He said that we could not have been better matched were we shaped by artisans for that purpose.

“You might ask why I was chosen for you. I have older sisters who could have been sent.” Vlad slowly smiled.
She has no trouble speaking her mind.
“Why you then?”

“To be rid of me.” She turned and peered closely at the caged raven. “I have never had much tolerance for the court and nobles who have the intelligence bred out of them. I find stories of valor and courage boring. I find more beauty in a butterfly’s wing than in all the world’s jewelry. Neither my father nor any of his court can tolerate my asking ‘why?’ I much prefer reading to needlepoint or other female arts.”

“And what do you read?”

She smiled, flashing even white teeth. “Norillian, Kessian, high and low, Remian, Archelian, and I even convinced my Norillian tutor to teach me Ryngian. I do not know your mother’s native tongue, but I should wish to learn it.”

“Very good on the languages. Subjects, girl.”

Her eyes brightened. “The classics, of course, philosophy and science. I have read the Bible and will admit to being quite a reader of travelogues. I have long wanted to visit Mystria.”

Vlad nodded, then opened his arms. “And what do you think of my laboratory?”

Gisella smiled. “It needs dusting.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“And I should love to spend hours here studying everything, if my lord would permit it.”

Vlad smiled. “I do believe, Princess Gisella, this could be arranged.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

September 1, 1763

Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

o
wen awoke with a start, clutching his blankets tighter. He shivered, cold air finding him through both. A draft poured into his cell beneath the wooden door, flooding the dark room.

He rolled onto his side and drew his legs up. They protested, less from the wounds than those other things du Malphias had proved he could do. The man had studied enough anatomy to have charted nerve paths. A touch here, a caress there, and it felt as if he was scourging Owen’s flesh. He body reacted, yet the flesh remained untorn and unbruised.

And it wasn’t always a touch.
As he had done in stopping the crutch, du Malphias was able to use magick at a distance. Owen didn’t know how, and had been in too much pain to make any serious observations, but du Malphias had been able to affect him from at least a yard away. Perhaps more.

Owen groaned, his breastbone still aching.

Quarante-neuf loomed out of the shadows. He draped a heavy piece of canvas over Owen. “This may help.”

Owen shook his head. “I need to move. If I lay here I shall die.”

He threw back the covers and sat up. He wrapped a blanket around himself. He reached a hand out and Quarante-neuf took it, easing him to his feet. Owen chuckled.

The
pasmorte
cocked his head. “What amuses you, sir?”

“You’re dead and yet your flesh is warmer than mine? How is that?”

“I do not know, sir.”

Owen slowly straightened, his spine popping as he did so. “Did he give you
vivalius
recently?”

“I do not require it as often as the others.”

That made sense. As nearly as Owen could determine, the
pasmortes
in the most advanced states of decay needed the most. To heal Owen’s wounds, du Malphias employed mere droplets. He’d watched ragged collections of flesh and bones bathe in it. He had no idea if it warmed their flesh, but it did vitalize them.

Owen took a step, then another. In another demonstration of power, du Malphias hobbled him by magick. If Owen tried to take a full stride, pain shot up his hamstring, over his rump, and into his back. It hurt worse than being shot. Sometimes it left him breathless.

He forced himself to ignore the pain.

Owen clutched at Quarante-neuf’s shoulder when his left leg buckled. The
pasmorte
caught him. “You must be careful, sir.”

“I have a duty to escape.”

“But, Captain Strake, the Laureate will have you killed if you defy him.”

“I think, my friend, if I shall end up dead, I should like to die a man.”

The
pasmorte
walked with him, supporting him. “You called me ‘friend.’”

“You keep me alive.” Owen looked up at him. “Your service is compelled. You are not my enemy.”

“No.”

Owen smiled. “I know, from your voice, you are Mystrian.”

The
pasmorte
shook his head. “I do not recall.”

Owen would have taken that as a blanket dismissal, but the words trailed off ruefully. Over the time he had been in Quarante-neuf’s care, Owen had noticed subtle changes. Pierre Ilsavont, according to his son, had memories of his previous life. Quarante-neuf might have some as well. He might be hiding that information for a variety of reasons.
Do the dead desire privacy?

“Please remember this, then: You are my friend. I cannot thank you enough for helping me, no matter what comes.”

“You are welcome, sir.”

They continued walking around the cell. Owen hissed when the pain spiked. Quarante-neuf would pause, ready to catch him. Owen leaned on him when his legs quivered so violently that he wasn’t sure if he could take another step. Then he would push on.

Quarante-neuf nodded encouragingly. “You must continue. She is waiting for you, your wife.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “How did you…?”

“You spoke her name in your sleep.”

Owen hesitated. He recalled the dream, when he was so cold. She had come with a thick blanket. She had laid it over him, then crawled beneath it. She held him, whispering that everything would be fine.

Bethany.

“That was not my wife.” Owen struggled along several more steps. “It was a woman I met in Mystria. Another friend.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Not
that
sort of friend. She is a lovely young woman, is Bethany.”

The
pasmorte
nodded. “It is a beautiful name.”

“True, but we must never speak it aloud again.” Owen glanced toward the door. “Your master is an evil man. If he suspects, he will find a way to harm her. I will not let that happen. Promise me.”

“As best I am able, Captain.” The dead man shook his head. “I would have no harm come to your friend.”