At the Queen_s command

Chapter Thirty-Five

August 21, 1763

Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

I n the week since he'd first seen sunshine again, Owen had come to relish his daily outdoor sojourns. Quarante-neuf still hovered, but the pasmorte appeared confident in Owen's ability to navigate. Owen made certain not to stray off the gravel-covered paths, reducing his quiet companion's anxiety- if facial expression was any indication.

Owen had abandoned one crutch and bore weight on his right leg. It still hurt a bit. An ointment made of mogiqua and bear fat did nothing to help relieve the pain, though the act of massaging it in did help. Du Malphias offered a preparation of willow bark, noting that Owen's pain had not reached the level needed to be ameliorated by morphine.

His left leg healed more slowly. When out for his walks, Owen let it appear far stiffer than it truly was. In his cell, using the crutch more like a cane, he forced himself to walk daily, making more circuits around the room during each exercise period. He couldn't run-he could barely walk, and totter best described his gait-but he could move. Each day he got stronger.

Before long I can escape.

A breeze teased flame-colored leaves on distant trees. Summer was surrendering to autumn. The nights had been getting colder-cold enough that he'd been given two thin blankets. He'd offered one to Quarante-neuf, but his captor refused it. "Cold does not bother me."

Owen's gaze swept over the camp. Apparently satisfied with the basic construction, du Malphias had charged his army of pasmortes with engineering the landscape south of the river. They cleared the ground for five hundred yards back, increasing the potential flood zone. The collected stones had then been used to build several fences and-though of completely new construction-what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse which had fallen into disrepair. The ground had been sown with grass seeds, some of which had already sprouted. Come spring it would look as if the Tharyngian forces had driven a farmer out, leaving his fields and fences to offer some cover for troops advancing on the southern fortress.

Owen studied the new construction because he knew du Malphias wanted him to. The new building, despite appearing to have been there for a long time, hadn't been included in Owen's original survey. No Norillian commander would pay it any attention and would recognize the killing field for exactly what it was: a trap.

That is what they must see, isn't it?

Owen shook his head. "But they never did on the Continent."

Quarante-neuf stepped forward. "Did you require something?"

"No, just made a comment." He pointed toward the new construction. "When you look out there, what do you see?"

"What is it you wish me to see?"

"I don't know." Owen frowned. "I see nine hundred men in red coats dying over there."

The pasmorte nodded slowly. "Blood, much blood." His voice grew uncharacteristically distant. "Thunder and metal."

Owen glanced at him. Quarante-neuf's face had flushed, but his expression had become one of profound sadness. "Are you well?"

The pasmorte blinked. "I am fine." He reached up and brushed away a tear, then looked at the wet stain on his finger as if it were something he had never seen before. "Are you fatigued? Shall I fetch you a blanket?"

The questions came more urgently than ever before, so Owen nodded. "A blanket, yes."

Quarante-neuf departed, and Owen returned to the real reason he enjoyed his time in the sun. Stumbling around as if looking for a place to sit, Owen studied the construction to the north. His only chance to escape lay in getting into the woods and locating one of the cached canoes. He could never outrun pursuit, but on the water his legs wouldn't make much difference.

He watched men and pasmortes walk by and compared their stride against the shadow of a flagpole he had previously measured. Counting their paces he obtained an accurate measurement of distances within the fortress. He committed those distances to memory and double-checked them as best he could. When he got out, he could supplement his maps. He would use that information and other things he had learned to make his escape and come back to crack the fortress.

Quarante-neuf returned with the blanket and settled it around Owen's shoulders. "Thank you, sir."

"Do not address him as 'sir,' Captain." Du Malphias emerged from the dungeon opening, eyes venomous. "A disobedient servant does not deserve praise."

"I had asked him to get me a blanket."

"And I had tasked him with keeping you always in his sight. He does not seem to realize, as I do, that you are a very dangerous man."

Owen laughed. "A cripple, dangerous?"

"Your legs are broken, not your mind." The Tharyngian snapped a telescope open. "Would you like a closer look at anything to refine your calculations?"

"I have no idea…"

"Captain Strake, do not insult my intelligence. If you were stupid, you would not have been given the job of finding me. You are a spy, yes, but perhaps also an assassin. I should fashion for you gauntlets. An iron mask, perhaps? How much magick can you use, Captain?"

Owen held up his shackled wrists. "Now, none. Without, read my nails if you wish an answer."

"You could read mine, monsieur, and learn nothing of my skill or power."

"But…"

Du Malphias laughed. "Smart, yet unworldly. What do you truly know of magick?"

"Few can do it, fewer can do it well. Blood is exacted for using magick. It is God's Gift, to be used in his service."

Du Malphias held up unblemished hands. "Enough. What you understand of magick is what a dog understands of thunder. It is enough to make you hide under a bed. You are a child, because your masters wish for you to be a child."

"And you know better?"

"Oh, I do. You were taught that magick was outlawed by the Remian Empire. This is the reason they exterminated Norisle's Druids. Did you know that the Remians believed your Savior to be a magician? Consider the stories of his miracles. Are they not the tales of the greatest magick the world has ever seen? And were not his disciples who displayed similar gifts also martyred?"

"Yes, but…"

The Laureate waggled a finger. "No objections. You would protest that to call your Lord a magician is to slander him, but consider two things. First, who is it who has told you, down through the ages, that to be a magician is bad, only to have them reverse that course when they realized they needed magicians to fill their armies and fire their cannon and guns? And, second, how is it that the Remian Emperors, who sought and wielded power with skill or abandon, would destroy magicians when, as their history proved, they were more willing to absorb conquered people and use them as part of their Legions?"

"You are trying to suggest that the crowned heads and the Church itself have suppressed magick while secretly hoarding it?"

"No suggestion, monsieur." Du Malphias shook his head. "Do you not find it curious that, with the advent of cannon and gun, all these noble houses were able, in a single generation, to suddenly manifest an ability to work magick? Let us assume you are a five. You would be powerful. Most troops in the ranks are twos, perhaps threes. Two volleys, then it is 'fix bayonets,' yes? And yet these nobles, they are, a six or a seven? Perhaps much more."

Owen shook his head. "That requires a conspiracy of silence lasting centuries. Someone would have confessed."

"Yes, but the Church, you must remember, found it very convenient to draw clergymen from the ranks of the nobility. A religion of magicians who control the common people. They direct witch hunts to destroy the powerful and disruptive. An upstart noble is declared a heretic or diabolist; is shunned, disbelieved, and killed. They have a perfect system using hatred and fear to enforce their rule. They would have maintained it forever, save for two things."

The Laureate clasped his hands behind his back. "The need for soldiers meant that they had to mitigate the sinfulness of magick. This gave people pride in their abilities. This is why, when we overthrew king and church, we had the mass support. Science had succeeded where a mad king had not. We made magick a science. No shame, only truth. And, in case you doubt me, let me assure you that hidden in the archives in Feris are ample documents-correspondence, confessions, and more-that verify this conspiracy. Had King Anselm not gone completely mad and broken with the Church, their united front would have concealed the conspiracy for good. In fact, there are those Laureates who believe we need to perpetuate it, saying the people of the world are not yet ready to understand."

"Hence your exile?"

"One reason among many, and all inconsequential." Du Malphias smiled quickly. "The second point is that every Old World power saw fit to ship their malcontents here. What they failed to consider was that many of them-perhaps even a majority-were able to work magicks. Being of the underclasses, or uneducated, they still lived in fear of witch hunts. And, quite by accident, Mystria has become a place where mages have bred with mages. You have seen what this does for the natives."

Owen nodded slowly. "Many of the redemptioneers were cursed."

"Now they are Auropa's bane. The governments so fear that the secrets of magick will be shared with common people, they dare not let anyone with knowledge of advanced magick come here. Still, there are other conspiracies that see the value in sharing the secrets. I do not know if they will be enough to counter the forces which wish to continue the people's suppression."

"You were allowed to come."

"They could not stop me from coming. It is a difference, a significant difference."

Echoes of Nathaniel's words thundered in Owen's head. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "You will forgive me, monsieur, but this makes my head hurt. I should rest."

Du Malphias nodded. "Of course, but I would have you indulge me for just a moment longer, please."

"Yes?"

"A different subject." The Laureate opened his arms. "You have studied my fortress. You are an intelligent man. How will your armies take it?"

Owen jerked a thumb to his right. "They will come from the north. That is the clearest line of attack. This is the way they will take this fortress of death."

" La Fortresse du Morte. Clever, but overwrought. Only an idiot would use it. I do appreciate, however, that you mean title in two ways." Du Malphias chuckled politely. "From the north, yes, rather obviously. I do plan additional construction. We will counter-tunnel, of course. But the north wall is not the weakest spot of my fortress, is it?"

"No. It's the high fort overlooking the lake. If we build a ship, load cannon on it, and float it out there, it can blast that wall into splinters. A concerted push by attacking troops-and suddenly we have the high ground. It will still be bloody, but this fort can be taken."

"Very good, monsieur. I do not disagree with your assessment." Du Malphias shrugged. "I also believe you have not been wholly forthcoming."

"I assure you…"

"Yes, yes, you will give me your word as an officer. Need we play this game again?"

Owen shook his head, hair rising on his arms. In an instant, he took a step forward, then swung his crutch at du Malphias.

The Laureate's eyes shrank to bare slits. His left hand came up, blocking the crutch with a puff of mist. His right hand thrust forward, palm out. A flash, some heat, more mist. Owen couldn't breathe. He flew back past Quarante-neuf, sprawling in the dirt. His breastbone throbbed.

"Fetch him to his cell. Strap him down."

"As you desire, monsieur."

Owen rubbed his chest. It ached. Something had cracked. He coughed, igniting more pain, then struggled ineffectually against Quarante-neuf's grasp.

Du Malphias shook his head. "Yes, I shall be extracting information from you, Captain Strake. But you did not listen to me. You expected torture. You shall have it. You have earned it. I shall enjoy it. But, know this: I have other means that would have proved just as effective, and would have saved you great pain."

Owen nodded, believing.

After all, in blocking the crutch and knocking Owen down, du Malphias had never actually touched him or the stick. Whatever he had done, it involved magick Owen had never seen before and had no immediate interest in ever seeing again.