He rebelled at the thought of leaving bed.
But leave you must. Laughing at himself, he threw back the covers and levered himself out of bed. The fact was that he had once been trampled by a horse, and had been dragged behind others. That had been bad. He rubbed his stomach and the purple bruise over it, then pulled on breeches, stocking, shoes, and his second-best shirt.
He traced a small, vertical bit of stitchery on the right side. A corresponding scar twisted his flesh beneath-not having been sewed up as neatly as the shirt. He could still feel a twinge as the lance hit him, feel the pressure as it skittered off a rib, and the triumphant look on the Lancer's face before Owen shot his lower jaw off.
He shivered and unbandaged his head before the round table-mirror next to the water bow. The bandage had remained clean, but blood seepage had stained the cloth over the wound. He used a little water to loosen it, then gently pulled it away.
A little redness, slightly swollen, and a bit warm to the touch, but it looked good. Mrs. Frost's stitchery had been tight and the wound had already crusted over. In a week or so he could clip the stitches and pull them out. Let his brown hair grow a bit and no one would ever notice the scar.
Owen washed up in the bowl, then shaved using that same mirror. He had always enjoyed the ritual of shaving-his having an angular face making it easier than for others. He found something soothing about the routine, about lathering his face, then applying cold, razor-sharp steel to his throat. Hearing the scrape of metal across flesh as the hairs popped reminded him that he was still alive, even when pain made him wish he was not.
He headed downstairs and found Doctor Frost in the dining room reading a broadsheet with the title "Wattling's Weekly" emblazoned across the top. "Good morning, Doctor."
"And you, Captain. I understand you had an eventful evening."
Owen nodded. "Which your wife and daughter did their best to repair."
"Your coat is hanging in the kitchen by the door." Doctor Frost folded the paper. "A new paper."
"Mr. Wattling was on the ship. I am surprised he managed to publish so quickly."
"It's old news from Norisle." Frost smiled. "Nothing of your encounter last night, and no report on the debate at the college."
"Debate, sir?"
"Please, sit. Martha, the Captain will have his breakfast now. I told them to fix you some weak tea with honey and some ginger. Good for the stomach. Bread, no butter." Frost slid Owen's chair back with a foot. "Two stories are circulating concerning your encounter last night."
Owen sat. "Indeed."
"One has you and Nathaniel Woods insulting the Branches and their getting the worst of a thrashing. Nothing for them to brag upon. They've run afoul of Woods before with similar results."
A servant brought the tea and bread. Owen sipped carefully and his stomach eased slowly. "The other story?"
"A group of Twilight People slipped into the city and attacked you, but Nathaniel Woods told them to go away."
Owen frowned. "Why would that story have any currency?"
"You wear the red coat. The Twilight People were of the Ungarakii and in Tharyngian employ. The story serves those who hate the Twilight People. If they are painted as loyal to the Laureates in Feris, reports will get back to Launston and more soldiers will come to drive the natives away."
Owen dipped a corner of the bread into his tea, then took a bite. "I don't see the logic of that. I rode from here to the Prince's estate. There is plenty of unoccupied land."
Doctor Frost sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. "That is a matter of contention, Captain. The Twilight People migrate seasonally, so what we see as open is land they require for hunting, or that might be sacred to them. They do not develop the land as we do. Because they do not engage in animal husbandry or much more than subsistence farming, they require far larger tracts than we do. When someone decides to go out, clear some ground, and set up a farm, the Twilight People take offense. Not close to the city, mind you, but out there, in the wilderness."
"Langford could send troops to punish the raiders."
"He could, but most of the settlers involved are squatting on land claimed by the Crown. Speculators, however, want those lands, so the pressure will increase to destroy the Twilight People." Frost sat back. "That discussion formed part of the debate last evening. The larger question was whether or not Mystria would do better as its own nation, or subject to the Crown."
Owen's eyes tightened. "That discussion could be construed as treason, Doctor Frost."
The older man smiled. "Not the discussion, sir, but advocacy of independence-and no one advocated that. What we did discuss, however, was whether or not the Crown was negligent in its conduct toward us. Benign negligence in the minds of most but, alas, not all."
"I'm not certain I follow, sir."
"Let me give you one simple example. The southern colonies are prohibited from selling cotton to anyone but Norillian merchants. They are paid a price set by the Crown, a price which is considerably below that offered by the Tharyngians."
"The Tharyngians are our enemies, Doctor. You cannot be suggesting we would trade with the enemy."
"No, but Norillian merchants buy our raw cotton, then sell to agents of the Alandalusians at a great profit. They, in turn, sell it to the Tharyngians." Frost raised a finger. "And, more to the point, the cotton that ends up in Norisle is milled there, then shipped back here. The cloth is sold at a considerable mark-up. Because we have ample rivers, we could produce our own cloth here, even more cheaply than in Norisle. We could even ship and sell it cheaply in Norisle, but the Crown prohibits us having any native industry."
"I will admit, sir, that this seems, on the surface, to make no sense, but…"
Frost chuckled and patted a hand against the broadsheet. "It makes perfect sense, Captain, when you realize that it is the men made rich in the various trades who have the Queen's ear. They are the men who sit in Lords or have their agents elected to Commons. They tell the Queen that were we to have our own mills, it would ruin the Norillian economy. They remind her that we are the children of convicts, dissidents, and redemptioneers and, therefore, inherently untrustworthy."
Owen raised an eyebrow. "You argue against yourself, sir. You suggest you are not defectives. If this is true, and you were given industry, you would succeed in your ventures, ruining Norisle's economy. The Crown is either ignorant, or terribly wise."
"I prefer 'unthinking,' Captain." Frost lifted up the paper. "Consider, if a press can be shipped here and set up in two days, do you think it possible that a mill will not be someday duplicated? Might some man ruined by a rival not come here and build one? Might not a Ryngian cede us that knowledge to ruin Norisle?"
Owen nodded. "Either could happen. Each would be illegal."
"If you were given the orders, would you destroy those mills?"
"It would be my duty."
"But could you get all of them, Captain?"
Owen shook his head. "They would still be illegal."
"And inevitable." Frost smiled. "Change is an irresistible force, Captain. Progress cannot be hobbled, just harnessed. And, if not harnessed, it will run out of control."
The soldier shivered. "You have given me much to think about, sir. Had my brains not been scrambled, I might have given you a better argument."
"You acquitted yourself well, Captain. This is the joy of being a Natural Philosopher. The world is my treasure. I am free to think and imagine. My passion is illuminating the minds of the young." He leaned in again. "I would ask of you a favor, however."
"If I may be of service, sir."
"You will be going into areas where not many have gone before. If it does not compromise your duty, I would appreciate copies of your charts-the rivers, you see. We huddle on a narrow strip of the coast. If we are ever to thrive, we will move inland, and the rivers are the routes we will follow."