"Oh, they fought. Their leader lost half an arm, and his command well over half its number." Owen's hands tightened into fists. "And I hasten to add, Mr. Wattling, that Lord Rivendell's son, John, never answered the call to come to our aid. His inactivity is what doomed the left flank."
"Another slander from a coward's mouth!"
Owen lowered his voice. "It is in deference to Captain Tar that I do not demand satisfaction of you, sir, right here and right now. And because my uncle, Richard, the Duke of Deathridge, frowns on dueling."
"Your uncle, sir?"
"My mother is his youngest brother's wife. That would make him my uncle."
Wattling's jowls quivered. "But, sir, your name. Strake is a Mystrian name."
"And so my father was Mystrian, a sailor like the good captain here. He met my mother, married her, and got her with me before his ship was lost to pirates. She later married Francis Ventnor."
Wattling's mouth hung open. "I had no idea, sir."
"Nor could you have, since Captain Tar was under strict orders to keep my identity secret. My orders, you understand, from my uncle."
"The Duke, yes, quite." Wattling smiled slyly, his complexion still ashen. "I should have seen through it, of course, your disguise, to your breeding. No Colonial would have stopped me as you did."
"Yes, about that." Owen turned to Captain Tar. "You'll understand, sir, if I prefer charges of assault against Mr. Wattling here. I would make it attempted murder, but I cannot ascertain Mr. Wattling's intent in beating the boy."
Wattling's eyes widened. "You cannot, sir! The boy is a redemptioneer. He is indentured to me."
"I can, sir, and I will, unless…"
"Yes?"
"You cancel his indenture contract and pay him a crown."
"That is an outrage!"
"Captain, if you were to drop anchor here, and we tried Mr. Wattling, what would the penalty be?"
"Fifty lashes."
"You cannot flog me! I am a gentleman!"
Owen closed the gap between them in two easy steps. "No, sir, you are not. You are a pompous fool who has made the mistake of insulting the Mystrians who surround him, and will surround him. And let us not be coy, sir. If you were such a success in Norisle, you would not have packed your press and come so far over the sea. You'd hardly allow that Colonials can read, yet you bring a press to serve their need for reading material. Is it to make your fortune, sir, or to avoid paying a fortune to your creditors?"
Wattling shrank back against the ship's rail. His voice barely rose above the hiss of sea against hull. "I haven't got a crown, sir. All those damned pirated editions of Villerupt. They ruined me. And now, without a servant, how will I earn money? How will I live?"
Gideon Tar rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "You will live like every Mystrian, Mr. Wattling. You will work hard. You'll be cold in the winter. Hungry, too. You'll marvel at some things and quake in fear at others. You'll sweat, you'll ache. You will live and perhaps even prosper."
The Captain guided the man toward the main deck. "You'll want to get below to finish gathering your things."
Once Wattling had disappeared, Gideon returned to Owen's side. "I don't normally abide flogging, but for him…"
"If arrogance was a flogging offense, he'd have long since grown immune to the lash."
"Doubtless true, my lord."
Owen shook his head. "Don't, Captain. I'm not a noble. My stepfather never adopted me. Out of deference to my mother's father, Lord Ventnor provided me a basic education. He applauded my entering the army, with high hopes I'd die on the Continent."
"And Duke Deathridge?"
"Much the same. My wife pleaded for him to give me this chance."
Gideon slowly nodded. "So the endless war will be expanding to Mystria."
"It's a long way from a Minister's notion to cannons thundering in the wilderness."
"There are times I wonder if the Ministers even know why we fight the Tharyngians."
"Honor? Because they overthrew their King and now the Laureates rule? Because the last generation failed to conquer them, so this generation must?"
Owen leaned heavily on the ship's rail, fatigue both physical and spiritual making his limbs tremble. "They are evil. During Villerupt, I saw things no man ever should. You don't want that coming to Mystria."
Tar smiled. "Then I shall be happy you are here to prevent it."
Owen laughed. "I hope, sir, you are right."
Tar looked out toward the harbor. He fished a small crystal sphere from his pocket and held it up to his right eye. The glass glowed with a faint blue light. The man smiled. "Harbormaster is coming out to guide us in."
Owen looked west, but shook his head.
Tar held the crystal out to him. "Use it, if you like."
"Thank you, no. I never mastered the spell that focuses those things for me." Owen held up a thumb. "All the magick they say I need is here."
"Shooting fast and straight has its advantages in your line of work."
"It does, sir, it does."
A shout from a small boat called Captain Tar away to deal with a harbor-master.
Owen remained at the rail, sorely missing his wife. He should have felt relief at finally being in spitting distance of solid land, but in the absence of seasickness, loneliness opened a void in his middle.
I wish you had come, Catherine. At once he realized he was being selfish, because she truly would have been miserable. She would have hated the ship's cramped quarters and found the ship's fare inedible. Aside from Captain Tar's wife, she would have found no suitable companions among the other women. Had she been called upon to actually work, she would have been completely lost.
He smiled, thinking of how she would have whispered about her adventures, no matter how minor. She could make removing a splinter seem like an assault on a fortress. That ability endeared her to him. Her world was so completely removed from his that he could take refuge in it.
And it was her desire to provide him refuge that had given her the strength and courage to beard Duke Deathridge in his own den and convince him that Owen had to be sent on this mission. They both hoped Owen's adventure would allow him to earn enough of a reward that they could take a small home in Launston and live quietly. She'd even suggested I could write a book about my adventures and make more money that way. And I have just angered a publisher.
He glanced over at the main deck, where Wattling and the preacher, Benjamin Beecher, stood at the rail. Beecher had seemed harmless on the crossing, holding services every Sunday and not sermonizing for too long. Perhaps Wattling was looking for spiritual guidance, though Owen deemed it more likely that the fat man simply sought pity.
Owen turned his attention to the Mystrian shore. Ancient forests with tall pines, birches, oaks, and other trees he could not name formed a dark palisade warding rolling hills and far distant mountains. Deep in Temperance Bay, the Benjamin River flowed into the harbor. The town had grown back from the water and up over the hills, with buildings mostly of wood and many of stone.
The war in Auropa had lasted four years, consuming men and money with surprising ease. Norillian and Tharyngian colonies provided the wealth that drove the economies and backed the war bonds that paid for the war. If Norisle could cut off Tharyngia's flow of wealth, the Tharyngians would be forced to surrender.
And likewise Norisle if we lose control of our Mystrian holdings.
He understood the wisdom that sent him half a world away to scout Tharyngian territory. It made perfect sense in the world of ledgers and figures. Men and brimstone and guns and uniforms all could be inventoried, then bundled on to ships with weighed-and-measured stores of food. Ministers would invest resources in the war-primarily to deny resources to the enemy-thereby winning that war. It would be a superior return on their investment.
But men were not numbers even though casualty lists suggested otherwise. Numbers do not scream. They do not cry out for their mothers. Owen shivered. Numbers do not beg to die.