Owen laughed. "Marksmanship has never been a Ryngian strong point."
"Good thing you're a crack shot." Woods pointed to the musket. "You'll want to be loading that thing, and keep it loaded. Your training, you can probably get off four shots in a minute?"
"I've done as many as five."
"Out here, shooting may come on you quick. Likely because someone's already done shot at you."
Owen nodded. "I'll bear that in mind." Standing, he produced a cartridge and began to load his musket. "The Prince said your rifle was fairly special."
Nathaniel smiled proudly and stripped the fringed sheath off it. "This here is one of two dozen or so rifles made by Colonel Apostate Hill up Summerland way. It is a breechloader. I don't have to be stuffing a ball down the barrel just to shoot it back out. It uses a.71 caliber slug-same weight as your musket, just squashed a little. More egg than round. Rifled barrel so's it's accurate out to a hundred yards. It does some killing out there."
"The Prince mentioned you killing a jeopard. Showed me the mounted specimen. That's fancy shooting at range."
"More luck in that shot than there was good." He jerked his head toward Kamiskwa. "Like as not, my shot would have just riled it. Kamiskwa was there to do the killing if it got close."
"And what if he missed?"
"I'da had another shot ready. And if I missed that, I'da deserved to be dinner."
"I look forward to a display of your marksmanship. Perhaps you'll shoot us something for lunch."
"I reckon I could, Captain Strake, but we won't be needing it today."
"You have food cached further along the way?"
"After a manner of speaking." The guide smiled. "At noon we're having supper with the Prince."
Chapter Fourteen
May 2, 1763
Temperance Bay, Mystria
A fter erasing any trace of their having stopped, the party moved on at a more leisurely pace. Owen still felt himself an object of study, but also realized his guides were giving him the opportunity to learn. They'd offered the direct warning about the necessity to keep his weapon loaded, then proceeded to give him practical lessons on moving through the woods.
Owen studied Kamiskwa and did his best to ape him. The Altashee moved economically and carefully, preferring to slip beneath or around branches rather than push them aside or hack them off. Going up hills he tended to step on exposed roots, or rocks that were solidly buried. He took smaller steps rather than longer ones that might result in a slip or spill of stones. He moved quickly, but without haste; a distinction that manifested itself in a fluidity that gave him a ghostlike quality.
Woods' earlier comment had been correct. As the sun came up, Kamiskwa's flesh and hair picked up a greenish tint. He remained mostly dark-very much the color of the pine needles. A few spring-green locks streaked his hair. Owen couldn't figure out if this was because of his youth or his age, since the man had no wrinkles and if he bore scars, they did not show up in contrast to his flesh.
What he did have were tattoos. Simple line drawings tending toward geometric shapes and a few animals. They'd been done in black and only showed up in full sunlight. Owen could make no obvious sense of them.
They continued on for another hour, pausing at streams to refill canteens and waterskins. They used that time to listen as well. Though Owen would have laughed at the notion had anyone suggested it, Mystria sounded different than Norisle. Bird song and insect buzzing came tantalizingly close to those of his home, but a few differed mightily. This he found somewhat disconcerting.
A hawk screamed and sparrows, which had gathered around a blackberry bush, immediately took flight. Owen looked for the hawk, expecting to see it perched on a branch and defiantly proclaiming its existence. The only bird he saw, however, was brown, twice as large as a sparrow, with equally nondescript plumage. It landed beneath the bush and started harvesting berries from the lower branches.
Woods pointed at it. "That's a liehawk. The Altashee name for it means 'Little Bird with Big Voice.' Other folks call it the bully-bird. You'll hear that name used on people, too."
Owen shook his head. "Just how different is this place?"
Woods shrugged. "Don't know. Hain't been to Norisle. This here is its own place. What's different to your eye?"
The soldier took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. "We've been walking since dawn, but haven't seen any signs of humanity in that time."
"This is a big land, Captain, two-three times Norisle. Maybe more. Half the people. Most on the coast."
Owen nodded. "And along the rivers."
"Very good, Captain." Woods smiled. "Ain't going to be many folks out where we're headed. That ain't a complaint."
Kamiskwa grunted his agreement.
The three of them headed off again, and within a short time Owen caught a heavy, thudding rhythmic sound. Axes. Kamiskwa slowed them down and worked his way around a level lot where three men labored clearing the land. Two brought the trees down and trimmed the branches. The third used a team of mules to haul the logs through a forest of stumps to a pile. They'd already split and cut a few of the logs, creating a square foundation, onto which they'd erected a tent.
Owen studied the lot. A small stream ran through it on the far border by the tent, promising a good water supply. They'd cleared the better part of three acres and had situated the tent at the base of a hill in the lot's northeast corner. By the end of the summer they'd have gotten up many of the stumps. Within a month they'd be able to do some limited planting and get a harvest before the winter.
Owen started into the open, but Nathaniel held him back. "Squatters. Won't be welcoming us."
"Aren't they afraid the landowner will evict them?"
"Depends, don't it?" Woods withdrew from the edge of the clearing. "The Confederation lays claim to these lands. Her Majesty thinks her issuing deeds trumps that. Name on the deed could be someone back in Norisle, or down in Fairlee or Ivory Hills. They might go to court in Temperance, but ain't many a judge will rule in their favor."
Owen pointed toward the lot. "But those men know that what they're doing is wrong."
"I reckon they ain't thinking it is." Woods spread his arms wide. "When the redemptioneers first came here, it was all wide open. You find a place, farm for a bit, move on when the land wore out. Then the Parliament says that no one can go beyond the mountains. That's fine, still lots of land, but then ministers and their friends bought it all up from the Crown. So you take a man who has worked hard improving the land, and he cain't afford it because some speculator who hain't never worked a day in his life is greedy."
"I would agree, Mr. Woods, that this seems hardly equitable, but theft is not the proper response."
"Ain't theft. More like taking a lend of the land." Nathaniel laughed. "Captain, you heard of the Golden Rule?"
"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
"Maybe in Norisle. Round these parts, it's he who has the gold makes the rules."
A shiver ran down Owen's spine. The Royal Army allowed those with money to purchase commissions. A noble-like Lord Rivendell's son, John-with a taste for adventure and no understanding of warfare could buy his way into the command of troops. More than once, such privileged commanders had refused to obey orders issued by a superior but common officer. Often they issued their own orders in some vain attempt at winning glory. Their actions would destabilize a line, provide an opening for the enemy, and often transformed a victory into a rout. At Villerupt, had Rivendell's son actually followed orders, the Mystrian Rangers might not have suffered as severely as they did.
Woods' version of the golden rule applied in Norillian civilian life, too. A noble's misdeeds could be silenced with gold, whereas a pauper's offenses would be severely punished. Someone like Lord Rivendell, whose power and prestige legitimized his book, commonly hid moral shortcomings by virtue of charitable gifts and well-placed bribes.