"Is this why you are so hostile toward Norillians?"
Both Woods and Kamiskwa broke out laughing.
"I fail to see what you find so funny."
Woods wiped a tear from his eye. "I ain't hostile toward Norillians. Leastways not specifically. I hate all men what is out to spoil this land."
"I'm here to see to it that the Tharyngians do not spoil it."
The Mystrian arched an eyebrow. "Are you really thinking that is the truth of it, Captain?"
"I have my orders."
"You succeed, what happens then? Next year, the year after, war. Don't matter who wins. The Crown prints up more deeds and charters. More people will come to profit. Speculators get richer. Those who value freedom will keep moving west until someone stops them. Like as not that's another one of your Crown missions."
Woods spoke with passionate disgust, but Owen didn't take it personally. His was an opinion born long before he'd ever met Owen. He'd likely trotted it in front of every man he met and judged them by their reaction to it.
Owen lowered his voice. "Could be things will happen as you say, Mr. Woods. I don't know. What I do know is that I am here to do what I can to stop the Ryngians from threatening the colonies. I'm hoping it prevents war. But I have to ask you, sir, that if you hate all men equally, why have you accepted the Prince's commission to be my guide?"
Nathaniel smiled. "The Prince, he makes a try at understanding this place. Some say his methods are a little Ryngian. Could be. I cotton to the glow in his eyes when he sees something new. Iffen I works for him, not many folks will be of a mind to be bothering me. Makes my life easier."
They arrived at the Prince's estate a little before noon, making their approach along the river. They'd crossed the road Owen had ridden before in the heart of the woods. Looking back at the track, and quickly losing sight of it, reminded Owen of how very different combat would be in Mystria. Anyone who thinks it will not be will suffer.
They found the Prince at the river, stripped to the waist, washing mud off his shirt. He wore homespun trousers and a floppy-brimmed felt hat, which had a dollop of wurm-mud where another might affix a ribbon. He shook hands with Woods, and returned Owen's salute, then turned to greet Kamiskwa.
Neither man exchanged a word. They clasped their hands behind their backs and bowed toward each other. They remained bowing for a handful of heartbeats, then straightened up and smiled. Their ritual puzzled Owen for a moment, then he realized that to the Twilight People, showing an empty hand was more of a deadly threat than clutching a knife. Hiding their hands was a pledge of good behavior and a sign of friendship.
Owen shivered again. It quickly came to him how strange Norillians must have first seemed to the Twilight People. The first colonists wore odd clothes, they spoke a strange tongue. They had iron and steel and guns. They would smile as they offered you their hand. The first settlers must have seemed to be blood-mad butchers, smiling as they threatened.
From the other side, the refusal to shake hands was a confirmation of hostility and duplicity. The Twilight People clearly could not be trusted-which is why it would be so easy for people to believe fanciful stories about raids and atrocities. And when it became known that the Twilight People could work magick, they became an even more potent threat.
Owen smiled in spite of himself. These are insights I need to record.
The Prince wrung his shirt out, then slung it over his shoulder. "I have instructed the staff to lay out dinner on the lawn. Such a lovely day. And I've done away with tables and chairs. You'll be out there roughing it days on end. This is my only chance to share your adventure."
The four of them retired up the lawn to a level spot that provided a wonderful view of the river, the mountains beyond, and the wurmrest. Servants had laid out several blankets and centered baskets with bread, cheese, and braised chicken parts. Wooden plates had been stacked next to four pewter cups and a bottle of wine.
The Prince unceremoniously plunked himself down. "Captain, I insist you remove your jacket and boots. Your waistcoat, too. I want you to feel comfortable as we eat."
"As you command, Highness." Owen shrugged off his pack, then removed his coat and folded it. He set the waistcoat on top, then pulled his boots off. His stockings showed a spot of blood at the heels.
The Prince shook his head. "Blisters, that won't do. I will package some salve of bear grease and a couple herbs. It will ease the pain and toughen up your skin."
"You are most kind, Highness." Owen sighed. "I lost the calluses on the crossing."
"Not the first." The Prince doled out plates, then poured three cups of wine. Kamiskwa took the fourth cup and poured water from a canteen into it.
"Are the Altashee not allowed to drink?"
Kamiskwa smiled. "I simply choose not to."
Owen's mouth hung open. "You speak our language?"
The native nodded.
"But you didn't say anything…"
"You two used up all the words." Kamiskwa's smile broadened.
Kamiskwa and Woods burst into laughter.
Owen's face burned.
The Prince patted his forearm. "At least with you it was only the morning. On my first journey with them, we were four days out before I knew Prince Kamiskwa could speak our tongue."
" Prince Kamiskwa?"
"My, you have kept him in the dark, haven't you?"
Woods curbed his mirth and cleared his throat. "No harm done, Highness. We was taking his measure."
"Really, Nathaniel." The Prince arched an eyebrow. "I should have thought you had that the night he flattened those Branches."
"Well, this is true, Highness."
"And the fact that Caleb Frost, despite his best intentions, can only criticize Captain Strake by saying he has a lot to learn about Mystria."
"Yes, Highness."
The Prince held up a hand. "I am serious, Nathaniel. You have to understand that this man is unlike the others sent out here. He is a serious soldier. His reports will shape policy for dealing with the Tharyngians. Mystria's future will depend upon his success or failure."
Woods' expression sobered. "I understand, Highness. Captain, please accept my apologies for any behavior you found offensive."
"No need for apologies." Owen looked at the Prince. "There is something else, isn't there, Highness?"
The Prince sighed. "There might be. A fast packet-boat came into Temperance the day after the incident with Colonel Langford. A messenger brought me some coded messages. Do you know the name Guy du Malphias?"
Owen's stomach knotted instantly. "Yes, Highness."
Nathaniel frowned. "Who would that be now?"
"He led the Platine Guards at Artennes Forest." Owen shook his head. "He's the devil incarnate."
"He's worse." Prince Vlad's eyes tightened. "Two months ago a small Ryngian flotilla slipped past the Channel fleet during a gale. They were bound for Mystria and had du Malphias aboard. He's been in New Tharyngia for at least two weeks. Whatever you find out there, he'll be up to his elbows in it."
Chapter Fifteen
May 2, 1763
Prince Haven
Temperance Bay, Mystria
O wen's appetite completely vanished. He'd seen du Malphias only once, and that through a telescope during a driving rain. The Tharyngian had been more of a silhouette, really, high on a ridgeline, astride a horse. In profile his aquiline nose stood out and his goatee added a sharp point to his chin. Then he turned to look toward Owen, and the Norillian had had the unmistakable feeling the man saw him and saw through him.
It felt as if the light breeze now came out of the arctic, and even Nathaniel noticed the change. He set a half-gnawed chicken leg on his plate and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "The Devil is he?"
Prince Vlad nodded. "A brilliant man, really. A polymath-he has many interests and excels in all of them. He was the youngest man ever made a Laureate. I've read a number of his papers. I have many of them in my library. He was a very hopeful young man, but with the war, that changed."