“You refer to the recovery of du Malphias’ papers, I believe. My uncle knows I found them and immediately turned them over to the Crown. It was my assumption then, and yet is, that Prince Vlad would make them available to Norillian authorities as soon as possible.” Owen shrugged. “Or did I misinterpret what my uncle requested of me?”
“I would hardly know your uncle’s mind.”
“But you’ve spoken to him more recently than I.”
“True. I sought him out when I was given this assignment.” Rathfield tapped a gloved finger against his chin. “He suggested that you had forgotten that duty to family is exceedingly important.”
“I could take that as a suborning of treason.”
“Your uncle?” Rathfield threw his head back in a genuine laugh. “My dear boy, you have no idea how far he has risen, do you? Because of his victory on the Continent, the Queen trusts him most highly. He is her right-hand man on all things international.”
Owen stroked a hand along his jaw. Not knowing his uncle as well as Owen did, Rathfield likely believed that the Crown was simply considering Mystria as part of the empire and, therefore, warding it against external predation. Owen could see a deeper game. While learning the magick that created pasmortes would be a powerful thing to use against Tharyngia, likewise it would be a splendid tool a man could use to carve his own empire out of Mystria. Du Malphias had intended to do that, and Owen could see his uncle using the same opportunity.
My having given the documents to Prince Vlad would be seen as a step toward independence for Mystria if the Queen no longer trusted her nephew. Owen forced himself to smile. “I’m pleased to hear my uncle is doing so well. My choice was the expedient one and, truly, the only one possible. The papers would have to be copied here to prevent their being lost in transit to Norisle. Who better to trust with that job?”
“You may have a point, but the Prince’s lack of alacrity is the cause for some concern.”
“Would you like me to mention this to the Prince?”
“You shouldn’t bother him with it. I believe he has had correspondence from the court as regards it.”
So, the answer is yes, but you don’t want to admit to it. Owen leaned forward in the saddle, both hands on the horn. “Is there anything else you wished to address before you enjoy the hospitality of my home?”
“I would not address it, save that you seem to have adopted the frighteningly annoying custom of Mystrians to be abrupt, inappropriate, and direct. The fact of the matter is simple, Strake: you’re not truly of my class and you’ve risen well above what ought to be your station. I say this with all due respect to your mother and her fine lineage. Blood will out, and your Mystrian blood is telling in you. This expedition is at the behest of the Crown. I am in command. Things will be done as I direct, when I direct them, and I shall tolerate no insubordination. I will hold you to a higher standard than any of the Mystrian miscreants with whom I am saddled. Are we clear on this?”
Owen could not help himself. He began to laugh.
Rathfield stiffened. “You have been warned, Strake.”
Owen stopped laughing, but his smile would not die. “Understand something, Colonel. The Crown’s authority extends only in so far as you can enforce it. Here in Temperance Bay or Bounty or south-that’s pretty far. Two days’ ride from here there are whole villages populated by people who’ve never seen Norisle and who think the Queen is something out of a faery story. When we get further out, you’ll see places where there aren’t many people, and where the only law is Nature’s law. You think Mystrians won’t care about the Crown? Jeopards and wolves will care even less.”
Owen straightened up in the saddle and opened his hands. “As for your holding me to a high standard, understand what that means. You can write me up in reports and say bad things, but everyone will expect that. If you try to flog me-flog any of us-it won’t be tolerated. If you choose to demand satisfaction of me, I’ll decline as the Prince doesn’t favor dueling. Others who will be joining us, however, have different opinions, and they’re a lot deadlier than I am.
“So, Colonel, your being here is pretty much like your being in Rondeville. You’re on your own. How you best decide to proceed is up to you.”
Rathfield considered for a moment, and then nodded. “I see. I will take your words under advisement, though I warn you that I meant what I said.”
“I understand that.”
“Good. As long as we understand each other, I believe we can work together.” Rathfield pointed south. “Shall we?”
“By all means.” Owen gave his horse a touch of the heel. “Welcome to my home.”
The drive to Strake House snaked through woods, which had been thinned of larger trees. The road worked its way around hills simply because that had been less expensive than digging through them-and level roads were more practical in the winter when the snow came. The serpentine track opened onto a wide lot with a barn on the left, smokehouse to the right, and the main house in the middle. Beyond the main house, down by the Benjamin River, stood a small boathouse and dock.
“I know it’s not much, but…”
“It is impressive.”
The main house had been built on a stone foundation. They’d excavated down to bedrock, which gave the house an eight-foot-high cellar for food storage in winter. The rectangular building rose to two stories, with chimneys at either end and fireplaces sufficient to heat four upstairs bedrooms. The pitched roof hid an attic. The main floor boasted a kitchen toward the back on the right side, a dining room to the front on that side, a sewing room back left, and a library and parlor left front. Stones finished the corners, but clapboards otherwise covered the house, and the roof had been done in cedar shingles.
Owen snuck a look at Rathfield’s face and suppressed a smile. In Norisle, even a man with Rathfield’s money could barely have afforded a house such as that. Because Mystria had so much land and so many resources abundantly available, the construction had cost a fraction of what it might have in Norisle. Owen could afford to build a house that was much larger than the equivalent in Norisle, and in Norisle would have had to be a minor noble to afford an estate that size.
As they rode toward the stables, James the stable boy emerged to take their horses. The two men dusted themselves off. Before they could reach the front door, however, it opened a crack, then a little, black-haired girl with bright hazel eyes slipped through. Giggling gaily, she ran toward her father, hands extended, then stopped and looked up at Rathfield.
Her smile died and her hands disappeared behind her back.
Owen scooped her up and kissed her cheek. “Colonel Rathfield, this is my daughter, Miranda.”
Rathfield drew off his hat with a flourish and bowed solemnly-a bit of playful whimsy that Owen would never have credited as possible. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miranda.”
The beautiful little girl stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, then buried her face against her father’s neck. Owen shook his head. “She tends to be shy around strangers. Normally she is quite happy and talks all the time.”
The main house door opened and a woman appeared, though she still faced back into the house. “Let that happen again, Agnes, and I shall get the strop!” She turned, looking over the yard for her daughter-there was no mistaking the resemblance in the nose and the chin-then she stopped. “Owen, I hadn’t…”
“We have a visitor. Colonel Ian Rathfield, may I present my wife, Catherine.”
Catherine stiffened, then pressed her brown hair into place and straightened her dress. “Please forgive me, Colonel.”
Rathfield took her hand and raised it to his lips. “My pleasure, Madame.”
Catherine covered that hand with her other, then her brown eyes narrowed. “Are you? Yes, your uniform, the Fifth Northland Cavalry. You’re Ian Rathfield, the hero of Rondeville.”