“And I shall need my apron.”
Quarante-neuf became a silhouette, then returned to the circle of light and secured a blood-stained leather apron on du Malphias. The Tharyngian waved the servant back. He obediently retreated to the wall, barely visible, but staring forward.
Du Malphias took a small mirror from the tray, then peeled back the cloth covering Owen’s injury. “If you care to look, the wound is relatively clean. I will sew it shut soon, but I wanted you to see the damage that has been done.”
Owen didn’t want to look, but found himself fascinated by his rent flesh and torn muscle. He wasn’t certain because of the hanging lamp’s weak light but he thought he caught an ivory flash of bone.
“You present for me a problem, sir.” Du Malphias replaced the bandage. “I have examined your things. You have a rifle that has only been issued to men under my command. I have to assume that its previous owner is no more, his mission unsuccessful. He and his band sought property belonging to me. I shall assume you have some knowledge of this property and its current location. Do not bother to deny any of this. The pencils you carry were with the item I seek.
“I have made further deductions. You are friendly with the Altashee. You carry with you a child’s doll, so you have deep connections with them. She is your daughter, the one who gave you this doll? And you carry a copy of A Continent’s Calling. You are, therefore, literate and cognizant of fact that Mystria’s future is not tied to the whims of Norisle’s insane mistress.”
Du Malphias plucked a blunt metal probe from the tray and used it to point at Owen’s right thumb. “The blood under your nail and reports of my squad indicate you are brave and skilled at war. You were with others. I shall tell you that I have one of them in my custody, wounded worse than you. A shot through the bowels. He lost much blood, but he is a big man, no?”
Makepeace. Owen fought to keep any reaction from his face.
“He fares not as well as you. I am not certain I can save him.” Du Malphias shrugged. “You know that if he does pass on, I will find uses for him.”
Owen shivered.
Du Malphias smiled. “Good, you do understand. So, I shall tell you one more thing so you can make some decisions. You were betrayed by Etienne Ilsavont. He told me that you entrusted a message to him and his partner, promising a pound if they took it to Temperance. To Doctor Frost of the college. Etienne tried to convince his partner that if it was worth one pound to Frost, I should pay more. His partner disagreed, so they split, and Ilsavont returned here. He was out with the squad that discovered you. I shall assume, from the bullet I recovered from his chest, it was the one known as Magehawk who killed him.”
He’s dead. “Good.”
The Laureate allowed himself a brief smile. “Etienne will serve us well, as did his father. The son has already identified your compatriots. You he did not know, but based on the conversation he related, you were keenly interested in what I am doing here. Now I am interested in what you are doing here, who you are, other mundane details of life. Will you share them with me, or must I convince you?”
“Owen Strake.”
Du Malphias’ grey eyes became slender crescents. “A Mystrian name. An alias? Perhaps. We shall determine this in due time.” He peeled the bandage back and poked the probe into the wound.
It clicked off bone.
Owen jolted, half from the sound and half from pain shooting up his spine.
“Interesting. I grade reaction to pain on a decimal scale, zero to nine. Your reaction is a five. Your concoction and above is my own infusion of that fern in alcohol, far more effective in releasing chemicals than water or saliva is powerful. I imagine that your compatriot would benefit from it, even if only to ease his last hours. If you choose to speak freely, Monsieur Strake, I shall be kind to him.”
Du Malphias tapped the bone again.
“And one more thing for you to consider. We never intended knowledge of this fortress to be hidden from Norisle. By the end of October, our ambassador will formally announce its presence to the Norillian government. It will confirm the rumors we have been feeding them for a short while. What I want to know is exactly what you have communicated about it.”
Du Malphias reached up and turned a stopcock, curtailing the flow of anesthetic. “I will go tend to your friend now. I regret I only have one preparation to use. I will test his level of pain, then administer it and see how much reduction there is. By then I hope it will have worn off you, and I shall resume
testing here. All for the sake of science.
“Quarante-neuf will remain here to see to your needs.”
Du Malphias put away the tray and snuffed the lamps before he left. His footsteps retreated down a corridor. Owen shivered, both from the damp cold, and from the man’s lingering presence.
“Water, please.”
The servant moved quietly through the darkness. Water poured. A hand slid beneath Owen’s head, then a bowl touched his lips. Quarante-neuf fed him slowly, pausing, letting Owen catch his breath, before he resumed drinking.
“Thank you.”
The other man lowered Owen’s head to the slab again.
“Who are you? Can you speak? Why does he call you forty-nine?”
“This is my name.”
Definitely Mystrian by his accent. “Who are you?”
“Quarante-neuf.”
A thought puckered Owen’s flesh. “Who were you?”
“I am Quarante-neuf.”
A muffled scream echoed from nearby. Clearly a man, a big man in pain. Makepeace. Owen could not make out any words, but the tone of the sounds left no doubt that the screamer was begging for mercy. Another scream punctuated his request, then two more, shorter and weaker.
Owen’s hands tightened into fists. Du Malphias had said all he wanted to know was the nature of the information that had been communicated. He knew of the note sent with Jean. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had gotten away, so the Prince would have his journals and maps. Seth Plant’s note really had nothing special in it, and Nathaniel or Kamiskwa could communicate all of that regardless.
Nothing he knew would prevent the Prince from requesting help from Launston. Jean’s note would pinpoint the fortress. The maps would help planning a siege, but even the rough description Jean had supplied would tell Horse Guards what they were facing. The die had already been cast, and nothing Owen could reveal to du Malphias would benefit the Tharyngian in the least.
The man screamed again. Owen could imagine du Malphias jabbing the probe into his guts. Makepeace, strapped down as he was, his belly open, bleeding, stinking, suppurating. Stomach wounds always had seemed the most painful on the battlefield.
And the least survivable.
“Go. Tell du Malphias I will talk.”
The large man drifted away silently. The screaming stopped, and du Malphias’ footsteps returned. He struck another match, relit the lamps, and again hung the anesthetic above Owen. He did not, however, restart the flow.
Wet blood glistened on his apron and had stained his coat cuffs.
“You will understand that while I take you at your word that you will tell me the truth, I will test that truth, yes?”
“I am Captain Owen Strake of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards.”
The Tharyngian’s eyes widened. “This is a surprise. You do realize that since you are not in uniform, you are considered a spy, yes?”
“And you can have me shot.”
“I can, and may yet. We shall see how useful you are.” Du Malphias’ brows arrowed together. “What are you doing so far from your home station, Captain?”
“I was sent on a mission to survey New Tharyngian territory. I did not know of your presence until after my arrival in Mystria.” Owen winced as his leg throbbed. “Quite by chance we found the journals and thering. They were sent to the Governor-General. The note Jean carried communicated the location of your fort. When my companions reach Temperance they will have a rough map of your fortifications.”
/> The Laureate’s face closed for a moment. “And of my experiments? Of Pierre Ilsavont?”
“We know he was frozen solid, but you revived him somehow.”
“I prefer the word ‘reanimate.’ No matter.” Du Malphias walked over to a table Owen could not see and brought the tray of tools back, setting them on the stool. “I do accept your general account. You do have more information, which I shall extract. I hope you will survive.”
He picked up a sharp chisel probe and a small hammer. “Now, Captain Strake, if you will indulge me. Tell me your real name.”
Owen passed out twice in the eternity that constituted du Malphias’ questioning. He fought to hold back screams and was not wholly successful. He did mute them, however, in hopes Makepeace would not hear.
Du Malphias mixed his questions, asking about troop strengths in the colonies at one point, then shifting rapidly to questions about levels of pain and whether something felt hot or cold or just agonizing. The confusion as much as the pain prompted Owen to admissions he might otherwise not have made. He revealed his connection to the Ventnor family and spoke of the Frosts. Du Malphias detected something in the way he mentioned Bethany and questioned him closely about her.
Owen had replied curtly. “I am a married man, sir.”
“A defense offered so often by a man willing to stray.” Du Malphias cracked the hammer sharply against his femur. “You cannot lie to me, Captain, but please to lie to yourself.”
The Tharyngian kept at it, asking the same questions from different angles and, eventually reached a certain level of satisfaction with the answers. He set his tools down, covered the leg wound again, and started the anesthetic drip. He removed his apron and handed it to Quarante-neuf, then dispatched the servant on a whispered errand.
Du Malphias loomed at his bedside. “I accept you at your word, Captain, in all you have told me. I am not yet determined what I shall do with you. But you appear a hearty specimen. You have some use.”
Owen shook his head. “You will not make me into one of your pasmortes.”
“I definitely hope not.” Du Malphias tapped his finger against the hanging glass. “Curious properties, this fluid. I created something akin to it a number of years ago.”
From the pocket of his black frock coat he produced a crusted bottle. “Others have conducted alchemical researches looking for the fabled Philosopher’s Stone. They expect to find something that will turn dross to gold. Their dreams of avarice, while admirable, are pitiful in their lack of ambition. I sought something different, and I call it vivalius. After years of experimentation in my spare time, since you Norillians have required me to serve my country with my knowledge of military science, I have discovered and refined many of its more interesting properties. Creating the pasmorte is but one thing to which it is well suited.”
He set the bottle between Owen’s legs and turned toward the returning Quarante-neuf. The servant bore a wide, flat, wooden box, but du Malphias eclipsed it before Owen could get a good look. The Tharyngian opened it and fiddled with something, while looking back at Owen over his shoulder.
“Vivalius quickens healing and I would have used it on your leg, save that your application of the weed ruined any chance I had of truly testing the results. This is a pity because I think you would have done well under treatment.” Du Malphias turned, a small pistol in his hand. “I should say, you will do well under treatment. One leg with vivalius, the other with the native preparation.”
Du Malphias sighted down the pistol’s barrel. “In the name of Tharyngia, Captain Strake, I thank you for your contribution to science.”
The man’s cold smile evaporated in the cloud of gunsmoke.
Chapter Thirty-One
July 14, 1763
Prince Haven
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Prince Vlad sat in his laboratory. He’d cleared a place at his table and had laid out all three of Owen’s letters, along with the journals and the best map of the surrounding colonies. He’d added to them several piles of books in a variety of languages, and had marked many passages with slender paper slips.
The third letter, the one brought by Jean Deleon, had arrived only that morning from Temperance. The letter covering it came from Doctor Frost, who indicated that Deleon said he had more information he would be pleased to sell in the event it would bring a good price. Deleon was certain the information would be very valuable.
The Deleon letter confirmed what had been suspected in the earlier two and expanded upon it. Du Malphias had indeed managed, somehow, to return a man to life. Ilsavont had been distant but clearly functional and the Prince was willing to assume the writer of the journal had been dead or dying or dying again as explanation for the journal’s deteriorating reports.
It was after the receipt of the second letter that the Prince had begun his examination of the issue of necromancy. His library, though one of the largest on the Continent, had surprisingly few references to it. They generally fell into three categories. The first explored such rumors as a matter of folktales. The second condemned practitioners as diabolists and promised them an eternity in lakes of burning brimstone. These books, all written by learned Church fathers, claimed that practitioners, liars that they were, grossly exaggerated their success.
The third category’s exemplars were the books on his desk. While the Prince confined his studies largely to those of the natural sciences, many reference books did touch upon the subject here and there. An anthropologist, in sorting a variety of avian bones found in a midden, used a magickal sense of which bones belonged to which grouping to help with his sorting. His subsequent reconstruction of the skeletons proved accurate. This was taken as a confirmation of the Law of Contagion, and the anthropologist went on to speculate, based on impressions he’d gotten from the bones, as to the life-cycle of extinct birds. He went so far as to suggest that someday magicks might be able to reanimate the skeleton and verify his theory about the birds’ locomotion.
Such was the nature of most mentions. No one claimed outright to have reanimated the dead, but they speculated that such a thing was possible. In other cases, certain magicks and magickally fashioned preparations had been effective in banishing ghosts and spirits from certain locations. If true, these reports suggested that magick could interact with the departed.
Had du Malphias dared do what others only speculated about?
Vlad steepled his fingers. Addressing that question would be the endpoint of an inquiry that had decidedly more humble beginnings. If reviving the dead were even possible, it would require great knowledge, great intelligence, and great power. There was no doubting du Malphias had the first two qualities, but great power? According to everything Prince Vlad had been taught about magick, such levels of power were simply unknown.
In the Old World.
The Shedashee were more adept at magick than any of the settlers. Whether or not they could raise the dead was a moot point. They were more skilled and powerful than Vlad had been led to believe was possible. That fact put the lie to that very proposition. Add to that the idea that the Crown granted charters for schools of magick, and anyone teaching outside the charter system would be decried by Crown and Church. Could it be that magicks more powerful than commonly believed were possible, and that the Crown was hiding this bit of reality from the people?
Vlad smiled. Though the peasantry might not think the Queen would ever lie, they were lied to every day. Official statements proclaimed the Villerupt campaign a victory for Norisle. Allies had been scapegoated for failures, every dead man had been declared a hero, and every officer had been elevated despite having had to retreat from the Continent. With so much ceremony attending the troops’ return, one could not help but think they had been the victors.
The Prince accepted that greater and more powerful magicks existed. He based this on the evidence of the Shedashee and the fact that when he’d been taught to shoot, his instructor praised him for having taken to it more quickly than Princ
ess Margaret’s children had. “There will be more of this for the likes of you.”
But, in fact, there had not been. The King had died childless while fighting on the Continent. Margaret was elevated to the throne, bypassing his father who, at that time, served as Governor-General of Mystria. He’d later been recalled to Launston and reentered the monastery from which he’d been drawn to marry Vlad’s mother, and the Governor-Generalship fell to Vlad.
Whether or not du Malphias could raise the dead, heal those believed dead, or somehow cobble together bones and make them function, all three possibilities resulted in a single outcome. Du Malphias would have a superior supply of labor. Moreover, troops convinced of their functional immortality might abandon fear and good sense, fighting on in situations where they might otherwise flee. Such resolution would create an army that would deliver devastating casualties no matter how hopeless their situation.
He recognized, instantly, that his three conclusions amounted to the same thing: the balance of power in Mystria had shifted. While New Tharyngia had proved as wealthy a colony as Mystria, its smaller population and corresponding diminution of military power had curbed Tharyngian adventurism. More power, especially with du Malphias in charge of it, pointed to great trouble ahead.
Of course, anything wrought through magick could also be unmade by it. A spell could light brimstone afire. Another spell, applied quickly enough, could extinguish that fire. Granted, the mage would have to touch the fire to make the magick work—getting burned in the process—but the fire would go out. Touching a magickally enhanced soldier would likewise constitute a severe danger.
But iron is an anathema to all magick.
The Prince turned and snatched up the journal. He flipped halfway through, to where the pages became blank, and started making notes. He jotted a crude diagram and did some calculations. Then another idea popped into his head and he made another drawing.
He pushed his chair back and grabbed a measuring string. Looping it about his neck, he darted from his study and down across the lawn toward the wurmrest.