“You’re probably right.” The Prince rubbed his forehead and realized too late he’d smeared clay on it. “Blast and damn. It’s one thing to tell me I’m to be married, but to only send notice bare weeks before the woman sets sail?”
He looked at his hands and then wiped them on his pants. “Please, the missive.”
Nathaniel handed it over and the Prince broke the seal. Inside he found three smaller packets, each similarly sealed. He opened the one from the Home Minister, Duke Marbury. It had been folded in thirds and thirds again, but imprecisely a mark of the slovenly attention to detail which described Marbury.
Vlad scanned it quickly. He groaned and tossed the other two onto his desk, hoping they would be disappear. “This is not good.”
“I would never pry, Highness.”
Vlad laughed. “Typical Marbury. ‘If it pleases you, Highness…’ Of course it does not please me, but I haven’t anything of a choice in the matter. My aunt, in her wisdom, has decided that having the Kingdom of Kesse-Saxeburg join an alliance focused on Tharyngia is to her benefit. Granting that Kessians are the most martial of the Teutonic nations this might not be a bad idea, but she’s determined to solidify this alliance by marrying me off to Princess Gisella. The child is half my age, doubtlessly has been schooled in needlepoint and blushing on cue, and has been raised in a world filled with creature comforts the like of which have never reached these shores.”
Nathaniel cracked a sunflower seed and fed the meat to the Prince’s caged raven. “Well, you could marry her to Kamiskwa here, and then take his sister as your wife. Your aunt would be getting two alliances instead of just one.”
“Msitazi would demand Mugwump as a brideprice, so that would not work.” He looked at the note again, then frowned. “Did you see her?”
“Not exactly, Highness. She was being loaded on a barge…”
“A barge!”
“Weren’t like they was using a crane to unload her.” Nathaniel smiled. “Never did get a clean look at her. Her carriage is a grand thing. Gold and white, like the man what delivered the note.”
“What was he like?”
“Dressed fancy. Needed a barge just for his mustachios. Count Joachim von Metternin said his name was. Polite as can be.” Nathaniel smiled. “Gave me a pound to deliver the message.”
Vlad’s eyes narrowed. He tapped a finger against his teeth, then tasted clay. “Von Metternin. The name is familiar.”
“He was hoping for a return message fast.”
“I’ll have one in the morning. I’ll send Baker. I need you here to help with the model.” Vlad raked fingers back through his hair, streaking it. “My aunt seeks to save her empire by this marriage, but she distracts me from the real work that will preserve it.”
Kamiskwa whittled a point on a stick. “This princess could bear you strong sons.”
The Prince opened his arms wide. “I do not need children here. I am a man of science. Yes, the Tharyngian revolution has made that a most malevolent prospect, but their perversion of the process does not invalidate it. My studies have advanced our understanding of the world. I have identified plants with medicinal properties. I have found a strain of potato that grows larger than others and resists rot. I am learning things every day about wurms. I don’t need a distraction.”
Kamiskwa nodded, sliding his obsidian knife into its sheath. “Many a warrior has said the same. My father points out where they are wrong. They want to make the world safe. You want to make the world better. For whom? You try hard now. When it is for your child, you will try harder.”
Vlad blinked.
Nathaniel smiled. “Annoying, ain’t he, Highness?”
“Very.” The Prince shook his head. “And, alas, he may be correct. I do not like this turn of events, but since I can do nothing to avert it, I shall have to hope for the best possible outcome.”
The Prince, in order to better formulate his reply, opened the note from Count von Metternin. It had been folded with great precision. The script came in a strong hand and the lines ran straight across the page. Vlad used a square to confirm this. The Count had the pleasure of introducing the Princess, a relation of distant sanguinity, whom he had the pleasure of knowing for many years. The note went on to praise her in glowing but less than hyperbolic terms. Vlad felt this grew out of genuine affection for the girl instead of an attempt to cover up flaws.
Vlad turned to his library to track down why the name von Metternin seemed familiar. The family had been ennobled for many generations, the progenitor of which had performed a great service to the Holy Remian Emperor centuries past. It was in Rivendell’s Villerupt, however, where Vlad found a direct reference to Joachim von Metternin. The Kessian had been an observer with Tharyngian forces and, on the fourth day, had assumed command of a battalion to which he had been attached. Their officer corps had been devastated, but he organized the battalion and put up stiff resistance. They fought their way free of the town of Planchain and a potential Norillian encirclement led by John Rivendell. Rivendell’s book had nothing good to say of the man, which caused Vlad no end of comfort.
Vlad composed a cordial but formal reply, inviting the Count alone to visit him and spend the next night. He folded and sealed it, intending to dispatch Baker with it in the morning.
He stared at the missive the Princess had written, as yet unopened. He really didn’t want to read it. It had been addressed in a very delicate but orderly hand, but he did not know if it belonged to her or one of her handmaidens. And the words inside might not have been hers, but those crafted by ministers and the aforementioned handmaidens, designed to obligate and ensnare him.
He told himself he wasn’t going to read it because he wanted to be fair to the girl even though he knew this was not true. It was not that he wanted to be unfair to her either, but he was being given no choice in the matter. Neither was she, of course. The less he got to know her before meeting her, the less time he’d have to dislike her. Since they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, there would be ample time for that.
The Prince slept relatively well, though his miniature model filled his dreams.
He awoke and returned to the laboratory to find Kamiskwa and Nathaniel already there making piles of model palisade posts. They spent the morning and early afternoon planting, scraping, shaping, and reshaping the landscape until they’d created a match for the fortress that satisfied both witnesses and conformed to the maps.
So engrossed in their work were they that it came as a complete surprise when Baker appeared at the laboratory door and announced the arrival of Count von Metternin. The Kessian wore a light blue uniform, white breeches, buff facings and waistcoat, gold epaulets, and black cavalry boots. A jaunty cavalier’s hat with a feather and a gold cockade holding the left part of the brim up against the crown completed his outfit. The cockade and epaulets had been fitted with a small, black metal lizard, marking the man as a Wurmrider.
The Count took one step into the laboratory and bowed deeply. “Prince Vladimir, it is the greatest of pleasures to meet you and on behalf of Princess Gisella…”
Vlad held up both clay-caked hands. “Count von Metternin, please, stop. Two things I require of you. The first is to realize that here, in Mystria, formality is appreciated, but sincerity is valued above form. This is a land that can be beautiful and harsh. We take it and people as presented.”
The Count straightened, then nodded. “As you desire, Highness.”
“And second, do not speak to me of the Princess unless I ask for word of her.” Vlad opened his arms and looked around the laboratory. “I asked you here to see me as I am, so there will be no illusions. You will see me as my aunt and her ministers never have. Once you get to know me, then you will be better able to tell me of the Princess. Does that sound like a good idea?”
“It does, Highness, thank you.” The man removed his hat and set it atop the raven’s cage. “To be entirely truthful, Highness, the duty of transporting and presenting
my cousin has been the most difficult I have ever been given. It has nothing to do with the girl, but bureaucracies and manners are not my forte.”
“This, then, we have in common. May I present Prince Kamiskwa of the Altashee and Nathaniel Woods. They have obtained many of the specimens you see herein.”
“Mr. Woods, a pleasure to see you again. Prince Kamiskwa, I am honored.”
Kamiskwa bowed after the Shedashee fashion and Nathaniel sketched a friendly salute that daubed his forehead with gray.
The Count approached the model. “This is fascinating. Something you are planning to build?”
“No, it is under construction by the Tharyngians to the northwest of here, near the headwaters of the Tillie River.”
The Kessian circled it, peering closely at some points, squatting to judge angles at others. “Quite formidable. The creator fears no assault from the lake side. On land, the only approachable route would be from the north. Once inside the fortress, any invading force would be slaughtered—provided the commander was not an idiot.”
Vlad nodded. “It’s being built by Guy du Malphias.”
Von Metternin visibly shuddered. “He is an evil man. I met him, briefly, once. He offered me a place on his staff. I refused. He tried to have me killed, along with a battalion of the Fluor Regiment at Planchain. His Platine Regiment was supposed to support our flank, but he withdrew his forces in the night. I barely escaped with my life.”
“Brilliantly, if Rivendell’s account is at all accurate.”
The Count smiled. “In few things was that book accurate. But if a man may be measured by the scorn of others, I am pleased he hates me so.”
Vlad smiled. “We have just finished our model. We will send more scouts to see how it changes.”
The Count’s blue eyes narrowed. “If it is your intent to do harm to this place or its master, it would do me great pleasure to be of service in any way possible.”
“I think,” Vlad said as he untied his apron and slipped it off, “we should be most happy to accommodate your desire.”
The Count waited patiently on the lawn as the other three men stripped to the flesh and washed themselves off in the river. They chatted about nonsensical things as the sun dried them off, then pulled their clothes back on and moved back up onto the lawn. The servants had set out a blanket and a meal of bread, cheese, tomatoes, and maize relish. They added a red wine, which the Count praised as “refreshing”—a polite way of saying it was far too young to be in a bottle and that it could not compare to Continental wines.
Vlad found himself inclined to like the Kessian and think better of him than his initial appearance had suggested. After lunch they returned to the model and studied it for an hour. Von Metternin offered insights about vulnerable points, couching them in realistic assessments of the necessary troop dispositions to affect a siege. His estimate amounted to more troops than the Crown had in all of Mystria, which cast the idea of ever being rid of du Malphias into doubt.
After that the Prince had taken him to see Mugwump. The Count marveled at the colors and lack of stench. The wurm splashed him and he did not react with the good graces Owen had exhibited. He’d stiffly retreated from the wurmrest, pulled off his boots, then marched into the river fully clothed and ridded himself of as much filth as he could.
Vlad watched him clean up, studying his sour expression. The man is vain, though fights to control it. This was good to know. There would be a point where vanity would trump sensibility and that would be a problem. That von Metternin chafed under non-military command spoke to that same vanity, but his willingness to follow orders nonetheless underscored the man’s sense of loyalty.
Dinner—a ham from the cellar, applesauce, peas, and maize boiled on the cob—devolved, as it always will when shared by men only, into a symphony of serious discussions, grand stories, and laughter. The Count had never eaten maize from the cob before, and his luxurious moustaches did not aid him in this undertaking. The others laughed and he accepted it, though not so well.
As wine flowed and sherry followed, the Count offered his own version of war on the Continent. He stripped it of any sense of glory, reducing it to ground made muddy with blood, where what appeared to be white pebbles were fragments of bone, and where packs of wild dogs fought over the entrails of men who still lived. “I did not know if I should shoot the dog or the man.”
“Not a choice I should want to have to make.” Vlad held up his sherry glass. “To those who will have to choose. May God ease their decision and straighten their aim.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
August 21, 1763
Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia
In the week since he’d first seen sunshine again, Owen had come to relish his daily outdoor sojourns. Quarante-neuf still hovered, but the pasmorte appeared confident in Owen’s ability to navigate. Owen made certain not to stray off the gravel-covered paths, reducing his quiet companion’s anxiety—if facial expression was any indication.
Owen had abandoned one crutch and bore weight on his right leg. It still hurt a bit. An ointment made of mogiqua and bear fat did nothing to help relieve the pain, though the act of massaging it in did help. Du Malphias offered a preparation of willow bark, noting that Owen’s pain had not reached the level needed to be ameliorated by morphine.
His left leg healed more slowly. When out for his walks, Owen let it appear far stiffer than it truly was. In his cell, using the crutch more like a cane, he forced himself to walk daily, making more circuits around the room during each exercise period. He couldn’t run—he could barely walk, and totter best described his gait—but he could move. Each day he got stronger.
Before long I can escape.
A breeze teased flame-colored leaves on distant trees. Summer was surrendering to autumn. The nights had been getting colder—cold enough that he’d been given two thin blankets. He’d offered one to Quarante-neuf, but his captor refused it. “Cold does not bother me.”
Owen’s gaze swept over the camp. Apparently satisfied with the basic construction, du Malphias had charged his army of pasmortes with engineering the landscape south of the river. They cleared the ground for five hundred yards back, increasing the potential flood zone. The collected stones had then been used to build several fences and—though of completely new construction—what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse which had fallen into disrepair. The ground had been sown with grass seeds, some of which had already sprouted. Come spring it would look as if the Tharyngian forces had driven a farmer out, leaving his fields and fences to offer some cover for troops advancing on the southern fortress.
Owen studied the new construction because he knew du Malphias wanted him to. The new building, despite appearing to have been there for a long time, hadn’t been included in Owen’s original survey. No Norillian commander would pay it any attention and would recognize the killing field for exactly what it was: a trap.
That is what they must see, isn’t it?
Owen shook his head. “But they never did on the Continent.”
Quarante-neuf stepped forward. “Did you require something?”
“No, just made a comment.” He pointed toward the new construction. “When you look out there, what do you see?”
“What is it you wish me to see?”
“I don’t know.” Owen frowned. “I see nine hundred men in red coats dying over there.”
The pasmorte nodded slowly. “Blood, much blood.” His voice grew uncharacteristically distant. “Thunder and metal.”
Owen glanced at him. Quarante-neuf’s face had flushed, but his expression had become one of profound sadness. “Are you well?”
The pasmorte blinked. “I am fine.” He reached up and brushed away a tear, then looked at the wet stain on his finger as if it were something he had never seen before. “Are you fatigued? Shall I fetch you a blanket?”
The questions came more urgently than ever before, so Owen nodded. “A blanket, yes.”
Quarante-neuf departed,
and Owen returned to the real reason he enjoyed his time in the sun. Stumbling around as if looking for a place to sit, Owen studied the construction to the north. His only chance to escape lay in getting into the woods and locating one of the cached canoes. He could never outrun pursuit, but on the water his legs wouldn’t make much difference.
He watched men and pasmortes walk by and compared their stride against the shadow of a flagpole he had previously measured. Counting their paces he obtained an accurate measurement of distances within the fortress. He committed those distances to memory and double-checked them as best he could. When he got out, he could supplement his maps. He would use that information and other things he had learned to make his escape and come back to crack the fortress.
Quarante-neuf returned with the blanket and settled it around Owen’s shoulders. “Thank you, sir.”
“Do not address him as ‘sir,’ Captain.” Du Malphias emerged from the dungeon opening, eyes venomous. “A disobedient servant does not deserve praise.”
“I had asked him to get me a blanket.”
“And I had tasked him with keeping you always in his sight. He does not seem to realize, as I do, that you are a very dangerous man.”
Owen laughed. “A cripple, dangerous?”
“Your legs are broken, not your mind.” The Tharyngian snapped a telescope open. “Would you like a closer look at anything to refine your calculations?”
“I have no idea…”
“Captain Strake, do not insult my intelligence. If you were stupid, you would not have been given the job of finding me. You are a spy, yes, but perhaps also an assassin. I should fashion for you gauntlets. An iron mask, perhaps? How much magick can you use, Captain?”
Owen held up his shackled wrists. “Now, none. Without, read my nails if you wish an answer.”
“You could read mine, monsieur, and learn nothing of my skill or power.”