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.

'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

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