same.'
'But that's because the firestones are created special to transfer the magick.' Owen watched Nathaniel's smile grow and stopped talking. He couldn't deny the logic of Nathaniel's example, but if it were true, then a number of assumptions about how his world worked suddenly came into question. It was
a bit more than he cared to think about at the moment.
'Must be because he's powerful in magick.'
Nathaniel laughed as they started moving again. 'And could be that you're not privy to magicks that would let you see how powerful you are.'
'What?'
'Well, Captain, my thinking goes like this: if the Twilight People are more powerful than we are, at least we know how powerful we might be. And a powerful man, he might throw his weight around.'
'I can see that.' Owen ducked beneath a branch and started down the hill after Kamiskwa. 'Your point?'
'My point is that magick would have to be controlled.' Woods cut between pine trees beside him. 'Look at firestones. You can only buy them from Fire Wardens. You use too many too fast, they don't sell to you. You don't bring in an old one for new, you don't get a new one. And if you're caught using a substitute, depending on the magistrate, you could lose your thumbs.'
'That's an extreme punishment.'
'Granted, but why the limit on firestones? And why do you have to learn magick from a patent mage?'
'They don't want people hurting themselves. You have to know your limit.' Owen held up a thumb. 'Magick can hurt you, even when used correctly.'
'I ain't thinking the government cares 'bout people hurting themselves.' Nathaniel snorted. 'I'm thinking that they don't care if redemptioneers and beggars die on the voyage over, long as it's not too many die.'
'You hear stories of people dying from using magick.'
'But have you ever seen it?'
'No.' Owen snarled. 'You seem to take a certain delight in trying to vex me.'
'Ain't that, Captain.' Nathaniel gave him a solemn nod. 'You're a smart man. Them's some questions need a smart man thinking on 'em.'
By late afternoon they reached a wide stream and crossed. Kamiskwa led them on for another half-hour, then signaled for them to slow. Nathaniel shucked the sheath from his rifle. Owen drew the pistol. Both of them crouched and followed Kamiskwa into the brush.
They came to a small depression in the ground lined with a carpet of leaves from several autumns. A man's body lay huddled there, knees drawn up toward the chest, but arms not hugging them in. There was no question that he was dead. Maggots writhed beneath his skin, something had gnawed off his ears and lips. Birds had been harvesting hair and a larger beast had begun feasting on his calves.
Owen went to a knee. 'It looks as if he's been shot.'
Nathaniel poked the body with a stick. 'Clothes are practically falling apart. Bullet hole in the vest, but not in the shirt beneath.'
Owen pointed instead at the man's head. 'I meant his skull.'
The other two grunted. The man's skull had a hole in it, not quite cleanly round. A ball had hit at an angle and had gone in near the temple. It had come out toward the back of the skull, still on that side, and had blown a chunk of bone away.
'Who would murder a man out here? Why?' Owen grabbed a stick and hooked the edge of a satchel tucked beneath the body. 'And why would they leave this if they killed him?'
'Bigger problem than that, I'm thinking.'
'Yes, Mr. Woods?'
Nathaniel stood. 'Assuming he fell where he was shot, ain't no point around here high enough to put a shot in at that angle. And if he were shot below, why drag him up here?'
Kamiskwa stood and folded his arms across his chest. 'Another problem.'
Owen looked up. 'What?'
'The wound that killed him. Look close.'
Owen did as instructed. He bent down, holding his breath against the stench. 'Holy Mother of God.'
The bones in the skull: they'd begun to heal.
Chapter Nineteen
May 9, 1763
Bounty, Mystria
O wen carefully poked the skull with his stick. The triangular piece of bone near the exit wound didn't move. Though the fracture lines of the bone were clearly visible, they'd begun to lock together.
'That's just not possible. How did you know, Kamiskwa?'
The Altashee shook his head. 'Magick taint. Something evil.'
Owen shifted the stick around and snaked the pouch from beneath the body. The right hand came into view and had a bronze ring around the appropriate finger. 'Mr. Woods, can you get that ring?'
'I'm not of a mind to be robbing graves.'
'Nor am I, but this is a mystery I'd like to solve.' Owen untied the thongs and opened the pouch. He pulled out a journal very much like the one he'd been keeping, and a half-dozen pencils. 'They're round. Not of Norillian manufacture. Are they made here?'
Neither man knew. 'I'm thinking I've seen round in New Tharyngia, but I ain't claiming that's the whole truth.'
'No knife to sharpen them. This one was gnawed.' He opened the journal. Penciled lines and sketches filled many pages. The text appeared to be in Ryngian, but it didn't make much sense. It also deteriorated over the course of keeping the journal. The letters got bigger and slanted down the page, with sentences occasionally spilling across the gutter onto the next page.
'I can't make any sense of this, but here's an interesting thing. No dates, but there are all these circles that are shaded. I think that's the moon. He didn't know the date, so he drew the moon each night.' Owen closed the book. 'It is in Ryngian, though. Du Malphias sending out his own scouts?'
Nathaniel reached down and snapped the ring finger off, then pulled the ring off and flicked some leathery flesh away. 'Maggots say he's been dead for two days. Flesh and bone, I'd put him at dead six months anyway. That's a mite before your man arrived.'
Owen accepted the ring and held it up. A simple signet ring, it had been cast in bronze. The flat surface had the letter 'P' engraved into it, and the legend '1/3' below. 'First company, Third battalion, Phosphorus Regiment. They were destroyed at Villerupt. If he was there, he's been dead for three years. That's impossible. He must have once served, came to Mystria to start over, and he died here.'
Nathaniel nodded. 'As good an explanation as any.'
Owen stood, slipping the journal, pencils, and ring into his pouch. 'The Prince will find the journal an interesting puzzle.'
Kamiskwa agreed with a nod, and they set off again. They pushed past dusk, then made a cold camp. They split the night into shifts, with Kamiskwa agreeing to take the last one and rouse them when it was time to move out. Woods took the first, leaving Owen for the middle of the night.
Since they'd not made a fire, Owen had insufficient light by which to read or write. Still, he fished out the dead man's journal and compared the last drawing of the moon with its current phase. Like the presence of the maggots, the drawing suggested the last entry had been three maybe four days earlier. Aside from the head wound, they'd not seen any obvious signs of trauma, so exactly why the man died where he did remained mysterious. And how he got there with that head wound was an even bigger mystery.
Owen found himself less concerned about the circumstances of the man's death, than the location. The man had penetrated very close to the point where the Benjamin River became navigable. If he had been scouting for du Malphias, they could have found the most obvious avenue of attack by accident. That was a very lucky stroke.
