river and had to rely on ferries and a single ford to get across.
The roads weren't much to speak of. They had sunken from much use and some half-hearted attempts to remove mud and pile it on the sides. The lack of recent rains made them dusty, yet any precipitation would reduce them to soup. Boards crossed the roads at various points, but lay mostly hidden in the dust while dry.
Nathaniel led them to one of the larger buildings. It had started small, but other construction had been grafted on to it. The roof appeared sound, especially above the main parts of the second floor, but some of the walls had gaping holes between boards.
He threw aside the leather curtain acting as the door and marched across the common room to the bar-two boards balanced on two kegs. Patrons sat at tables and benches of crude manufacture. A stone fireplace dominated the left wall, but no fire had been laid in it. Instead a man stood before it, a lamp on the mantle behind him, reading from a book.
Nathaniel slammed a fist onto the board, bringing the tavern keeper's head around. 'You done gawking?'
The owner, a rotund man with twice as many chins and half the hair normally allotted, raised his arms in alarm. 'Nathaniel Woods! I heard you was dead.'
'I know. Heard your daughters a-weeping all down Temperance way.'
The barkeeper scratched at his left eye. 'Should have known better. Heard it before and it ain't never been true.'
'You'll hear it again.' Nathaniel jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. 'This here is Owen. He don't talk much. You remember Kamiskwa.'
'What I remember is the last time you was here. You can stay in the stable.'
'You really want to be more friendly to me, Samson Gates.' He extended a hand back past Owen, and Kamiskwa put two of the Ungarakii bracelets in it. Nathaniel slapped them down on the bar. 'Your finest room, a round of your horsepiss ale, and meat that died some time after the last thaw.'
Gates leaned over, inspecting the bracelets closely. 'Eight shillings for the both of them.'
'Either your inn has got a might pricier or you're of a mind to be cheating me.'
'I ain't a cheat.' Gates folded his arms over his chest. 'Parliament don't like we don't drink rum out here. They're putting a tax on whiskey. My still's going to cost me two hundred pounds in taxes.'
'Now where did you hear a fool thing like that?'
Gates nodded toward the man before the fireplace. 'Mr. Cotton Quince, up from Margaretstown. Said Parliament passed that law back middle of February. Here it is the start of June and the Queen's Agents are out and about.' His eyes narrowed. 'How do you know this Owen fellow?'
'I know him good enough. He ain't no agent of the Queen! He killed hisself two Ungarakii and Chief Msitazi done welcomed him as a guest. Ain't no redcoat could do all that.'
'True words.' Gates held his hands up. 'Just have to be careful hereabouts. I'll get you your rooms. Kamiskwa still has to sleep in the stable. Food and drink, too. Just find yourself a seat.'
Though most of the audience had given their rapt attention to the speaker, a few warily moved away from a corner table as Nathaniel approached. He sat with his back to the wall, and Kamiskwa kept his eye on the door. That left Owen with his back to the bar.
He leaned in, keeping his voice low. 'Parliament never passed a tax on whiskey. They passed a tax on rum to cover the cost of a new season of fighting in Tharyngia.'
'There's a lots of things get mixed up coming out here. Law stopped, common sense paused with him.' Nathaniel sat back and smiled up at the comely lass who brought him a foaming tankard. 'Thank you, Meg. I have a powerful thirst needs slaking.'
The dark-haired woman giggled. 'Like as much you have an itch needs scratching, too. You ever give up them city women, you'll know true pleasure.'
'Take you for my wife and break the hearts of all these fine fellows? Won't do it.' Nathaniel smiled. 'Who is it overworking his jaw?'
'Not sure. Father says he comes from Margaretstown. He can read. Father likes him cause he brings people in to listen. He's reading from A Continent's Calling. '
Owen slowly turned on his stool. Cotton Quince leaned casually against the fireplace, an elbow hooked on the mantle. He held the book in one hand down and out in front of him. His posture reminded Owen of upperclassmen lecturing the younger students at school. Quince's voice carried just a hint of the same superiority. Slender, with a long nose, blue eyes, and blond hair to his collar, Quince remained clean-shaven and, despite wearing homespun clothes, appeared dandified. His clothes showed little wear and no patches, and his frock coat had been recently brushed.
'And it says right here,' he began, raising a finger to point at the ceiling, ''An eagle, no matter how grand and powerful, cannot dominate her offspring once they have departed her nest. No matter how powerful, no matter how lovely that nest, when her eaglets leave, they are free. They find their own nesting places. They find their own hunting grounds. They find their own destiny. And if she seeks to bring them under her domination again, they should, they must, they are ordained to destroy her.''
'I'm not liking that look on your face, Owen.'
He glanced at Nathaniel. 'He's not reading it right. That last sentence, he added that.' Owen dug for the book and thumbed through. 'I read that passage when I prepared my message to the Prince. He's added a call for rebellion.'
Quince snapped the book shut and held it up. 'This book tells the truth, my friends. The Queen thinks we are her servants, her chattel. We're slaves to her. She doesn't send us troops to keep us safe, but she wants our gold to pay for her soldiers to play on the Continent. And those on the seaboard, they'll not protest. They don't drink our whiskey. They drink rum, just like the soldiers the Queen isn't sending us. This is a dire circumstance, gentlemen, and we need to act.'
Owen shot to his feet. 'You're lying.'
Quince blinked, then let a serpentine smile slither onto his features. 'Am I, sir? And you dispute the word of Samuel Haste?'
'I dispute your reading of it.' Owen held up his copy of the book. 'I have this book from Doctor Archibald Frost of Temperance. You added the sentence about the eagles needing to destroy their mother. It isn't in there.'
'Ah, so you have a text published in Temperance.' The man's voice layered disgust into the word. 'We're to believe that your Doctor Frost didn't edit the text to make it protect his interests? He is of the coast. He doesn't care about us.'
Over in the corner opposite, a huge man unfolded himself. Tall and broad, with a thick bushy beard and dark hair cut short, he dwarfed every man present. A most remarkable trio of scars started at his crown and extended down far enough that one bisected his left eyebrow. He loomed up out of his seat and took one lumbering step toward Quince.
'Now see here, Mister. You talk fancy good, but I don't know you. But my brothers and me, and my father and uncles before us, and my grandfather and his kin afore them, they's all traded with the Frosts. Ain't a manjack here will say he's been cheated by them Frosts. Might not paid what we wanted, but they paid fair.'
Quince, who had paled, raised a finger. 'You make a very good point. I may have misspoken. There are patriots everywhere, men who believe in Mystria and all it can become.'
Owen cocked his head. 'Why are you lying about the whiskey tax?'
'Again, sir, you accuse me of lying.' Quince's chin came up. 'How do you know they did not?'
Owen was about to answer, but Nathaniel stood. 'On account of we was in Temperance. They got them this new printer who put out a broadsheet. Had all the news from Norisle. The man just got off the boat, sailed end-of- February. His paper didn't have no mention of no tax.'
Another man snorted. 'How would you know, Woods? You can't read.'
'I read what I need to read, Hiram Marsh, so I don't get lost out in the woods. Unlike some other folks.' Nathaniel slapped Owen on the shoulder, albeit a bit harder than necessary. 'But I decided to get me some education, so I gots Owen here to be a-reading for me. And he'da read me of taxes since I asked special.'
Quince opened his arms. 'Perhaps my source on this was misinformed. Mark me, however, the day will come when the Queen turns to us to sustain her, when she has done nothing for us. We are the sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters of those Norisle cast aside. We owe the Queen nothing, yet we are fettered by her laws, enslaved by her nobles, impoverished by her merchants. And though there may be traitors among us, you all
