The smith, a burly man who wore a leather apron to protect a hirsute chest, took a pair of shackles from a burlap sack. He slid one on to Owen's right wrist, allowing the tabs from the upper and lower halves to stick through a thick, leather sheet. He wrapped the sheet around Owen's forearm, then drew a glowing red bolt of bronze from the fire. With tongs he slid it through the holes in the tabs, then hammered it flat against the anvil.
Sparks flew and the metal quickly grew hot. Hairs on Owen's arm melted into a sickly sweet smoke. The smith pulled the leather away, then yanked Owen forward, dunking his arm to the elbow in a water trough. The bolt bubbled, and steam rose.
Once the bubbling had stopped, he raised the wrist and showed it to du Malphias. The Laureate, who had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, nodded. 'Proceed.'
The smith repeated the process with the other hand. Du Malphias studied the results. 'We will try your native infusion on those burns, Captain.'
'Most kind, sir.' Owen smiled despite the throbbing burns.
'Almost done.' From a pocket du Malphias drew a sharp metal stylus. He caught up each of Owen's hands in turn and inscribed an oddly angular series of symbols on the head of the bronze bolts. The Laureate then produced two brown leather bracers bearing a great resemblance to clerks'-sleeves. 'You will wear these at all times over your shackles until directed to remove them. I would not have Quarante-neuf come to harm.'
It made sense. The iron shackles restricted Owen's ability to use magick and especially fire a gun. The touch of iron or steel so disrupted magick that, in olden days, the inability to hold an iron nail for any length of time was enough to convict a person of being a warlock.
All of a sudden the mystery of the glove on Pierre Ilsavont's left hand became clear. He'd been given a left- handed glove because he had to grip the iron musket barrel to reload. For creatures like Quarante-neuf, iron could disrupt that which gave them a semblance of life.
Owen accepted the leather sleeves, pulled them on and secured them with buckles and belts at wrist and forearm. Du Malphias inspected his work and smiled.
'Very good, Captain Strake.' The Laureate turned and spread his arms. 'Though you would give me your word that you would be on your best behavior, I cannot grant you freedom of my camp. You are a most intelligent man…'
'You're afraid I'll learn something that will hurt you?'
Du Malphias looked at him incredulous, then laughed aloud. 'Oh, dear me, no, monsieur. If I considered you that dangerous, I should have had you taken to pieces and used those pieces to repair my faithful servants. No, you will seek to learn much and you will exhaust yourself. Truly. You are barely able to work your crutches, and already you think of taking flight. I know this.'
Owen half-closed his emerald eyes. 'If I complain that you impugn my honor, you will point out, yet again, I am a spy and, therefore, untrustworthy.'
'I believe we understand each other.'
'Then why keep me alive?' Owen glanced down at his legs. 'You surely have learned enough.'
'An abundance of data is never a vice when it comes to science, Captain Strake.' Du Malphias shrugged. 'But this is not the only reason I keep you alive. Shall I be honest with you?'
'If you like.'
'I have been given the resources to build all this. You've seen that to get a ship past my wall would be difficult and that is supposing the ship had gotten past Fort Cuivre and the other fortresses from here to the sea. Possible, but highly unlikely.'
The Tharyngian turned and pointed toward the east. 'The most intelligent plan for Norisle would be to make a fort of its own over there, at the Tillie headwaters. This would hold me back and protect your colonies. It would also accept, de facto, a division of the Continent, which traps you on the coast and leaves us free to exploit the interior.'
Owen nodded.
'But neither your masters nor mine can abide that sort of division. My enemies are hoping that your country will raise an army that destroys this fortress and kills me. This would mean that Norisle would divert forces that otherwise would be used to attack Tharyngia. An admirable goal.'
'And your goal, sir?'
Du Malphias chuckled again. 'There, I told you that you were intelligent. It occurs to me that if Norisle is unable to project enough force to protect the interior of Mystria, and because I know Tharyngia is completely unable to do the same, the vast heart of this continent is open for the taking. There is no reason I should not take it and, with my magicks, no power in the world that can wrest it from me once I have.'
Chapter Thirty-Three
August 16, 1763
Tanner and Hound, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
N athaniel found Caleb Frost at the Tanner and Hound. The young man's surprise became delight. He rose from his table and shook Nathaniel's hand. Nathaniel could not but help return so broad a smile, even though he felt anything but joyous.
Caleb made room for him on the bench. 'So Strake lasted a bit longer out there, did he? I made five shillings betting you'd keep him out for a month. Let me buy you a pint.'
Nathaniel shook his head. 'Tain't really a time for drinking. Not yet anyway. Ain't ale going to help.'
Caleb's smile evaporated. 'What's wrong?'
'I need to speak to your family.' He produced the Prince's note.
Caleb took it, recognized the wax seal, and stood. 'I'll fetch my father. You can talk with him.'
'Has to be all of them. The adults, I'm thinking. Your sister included.'
'But my mother won't…' Caleb stood. 'You wait here. I will fetch my father home, then come get you.'
Nathaniel rose to his feet. 'You get your father. I shall be at your house by mid-afternoon. Be away before your mother feels obliged to offer me tea.'
Caleb hesitated, then nodded. 'Nathaniel, one thing you should know. Zachariah's gone down to Ashland. He hired in Esther Cask to be helping in the house. The girl may be a touch slow, but she's got keen eyes for her mistress' comings and going.'
'Obliged. Ain't the time to be seeing Rachel.' Nathaniel slapped the other man on the shoulder. 'Go. I'll be finding you.'
Nathaniel followed Caleb out of the tavern and felt a cold trickle twist down his spine. He'd spent a fair amount of time in taverns, and liked the Tanner and Hound as much as any, but being packed in close with bodies never suited him overmuch. He'd rather have a blizzard smothering him than a crush of men.
Caleb headed west and Nathaniel east, toward the waterfront. He nodded greetings to people on the street. Those that knew him either smiled or refused to meet his eye. A couple of men crossed to the other side of the street. Those new to Mystria often stared at his Altashee leathers, and the longer they stared told him how recently they'd arrived.
As much as he hated being crowded and confined and could never imagine being trapped on a ship for six hours much less six weeks, ships fascinated him. As a boy, when in Temperance, he'd come watch the ships unload. The mastheads, be they maidens, dragons, or something in between, just tickled him. At his youngest he thought they might come alive. As he grew older he wished they would, to tell the tales of what they'd seen. He was willing to swap wilderness adventure for sea story, but they remained mute, just bobbing and nodding either sage or senile, he could not determine.
He told himself he would go to the waterfront just to see if the ships had gotten bigger. They had, and the largest of them, a ship in the Royal Navy, had anchored out in the harbor. He watched for a bit as sailors struggled to decorously load a young noblewoman and her courtiers onto a barge. Sea breezes caught voluminous skirts, creating all manner of problems. The sailors worked on that problem on one side, while others brought up an ornate
