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
I n 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
