cell, using the crutch more like a cane, he forced himself to walk daily, making more circuits around the room during each exercise period. He couldn't run-he could barely walk, and totter best described his gait-but he could move. Each day he got stronger.
Before long I can escape.
A breeze teased flame-colored leaves on distant trees. Summer was surrendering to autumn. The nights had been getting colder-cold enough that he'd been given two thin blankets. He'd offered one to Quarante-neuf, but his captor refused it. 'Cold does not bother me.'
Owen's gaze swept over the camp. Apparently satisfied with the basic construction, du Malphias had charged his army of pasmortes with engineering the landscape south of the river. They cleared the ground for five hundred yards back, increasing the potential flood zone. The collected stones had then been used to build several fences and-though of completely new construction-what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse which had fallen into disrepair. The ground had been sown with grass seeds, some of which had already sprouted. Come spring it would look as if the Tharyngian forces had driven a farmer out, leaving his fields and fences to offer some cover for troops advancing on the southern fortress.
Owen studied the new construction because he knew du Malphias wanted him to. The new building, despite appearing to have been there for a long time, hadn't been included in Owen's original survey. No Norillian commander would pay it any attention and would recognize the killing field for exactly what it was: a trap.
That is what they must see, isn't it?
Owen shook his head. 'But they never did on the Continent.'
Quarante-neuf stepped forward. 'Did you require something?'
'No, just made a comment.' He pointed toward the new construction. 'When you look out there, what do you see?'
'What is it you wish me to see?'
'I don't know.' Owen frowned. 'I see nine hundred men in red coats dying over there.'
The pasmorte nodded slowly. 'Blood, much blood.' His voice grew uncharacteristically distant. 'Thunder and metal.'
Owen glanced at him. Quarante-neuf's face had flushed, but his expression had become one of profound sadness. 'Are you well?'
The pasmorte blinked. 'I am fine.' He reached up and brushed away a tear, then looked at the wet stain on his finger as if it were something he had never seen before. 'Are you fatigued? Shall I fetch you a blanket?'
The questions came more urgently than ever before, so Owen nodded. 'A blanket, yes.'
Quarante-neuf departed, and Owen returned to the real reason he enjoyed his time in the sun. Stumbling around as if looking for a place to sit, Owen studied the construction to the north. His only chance to escape lay in getting into the woods and locating one of the cached canoes. He could never outrun pursuit, but on the water his legs wouldn't make much difference.
He watched men and pasmortes walk by and compared their stride against the shadow of a flagpole he had previously measured. Counting their paces he obtained an accurate measurement of distances within the fortress. He committed those distances to memory and double-checked them as best he could. When he got out, he could supplement his maps. He would use that information and other things he had learned to make his escape and come back to crack the fortress.
Quarante-neuf returned with the blanket and settled it around Owen's shoulders. 'Thank you, sir.'
'Do not address him as 'sir,' Captain.' Du Malphias emerged from the dungeon opening, eyes venomous. 'A disobedient servant does not deserve praise.'
'I had asked him to get me a blanket.'
'And I had tasked him with keeping you always in his sight. He does not seem to realize, as I do, that you are a very dangerous man.'
Owen laughed. 'A cripple, dangerous?'
'Your legs are broken, not your mind.' The Tharyngian snapped a telescope open. 'Would you like a closer look at anything to refine your calculations?'
'I have no idea…'
'Captain Strake, do not insult my intelligence. If you were stupid, you would not have been given the job of finding me. You are a spy, yes, but perhaps also an assassin. I should fashion for you gauntlets. An iron mask, perhaps? How much magick can you use, Captain?'
Owen held up his shackled wrists. 'Now, none. Without, read my nails if you wish an answer.'
'You could read mine, monsieur, and learn nothing of my skill or power.'
'But…'
Du Malphias laughed. 'Smart, yet unworldly. What do you truly know of magick?'
'Few can do it, fewer can do it well. Blood is exacted for using magick. It is God's Gift, to be used in his service.'
Du Malphias held up unblemished hands. 'Enough. What you understand of magick is what a dog understands of thunder. It is enough to make you hide under a bed. You are a child, because your masters wish for you to be a child.'
'And you know better?'
'Oh, I do. You were taught that magick was outlawed by the Remian Empire. This is the reason they exterminated Norisle's Druids. Did you know that the Remians believed your Savior to be a magician? Consider the stories of his miracles. Are they not the tales of the greatest magick the world has ever seen? And were not his disciples who displayed similar gifts also martyred?'
'Yes, but…'
The Laureate waggled a finger. 'No objections. You would protest that to call your Lord a magician is to slander him, but consider two things. First, who is it who has told you, down through the ages, that to be a magician is bad, only to have them reverse that course when they realized they needed magicians to fill their armies and fire their cannon and guns? And, second, how is it that the Remian Emperors, who sought and wielded power with skill or abandon, would destroy magicians when, as their history proved, they were more willing to absorb conquered people and use them as part of their Legions?'
'You are trying to suggest that the crowned heads and the Church itself have suppressed magick while secretly hoarding it?'
'No suggestion, monsieur.' Du Malphias shook his head. 'Do you not find it curious that, with the advent of cannon and gun, all these noble houses were able, in a single generation, to suddenly manifest an ability to work magick? Let us assume you are a five. You would be powerful. Most troops in the ranks are twos, perhaps threes. Two volleys, then it is 'fix bayonets,' yes? And yet these nobles, they are, a six or a seven? Perhaps much more.'
Owen shook his head. 'That requires a conspiracy of silence lasting centuries. Someone would have confessed.'
'Yes, but the Church, you must remember, found it very convenient to draw clergymen from the ranks of the nobility. A religion of magicians who control the common people. They direct witch hunts to destroy the powerful and disruptive. An upstart noble is declared a heretic or diabolist; is shunned, disbelieved, and killed. They have a perfect system using hatred and fear to enforce their rule. They would have maintained it forever, save for two things.'
The Laureate clasped his hands behind his back. 'The need for soldiers meant that they had to mitigate the sinfulness of magick. This gave people pride in their abilities. This is why, when we overthrew king and church, we had the mass support. Science had succeeded where a mad king had not. We made magick a science. No shame, only truth. And, in case you doubt me, let me assure you that hidden in the archives in Feris are ample documents- correspondence, confessions, and more-that verify this conspiracy. Had King Anselm not gone completely mad and broken with the Church, their united front would have concealed the conspiracy for good. In fact, there are those Laureates who believe we need to perpetuate it, saying the people of the world are not yet ready to understand.'
'Hence your exile?'
'One reason among many, and all inconsequential.' Du Malphias smiled quickly. 'The second point is that every Old World power saw fit to ship their malcontents here. What they failed to consider was that many of them-
