restrained yourselves from challenging him to a duel, I do not know. You, Count, with his remark about the enemy and you, Captain, with that slander about your wife.'
Owen shook his head. 'I have endured asses such as him all my life. My wife would have been disappointed if I had slain him over such a thing as gossip.'
The Count's eyes narrowed. 'There are times, my friend, when these asses beg to be killed.'
Vlad smiled. 'Agreed.'
Owen glanced down. 'This may be true, but he is not the first to suggest untoward things out of spite and for sport.'
Both men stared at him, questions on their faces but, mercifully, did not ask.
Owen hung his head. 'I'm sorry, gentlemen. This is neither the time nor the place.'
'Please, Owen, I would welcome a distraction before I turn around and challenge that insolent fool to a duel.' The Prince turned a chair around from the desk. 'Sit. Chandler! Whisky, now, a bottle and glasses.'
Owen sat, slumping onto elbows planted on thighs. Frustration pounded at his temples. Chandler arrived with whisky and glasses on a tray and abandoned it quickly. The Prince poured, and Owen just stared down into the glass of amber liquid. The vapors reached him and he wanted to smile, but didn't have the strength.
'It is nothing of which I am proud, gentlemen. When my mother married Francis Ventnor, I was very young. I did not understand that I had become a bastard. I was the ugly stepchild who would not go away. That's it with the Ventnors. They didn't want me, but they fiercely guarded me. I was property-an unwitting redemptioneer with no expiration on my contract.
'Growing up, my cousins had everything. I told you, Highness, of the wurmwright who took me in. He did the family a service. They repaid him by firing him, once I had entered the army. That is the way my family is. They gave me nothing and sought to strip me of everything. They largely succeeded.'
Owen sipped the whisky. 'Then I found Catherine, who wanted me for me. And I wanted her. We wed and, during the Villerupt campaign, Catharine followed me to the war. My uncle's wife remained in Norisle. When I had duty on the line and he had a social function to attend, he would borrow her. I thought it most kind of him. She loved parties and she would weep in fear on my shoulder when we were together. I thought gaiety would please her. I wanted her happy.'
The Count snorted with disgust. 'And stories came to you of her and your uncle?'
Owen took a gulp of the whisky and enjoyed it burning its way down his throat. 'Not of my uncle, but with everyone else. Officers who despised me took great delight in spinning tales of seeing her bedded by another. Never them, of course, just some elusive Major with another regiment, or some dashing officer from another nation.'
The Prince raised an eyebrow. 'Lies promulgated to hurt you.'
Owen looked up. 'I can see that now. One night, I drank too much and found a man who looked like a man the latest tale had been told about. I… I dishonored myself.'
He looked at his hands, turning the right one over. White, wormlike scars striped his knuckles. Most of them had been earned fighting the Tharyngians, but Owen could see those he'd gotten beating a man senseless.
'I was going tell Catherine what I had done, but before I could she told me of her disgust for a friend's husband. He had fought a duel over similar gossip about his wife. She said the man dishonored his wife by believing the rumor and acting upon it. She clung to me, happy I would never believe such horrible lies about her.'
Owen searched the men's faces. 'How could I tell her after that? I love her and know she is not a whore. So, I maintained my silence. Ultimately, I accepted this posting so I could accomplish something grand enough that the two of us could escape my family's corrupting influences.'
Von Metternin laughed gently. 'Be proud of your restraint, Captain. You conquered your worst self and decided to reach for a lofty goal.'
Prince Vlad swirled whisky in his glass. 'You are even more admirable than I had imagined, Captain. Your wife was right, and your willingness to give Johnny a chance to escape is a mark of your character. Many other men kill because of their sense of honor-and their victims are not always the enemy. I fear our Johnny is one such man.'
Owen tossed off the last of his whisky. 'When you say that, Highness, I wonder if my having killed him would have been a virtue.'
Vlad sighed. 'I hope, Captain Strake, hindsight does not prove that judgment correct.'
Chapter Forty-Seven
May 16, 1764
Harper's Field, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
N athaniel laughed quietly as Makepeace Bone reloaded the rifle Prince Vlad had bought for him. The large man had no trouble working the lever and twisting the gimbal. He blew into the socket, clearing it of unburned brimstone. He refilled the socket, then stuck a bullet on top, wedging it in place with the help of the cartridge paper.
Where the large man ran into trouble was positioning the bullet going back into the barrel. It fell out, or jammed. The frustrated giant looked ready to snap the rifle over his knee. 'All well and good for you to be laughing, Nathaniel, but you've worked one of these for years and ain't got big thumbs.'
'Two things to be amembering, Makepeace. First, don't be so all-fired hurried. With this here rifle you'll be shooting things far off. They cain't get you.'
Makepeace nodded. 'You're right.'
'And second, if your durn thumb is too big, use your pinkie.'
The giant laughed. 'Still bigger around than your thumb.'
'But it ain't gonna pull the bullet out of line so easy.' Nathaniel nodded at him. 'Go on, get this loaded, so the rest of them young bucks can see a real man shoot.'
News that the famous Major Forest was coming from Fairlee with his Southern sharpshooters had inspired every man who owned a long gun in Temperance to head out to Harper's Field. Harper had planted clover, letting it lay fallow for the year, and boys had shooed cows off it before setting up targets. Mostly they made them out of a wooden post with a crossbar, and set clamshells as targets. Chances of them hitting anything and making it explode were minor, but a great cry went up when someone did.
Makepeace had come out to try his new rifle. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had come out to watch. By far the rifle made Makepeace one of the better shots. He consistently hit the post at eighty yards. The rest of them, using smooth-bore muskets, could get a ball out that far, but few put it on target.
Still, the boys from town were having great fun. Caleb Frost stood in the middle of it all, happily barking orders. Nine of his college acquaintances had formed themselves up into a squad, loading in unison and firing on order. Caleb's voice had a calming quality. His men consistently managed three shots in a minute and displayed their thumbnails to each other, laughing as the purple stain grew beneath.
Kamiskwa came up to Nathaniel's side. 'Young men, not yet warriors.'
'I reckon. Ain't gonna be no sparing 'em.'
Makepeace fired, shattering a shell at forty yards. He turned from the line and started to reload. 'Ain't gonna be but a handful of 'em go. I seen my brothers over the winter. Trib and Justice figger they'll come with us.'
Nathaniel nodded. As word had filtered out about the presence of the Tharyngian fortress, men began making decisions concerning it. They fell into three classes. First were the students who saw war as a place to win glory. A subset, Caleb Frost among them, saw the coming war as a chance to redeem the image of Mystrian fighters.
A more fool notion Nathaniel could not imagine.
After that came men like the Bone brothers who figured that having a Ryngian fort to the west meant more restrictions and danger for their livelihood. That fort would become a trade center for the Ryngians. Ryngian trappers and hunters would flood the area. Ungarakii would get bolder. They'd do more raiding against Mystrians and the 'Shee.
The last group, which accounted for the Branches, Casks, and others down at the north end of Harper's Field, came looking for money. They'd hire out for war. While Nathaniel wouldn't turn down the Queen's money, his
