Crown foolishness only made the expedition that much better.
As they rode, Prince Vlad played host and guide, pointing out the natural features and commenting on interesting tidbits his researches had discovered about a variety of the plants. “Of course, Colonel, for your expedition, I shall prepare you a list of plants and animals of which, if you are able, I should be most pleased to have samples.”
“A jeopard among them?”
“We have one, but more are welcome.” The Prince smiled. “And we mounted the wolves Captain Strake killed. I’d be delighted to show them to you. They are in my laboratory.”
“It would be an honor, Highness.”
You have no idea. Owen watched Rathfield from the corner of his eye. The man looked at the landscape much as Owen had, judging it by its suitability for waging war. He’d been told that two companies of men would be slow, and he measured that claim against everything he saw. Initially he discounted that idea, but as the forest closed around the trail, and the trail wound itself uphill and down, his assessment shifted. His concentration suggested he was compiling recommendations that would allow him to fulfill his mission.
Owen found that particular idea unsettling. Having been raised in Norisle, he found himself more reluctant than most Mystrians to ascribe hostile motives to the Crown. Still, when he’d come this way looking to move troops along, it was to bring a war to Tharyngian forces. Rathfield intended the same thing, but that the troops be used against Mystrians.
And yet, four years ago, I would have accepted that same mission. Now the idea of doing that sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. Unbidden came the memory of his uncle asking him to pass along the true identity of the writer known as Samuel Haste. Owen harbored no illusions that the request was born simply of his uncle’s idle curiosity.
Just because Owen wasn’t automatically inclined to think badly of the Norillian court, it didn’t mean he didn’t understand why others did. Just a year previously, Parliament had passed the document tax, which not only imposed a duty on imported paper, but also required payment for any transaction involving papers-from the production of a Will to the printing of the Frost Weekly Gazette. Mystrians flat refused to pay it and sent the Queen a petition of protest on a sheepskin. Tax collectors-locals who had hired on for a portion of the taxes collected-got run out of town and had their businesses boycotted. Before the petition reached Launston, the document tax had died.
Three months after news of the tax had reached Mystria, reports of its repeal arrived from Norisle. The bill repealing the tax had been greeted happily, but men like Caleb Frost and his father carefully pointed out that the bill affirmed the right of Parliament to impose future taxes on the Crown’s citizens no matter where they lived.
Most Mystrians dismissed that idea saying, “I’ll be paying ole Queen Mags when she comes to me with her hand out.” They assumed the ocean insulated them from her wrath, but Colonel Rathfield’s presence suggested otherwise. How long until refusal to pay taxes is seen as sedition?
Rathfield rode ahead and, for a heartbeat, unbridled fury raced through Owen. What if Rathfield was a precursor? What if the information he’d gather would convince the Queen to send troops to Mystria? If I knew it would, if I knew that was his intention, what would I do?
He glanced at the pistol. Mystria was a vast place, full of all manner of dangers. Would leaving a man in an unmarked grave be so hideous a sin if it saved countless lives?
Owen shivered, and hoped he would never have to answer that question.
Chapter Four
27 March 1767 Prince Haven, Temperance Bay, Mystria
Prince Vlad bid his traveling companions farewell at the drive leading to Owen’s home, then continued on the extra two miles to his estate. He scribbled notes about how far the snow had receded on the southern side of hills versus the northern into his notebook, and looked for anything else remarkable. He was certain there were things, but the import of Colonel Rathfield’s arrival distracted him.
Since the founding of the colonies, Norisle had treated Mystria with benign neglect. The Colonists paid duties and tariffs, accepting them as part of doing business with their mother country. Mystrians made few demands on Norisle and because most of the Norillian nobility saw the Mystrians as criminals and cowards, they certainly would never allow themselves to think they might actually need them.
The long and expensive war with Tharyngia had changed things. Norisle had, effectively, bankrupted itself prosecuting the war and, after ten long years, ended up with some of Tharyngia’s holdings in the new world. While the Spice Island acquisitions were immediately lucrative and New Tharyngia was an untapped resource, neither was sufficient to staunch the economic wounds suffered from the war.
The imposition of the document tax heightened tensions and built resentment. Mystrians didn’t believe the Crown had any right to tax their internal affairs-a position which, to the Crown, made Mystrians once again sound like criminals and rebels. Couple with that the antics of men like Lord Rivendell claiming credit for a victory against the Tharyngians in Mystria, and the Mystrians were feeling unappreciated and abused.
Sending Ian Rathfield to conduct a mission into the interior to bring unruly subjects back into the fold would not be taken well. People had fled to Mystria to avoid Norillian oppression or seek freedom. And they moved into the interior of Mystria to avoid further oppression or seek freedom from the coastal society. Rathfield would be lucky if those people acknowledged his existence, much less were impressed by his status as a hero. They certainly weren’t going to reverse life decisions based on his say-so alone.
Vlad turned down the roadway to his home and smiled. Baker, the wurmwright, was up on a tall berm, forking hay from a hayrick into a large, round enclosure with ten-foot-high, sheer sides on the interior. The wurmwright waved, then turned back to his task.
The Prince returned the wave and rode over, dismounting and letting his horse nibble hay. He climbed up the berm, his smile growing. “He looks content.”
“He does, Highness. Weathers the cold right nice, but seems to like a bit of warmth.”
Below them the wooly rhinoceros named Peregrine happily grazed on hay. Over fourteen feet long, and half that high at the shoulder, the beast appeared placid and even uncaring about his being watched. Thick brown fur covered his forelimbs and aft but was darker on his chest and abdomen. A single horn nearly two and a half feet in length curved up from his nose.
In the year and a half since Peregrine had been bestowed upon him, Prince Vlad had spent a great deal of time studying the beast. In many ways the wooly rhinoceros struck him as being a perfect heraldic animal for Mystria. Largely docile, but very industrious, capable of fierce fighting and with a preference for being left alone, Peregrine reminded him of many a Mystrian. The fact that the creature was very short-sighted and ignorant of politics reinforced the impression. Which was not to say that he found either to be stupid.
The most curious thing he’d learned about the rhinoceros was discovered completely by chance. Peregrine’s enclosure required mucking out from time to time, but the beast was reluctant to allow anyone in to do the job. One of the stable boys had gone straight from helping clean out Mugwump’s pit, and had been thoroughly splashed with wurm mud. As the boy approached Peregrine’s enclosure, he expected the beast to charge at him. Instead, the rhino trotted over, nose high, nostrils flared, then reacted much as a puppy might. Given his gigantic size, this proved problematic in other ways, but was an amazing discovery nonetheless.
The Prince himself had experimented using soiled clothes and found that Peregrine appeared quite happy to be around people smelling of wurm mud. When they deposited wurm mud in the rhino enclosure, Peregrine was more than happy to roll around in it. Wearing just a pinch of dried wurm mud in a sachet around the neck was enough to calm the beast and a number of discussions had covered whether or not Peregrine could be ridden. Most agreed it was possible, but no one volunteered to be first.
When the Prince had brought Mugwump to the enclosure, neither beast showed much of an interest in the other, akin to the way that cattle and sheep could graze in the same field without difficulty. Prince Vlad had yet to work out the significance of that discovery, but this was because he had other distractions to deal with at home. With them in mind, he patted Baker on the shoulder, remounted his horse, and continued the ride to his home.
Prince Haven consisted of a large, rectangular main house with two wings, one at each end, which extended
