“We’ll keep her glass full during dinner, and ply her with port afterward.” His wife’s eyes twinkled. “She is not the only clever one here.”
“Oh, how well I know that.” Vlad kissed her again, then handed her their daughter. “The people of Mystria do not know how much they owe to you. You keep me sane.”
“No, darling, I just let you be you.” Reaching up, she squeezed his shoulder as she slipped past. “And you being you is what will be their salvation.”
Chapter Five
27 March 1767 Strake House, Temperance Bay, Mystria
Owen waited for Prince Vlad to fade from view before turning his horse down the drive to Strake House. Rathfield said nothing while they waited. Owen expected him to fall in for the short ride to the house, but the Norillian officer remained where he was. Owen reined about again. “Is there something you wish to say, Colonel?”
Rathfield squared his shoulders. “There are a few things I do think you should know, Mr. Strake.”
“I may have resigned my commission, Colonel, but were we in Norisle, you would still afford me the courtesy of addressing me by rank.” Owen’s eyes tightened. “And, for the record, I currently hold the rank of Captain in the Mystrian Rangers.”
“I was aware of that, sir, and wished to avoid the embarrassment of reminding you how far you had fallen.” Rathfield snorted. “I understand why you might have resigned your commission. Were I in your position, I might well have done so myself. I would have respected that. But to so thoroughly and scurrilously besmirch the reputation of a well-respected commander who snatched victory from the jaws of defeat at Anvil Lake; that, sir, is an offense which cannot be forgiven.”
Owen arched an eyebrow. “By what account, save for any fantasy which Lord Rivendell wrote up and submitted to Horse Guards himself, do you mark Rivendell as being respected or the victor at Anvil Lake? Have you read my account of the battle, or only Wattling’s fantasy based upon it? Have you had private correspondence from soldiers who were there and thoroughly embarrassed by their failure, or have you some more objective account? Perhaps you’ve read Laureate du Malphias’ account of the battle.”
“Do not think me a fool, Strake. I’ve read Wattling’s book, and I can read between the lines. I know John Rivendell is not a genius, but I also know it was a matter of numbers. Victory was inevitable.”
Owen drew in a breath slowly and forced himself to tamp down his rising anger. Though born of a Mystrian father, he had been raised in Norisle on his stepfather’s family estate. He had faced the Norillian prejudices that came with his obviously Mystrian surname. In the Tharyngian War he’d seen Mystrian soldiers go toe-to-toe with the best Ryngian forces in the field, yet the loss of battles were blamed on them. And the battle of Anvil Lake had been one in which Prince Vlad had led Mystrian troops to rout Ryngian forces, yet Lord Rivendell and his Norillian troops claimed the victory for their own.
“Colonel, you may think that numbers made victory inevitable, but history is rife with examples where a handful of men have fought and successfully defied the might of empires. You judge Mystrian troops and their performance based on stories told by those who have a vested interest in denying how good Mystrian troops really are. Rivendell may claim the victory at Anvil Lake, but he never mentions the taking of Fort Cuivre by an inferior Mystrian force.”
Owen held a hand up to forestall a comment. “More to your point: yes, I dared tell the truth about Anvil Lake. I told it for one specific reason-had Rivendell listened to his advisors, he would have lost far fewer men. You’ve been in combat, Colonel. You know the horrors of men torn asunder. Is not saving their lives worth exposing incompetence?”
“You forget yourself, Strake.” Rathfield shook his head slowly, as if speaking to an idiot child. “The decisions to promote or remove an officer are made by Generals, not subordinate officers. If they chose to leave Lord Rivendell in place, this is their right. And those men in the ranks sign up fully aware of the risks their duty to the Crown entails. They march into battle proud of their service. You suggest they are cowards.”
Owen laughed. “No, sir, I suggest they are a limited resource and should be preserved.” Guy du Malphias had realized this very thing. Because Tharyngia’s colonies in the new world had fewer people than Norisle’s colonies, New Tharyngia was doomed. To even things up he had created the pasmortes — reanimated corpses that, depending on their level of decay, could serve as everything from slave labor to skilled, autonomous agents. The fortress at Anvil Lake had been packed with them, and killing them was no simple thing. Had Prince Vlad not intervened to turn the tide of battle, the Norillian troops that had been sent to destroy the fortress would have become its new generation of defenders.
“You speak like a merchant, sir, not a soldier-a tradesman devoid of honor.”
“Perhaps it is because I think more of war as a trade than an honor.”
“That trade would have included following orders, I believe.”
Owen nodded. Rathfield’s lips were moving, but Owen heard his uncle’s words coming out of his mouth. Richard Ventnor, Duke Deathridge, had ordered Owen to secure all of du Malphias’ papers from Anvil Lake. Owen had recovered them, but had not turned them over to his uncle. He’d been certain that the papers included the secrets of raising the dead. That was not information Owen wanted to see in his uncle’s hands.
“You refer to the recovery of du Malphias’ papers, I believe. My uncle knows I found them and immediately turned them over to the Crown. It was my assumption then, and yet is, that Prince Vlad would make them available to Norillian authorities as soon as possible.” Owen shrugged. “Or did I misinterpret what my uncle requested of me?”
“I would hardly know your uncle’s mind.”
“But you’ve spoken to him more recently than I.”
“True. I sought him out when I was given this assignment.” Rathfield tapped a gloved finger against his chin. “He suggested that you had forgotten that duty to family is exceedingly important.”
“I could take that as a suborning of treason.”
“Your uncle?” Rathfield threw his head back in a genuine laugh. “My dear boy, you have no idea how far he has risen, do you? Because of his victory on the Continent, the Queen trusts him most highly. He is her right-hand man on all things international.”
Owen stroked a hand along his jaw. Not knowing his uncle as well as Owen did, Rathfield likely believed that the Crown was simply considering Mystria as part of the empire and, therefore, warding it against external predation. Owen could see a deeper game. While learning the magick that created pasmortes would be a powerful thing to use against Tharyngia, likewise it would be a splendid tool a man could use to carve his own empire out of Mystria. Du Malphias had intended to do that, and Owen could see his uncle using the same opportunity.
My having given the documents to Prince Vlad would be seen as a step toward independence for Mystria if the Queen no longer trusted her nephew. Owen forced himself to smile. “I’m pleased to hear my uncle is doing so well. My choice was the expedient one and, truly, the only one possible. The papers would have to be copied here to prevent their being lost in transit to Norisle. Who better to trust with that job?”
“You may have a point, but the Prince’s lack of alacrity is the cause for some concern.”
“Would you like me to mention this to the Prince?”
“You shouldn’t bother him with it. I believe he has had correspondence from the court as regards it.”
So, the answer is yes, but you don’t want to admit to it. Owen leaned forward in the saddle, both hands on the horn. “Is there anything else you wished to address before you enjoy the hospitality of my home?”
“I would not address it, save that you seem to have adopted the frighteningly annoying custom of Mystrians to be abrupt, inappropriate, and direct. The fact of the matter is simple, Strake: you’re not truly of my class and you’ve risen well above what ought to be your station. I say this with all due respect to your mother and her fine lineage. Blood will out, and your Mystrian blood is telling in you. This expedition is at the behest of the Crown. I am in command. Things will be done as I direct, when I direct them, and I shall tolerate no insubordination. I will hold you to a higher standard than any of the Mystrian miscreants with whom I am saddled. Are we clear on this?”
Owen could not help himself. He began to laugh.
Rathfield stiffened. “You have been warned, Strake.”
