At the Queen's Command Page 17

“They were in Longmeadow, Father. They were scouting for the Tharyngians.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Had them a man with them, Pierre Ilsavont. Might could be he’s a wendigo.”

  The elder sat back. “Did you destroy it?”

  “Burned the head.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Left the Ungarakii for the crows.”

  Msitazi’s laughter filled the long house. “You warm my heart, Magehawk.”

  Magehawk? Owen killed the question on his lips. “Great Chief Msitazi, we found a ring on a corpse out there. Kamiskwa says he can feel strong magick on it. I believe that this magick could link back to a man Prince Vlad wishes us to hunt.”

  The Altashee closed his right eye and turned his face toward the long house’s exterior wall. “I see the ring. It has a thread that extends to the dawn.”

  “But…” Owen frowned. Du Malphias had to be north and perhaps even west of them.

  Msitazi held up a hand. “This man has the wiles of a fox. He has anchored his magick far away to deceive. Were you to track him by the ring, you would face disaster.”

  Nathaniel sat back. “I reckon then we’re gonna be a-hunting him regular.”

  “Yes, of course, but we need to send the ring and the journal back to Prince Vlad.”

  Msitazi smiled. “I shall see to this, in honor of what you have done for the Altashee, Captain Strake. And tonight you will sleep over there, near the fire. It is a position of honor.”

  “You are most kind, Chief Msitazi.”

  The Chief’s smile broadened. “I will send one of my daughters to sleep with you.”

  “Thank you, but I am married.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “Just to keep you warm, Captain.”

  “I think I will be fine, Mr. Woods. I have my blanket and my wool coat.”

  Msitazi nodded very solemnly. “That is a very fine coat. Very colorful. I like your coat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I like your coat very much.”

  Owen was about to repeat his thanks, when Nathaniel kicked him in the shin. “What was that for?”

  Nathaniel lowered his voice. “Give him the coat.”

  “What?” Owen leaned in toward him. “I can’t. It’s my uniform. I am on a mission. If I am caught on Tharyngian territory out of uniform, I shall be shot for a spy.”

  “You already been done shot at on account of that coat, Captain. Give him your coat.”

  Owen shot a sidelong glance at the elder Altashee. He smiled back.

  “It would be an honor, Chief Msitazi, for you to have my coat.”

  The Altashee clapped his hands and a young woman went to fetch the coat. She returned quickly and presented it to Owen. He, in turn, handed it to Msitazi, who immediately pulled it on.

  Though about as broad of shoulder as Owen, the Altashee had a bit of a belly, so the coat fit awkwardly. Still, Msitazi smiled widely, happily toying with the brass buttons and running his fingers along the gold braid.

  Owen handed across his hat as well, and the Chieftain clapped his hands. The Norillian officer could do nothing but smile. Not at the ridiculousness of a woodland savage dressing up in his uniform, but from the pure pleasure the man exhibited as he got up and strutted around. A couple of women deeper in the long house made comments, and Msitazi barked back at them, but they just laughed.

  That little bit of byplay took Owen leagues away. He saw himself back in Launston, recounting his adventures before the Royal Geographical Society. Well-dressed men and handsomely draped women, all the cream of society, would titter and smile as he related this moment. They would feel superior, and yet, at the moment, Owen felt anything but.

  And he found himself resenting his future audience’s reaction.

  Msitazi clung to the jacket’s blue facings and smiled. “This is grand. You will wait here, Captain, for my return. You are a warrior, and I shall not let any of the Shedashee mistake you for anything less.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  May 14, 1763

  Saint Luke

  Bounty, Mystria

  Once the door flap had settled back into place, Owen glanced over at Kamiskwa. “Was your father serious about having one of your sisters sleep with me?”

  “His offer was quite sincere, Captain. You are a warrior. You have killed Ungarakii. You are a powerful visitor from afar. To do less would have been rude.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “And Msitazi is a cagey one. Iffen you did get a child on one of his daughters, that child would be very powerful in the ways of magick.”

  Owen scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am mindful of our previous discussion, but this is so alien…”

  Kamiskwa patted Owen’s shoulder. “Your rules suit your land, Captain. Ours are for our land. Respect is more honorable than understanding, and politeness soothes misunderstanding.”

  Before the discussion continued, Msitazi returned and seated himself again. He offered Owen a bag similar to the ones the others used. The flap and the bag had been embroidered and set with beads and bits of shell depicting a bear sharpening his claws on a tree.

  “I would not have it said that Msitazi allowed a friend to go naked. In here you will find clothing and moccasins. I will tell you of this clothing. These are the clothes that I wore many years ago when I stole my first wife from the Lanatashee. I was not a craven warrior, one to steal into their camp and sneak away like the weasel. I went as a man. I walked to her and took her by the hand and led her to my home. Some came to oppose me, their greatest warriors amongst them, but none could wrest her hand from mine.”

  Owen brushed his hand over the bag’s surface. “You honor me greatly, Msitazi, but these clothes should go to your son.”

  “My son needs none of my glory. He makes his own.” Msitazi smiled. “He simply needs good friends, and in these clothes, so shall you be known.”

  Owen dressed in Msitazi’s clothing. The leggings, moccasins, and tunic were all made of soft doeskin so pale it approached white. Another beadwork bear decorated the chest. Fringe lined the sleeves and leggings. The material felt very warm against his skin. Wearing it he felt even more a part of Mystria.

  For the first time he had to wear a loincloth. It wasn’t terribly hard to figure out how to make it fit. He used his own belt to secure it. He played with it until the tails hung evenly front and back. It pleased him that the linen cloth itself had a broad blue stripe down the middle, and red stripes at the edges, mirroring the front of his regimental coat.

  His donning the clothes brought a change in how the Altashee treated him. Children stared, but more in wonder at the honor bestowed upon him than the unusual sight he’d been coming into their village. The same little girl who had run away screaming came and sat quietly next to him as he wrote in his journal, playing with two corn husk and rag dolls. Every so often she would look up and smile, clearly feeling safe in his presence.

  Again the contrast with his own people struck him as odd. He recalled a grand ball that had been given for a dowager aunt who had reached the age of seventy. Though Owen had not been adopted by his stepfather, his presence was still required. He’d been fitted for a proper set of clothes and given a wig that had been expertly prepared and powdered. He’d even suffered through a couple of rudimentary dancing lessons. The dance master decided he was beyond hope and should beg off dancing for an imagined “wound from the war, any war, anywhere.”

  And despite his having served the Queen honorably in a number of conflicts, women stared and laughed at him behind their fans. Men came up and greeted him, dropping names and clearly making fun of him with their airs and insinuations. He played dumb, taking some pleasure in their being too stupid to understand he couldn’t be as obtuse as they thought him and still have done his job. That, however, formed just a tiny silver lining to the cloud of his being an outsider.

  And then Catherine appeared. Young and very pretty, she was just growing out of the coltish stage marking the transition from adolescence to womanhood. She wore her dark hair up, but had teased thre
e ringlets loose. The fashion of the day dictated that only two should have been present, but she flouted convention.

  She passed by him once, her brown eyes studying him above the lace edge of her fan. Then she returned in her pale yellow gown and snapped that fan shut in a gloved hand. “I hope you can save me, Lieutenant?”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss…”

  “Catherine Litton. My grandmother is your aunt’s best friend. I have lived with her since my parents, missionaries, died of cholera in the Punjar.”

  “My sympathies at your loss, Miss Litton.”

  She leaned in, smelling sweetly of apple blossoms. “I shall need you to rescue me. They shall begin the dancing soon, and Percy Harlington has already vowed to kill any man who dances with me. It frightens me, so I would ask you to walk with me through the gardens to save me.”

  Owen later discovered—after he and Catherine had wed—that she was seldom so timid at cotillions, receptions, or galas. She loved dancing, and gossiping, tittering laughter from behind a fan. Never cruel things, only pointing out how a person had failed, completely, to abide by social convention. The rules for proper seasonal dress seemed far more complex and less forgiving than the Military Code of Justice. Catherine, however, understood it all better than any barrister, and often corrected Owen’s dress as they headed off for a night of fun.

  That first night they walked in the gardens for a bit, then stopped outside the Ryngian windows and peered back in from the darkness at the gaily lit party. Catherine laughed and told him all sorts of things about the people inside. Owen learned which men were dancing with their mistresses while their wives glared, and watched a beautiful young widow playing three ardent suitors off against each other. Catherine layered meaning onto things he’d always noticed but had never understood. With her at his side, a world he had rejected because of how it treated him suddenly became oddly interesting and filled with new depths of hypocrisy.

  And he recognized, later, that Catherine had set her heart on more than rescue. She told him she fell under his spell because of his gallantry that night. He had been her hero, and would forever love him for it.

  Catherine accepted me just as this little girl has, but to the others of my own kind, I remained an outsider. Here, however, I am welcomed.

  He would consign none of his memory about that dance to the journal. Instead he concentrated on the Altashee and how their opinion of him had changed. The fact that Msitazi and Kamiskwa lauded him as a great warrior meant the Altashee accepted him as such. When he went for a short walk, looking for a couple of plants on the Prince’s list, six boys had followed him, walking as he did, then squatting in a group to study what he studied. He caught no mockery in how they acted, just the hope that they, too, by doing what he did, could become a great warrior.

  He smiled as he wrote. He imagined Bethany reading the words, tracing her fingers over the ink, perhaps reading some passages to her younger siblings, and others to her father and mother. He doubted she would share much with Caleb; and suspected Caleb would have little interest in what Owen had to say.

  As pen scratched on paper, Catherine came again to his thoughts. Her sidelong glances, her little smiles, the way she would sigh and take his hand in hers, wishing aloud for a day when he could leave the army and they could be free to live as they wished. He loved her for all those things, and more. I cannot wait to have her in my arms again.

  He finished a passage, then sighed loudly, wishing she was at his side.

  The little Altashee looked up, read his face, then handed him one of her dolls.

  He smiled at her kindness and admired the doll before handing it back to her. And she smiled, as if all was well with the world, and for once, Owen thought, just for a little bit, such a judgment might have been right.

  That evening passed uneventfully. The presentation of the wurmscales to Msitazi pleased the Altashee elder. He ran his hands over them, studying the underside with its mother-of-pearl sheen. He then placed him on his shoulders like epaulets, and Owen suspected he might see them affixed there in the future.

  After a dinner of venison and vegetable in a stew, Owen spent time cleaning and oiling his musket and pistol, quietly observing everything going on around him. Life seemed anything but hurried among the Twilight People. For the most part they seemed happy, smiling and humming as they worked. On the rare occasion a child cried out, the closest adult came to his rescue, and peace was restored.

  He didn’t see much of Kamiskwa, but Nathaniel Woods had three children following him wherever he went. The two boys looked enough alike to be brothers and neither had reached his teens. The third, a little girl, appeared only a couple years older than the lass who had attached herself to Owen. The three of them got along well enough, with the two boys being solicitous of the young girl’s needs.

  Nathaniel played with the children a little, laughing and joking with them, admiring things they showed him. He let the girl sit in his lap and tousled the boys’ hair. Though Owen couldn’t understand a word they said, hand-gestures, pantomime, and growls led him to believe Nathaniel was relating some story about hunting a jeopard. Others stopped to listen, and broad smiles suggested the story was a well-known favorite.

  Owen also noticed his spending a certain amount of time, both separately and together, with two of the Altashee women. Given the beadwork and motifs on their clothes, they’d made Nathaniel’s clothing, the rifle-sheath, and bags. Owen also guessed that they were related to Kamiskwa, being the right age to be his sisters, largely because their clothes had bear paw prints beaded onto them.

  And, because the children appeared to be a bit lighter in color than others in the camp, Owen came to the conclusion that they might well be Nathaniel’s offspring. Their previous conversation about Altashee marriage and mating customs held Owen back from assuming that Nathaniel was a flagrant womanizer. Tenderness characterized the way he interacted with the women and Owen saw none of the predatory aggressiveness so common with lechers.

  As they sat together rolling cartridges, Owen turned to Woods. “The children are yours, by those women.”

  “The boys is by Naskwatis and the girl by Gwitak. Ten, eight, and five.” Nathaniel shook his head. “And we ain’t married. Iffen you’re of a mind to tell me I’m going to Hell, save your breath, save your teeth.”

  Owen measured out some brimstone. “Do you love them?”

  “The kids, yes. Their mothers, sure, but not in Norillian thinking. Love is fine for fancy stories and songs. Ain’t much of a place for it in the world.” Nathaniel looked around the village. “You know the Altashee word for romantic love is the same word they use for madness.”

  “I thought that was their word for greed.”

  “The same. Romantic love is emotional greed. Lust the Altashee understand. Love between parent and child, that they understand. Being devoted to one person only, that they reckon is insane.”

  “But they allow people to marry.”

  “Guarantees children strong in magick.”

  Owen glanced at the mothers of Woods’ children. “And they wanted your magick?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “This has something to do with why they call you ‘Magehawk’?”

  The other man twisted the ends of the cartridge paper, and tucked it away in his pouch. “Don’t be setting much store in stories you hear in Temperance Bay.”

  “Didn’t hear the term until Saint Luke.”

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Bethany Frost didn’t fill your ear?”

  Owen smiled in spite of himself. “I gathered she found you odious, but she did not speak ill of you. She just cautioned me against you. Were you a bad influence on her fiancé?”

  “Ira, no. He was a good man. Didn’t know him well. Seventh son of a seventh son. Strong in magick. Only ever met one man stronger. Always liked Ira. Sorry to hear he died.”

  Owen nodded, then glanced at Nathaniel. “Why do they call you ‘Magehawk’?”

  The Mystr
ian patted him on the shoulder. “You been in a fight or three? Heard men spin grand war stories?”

  “I have.”

  “Grand’s just another word for lie.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Some men, they needed themselves some killing. I obliged ’em. Folks what wasn’t there made something big out of it.”

  A little shiver ran down Owen’s spine. “But that incident created this interest in your magick?”

  Nathaniel slowly nodded. “The Twilight People understand the truth of things. Ain’t nothing like a woman doing for you to get a man back on his feet. Kids’ll do that, too. You got any?”

  “No.”

  “Strong buck like you?”

  “My wife is young. There will be time later.”

  “I reckon there’s truth there.” Nathaniel started working on another cartridge.” You’ll get started when you’re back to Norisle, when we’s just an adventure writ in a book.”

  “I didn’t come for adventure.” Owen frowned. “I came to do my duty.”

  Nathaniel chuckled. “And your wife, she didn’t never suggest you getting rich out of this?”

  Anger flashed through Owen. “She loves me. She wants the best for me, and I for her. The Altashee might think love to be madness, but I don’t. Have you ever loved anyone?”

  “I think, on this subject, Captain Strake, we ain’t gonna be sharing no more words. I didn’t mean to offend you concerning your wife. Needle you maybe, but offend, no. You’ve made your choices, I’ve made mine. Ain’t no good our jawing about them.”

  “Agreed, and no offense taken.”

  “Thing you have to remember, Captain Strake, is that this here is a brand-new world. What-all they think across the ocean don’t matter a whit here. Norillian tradition works, sure, but in a known land.”

  “Known land?”

  Nathaniel smiled. “Norillians been in Mystria for two hundred fifty years or thereabouts?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Now your family, your stepfather’s family, they been around how long?”