Chapter Ten
April 29, 1763
The Frost Residence, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Owen awoke feeling as if he’d been trampled by horses, then dragged a mile behind them. His head throbbed and his stomach pulsed painfully. It didn’t help that he could smell bread baking. It made his mouth water, and his stomach knotted in protest.
He rebelled at the thought of leaving bed.
But leave you must. Laughing at himself, he threw back the covers and levered himself out of bed. The fact was that he had once been trampled by a horse, and had been dragged behind others. That had been bad. He rubbed his stomach and the purple bruise over it, then pulled on breeches, stocking, shoes, and his second-best shirt.
He traced a small, vertical bit of stitchery on the right side. A corresponding scar twisted his flesh beneath—not having been sewed up as neatly as the shirt. He could still feel a twinge as the lance hit him, feel the pressure as it skittered off a rib, and the triumphant look on the Lancer’s face before Owen shot his lower jaw off.
He shivered and unbandaged his head before the round table-mirror next to the water bow. The bandage had remained clean, but blood seepage had stained the cloth over the wound. He used a little water to loosen it, then gently pulled it away.
A little redness, slightly swollen, and a bit warm to the touch, but it looked good. Mrs. Frost’s stitchery had been tight and the wound had already crusted over. In a week or so he could clip the stitches and pull them out. Let his brown hair grow a bit and no one would ever notice the scar.
Owen washed up in the bowl, then shaved using that same mirror. He had always enjoyed the ritual of shaving—his having an angular face making it easier than for others. He found something soothing about the routine, about lathering his face, then applying cold, razor-sharp steel to his throat. Hearing the scrape of metal across flesh as the hairs popped reminded him that he was still alive, even when pain made him wish he was not.
He headed downstairs and found Doctor Frost in the dining room reading a broadsheet with the title “Wattling’s Weekly” emblazoned across the top. “Good morning, Doctor.”
“And you, Captain. I understand you had an eventful evening.”
Owen nodded. “Which your wife and daughter did their best to repair.”
“Your coat is hanging in the kitchen by the door.” Doctor Frost folded the paper. “A new paper.”
“Mr. Wattling was on the ship. I am surprised he managed to publish so quickly.”
“It’s old news from Norisle.” Frost smiled. “Nothing of your encounter last night, and no report on the debate at the college.”
“Debate, sir?”
“Please, sit. Martha, the Captain will have his breakfast now. I told them to fix you some weak tea with honey and some ginger. Good for the stomach. Bread, no butter.” Frost slid Owen’s chair back with a foot. “Two stories are circulating concerning your encounter last night.”
Owen sat. “Indeed.”
“One has you and Nathaniel Woods insulting the Branches and their getting the worst of a thrashing. Nothing for them to brag upon. They’ve run afoul of Woods before with similar results.”
A servant brought the tea and bread. Owen sipped carefully and his stomach eased slowly. “The other story?”
“A group of Twilight People slipped into the city and attacked you, but Nathaniel Woods told them to go away.”
Owen frowned. “Why would that story have any currency?”
“You wear the red coat. The Twilight People were of the Ungarakii and in Tharyngian employ. The story serves those who hate the Twilight People. If they are painted as loyal to the Laureates in Feris, reports will get back to Launston and more soldiers will come to drive the natives away.”
Owen dipped a corner of the bread into his tea, then took a bite. “I don’t see the logic of that. I rode from here to the Prince’s estate. There is plenty of unoccupied land.”
Doctor Frost sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That is a matter of contention, Captain. The Twilight People migrate seasonally, so what we see as open is land they require for hunting, or that might be sacred to them. They do not develop the land as we do. Because they do not engage in animal husbandry or much more than subsistence farming, they require far larger tracts than we do. When someone decides to go out, clear some ground, and set up a farm, the Twilight People take offense. Not close to the city, mind you, but out there, in the wilderness.”
“Langford could send troops to punish the raiders.”
“He could, but most of the settlers involved are squatting on land claimed by the Crown. Speculators, however, want those lands, so the pressure will increase to destroy the Twilight People.” Frost sat back. “That discussion formed part of the debate last evening. The larger question was whether or not Mystria would do better as its own nation, or subject to the Crown.”
Owen’s eyes tightened. “That discussion could be construed as treason, Doctor Frost.”
The older man smiled. “Not the discussion, sir, but advocacy of independence—and no one advocated that. What we did discuss, however, was whether or not the Crown was negligent in its conduct toward us. Benign negligence in the minds of most but, alas, not all.”
“I’m not certain I follow, sir.”
“Let me give you one simple example. The southern colonies are prohibited from selling cotton to anyone but Norillian merchants. They are paid a price set by the Crown, a price which is considerably below that offered by the Tharyngians.”
“The Tharyngians are our enemies, Doctor. You cannot be suggesting we would trade with the enemy.”
“No, but Norillian merchants buy our raw cotton, then sell to agents of the Alandalusians at a great profit. They, in turn, sell it to the Tharyngians.” Frost raised a finger. “And, more to the point, the cotton that ends up in Norisle is milled there, then shipped back here. The cloth is sold at a considerable mark-up. Because we have ample rivers, we could produce our own cloth here, even more cheaply than in Norisle. We could even ship and sell it cheaply in Norisle, but the Crown prohibits us having any native industry.”
“I will admit, sir, that this seems, on the surface, to make no sense, but…”
Frost chuckled and patted a hand against the broadsheet. “It makes perfect sense, Captain, when you realize that it is the men made rich in the various trades who have the Queen’s ear. They are the men who sit in Lords or have their agents elected to Commons. They tell the Queen that were we to have our own mills, it would ruin the Norillian economy. They remind her that we are the children of convicts, dissidents, and redemptioneers and, therefore, inherently untrustworthy.”
Owen raised an eyebrow. “You argue against yourself, sir. You suggest you are not defectives. If this is true, and you were given industry, you would succeed in your ventures, ruining Norisle’s economy. The Crown is either ignorant, or terribly wise.”
“I prefer ‘unthinking,’ Captain.” Frost lifted up the paper. “Consider, if a press can be shipped here and set up in two days, do you think it possible that a mill will not be someday duplicated? Might some man ruined by a rival not come here and build one? Might not a Ryngian cede us that knowledge to ruin Norisle?”
Owen nodded. “Either could happen. Each would be illegal.”
“If you were given the orders, would you destroy those mills?”
“It would be my duty.”
“But could you get all of them, Captain?”
Owen shook his head. “They would still be illegal.”
“And inevitable.” Frost smiled. “Change is an irresistible force, Captain. Progress cannot be hobbled, just harnessed. And, if not harnessed, it will run out of control.”
The soldier shivered. “You have given me much to think about, sir. Had my brains not been scrambled, I might have given you a better argument.”
“You acquitted yourself well, Captain. This is the joy of being a Natural Philosopher. The world is my treasure. I am free to think and imagine. My passion is illuminating the minds of the young.” He leaned in again. “I would ask of you a favor, however.”
“If I may be of service, sir.”
“You will be going into areas where not many have gone before. If it does not compromise your duty, I would appreciate copies of your charts—the rivers, you see. We huddle on a narrow strip of the coast. If we are ever to thrive, we will move inland, and the rivers are the routes we will follow.”
Owen hesitated for a moment. The information he would obtain was for the Crown. By rights, its distribution would depend on his superiors. But Nathaniel Woods could just as easily communicate same to the Frosts—and Colonel Langford would certainly sell them the information. Frost’s possession of it was inevitable. Just like change.
“It would be an honor, sir.”
“Very good, thank you.” Frost clapped his hands and looked up as Bethany came in from the kitchen, fastening a light cloak around her shoulders. “Are you come to conduct the Captain about town?”
“Are you done torturing him?” A white bonnet restrained her light brown hair, save for a curl over her forehead.
“For now, yes.” Frost slid his chair back and stood. “A pleasure, Captain.”
Owen stood and shook the man’s hand. “And mine, sir.”
“Take good care of my daughter.” Frost pumped his arm warmly. “Until this evening. Good hunting.”
As they moved through Temperance, Owen studied people with new eyes. His red coat and even his second-best shirt had been woven tightly—more tightly than clothes worn by anyone but the most prosperous. Many men wore breeches that had been patched repeatedly, and often needed yet another patch or two. More commonly they went without shoes or stockings, and few possessed proper coats.
Prior to his discussion with Doctor Frost, Owen had been inclined to put their slovenly appearance down to their nature. Norisle’s feckless and destitute—those in thrall to spirits and indolence—dressed similarly. He thought them incapable of rising above their nature, lacking character. Even those brought into the army and trained for better retreated to their baser selves when given any idle time.
“Did you not hear me, Captain?”
Owen blinked. “My apologies, Miss Frost. My mind was off and away.”
Bethany laughed easily. “You are like my father in that regard. I should have expected this after his speaking with you this morning.”
“He does challenge a man.”
“That he does.” She opened a hand toward a small alley off Fortitude Street. “You may find the journals you want here, on Scrivener Street; or you might want to obtain logs closer to the dock.”
“We should look here.”
“Very well. What was it my father had you thinking about?”
“Things well outside my purpose here.”
A frown wrinkled her brow. “My dear Captain Strake, do not think me some addlepated girl. I am my father’s daughter and capable of handling myself in discourse.”
“No offense intended, Miss. We discussed the lack of a native textile industry.” Owen jerked his head back toward Fortitude. “Consequently I was noticing what people wore.”
“It gets very cold for some come winter.” She paused before the door of Burns and Company, Booksellers. “We might try here.”
Owen opened the door into a small shop crowded with shelves. A bell tinkled from above the door. A small man wearing spectacles appeared from deeper within the shop. Two large volumes filled his hands. “Good day, Miss Frost. May I help you?”
Bethany eclipsed Owen. “I hope you will, Mr. Burns. Captain Strake desires two journals, three hundred pages each, your best paper, leather covers, and oilskin wraps. He’ll need an inkstick and a half-dozen quills.”
The man smiled, setting the books on a small, drop-leaf desk in the corner. “I can bind up the journals, send them around to your house, Miss Frost, by eventide.”
Owen nodded. “That would be satisfactory.”
“As for the quills, well, I have something here you might like better, Captain.” Burns pulled a narrow wooden box from the desk and slid the top off.
Two turned wooden cylinders rested on a red velvet bed along with three silver wedges. The man handed one of the wedges to Owen. The metal had been hammered incredibly thin, and curved along its length. It tapered to a point and had been split halfway up the middle.
“Local silversmith, he makes these. They’re nibs, fit into these holders. Last longer than a quill and don’t need sharpening.”
“The work is incredibly delicate.” Owen held it out for Bethany to see, slowly turning it in his fingers. “Do you know how he does this?”
Burns shrugged. “Not being cursed, I don’t know for sure, but he uses a firestone in the process. Has it at the end of a thumb, in a glove you see, so he can work the metal while hammering.”
Which is why it’s silver. Iron and steel dampened magick, all but destroying the ability of any but the strongest user to make it work. Stories of heroes who could enchant a sword abounded, but Owen had never seen that ability in action.
The bookseller ducked his head. “And no offense meant, Captain.”
“None taken.” Owen nodded solemnly. “Soldiers greet that appellation proudly. We might be bound for Hell, but we’ll send the enemy there to welcome us.”
“And we are right happy you do that, sir.” Burns smiled. “Will you be taking these?”
“Yes.” Owen handed back the nib. “Reckon the bill, please.”
“Gladly, sir. Shall I have the pens sent round with the journals?”
“Please.”
The man scratched some figures on a scrap of paper. “That will be a crown, three and eight.”
Owen slipped a hand into his pocket for his purse, but Bethany laid a hand on his wrist. “That is outrageous. We are leaving now, Captain Strake.”
“What?”
Bethany turned on the bookseller. “Mr. Burns, my family has traded with you for many years. We recommend you highly. This should cost no more than a crown and ten, or four shillings eleven.”
“But, Miss…”
“Mr. Burns, you are charging Captain Strake more because he wears the red coat—and you just praised him for his defense of our nation. You would charge no Mystrian so dearly.”
The bookseller blushed, then looked at his paper again. “Yes, of course, Miss, I added incorrectly. A crown and four. The pens, you see, are consigned. I cannot bargain.”
Owen gave the man a gold crown and four copper pence. “Thank you, sir.”
“My pleasure, sir.” Burns bowed his head. “And good day to you, Miss Frost.”
“Mister Burns.” Bethany preceded Owen from the shop and moved quickly down Scrivener Street.
Owen caught up to her with a couple long strides. “His price—I would have paid as much in Launston.”
“But we are not in Launston.” She pointed back toward the shop. “His family comes from charcoal burners. His children go round to homes and shops and public houses offering to clean lamps for the black, which is what he uses to make his ink.”
“Enterprising.”
“It is, and he’s a sharp man with his figuring. His prices are the best for his wares, which is why he has our custom.” She shook her head. “But to prey upon someone like you.”
Owen smiled. “Soldiers are used to having merchants take advantage.”
“That hardly makes it right.” Bethany shook her head. “He was willing to overcharge you because you are a stranger. You, a Queen’s officer, a stranger. Too many men get to thinking like that, and the men of Norisle will be strangers. And then, Captain, a bill will be delivered that can only be paid in blood.”