At the Queen_s command

"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 understanding of the dangers and necessity of action meant he'd not be deserting when it rained too much or rations dwindled. Damnable thing was, Rufus Branch and his brothers would be a good addition to any local militia. They fought hard and had skills in the woods.

"I hain't seen your brothers in ages. Doing well?"

"Mostly."

"And Feargod?"

Makepeace frowned. "Hain't heard nothing since he went off to sea. Ma says he ain't dead, and I did see a tea chest hid in the barn. Onliest could have come from him."

Nathaniel smiled. Rumor had it that Feargod had gone pirating. He couldn't ask, and Makepeace would never tell. All the Bone brothers looked as if the same blacksmith had hammered them into shape, so whatever Feargod was doing, he'd be making his mark and making it large.

Down the line, Caleb put his men through another triple volley. The target survived without harm, but brimstone soot gave the boys a grim look. It aged them a bit, which was good, and that bitter taste would want ale for cutting it.

As they came off the line, four horses rode into view. Nathaniel picked out Count von Metternin and the Prince easily enough. The other two had to be the Norillian noble sent to lead the war against du Malphias and Colonel Langford. Though Nathaniel hadn't recently ventured into Temperance proper, he'd heard enough about the previous night's doings in the town to expect Langford to be sporting a black eye from his wife, and Lord Rivendell to be nursing a fierce hangover.

The Norillian vaulted from his saddle first, his red and gold satin clothes gleaming in the sunlight. He reached back and slid his own gun-a shortened cavalry carbine musket-and marched up to the line. He took his time, spreading his legs wider than shoulder width, pointing his body at the target, then raised his musket. He aimed down the barrel. His head came up for a moment and back down. He reset his feet, then fired.

The ball sailed past the forty-yard post harmlessly.

Rivendell, a smile on his thin face, set his musket butt on the ground and started to reload. "A fine first shot, Colonel Langford. Note that."

"Yes, my lord."

Nathaniel, his rifle resting easily across his right forearm, butt up in his armpit, nodded toward the target. "Which was you aiming for, my lord?"