At the Queen_s command

"What?"

"The disks represent pasmortes. That disk is Quarante-neuf."

Quarante-neuf's firestone had a glimmer of light. Others, those that did not move, had blackened, like spent firestones.

"Is he alive or dead?"

"He's quite dead, Captain." Du Malphias' smile grew. "You should ask if he is strong or weak."

"Well?"

"Strong, for now."

The Laureate traced a fiery sigil in the air. The sphere's light flared, then the glass blackened and sagged inward. Like candle wax, it flowed onto the maps, which began to smolder. And the disk firestones melted along with it.

Except for Quarante-neuf's.

Owen looked up. "His firestone glows. What does it mean?"

"I wish I knew." Du Malphias' eyes tightened. "I fear I shall not have time to study the matter, for now I am your prisoner. Will you treat me as I treated you?"

Owen shook his head. "Not that you deserve better."

"Not that you could inflict worse." The Tharyngian gently waved his left hand as if dismissing a rebuke. Owen's musket moved to the right, trailing steam, offline of the man's slender chest. "I promise I shall go as any man would go, with you, to surrender my forces and my fortress. The pasmortes cannot be raised again."

"You could raise more."

"I shall not." He smiled easily. "That line of research bores me. There are other things I wish to investigate."

Owen looked around the room. "Notes on your experiments? Journals? Books?"

He laughed. "Concerning the pasmortes? All gone. As for those on the healing concoctions, they are in my private quarters. But do not be in haste to get them. A copy of my research has already been sent to Feris to be published in the Tharyngian Science Journal. You are mentioned as Patient Ten. I shall have a copy sent to you."

"You're so kind."

"You know that is manifestly untrue." Du Malphias raised his hands above his head. "Now, shall we go stop this battle? I have no more use for corpses and I imagine there are a few men you should like to see yet alive."

Chapter Sixty-Five

August 1, 1764

La Fortresse du Morte

Anvil Lake, Mystria

W hat in Heaven's name? Prince Vlad stared, disbelieving. As if they were all puppets controlled by the same strings, the pasmortes jerked suddenly in unison. Their backs bowed as if their shoulders were being drawn to the earth. Their mouths gaped open. Those that had eyes stared at the sky. Some even seemed surprised. And then, all at once, they snapped upright for a heartbeat before collapsing in a tangle of limp limbs.

The Prince shook his head, not certain if in his fatigue he had slipped into some malaise where he was dreaming. He could not believe his eyes. Then Mugwump shuddered beneath him, and vomited forth a black puddle of quickly dissolving bones. The wurm shied from the steaming mire and scraped dirt over it with his tail.

The Mystrians, finding themselves with no pasmortes to fight, flew to the battlements and angled fire into the fort's heart. The Fourth Foot finally came over the north wall's top, toward the middle. They quickly formed up by squads, five men crouching in front, five standing, and hammered the Ryngians with deadly volleys.

Mystrian cannon-fire smashed the central stronghold. As men would discover as they dug through it for survivors, cleverly hidden tunnels fed into it. What Owen had once seen as shooting ports had been shuttered with planking and planted over. Inside had been three swivel-guns and enough room for two squads to take turns firing. Taking the stronghold by storm would have been a bloody affair.

The battling raged for another five minutes, then du Malphias emerged from his wine cellar. He ordered his men to lay down their arms and had the colors struck from the flagpole. Aside from a few shots on the battlefield, and a few more across the river, all hostilities ceased by mid-afternoon.

Prince Vlad rode Mugwump down and then slid out of the saddle. He nodded toward Owen and the stocky little redcoat holding a gun on du Malphias. "Well done, Captain Strake."

"Thank you, Highness. May I present Guy du Malphias, Laureate of Tharyngia."

The tall Ryngian bowed crisply. "It is an honor, Prince Vladimir. I much enjoyed your paper on the relation between ursine hibernation cycles and formations of geese flying south at winter. With your permission, I should undertake a proper translation."

Vlad's eyes narrowed. "You'll forgive me, sir, but that's hardly what I expected from you." The Prince turned and beckoned Count von Metternin forward with a purple hand. "You know Count von Metternin."

"Too well." The Laureate's head came up with the barest trace of a smile. "If you wish, I could heal your hands."

Vlad shook his head. "Thank you, but no. Prior to this, battle has always been an intellectual exercise. I would not be soon without my reminder."

The Count snorted. "To a Kessian, this is nothing."