At the Queen_s command

" You printed that sheaf of lies?" The moment he'd spoken Owen knew he had gone too far.

"Lies?" Rage cast Wattling's expression in iron. Even his jowls ceased quaking. "I set every word as given to me by his lordship directly. Are you saying he lies?"

Owen shook his head. "He was not even at Villerupt. I was-First Battalion, Scouts Company. The closest Lord Rivendell got was L'Averne. Gout kept him from walking and his piles left him unable to sit a horse." Owen almost added that medicinal brandy left Rivendell unconscious for the first three days, and hopelessly hungover for the last two, but thought better of it.

"This is an outrage! You slander the man."

"As you slander the Colonials."

Wattling shook his stick. "Are you saying the Mystrian Rangers didn't break on the third day?"

Owen raised his chin and clasped his hands at the small of his back. "I am saying, sir, that they fought as hard as anyone. I was there."

"Then you fled with them. Just another coward."

"Mr. Wattling, have you any practical experience of war?"

Wattling refused to meet his gaze. "The Crown has not required my service."

And you never saw fit to purchase a command. "It rained incessantly during the campaign, sir. The men, Norillians and Colonials alike, were wet and miserable, cold. Half our brimstone was wet, our muskets rusting. Many men were barefoot. This ship's provisions have been far better than any we had in the field. The rains turned everything into a marsh, washed out roads and bridges."

"Soldiers choose their own lot in life, sir."

"They do, so you have to think on the courage of men who, born in Mystria, would answer the Crown's call and board a ship for a land they've never seen. A hundred and eighty men, three companies. Major Forest's had little training or drill, yet by Lord Rivendell's order they were to anchor the left, tight against woods his lordship deemed impassable."

Owen shivered, memories coming back too fast. Brigadier General Richard Ventnor, later made Duke of Deathridge, had fought Rivendell's troops well, pushing hard toward Villerupt. The Tharyngians had given ground and that third day, on the narrow plain of Artennes, it appeared the conflict would be decided.

"You should understand, Mr.Wattling, that in the first two days, the Mystrians acquitted themselves well, acting alongside my troops as skirmishers. At Artennes, the Platine Guards Regiment came through those woods on logging trails-wide logging trails. You remember the Platine Guards. They forced Lord Rivendell off the Continent two years earlier."

Owen didn't wait for the man's response. "A battalion of skirmishers against Tharyngia's elite guards. The Mystrians gave three volleys before they broke. Even then, they regrouped and continued fighting, harassing the Guards."

"Be that as it may, they broke. They let the enemy through. They should have sold themselves dearly, dying where they stood. But they couldn't have. It's not in their blood. It's not in your blood."

"Oh, they fought. Their leader lost half an arm, and his command well over half its number." Owen's hands tightened into fists. "And I hasten to add, Mr. Wattling, that Lord Rivendell's son, John, never answered the call to come to our aid. His inactivity is what doomed the left flank."

"Another slander from a coward's mouth!"

Owen lowered his voice. "It is in deference to Captain Tar that I do not demand satisfaction of you, sir, right here and right now. And because my uncle, Richard, the Duke of Deathridge, frowns on dueling."

"Your uncle, sir?"

"My mother is his youngest brother's wife. That would make him my uncle."

Wattling's jowls quivered. "But, sir, your name. Strake is a Mystrian name."

"And so my father was Mystrian, a sailor like the good captain here. He met my mother, married her, and got her with me before his ship was lost to pirates. She later married Francis Ventnor."

Wattling's mouth hung open. "I had no idea, sir."

"Nor could you have, since Captain Tar was under strict orders to keep my identity secret. My orders, you understand, from my uncle."

"The Duke, yes, quite." Wattling smiled slyly, his complexion still ashen. "I should have seen through it, of course, your disguise, to your breeding. No Colonial would have stopped me as you did."

"Yes, about that." Owen turned to Captain Tar. "You'll understand, sir, if I prefer charges of assault against Mr. Wattling here. I would make it attempted murder, but I cannot ascertain Mr. Wattling's intent in beating the boy."

Wattling's eyes widened. "You cannot, sir! The boy is a redemptioneer. He is indentured to me."

"I can, sir, and I will, unless…"

"Yes?"

"You cancel his indenture contract and pay him a crown."

"That is an outrage!"

"Captain, if you were to drop anchor here, and we tried Mr. Wattling, what would the penalty be?"

"Fifty lashes."

"You cannot flog me! I am a gentleman!"