At the Queen_s command

"I do not care for the man, Captain Strake. I know the Prince favors him, and he is the best guide in the colony, perhaps all the colonies, but that does not excuse his behavior."

"What behavior would that be?"

"I am not a gossip, sir."

Owen patted her hand. "I did not mean to suggest you were, Miss Frost. I apologize for any such implication. Will his behavior compromise my mission?"

"I shouldn't think so. Away from Temperance he should be better." Bethany frowned. "Little help, I know. And don't go asking my brother about him. Caleb all but worships him. But please do be careful."

"I will. I promise." Owen purposefully broadened his smile. "I'm sure my mission shall be as peaceful as this trip through the market, though the company will not be close to so delightful."

Owen found the disconcerted expression on Lieutenant Palmerston's face gratifying, though he wished he'd been the cause of it. Instead of that, he had Palmerston look to him for relief, with an amused Nathaniel Woods watching.

Palmerston held his hands up. "Captain Strake, I did as you asked. I gathered all your supplies and had them done up nice and complete." He pointed to a pile on one side of the depot floor. "But then this gentleman came in and he ruined everything."

Owen glanced at Woods, who was standing beside a much smaller pile. "I thought, sir, we were meeting here at half past two. Did I mistake the time?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "Seen you marketing with the Frost girl. Figured I'd come down here, see what was what."

Owen looked at the two piles. The larger one contained most everything from Owen's original list, including bolts of cloth, beads, other trade goods, some ironwork, some books, two casks of salted beef, two cases of biscuit, blankets, tack and saddles, and feed for horses.

The other pile looked tiny by comparison. Woods had pulled aside a single musket, a pistol, shot and brimstone, a sextant, a pouch with food, another with pre-rolled cartridges for the guns, a knife, a small ax, two canteens, a single blanket, and a backpack that could carry the extra shot as well as his journals, a small telescope, and a change of socks.

"Lieutenant Palmerston, would you excuse us for a moment?"

The Quartermaster quickly exited the building, closing the door behind him, but not all the way.

Owen completed the closing. "Mr. Woods, I appreciate your association with the Prince. You know your business. But, sir, I have a mission."

Woods leaned back against the wall. "You're to scout out where the Ryngians are and report back. And while you're at it, you'll make friends with the Twilight People and convince them to be fighting for the Queen when the war comes this way?"

Owen hesitated. "Did the Prince tell you that?"

"Ain't no need." Woods slowly shook his head. "Norillians been trying to do that thing since my pap was a boy. Now you're thinking them blankets and that cloth will be a way to buy some good will, ain'tcha?"

"You suggest it won't, sir?"

"Well, now, ever hear of Major Hopkins?"

"Afraid not."

"Tain't much of a surprise. Thirty years ago, Major Hopkins brought the Twilight People blankets tainted with the Blood Pox. Thought the Altashee would just wrap themselves up and die. Didn't happen."

"I was unaware of that."

"Not many are. Know why his plan didn't work?"

"No."

Woods' eyes tightened. "The Altashee ain't idiots. The men bringing the blankets all had pox scars. The Altashee sussed out what was going on. They got them some powerful medicine magicks. You tote them blankets and they'll figure you're out to kill 'em."

Owen shook his head. "They stay, then. The Twilight People, they still trade for cloth, yes?"

"Some. From a post where the cloth has been sitting around for six months or more, and where whites buy it and wear it."

"The horse fodder?"

"Don't need feed for horses we ain't gonna have."

"I see." Owen looked from one pile to another. He had a choice to make. He could demand that Woods justify every exclusion, or he could ask why he'd selected the things in the small pile. The latter course would be more productive, though he itched to go through the former. It was his expedition, after all.

Or is it?

"How many rounds for each weapon?"

"Two hundred and a half for your long gun; a hundred for the pistol and seven firestones total."

Dust motes danced in the light illuminating the small pile. "That's twice as many firestones as needed."

Woods shook his head. "You ever actually put a hundred shots through a firestone?"

Owen frowned. "More. They were army stones like these and rated for a hundred shots."

"Out here we reckon the man making firestones has a brother in that there Parliament what sends him work. Got paid good for 'em, but he's a long ways away. If one of them shatters after ten or fifteen or fifty shots, you ain't gonna survive long enough to be a-complaining to him."

"You've made your point."