At the Queen_s command

"No, Mr. Woods, I would imagine they are. I was asking, to be more precise, if you have any knowledge of Tharyngian spies in Temperance Bay."

"Don't suppose I do." Woods looked back over his shoulder at Owen. "Don't know that I care. Ryngian and Norillian fights don't much concern me."

"How can that be?" Owen's eyes narrowed. "What the Ryngians want to do to us should be every man's concern."

"I reckon we'll be disagreeing about that, Captain." Woods picked his way between two barns and around a pig pen. "Mind you, we'll be having plenty of time to gum that to death."

"I should think this is an issue that needs settling more quickly."

"More pressing things to deal with first, Captain."

Owen's guide set off at a trot, crossing the road and heading off through a meadow full of green grass. He trotted toward the dark treeline. His fringed buckskins made him stand out, but he moved quickly enough that he seemed a ghost. He reached the trees a few steps ahead of Owen and promptly disappeared.

Owen got into the trees, then crouched, looking back through bushes toward the city. A few lanterns burned in windows, and dark smoke rose from chimneys, but nothing indicated pursuit. Owen took that as a good sign, though he resented the fear trickling through his belly.

A branch snapped off to his right. Owen spun quickly, trying to bring his musket up. The barrel smacked a sapling hard. The impact unbalanced him, dumping him on his backside as surprise flooded through him.

A dark-skinned humanoid loomed over him. He'd clearly not broken the branch. He wore a loincloth and leggings. Save for a beaded armlet from which dangled two feathers, he remained naked from the waist up. His long, dark hair had been gathered into a thick braid bound with leather. His amber eyes, narrowed as they were, reminded Owen of a cat.

The dark man smiled, white teeth splitting a shadowed face.

Nathaniel crouched at Owen's side. "Captain Owen Strake, you'd be meeting my brother, Kamiskwa. He's of the Altashee."

Owen gathered his feet beneath him and brushed leaves from his coat. "He's one of the Twilight People."

"He is." Nathaniel stood and picked a leaf off Owen's coat. "Come sun-up you'll see more green than grey in his skin."

"Does he speak?"

"Only when he has something to say." Nathaniel chuckled softly. "That'll be coming soon enough, Captain. Kamiskwa is always free with an opinion."

Owen offered the Altashee his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Woods pushed Owen's hand down and away. "The Twilight People don't do things like we do. They're wary."

"Because of Major Hopkins."

"Not entirely, Captain." Woods retrieved the musket and handed it to Owen. "Magick works by touch. Don't know a man, you don't let him touch you. Gives him a chance to hurt you."

Owen nodded. "Of course, no offense intended."

Kamiskwa chuckled, and made a comment. Woods joined him, held a hand up. "Nothing bad. He just said that any who thought you'd be back in Temperance within the week was wrong."

Owen smiled. "Thank you, Kamiskwa."

"Don't be thanking him." Woods patted the Altashee on the shoulder. "He says you have ten days."

The trio took off at a solid pace and made good time even in the pre-dawn darkness. Kamiskwa remained half-invisible as he ranged ahead. The game paths he chose went around hills instead of over them. The tracks doubled-back on themselves, as any animal trail will, but the men moved faster along them than they would have if they'd resorted to bushwhacking straight through.

Woods brought up the rear and stopped fairly often to watch their backtrail. He'd come trotting up, his rifle sheathed in a beaded doeskin case. He always had a big smile on his face. He shook his head at Owen's mute inquiries and urged him on with a nod.

They set a good pace. Owen kept up despite carrying twice as much as either man. Woods had his rifle, shot pouch, a knife and tomahawk. Kamiskwa bore a musket, but his had been cut down into the carbine model the cavalry most often used. He carried a knife and had a length of knobbed wood slung over his back. It had been inlaid with mother of pearl and featured a triangular blade on the back of the knob.

As the sun rose Owen unbuttoned his woolen coat, but refrained from loosening his waistcoat. He shifted the eleven pounds of musket from one hand to the other. The aching of his shoulders and the growing blister where his boots rubbed at his heels reminded him of marching through the Low Countries.

That realization brought him back into his mission. Though they were making good time through the woods, no modern army could have followed them. Having soldiers snake through the woods-even his skirmishers-would guarantee disaster. If they didn't get lost, and many of them would, they'd be strung out and easily ambushed. Because of the Mystrian forest's undergrowth, the enemy could hide until he could reach out and touch a man.

Kamiskwa's caution made abundant sense.