At the Queen_s command

"Oh, I don't know, Magehawk, seems fair obvious. Men, they come out here, they cut a town from the wilderness, they have an edge to them. The ones that come after, though, ain't leaders. They's followers. Sheep. Every now and again comes a wolf looking for sheep. If it weren't Quince, it would be some minister or a messiah. Down Oakland I hear a man dug up his own Bible and has been preaching it. Says Mystria is the promised land and that the Good Lord wants us to make a Celestial City in the heart of the Continent. He says every man should have a dozen wives and they should bear a dozen children and God will come again to bless them all."

Nathaniel smiled. "You going?"

"Cain't find me one wife, so I don't reckon there's a point to it."

"Good." Nathaniel patted him on the shoulder. "Then you might want to help us with a errand tonight."

The man nodded. "What's that?"

Nathaniel chuckled. "We're going to rob us a grave."

Chapter Twenty-Five

June 7, 1763

Hattersburg

Lindenvale, Mystria

I t surprised Owen that Nathaniel's comment, delivered quietly, shocked neither Kamiskwa nor Makepeace. Both men nodded thoughtfully. Makepeace resumed drinking and Meg brought the others bowls of stew. She added a couple rounds of coarse-grain bread.

Owen waited until she'd departed before he spitted Nathaniel with a hard stare. "You can't be serious."

Nathaniel nodded, spooning stew into his mouth.

"But that's disturbing sacred ground. You can't…"

Nathaniel wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Didn't none of us like Pierre. He didn't like God none. And if he is in that grave, we'll just be opening up a hole for him to get some cool air down in the Inferno."

Nathaniel's stressing the word is killed any argument. They already knew he wasn't in the grave, so they wouldn't be disturbing a body.

Makepeace chuckled. "Cain't be buried deep. Found him start of March. Ground was still frozen. Seth Plant ain't never been much for digging deep-in the earth or his pockets. We'll have him up right quick."

Neither that prospect nor the idea that they'd found Ilsavont so far from his grave gave Owen any comfort. He ate the stew and in thinking on how he would describe it, came up with the word peculiar. He didn't give himself too long to wonder what some of the vegetables floating around in the thick brown sauce actually were. He had no idea what the meat was and finally asked.

Nathaniel shrugged. "Squirrel or coon."

"Coon." Makepeace nodded toward the bar. "Out to the yard Gates' got a brining barrel. Got two-three in there. His wife does it up nice."

The meat held up well, but most of the flavor had been boiled out of it. Not the same as beef, just a bit more dark, closer to rabbit. Very lean, but needed a touch of pepper. Owen looked about to see if any was available, then realized it would be even more rare than glass this far west.

Nathaniel sopped up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread. "Needed onions. Done?"

Owen pushed the half-finished stew away. "I suppose."

Makepeace settled his hand on Nathaniel's neck. "Digging's going to be thirsty work. Another ale first."

The four of them stole over the stone fence and into the small churchyard. They worked toward the western end. They started down a small slope, with Nathaniel and Kamiskwa drifting left, while Makepeace went right. About a dozen paces apart they stopped and looked at each other.

Nathaniel pointed toward an oak tree. "It's over there. I was leaning up against that tree when I peed on his grave."

Makepeace leaned on the shovel. "Trib and me was over by that stone there doing the same."

"When?"

"This spring."

Nathaniel frowned. "We was the year before."

"Graves don't move." Owen walked past them and toward the oak tree. "Was it this one here?"

Kamiskwa nodded.

Owen read the carving on the wooden cross. "Mercy Heath born 1762, died 1763."

Makepeace grunted. "Girl caught the scarlet fever come new year. She weren't but three months old."

"She wasn't here two years ago." Nathaniel headed for the stones Makepeace had pointed out. A cross had been stuck in the ground reading "Pierre Ilsavont, died 1761. God Rest His Soul."

Owen folded his arms over his chest. "If he's resting, it's here."

Nathaniel took the shovel from the giant. "How far down?"

"Three feet, no more."

Nathaniel nodded, then began to dig. The wooden shovel had a steel edge that should have made digging easier. From the first, however, Nathaniel hit rocks. He scraped them away from the hole, but with the fourth strike, he hit the edge of a flat stone at least as big around as a dinner plate.

Owen crouched. "This earth's never been turned."

"I'm of a mind to be thinking you're right." Nathaniel leaned on the shovel. "So, if he was buried, it weren't here."

Owen pointed back toward the Church. "Perhaps the minister will have records. He must have kept them."