At the Queen_s command

Makepeace cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. "Hello, the fire. Bonsoir."

Brief movement eclipsed the fire. A voice called back cautiously. "Bonsoir. Who is it, please?"

"Makepeace Bone. That you, Jean?"

"Yes, my friend."

"Who's with you?"

"Etienne Ilsavont. You might like to choose another island, non?"

"Tain't very friendly, Jean."

"My friend, I will shoot if you try to land."

"You shoot, I'll be sore disappointed." Makepeace picked up his paddle and lowered his voice. "We go in easy. You shoot, then me, iffen they start a fight."

Owen, his mouth going dry, watched the island as they paddled closer. He'd long since learned better than to stare intently at any one spot. Instead he broadened his focus, watching for movement. Yearsasa skirmisher had taught him that motion was easier to see than men who wanted to be hidden.

Every stroke, the ripple of water around the bow, filled ears straining for any noise. Owen saw nothing. If they shot, he'd first see fire, then hear the blast. Every stroke brought them deeper into lethal range. Even the most inept shot had an even chance of hitting them. At that range, a.75 caliber ball would crush bone and blow right through a man, possibly even pitching him out of the canoe.

"Come on in. They're inclined to be peaceable."

At Nathaniel's call they sped up. While Makepeace and Owen had distracted the Ryngians, Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had slipped onto the island from the windward side. Having seen them move through the woods, Owen had no doubts that they'd taken the Ryngians completely by surprise.

Owen leaped clear of the canoe as it first touched sand, then dragged it forward. Makepeace climbed out into ankle-deep water and grabbed one of the crosspieces. Without grunt or grimace, he lifted the whole canoe out of the lake and carried it up to dry sand. He set it next to the smaller of two canoes that had been overturned to shelter a thick bale of pelts.

Carrying his rifle, Owen jogged up a slight incline to a flat spot where the Ryngians had built their fire. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa covered two men. The captives were seated on the ground; their muskets lay on the far side of the fire. Both weapons resembled Owen's carbine for length, but were much older and wanted for maintenance.

One man vaguely resembled Pierre. Owen figured him to be Etienne. Thick like his father, possibly brother, and not terribly tall, Etienne looked much younger and had a thick shock of brown hair. He looked more angry than sour, while his compatriot looked just the opposite. Jean looked as much like a drowned rat as he did a man, with his ears and nose warring for prominence. He had no chin to speak of, which he compensated for with a thick and droopy moustache. If not for a high forehead and decently spaced eyes, it would have been simple to dismiss him as a lower-class wastrel.

Makepeace circled around to stand to the right of and behind Jean. Nathaniel sat, but still kept his rifle leveled at their captives. "Now we don't mean you no discomfort or ill will. I pert near forgot that time when you and your pa were emptying my traps, Etienne. How so ever, I do have me some questions."

The younger man glared sullenly at Nathaniel.

Jean smiled half-heartedly. "My friend Nathaniel, you are not one to point a gun unless you mean to use it."

"Just as you was a-pointing at my friends."

"This is true. A misunderstanding, non?" Jean lowered his hands. "We shall start again. Welcome to our fire. Please, share with us."

"Ain't you a mite east of your normal range?" Nathaniel watched them closely. "I don't recall ever seeing you in these parts."

Jean shrugged. "The land, it is so beautiful. We just kept going."

"And I don't recall you traveling with the Ilsavonts."

"These are difficult times, my friend."

"Part of that difficult being your father up out of his grave, Etienne?"

Blood drained from Ilsavont's face. He started to say something, then his shoulders sagged and he began to cry.

Jean rested a hand on his shoulder and said something softly. He turned to look at Nathaniel and Owen. "Please, gentlemen, he has been tortured by this. This is why we are here."

Nathaniel pointed his rifle toward the sky. "Tell me."

Jean and Etienne exchanged glances, then the younger man nodded. Jean let his hand fall from his shoulder and hunched forward. "It is like this. Two months ago a ship arrives in Kebeton from Tharyngia. A man, tall, a scarecrow, a Laureate, they say, he comes with troops and many boxes of equipment. Big boxes, small, and he has servants who help unload, but only at night. He offers good money, much money, for scouts, and for other things. I just found paths for him, yes? I knew of the other things he wanted but he was a Laureate. Like your prince, non? Who can know their minds?"

"What did he want?" Owen dropped to a knee. "The other things?"