At the Queen_s command

Owen surveyed the fortress from the mouth of a tunnel set halfway between the upper fort and the stone star at the construction's heart. The pasmortes worked tirelessly-du Malphias noted that some of them had been worked to death and still worked-an oft-repeated joke in which the Laureate took great delight. Owen had concluded that the pasmortes' abilities and level of service corresponded to how badly damaged they were at resurrection. Quarante-neuf appeared to be quite high-functioning, able to carry on a conversation and even seeming to have emotions. He was a great deal more human than Etienne's description of his father.

Others, in various states of decay, functioned as beasts of burden. Du Malphias referred to them as his little "ants," capable of shifting mountains one tiny piece at a time. When one of the beasts became broken, du Malphias or a couple of the higher-functioning pasmortes like Quarante-neuf, would affect a repair via magick deep in the bowels of the fortress.

The ability of a pasmorte to use magick shocked Owen, but it made sense. They had become creatures of magick themselves, and the magicks they used were rather elementary. Just as Kamiskwa and Makepeace had repaired the canoes, so magick could reattach a severed arm, or strengthen a broken bone.

Du Malphias came walking down the path from the upper fort. "Good morning, Captain Strake. How are you feeling?"

"Pain is a three on your scale in my left leg, two in the right. Discomfort, but nothing insurmountable."

"Excellent." The Tharyngian frowned. "I regret the necessity of this. Come with me to the smith."

"Sir?"

"I cannot have you getting up to mischief."

Owen held his head up. "I pledge to you, sir, as an officer and a gentleman, that I have no intention of doing anything of that sort."

The slender man's grey eyes tightened. "You understand, sir, that you stand before me a spy whose life is under immediate threat of extinction. Please accept the honor I do you in treating you like a dangerous foe. I have determined that iron shackles will not impede your recovery, therefore this prudent precaution is one that must be employed now. Quarante-neuf, if he does not follow me, drag him."

Quarante-neuf took a step forward, but Owen started after du Malphias. "Please, sir, not so fast."

The Tharyngian glanced back, then slowed his pace.

"Thank you." Owen caught up with. "I have wanted to ask, sir, after my compatriot. How does he fare?"

"He perished. Sepsis. Everything I tried, failed."

Owen's stomach imploded. Not Makepeace! He scanned the lines of pasmortes. "Did you…?"

Du Malphias waved the question aside. "The infection did significant damage to his spine and brain. He was of no use to me."

"I should like to pay my respects."

"I imagine." Du Malphias pointed at a stool next to the smith's anvil. "It pleased me, however, to give him a Viking funeral. I laid him and his equipment in a canoe, lit it afire, and sent it sailing into the lake. The current caught it. His ashes will have washed down the Roaring River and into the Misaawa. On his last journey he shall see more of this continent than he did in life."

The smith, a burly man who wore a leather apron to protect a hirsute chest, took a pair of shackles from a burlap sack. He slid one on to Owen's right wrist, allowing the tabs from the upper and lower halves to stick through a thick, leather sheet. He wrapped the sheet around Owen's forearm, then drew a glowing red bolt of bronze from the fire. With tongs he slid it through the holes in the tabs, then hammered it flat against the anvil.

Sparks flew and the metal quickly grew hot. Hairs on Owen's arm melted into a sickly sweet smoke. The smith pulled the leather away, then yanked Owen forward, dunking his arm to the elbow in a water trough. The bolt bubbled, and steam rose.

Once the bubbling had stopped, he raised the wrist and showed it to du Malphias. The Laureate, who had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, nodded. "Proceed."

The smith repeated the process with the other hand. Du Malphias studied the results. "We will try your native infusion on those burns, Captain."

"Most kind, sir." Owen smiled despite the throbbing burns.

"Almost done." From a pocket du Malphias drew a sharp metal stylus. He caught up each of Owen's hands in turn and inscribed an oddly angular series of symbols on the head of the bronze bolts. The Laureate then produced two brown leather bracers bearing a great resemblance to clerks'-sleeves. "You will wear these at all times over your shackles until directed to remove them. I would not have Quarante-neuf come to harm."

It made sense. The iron shackles restricted Owen's ability to use magick and especially fire a gun. The touch of iron or steel so disrupted magick that, in olden days, the inability to hold an iron nail for any length of time was enough to convict a person of being a warlock.