At the Queen_s command

Vlad watched him clean up, studying his sour expression. The man is vain, though fights to control it. This was good to know. There would be a point where vanity would trump sensibility and that would be a problem. That von Metternin chafed under non-military command spoke to that same vanity, but his willingness to follow orders nonetheless underscored the man's sense of loyalty.

Dinner-a ham from the cellar, applesauce, peas, and maize boiled on the cob-devolved, as it always will when shared by men only, into a symphony of serious discussions, grand stories, and laughter. The Count had never eaten maize from the cob before, and his luxurious moustaches did not aid him in this undertaking. The others laughed and he accepted it, though not so well.

As wine flowed and sherry followed, the Count offered his own version of war on the Continent. He stripped it of any sense of glory, reducing it to ground made muddy with blood, where what appeared to be white pebbles were fragments of bone, and where packs of wild dogs fought over the entrails of men who still lived. "I did not know if I should shoot the dog or the man."

"Not a choice I should want to have to make." Vlad held up his sherry glass. "To those who will have to choose. May God ease their decision and straighten their aim."

Chapter Thirty-Five

August 21, 1763

Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

I n the week since he'd first seen sunshine again, Owen had come to relish his daily outdoor sojourns. Quarante-neuf still hovered, but the pasmorte appeared confident in Owen's ability to navigate. Owen made certain not to stray off the gravel-covered paths, reducing his quiet companion's anxiety- if facial expression was any indication.

Owen had abandoned one crutch and bore weight on his right leg. It still hurt a bit. An ointment made of mogiqua and bear fat did nothing to help relieve the pain, though the act of massaging it in did help. Du Malphias offered a preparation of willow bark, noting that Owen's pain had not reached the level needed to be ameliorated by morphine.

His left leg healed more slowly. When out for his walks, Owen let it appear far stiffer than it truly was. In his cell, using the crutch more like a cane, he forced himself to walk daily, making more circuits around the room during each exercise period. He couldn't run-he could barely walk, and totter best described his gait-but he could move. Each day he got stronger.

Before long I can escape.

A breeze teased flame-colored leaves on distant trees. Summer was surrendering to autumn. The nights had been getting colder-cold enough that he'd been given two thin blankets. He'd offered one to Quarante-neuf, but his captor refused it. "Cold does not bother me."

Owen's gaze swept over the camp. Apparently satisfied with the basic construction, du Malphias had charged his army of pasmortes with engineering the landscape south of the river. They cleared the ground for five hundred yards back, increasing the potential flood zone. The collected stones had then been used to build several fences and-though of completely new construction-what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse which had fallen into disrepair. The ground had been sown with grass seeds, some of which had already sprouted. Come spring it would look as if the Tharyngian forces had driven a farmer out, leaving his fields and fences to offer some cover for troops advancing on the southern fortress.

Owen studied the new construction because he knew du Malphias wanted him to. The new building, despite appearing to have been there for a long time, hadn't been included in Owen's original survey. No Norillian commander would pay it any attention and would recognize the killing field for exactly what it was: a trap.

That is what they must see, isn't it?

Owen shook his head. "But they never did on the Continent."

Quarante-neuf stepped forward. "Did you require something?"

"No, just made a comment." He pointed toward the new construction. "When you look out there, what do you see?"

"What is it you wish me to see?"

"I don't know." Owen frowned. "I see nine hundred men in red coats dying over there."

The pasmorte nodded slowly. "Blood, much blood." His voice grew uncharacteristically distant. "Thunder and metal."

Owen glanced at him. Quarante-neuf's face had flushed, but his expression had become one of profound sadness. "Are you well?"

The pasmorte blinked. "I am fine." He reached up and brushed away a tear, then looked at the wet stain on his finger as if it were something he had never seen before. "Are you fatigued? Shall I fetch you a blanket?"

The questions came more urgently than ever before, so Owen nodded. "A blanket, yes."