"You are trying to suggest that the crowned heads and the Church itself have suppressed magick while secretly hoarding it?"
"No suggestion, monsieur." Du Malphias shook his head. "Do you not find it curious that, with the advent of cannon and gun, all these noble houses were able, in a single generation, to suddenly manifest an ability to work magick? Let us assume you are a five. You would be powerful. Most troops in the ranks are twos, perhaps threes. Two volleys, then it is 'fix bayonets,' yes? And yet these nobles, they are, a six or a seven? Perhaps much more."
Owen shook his head. "That requires a conspiracy of silence lasting centuries. Someone would have confessed."
"Yes, but the Church, you must remember, found it very convenient to draw clergymen from the ranks of the nobility. A religion of magicians who control the common people. They direct witch hunts to destroy the powerful and disruptive. An upstart noble is declared a heretic or diabolist; is shunned, disbelieved, and killed. They have a perfect system using hatred and fear to enforce their rule. They would have maintained it forever, save for two things."
The Laureate clasped his hands behind his back. "The need for soldiers meant that they had to mitigate the sinfulness of magick. This gave people pride in their abilities. This is why, when we overthrew king and church, we had the mass support. Science had succeeded where a mad king had not. We made magick a science. No shame, only truth. And, in case you doubt me, let me assure you that hidden in the archives in Feris are ample documents-correspondence, confessions, and more-that verify this conspiracy. Had King Anselm not gone completely mad and broken with the Church, their united front would have concealed the conspiracy for good. In fact, there are those Laureates who believe we need to perpetuate it, saying the people of the world are not yet ready to understand."
"Hence your exile?"
"One reason among many, and all inconsequential." Du Malphias smiled quickly. "The second point is that every Old World power saw fit to ship their malcontents here. What they failed to consider was that many of them-perhaps even a majority-were able to work magicks. Being of the underclasses, or uneducated, they still lived in fear of witch hunts. And, quite by accident, Mystria has become a place where mages have bred with mages. You have seen what this does for the natives."
Owen nodded slowly. "Many of the redemptioneers were cursed."
"Now they are Auropa's bane. The governments so fear that the secrets of magick will be shared with common people, they dare not let anyone with knowledge of advanced magick come here. Still, there are other conspiracies that see the value in sharing the secrets. I do not know if they will be enough to counter the forces which wish to continue the people's suppression."
"You were allowed to come."
"They could not stop me from coming. It is a difference, a significant difference."
Echoes of Nathaniel's words thundered in Owen's head. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "You will forgive me, monsieur, but this makes my head hurt. I should rest."
Du Malphias nodded. "Of course, but I would have you indulge me for just a moment longer, please."
"Yes?"
"A different subject." The Laureate opened his arms. "You have studied my fortress. You are an intelligent man. How will your armies take it?"
Owen jerked a thumb to his right. "They will come from the north. That is the clearest line of attack. This is the way they will take this fortress of death."
" La Fortresse du Morte. Clever, but overwrought. Only an idiot would use it. I do appreciate, however, that you mean title in two ways." Du Malphias chuckled politely. "From the north, yes, rather obviously. I do plan additional construction. We will counter-tunnel, of course. But the north wall is not the weakest spot of my fortress, is it?"
"No. It's the high fort overlooking the lake. If we build a ship, load cannon on it, and float it out there, it can blast that wall into splinters. A concerted push by attacking troops-and suddenly we have the high ground. It will still be bloody, but this fort can be taken."
"Very good, monsieur. I do not disagree with your assessment." Du Malphias shrugged. "I also believe you have not been wholly forthcoming."
"I assure you…"
"Yes, yes, you will give me your word as an officer. Need we play this game again?"
Owen shook his head, hair rising on his arms. In an instant, he took a step forward, then swung his crutch at du Malphias.
The Laureate's eyes shrank to bare slits. His left hand came up, blocking the crutch with a puff of mist. His right hand thrust forward, palm out. A flash, some heat, more mist. Owen couldn't breathe. He flew back past Quarante-neuf, sprawling in the dirt. His breastbone throbbed.
"Fetch him to his cell. Strap him down."
"As you desire, monsieur."
Owen rubbed his chest. It ached. Something had cracked. He coughed, igniting more pain, then struggled ineffectually against Quarante-neuf's grasp.
Du Malphias shook his head. "Yes, I shall be extracting information from you, Captain Strake. But you did not listen to me. You expected torture. You shall have it. You have earned it. I shall enjoy it. But, know this: I have other means that would have proved just as effective, and would have saved you great pain."
Owen nodded, believing.
After all, in blocking the crutch and knocking Owen down, du Malphias had never actually touched him or the stick. Whatever he had done, it involved magick Owen had never seen before and had no immediate interest in ever seeing again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
August 24, 1763
Tanner and Hound, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
"I do declare, Caleb, you spend more time here than might be advisable." Nathaniel Woods pulled a chair back from Caleb's table. Nathaniel sniffed the man's bowl of stew. "Cain't be the food here is good."
"The summer ale's getting sour, and the raspberry-wheat beer isn't ready yet." Caleb closed a book. Not being able to read, Nathaniel had no idea what it was, but it bore a strong resemblance to the book he'd seen Owen carrying. "I'd go home but my mother is still upset about your visit the other day."
"Well, I reckon I'd apologize but I'm thinking that won't help much."
Caleb shook his head. "She's not upset with you-not that she's forgiven you, nor is she likely to. It's Beth. She took the news about Captain Strake hard."
Nathaniel recalled the tears and the quavering quality of her voice. "Your sister, she's a smart woman. Strong, too. Got steel in her spine, like your ma. Owen set a store by her."
"I know." Caleb took a spoonful of the stew, looked at it, then let it subside into the slowly congealing mass. "I was short with Captain Strake, you see. My mother and sister are afraid that he's thinking my attitude is their attitude. Makes things uncomfortable."
"I think you'd be finding that Owen didn't take no dislike to you. He weren't the kind of man to get a hate on all easy like."
"I know, still." Caleb sighed. "You and Kamiskwa are going to look for him. I want to go."
The woodsman sat back. "You might want to be taking a second to think on that."
"I've thought long and hard about it. I shoot good and have my own musket. I know the woods and I'm strong."
Nathaniel nodded. "You're still a mite young."
"Older than you were when you first went out."
Nathaniel raised his hands. "No disputing that. And I ain't saying you couldn't do it. What I am saying is that you don't know what you're taking on."
Caleb frowned. "You made it pretty plain."
"Nope." Nathaniel stood, waved Caleb toward the door. The young man followed. Outside, Nathaniel pointed to the sky. "What do you see there?"
Caleb rolled his eyes. "Geese, down from New Tharyngia heading south. I can also spot moose, tanner, bears, jeopards, and rabbits. I'll hit if I shoot, too."