At the Queen's Command by Michael A. Stackpole Page A

be hobbled, just harnessed. And, if not harnessed, it will run out of control.”
    The soldier shivered. “You have given me much to think about, sir. Had my brains not been scrambled, I might have given you a better argument.”
    “You acquitted yourself well, Captain. This is the joy of being a Natural Philosopher. The world is my treasure. I am free to think and imagine. My passion is illuminating the minds of the young.” He leaned in again. “I would ask of you a favor, however.”
    “If I may be of service, sir.”
    “You will be going into areas where not many have gone before. If it does not compromise your duty, I would appreciate copies of your charts—the rivers, you see. We huddle on a narrow strip of the coast. If we are ever to thrive, we will move inland, and the rivers are the routes we will follow.”
    Owen hesitated for a moment. The information he would obtain was for the Crown. By rights, its distribution would depend on his superiors. But Nathaniel Woods could just as easily communicate same to the Frosts—and Colonel Langford would certainly sell them the information. Frost’s possession of it was inevitable. Just like change.
    “It would be an honor, sir.”
    “Very good, thank you.” Frost clapped his hands and looked up as Bethany came in from the kitchen, fastening a light cloak around her shoulders. “Are you come to conduct the Captain about town?”
    “Are you done torturing him?” A white bonnet restrained her light brown hair, save for a curl over her forehead.
    “For now, yes.” Frost slid his chair back and stood. “A pleasure, Captain.”
    Owen stood and shook the man’s hand. “And mine, sir.”
    “Take good care of my daughter.” Frost pumped his arm warmly. “Until this evening. Good hunting.”
    As they moved through Temperance, Owen studied people with new eyes. His red coat and even his second-best shirt had been woven tightly—more tightly than clothes worn by anyone but the most prosperous. Many men wore breeches that had been patched repeatedly, and often needed yet another patch or two. More commonly they went without shoes or stockings, and few possessed proper coats.
    Prior to his discussion with Doctor Frost, Owen had been inclined to put their slovenly appearance down to their nature. Norisle’s feckless and destitute—those in thrall to spirits and indolence—dressed similarly. He thought them incapable of rising above their nature, lacking character. Even those brought into the army and trained for better retreated to their baser selves when given any idle time.
    “Did you not hear me, Captain?”
    Owen blinked. “My apologies, Miss Frost. My mind was off and away.”
    Bethany laughed easily. “You are like my father in that regard. I should have expected this after his speaking with you this morning.”
    “He does challenge a man.”
    “That he does.” She opened a hand toward a small alley off Fortitude Street. “You may find the journals you want here, on Scrivener Street; or you might want to obtain logs closer to the dock.”
    “We should look here.”
    “Very well. What was it my father had you thinking about?”
    “Things well outside my purpose here.”
    A frown wrinkled her brow. “My dear Captain Strake, do not think me some addlepated girl. I am my father’s daughter and capable of handling myself in discourse.”
    “No offense intended, Miss. We discussed the lack of a native textile industry.” Owen jerked his head back toward Fortitude. “Consequently I was noticing what people wore.”
    “It gets very cold for some come winter.” She paused before the door of Burns and Company, Booksellers. “We might try here.”
    Owen opened the door into a small shop crowded with shelves. A bell tinkled from above the door. A small man wearing spectacles appeared from deeper within the shop. Two large volumes filled his hands. “Good day, Miss Frost. May I help you?”
    Bethany eclipsed Owen. “I hope you will, Mr. Burns. Captain