Free Law, Susan Kay by Traitorous Hearts

that allowed him to do his job.
    An illusion. His gaze was drawn to Beth, standing quietly to one
side of the meadow, watching as man after man shattered the bottles placed on
the stone wall. She was serene, placid, a calm, still pool with nary a ripple
showing on the surface. Why was he so sure it was an illusion?
    It had been all he could manage to stay away from her all week,
and he congratulated himself on his success. Well, near success. Once, unable
to resist any longer, he'd followed her to her family's stable, staying out of
sight, and listened to her play. Just listened.
    He'd leaned outside the door, pushing it open a crack so he could
hear better, and closed his eyes. Her music had been different that day; muted,
haunting, echoing... lonely. Almost desperate.
    It called to his soul, a soul that had been buried so deep he
wasn't even sure he still had one. But somehow she found it, dredged up the
tattered remnants of it, and made him feel.
    He hadn't seen her play then. He hadn't needed to.
    Crack.
    The sharp report of another musket brought him back to the matter
at hand.
    It was nearly Jon's turn to shoot. Another one of the Jones
boys—what was this one's name?—was firing now. One of the middle brothers, Jon
thought, but it didn't seem to make much difference; they all could shoot. They
fired rapidly, with swaggering confidence and surprising accuracy—except for
Brendan, who shot deliberately, almost contemplatively, but with even greater precision.
He was quite possibly the best shot Jon had ever seen.
    Another shot, and another bottle shattered. If there was any
glassware left in the village after this afternoon it would be a miracle.
    "These colonists are right fine shots." Sergeant
Hitchcock stood near Jon, watching the competition with his captain.
"Better'n I would've thought."
    "Mmm." Captain Livingston rocked back on his heels and
pursed his lips. He was growing weary of watching his soldiers getting outdone.
They were supposed to be professionals, for God's sake. Why couldn't they shoot
better than a bunch of bumpkin farmers? "It seems that we definitely need
to step up our target practice."
    "Hungry."
    "Hmm?" The captain peered at Jon. "No, no, Jon,
we'll get you something to eat later. When this is over."
    "Not that." Jon jerked his thumb toward the colonial
troops. "They shoot for food. Squirrels, rabbits." He waved his hands
through the air, mimicking a tiny animal scurrying to escape its hunter.
"Little animals. Fast. To feed their children. So, good shots."
    "Ah." Livingston hadn't thought of that: the Americans
had to be good shots, it meant food on their tables. After chasing small game,
bottles were easy targets.
    For his own men, shooting had simply become part of the job. It
was up to him to impress upon his troops the fact that their lives would depend
on their skill with their muskets. That should take care of the matter.
    "Well." Hitchcock sucked his teeth. "I hope I don't
end up 'cross a battlefield from 'em anytime soon."
    Livingston sniffed. "I wouldn't be concerned about it,
Sergeant. They have no discipline, no training. They elect their officers, for
God's sake. How can an elected officer make the difficult, necessary decisions?
He'll be too busy protecting his friends and family."
    "Think it's goin' t'come to that, Cap'n?"
    "Bah! They are like children, these colonists. They cannot
hear the wisdom of their mother country. They can only hear the siren call of
rebellion."
    "Next!" a man bellowed. The bottles were being reset.
    "Me!" Jon checked the loading and shouldered his musket.
    Captain Livingston winced and took two rapid steps away. "Ah,
Jon, could you try not to wing anybody this time? I wouldn't want you to
accidentally start a war by killing someone."
    "Not t'worry." Sergeant Hitchcock whacked Jon
companionably on the back. "We been practicin', ain't we, Jon? He'll do
just fine."
    Jon bobbed his head. "No problem, sir."
    The three bottles he was to shoot were carefully