by A. C. Cobble
“Without an airship, it’s several months journeying,” he acknowledged, “and difficult travel, at that. Even with an airship and good winds, it takes two weeks. It’s worth it, though, if you ever get the opportunity.”
“It was a good story, Duke, line or not,” admitted the girl.
“You don’t have to call me ‘Duke’,” he said. “You can call me Oliver.”
“Duke is your name, is it not?”
He stared at her, mouth agape.
“Duke Wellesley,” she said. “I thought that’s how you introduced yourself. My apologies if I got it wrong.”
“I-I am Duke Wellesley,” he stammered. “The Duke Wellesley. Well, one of them.”
She blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“My name is not Duke,” he explained. “That is my title. Surely you’ve heard the name Wellesley? King Edward Wellesley, Prince Philip Wellesley?”
“Of course I’ve heard of King Edward Wellesley!” she exclaimed. “Everyone has, but I’ve met a dozen others who share the name. I understand several generations ago it became quite fashionable to assume the family name Wellesley, and I suppose a few who did were even distant relations. A duke you say you are? What are you a duke of? And don’t tell me Westundon. I know Prince Philip is the duke of this province. I have seen him, and you are not him.”
“I’m his brother,” muttered Oliver. “His younger brother.”
“His younger brother is, ah… Frank in Eastundon?”
“Franklin,” snapped Oliver. “Duke Franklin Wellesley of Eastundon and Duke John Wellesley of Southundon are also my brothers. There are four of us, and I’m the youngest. I am Duke Wellesley.”
“You claim you’re the brother of these dukes, and that you were still named Duke?” asked Samantha, her face scrunching in confusion. She glanced down at her half-empty coffee cup, as if it contained the answer.
“My name is Oliver, not Duke!” he nearly shouted. “I am a son of the king, and all of us were granted the title of duke on our thirteenth winter. It is a title, not a name.”
The girl stilled, understanding slowly creeping across her face.
He sat back, crossing his arms across his chest, trying not to be upset she’d never heard of him.
“Duke is your title,” she repeated. “My mentor did not tell me. He just said you were going to investigate the murder. I never thought royalty would… You are serious?”
He nodded.
“Duke of what?”
“Duke of… I’m the Duke of Northundon,” he answered.
“Northundon is gone, isn’t it?” she asked slowly, clearly concerned about offending him now. “I thought during the war, the Coldlands raiders destroyed the city, and what wasn’t done by them was done by Edward… ah, your father’s airships and bombs.”
“I was named Duke of Northundon on my thirteenth winter solstice,” explained Oliver. “The Coldlands raiders attacked two moons later while I was studying in Southundon. The province of Northundon still exists, legally, though you are right, there’s not much to it anymore. Everything north of the Sheetsand Mountains is virtually uninhabited, just a few herders clinging to the slopes. Farther north there are… strange happenings, sometimes. Odd sightings, disappearances, that sort of thing. It’s, well, no use bandying around it. There are ghosts haunting what used to be the city of Northundon. It is still my province, but Northundon is no longer a place for living men.”
“I’m aware of what haunts the ruins,” replied Samantha softly.
“Even though I am the Duke of the Northundon, my brother Franklin in Eastundon has taken over the day-to-day responsibilities for what remains of the province. It’s easier for him to manage. He has a strong ministry in Eastundon to rely on, and it taxes them little to keep an eye on the north.” He drew a deep breath and released it, cursing himself for nattering on like some teacher on his first day at school.
“I understand now,” offered the girl.
He thought she meant it.
“I am sorry I thought your name was Duke.”
He sighed. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said the girl. Quickly, she added, “That didn’t come out right! I just didn’t expect—”
Glaring at her, he interjected, “I am sorry I thought you’d be a man.”
She frowned at him, crossing her arms across her chest in mirror to his pose.
They sat silently for a moment, then he dropped his arms to his side. “It seems neither of us had the right idea going into this, did we?”
“No, we didn’t,” she agreed.
“Shall we start over again, again?” he asked.
She smirked. “That sounds good to me.”
Having more than enough of speaking about himself, he asked, “You know about me now, but I know nothing of you. Who are you, and why did the Church send you with me, if that is not rude to ask?”
“No, it is a fair question,” replied Samantha. She toyed with her coffee cup before answering, “My name is Samantha, but most people call me Sam. I’ve been working for the Church for over two decades now, since I was a little girl.”
Oliver nodded, waiting.
She looked back at him.
He took a sip of his coffee and scratched his ear.
“Have you been to Harwick before, Duke?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t,” he remarked. “I’ve traveled extensively all over Enhover, but I never found any reason to go to Harwick.”
“I wonder why the countess was there. She’s from Derbycross, yes? That’s over a hundred leagues from Harwick, and if I recall correctly, there’s no direct route from one to the other. Coming from Archtan Atoll, I imagine the countess must have landed in Southundon, right? Isn’t that where the Company’s airships berth?”
“Many of them,” he confirmed. “Ah, Saman—Sam, were you going to tell me a little about yourself?”
“I did,” she responded. She glanced out the window, watching the rolling hills of Westundon province flash by as the train coasted down the track. “Has anyone informed the governor in Archtan Atoll that his wife is dead?”
Oliver sat back, shaking his head. “No, not yet. There’s no glae worm filament that stretches across the sea. When the message is sent, it will be by airship. Before that, the Company’s directors and my family thought we should have some answers. Governor Dalyrimple deserves to know what happened, which means, we need to find out what happened.”
“On that, Duke, we’re agreed,” she said. She winced. “Sorry, I meant—”
“Oliver.”
The Priestess II
“Duke,” she asked, “are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbled. “It’s Oliver, you know.”
“Of course,” she responded. “Oliver. I’ll have it next time.”
“I’m sure you will.” He blinked heavily, looking around the rail car and then at the landscape flashing by out the window. “Where are we?”
She stared at him as she had been for the last hour. The man was unlike anyone she’d ever met before, and she couldn’t quite figure him out. Though, she supposed she had never met a royal, and apparently the man really was one. Perhaps that explained his easy confidence?
She imagined that he’d never met anyone like her before, either. Few people had.
He clearly didn’t understand what they were walking into, and she wanted to warn him, but she worried he would brush it off with the assured experience that he had successfully dealt with every other obstacle in his life, if there had been any. He had no reason to think this time would be any different. She could tell him more about herself, try to explain what they were getting into, but she didn’t think he was ready for that. No, she would have to let him see for himself.
“Are you staring at me?” he asked, his eyes finally staying open. He shifted into a seated position on the wide bench, rubbing his face in his hands, then returning her look.
“I am staring at you
,” she confirmed. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He paused, mid-yawn, one fist hanging in the air on the way to cover his mouth. Finally, he closed it, and replied, “I suppose they do.”
“Are you any good with that?” asked Sam, glancing at the broadsword laid on a shelf above the padded bench he had been sleeping on.
“I’m passing fair,” he replied after seeing what she was looking at. He turned and peeked out the window. “I trained a great deal as a child for battle and for fencing. Fencing is popular these days, but during the early years of the Coldlands war, my family trained me for real combat. I saw what happened at Northundon myself, and it motivated me, you could say. I’ll never forget it. I don’t train like I used to, but I’ve been in a few scrapes, and I still know which end of the thing is sharp.”
“I remember Northundon as well,” replied Sam quietly. “It will be with me always, I think.”
“You remember?” asked Duke. “You can’t be a day older than me. What were you, ten winters when the Coldlands War happened?”
“Twelve,” replied Sam. “I saw it, though.”
Duke frowned at her.
“I was on one of the airships that flew to the north to meet the threat. I-I saw Northundon burning. I saw the reprisal against the raiders.”
“You were in the fleet? A twelve-year-old girl?”
She shrugged. “My mentor accompanied a contingent from the Church in case… in case there was anything unusual that happened. I was with him to observe.”
“He brought a twelve-year-old girl to observe a battle?” exclaimed Duke. “That’s… terrible. What exactly was this priest mentoring you in that you needed to see a battle?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed out the window. “We’re approaching Harwick now. That’s why I woke you. When we arrive, shall we go to the inspector’s station and see if we can locate the man assigned to the case?”
Duke shook his head. “No, if they aren’t waiting on us already, we’ll send word when we arrive at our hotel. They’ll come to us.”
“You’ll just ask them, and they’ll…” She frowned at him. “I suppose they will, won’t they?”
He shrugged. “Of course they will.”
The car began to slow, and within moments, a uniformed porter appeared at the door. “M’lord, m’lady, the other passengers will wait until you depart before disembarking. Will you have a carriage waiting? Let me know and I will load your bags into it while you refresh yourselves.”
Duke glanced at Sam. “Do you need any assistance?”
She snorted and stood, buckling her belt and kris daggers around her waist and then collecting her simple rucksack from storage. “I packed light.”
“As did I,” said Duke, waving off the porter. He strapped on his broadsword, adjusted his satchel, and hung his rucksack on his back. “Neither one of us is planning for a long stay, are we?”
The car coasted to a halt, and Sam gestured to the door. “After you.”
Duke grinned. “Ladies first.”
“I’m no lady,” she responded.
“Lady, woman, it’s all the same,” he claimed, bowing with a flourish. “Regardless of station, the fairer sex is always welcome to go before me.”
She laughed. “That’s a line I bet you don’t tell the noblewomen you’re wooing. You’re doing better, though. There’s hope for you yet, Duke.”
She slipped out the door, forcing herself to keep moving until she heard him stomp after her, muttering under his breath about his name. She hopped down from the railcar and surveyed the station. Nothing like Westundon, she saw immediately. It was small, the end of the line. A grim row of buildings began no more than fifty yards from the station. Stark gray granite, two-stories, with moss-covered shingles on the roofs.
“Duke Wellesley,” called a voice.
Duke stepped beside her and offered the approaching man a curt nod.
“Senior Inspector Joff Gallen,” said the man, bowing at the waist. “We received word over the glae worm filament that you’d be arriving today. Come, come. I’ve arranged lodging at the Cliffwatch.”
“The Cliffwatch?” asked Duke.
“It’s, ah… it’s our finest inn, m’lord,” explained the senior inspector. “I hope it will suffice?”
“It will have to, won’t it?” replied Duke. “Are you handling the matter we’ve come to inquire on?”
“No, my subordinate, Inspector Patrick McCready, is taking the lead on the investigation,” responded Gallen. “He’s… he’s my best man, m’lord.”
“Take us to the inn, then, and send for McCready,” instructed Duke. “I’m sure your man is experienced and has all in hand. We’ll do our part and I hope we can resolve this matter in short order.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Senior Inspector Gallen, turning quickly and ushering them away from the rail into the narrow, granite-bound streets of Harwick.
Sam frowned, falling in line between the men. The senior inspector’s tone was bright and cheery, but his shoulders were slumped and his body moved stiffly. He’d assigned a junior man to the case, and he’d skipped over the ingratiating small talk she had witnessed every senior official and fellow first-class passenger engage in the moment they saw Duke. Duke was a son of the king. He had the power to promote with the wave of his hand, and the senior inspector wanted to stay as far from them as he practically could. Either the man had no concern for personal promotion, or…
Hopes of a quick resolution were fading rapidly. Sam turned to study the walls, doors, and windows of Harwick. In one of these buildings, a woman had been killed. If the reports bore out, then someone in the village had attempted sorcery.
The Cliffwatch sat at the top of the hamlet of Harwick, back to the cliffs that loomed over the village. It ironically looked down on the town and the harbor below, and from the comfortably embroidered, stuffed, and broken-in chairs that they were ensconced in, they couldn’t even see the cliffs. Instead, they looked out over the mossy roofs of the buildings down to the choppy water of the harbor. The crisp scent of saltwater, hanging over the soggy stench of refuse, drifted up through the village and floated into the open windows of the Cliffwatch’s tea room. The scattered candles and crackling fire did little to battle the reek of the harbor. Evidently, Harwick shared at least one characteristic with Westundon.
Sam inhaled her brew, trying to banish the scent of the sea, and glanced out at the moss- and lichen-covered buildings underneath the balcony. It was chilly and damp in the room, but she guessed from the flora it might always be chilly and damp in Harwick.
Across from her, Duke nursed an ale and stared moodily outside. The sun had already fallen behind the cliffs and the town was near dark. They’d only been in the place a quarter of an hour, but Duke was restless, anxious to begin their investigation.
Finally, they heard murmured voices that proceeded a red-faced and exquisitely mustached man. They stood to greet him, and the man headed directly toward them.
Duke offered his hand. “Inspector McCready?”
“I am,” answered the man, tentatively taking Duke’s hand and allowing the royal to pump it firmly. “I am told you will be leading the investigation, and I’m to assist. Please let me know what I can do to support you, m’lord.”
Duke grunted. “We’re far enough away from the capital that we can dispense with the dance, don’t you think, Inspector? This is your trade, not mine. When we need a map drawn or a smiling face to dance with the eligible debutantes at a winter ball, I’ll take the lead. For now, you’re in charge, and we will follow.”
McCready swallowed nervously.
Duke chuckled. “I understand your concerns, Inspector, but it’s not a trap. All I want is to get this resolved. I am here to open doors, provide guidance from Crown and Company, and facilitate whatever you need to locate Countess Dalyrimple’s killer. Please, tell us what you know so far.”
Duke gestured to the cluster of comfortable chairs they’d been seated in
and nodded to the pitcher of ale and pot of tea that sat atop a small table. The inspector eyed the ale for a moment before picking up the tea pot.
“Have an ale, Inspector,” advised Duke.
“He’s not so bad once you get to know him,” added Sam, winking at Duke.
“Go on, then,” muttered Duke after the inspector poured himself a tea.
“Well,” started McCready, eyeing Sam curiously before returning his gaze to Duke, “no offense to yourself, but if you want my true, honest opinion, I’m not sure it’s Crown and Company we need help from. I believe this murder is a Church matter, or at least, it’s been made out to look like one.”
“We can help with that, too,” replied the nobleman, nodding toward Sam. “I brought a representative of the Church. I’ve read your reports, of course, but I’d like to hear it directly from you. Why do you think this is a Church matter?”
McCready knuckled his mustaches and then said, “It’s late, m’lord. Perhaps in the morning we could go to the scene and I can show you there? I’m not a man of words, m’lord, and I think you’ll understand when you see it.”
“Let’s go now,” suggested Duke. He stood, tossed down the rest of his ale, and waited while the others stood around him. “I’m sorry if you have plans, Inspector, but the quicker we solve this, the quicker I can be out of your hair.”
“I can’t tell you, m’lord, if it’s real sorcery or not,” admitted McCready.
“I haven’t the faintest,” agreed Duke.
They were standing in the apothecary looking over the scene. With the body removed, the pentagram was obvious. Black lumps of melted wax marked the five points of the star, ashy chalk formed the lines between. Blood filled the space as cleanly as if it had been painted there by a master artisan, barring the smudges where the body had been removed.
Sam, ignoring the two men, knelt beside the pattern. Not touching it, she hovered close and sniffed. She eyed the clean lines and then glanced at the three walls that formed the room. Hesitantly, she picked up one of the wax lumps and rubbed it in her hands, watching as it crumbled between her fingers. Wincing, she dropped the wax and stood, looking for a cloth to rub the grimy residue from her hand.