by A. C. Cobble
“This is the quickest route between Enhover and the atoll,” he replied. “There are strong winds we’re flying on that come off the southern continent. Typically, though, I steer through the United Territories with the excuse of a diplomatic visit. My father and brother are always worried the United Territories will attempt to break way, so they’re eager for intelligence. In addition to making a stop at court, there’s no better vantage to the surrounding land than the deck of an airship, so I spend a few extra days on voyage and report back to my family what I’ve seen. The northern tradewinds don’t blow as steady as the southern, but in time you can make the journey. I’ll admit, though, the wines of Ivalla and Finavia are almost worth the detour.”
“How much of your time is your own?” wondered Sam.
He smirked. “If it was up to my family, I’d spend my days locked in some administrative dungeon running the ministry with Uncle William or holding court and settling disputes between the peers and the merchants. Instead, I’m out here. My time is largely my own, but the price of that freedom is high. Exploration, seeing something entirely new, that is what I love and what I do, but it seems I rarely go back to where I’ve been. There’s never time to go back.”
“Well, we will have a day, won’t we?” responded Sam. “Let’s explore.”
Oliver grinned at her. “You’ll come along?”
“After ten days of over-salted meats and suspicious stews,” responded Sam, “I’ll do anything to get off this airship.”
The airship bridge on Imbon was nearly identical to the one in Westundon, a skinny, wooden tower with flight after flight of stairs. Hanging over the side was a small platform attached to a pulley and winch for loading cargo. A stout iron hook stuck up from the tower, and as they floated close, the sailors tossed a rope and looped it around the hook, using the tie to bring them in close without risking coming in too quickly and smashing into the wooden tower or overshooting it and jerking the structure down.
The tower hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen Imbon. Back then, they’d had to scale a dangling net to disembark the airship and cargo had been hauled up hand over hand with rope and a dozen crewmen. Back-breaking work, he assumed. He hadn’t offered to help with that little adventure.
“Do you know Governor Jain Towerson?” asked Captain Haines as they walked down the stairs of the airship bridge. “I’ve met him a few times myself, but…”
“But never had any real conversation with the man,” finished Oliver. “I’ve spoken with him several times in Enhover and found him a bit introverted, which is too bad. I’d prefer a governor here who spent more time with the people. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, though. Imbon is a steadily profitable colony, and from all reports, it is well-maintained and orderly. We haven’t had problems with the natives like we have elsewhere. They’ve really integrated well with Company leadership.”
“That’s true,” agreed Haines. “We are never greeted by the governor himself, but everyone else is warm and welcoming. The men love stopping over here. The taverns are always stocked and the inn is in good repair. There are beautiful beaches, and the women aren’t too bad either.” Haines glanced at Sam and then continued, “I was told that when Company men first discovered this place, the women walked about unclothed and uncaring when you gave them a look. I even heard marriages here were meant to last a night only, and there was many a Company man who, well, found a local bride I suppose is the polite way to say it. Some of my men, they were part of those early expeditions, and they said the girls were enthusiastic about the fresh faces.”
“I don’t have any personal experience, mind you,” replied Oliver dryly, “but I can confirm there were things known as island marriages. It could have been part of the culture before us, or perhaps the native women meant to improve their station by a liaison with a sailor. It’s also true there was no shame in Imbon when we first arrived, but the women weren’t naked all of the time. They had clothing as protection from the sun, which is entirely sensible. Your skin will get burned in the tropics in just a few turns of the clock. During those early months, though, inside the huts the natives had and the structures we built, it was clothes off. And I’m not just talking about the natives.”
“Sounds like your kind of place,” remarked Sam.
“It was rather scandalous when we reported it,” remarked Oliver. “I spent months telling peers about it. When I returned to Westundon, at every party I attended, I was questioned about the customs in Imbon. The women in particular couldn’t hear enough.”
“Sure,” responded Sam.
Ignoring her, he led them down the stairs of the tower. Finally, after ten flights, they emerged on hard, sandy soil. A dozen native men were standing beside a covered palanquin.
“I’ll walk,” declared Oliver.
At the same time, both Sam and Captain Haines responded, “Me too.”
Oliver looked between them then shrugged. To the bearers, he said, “We’ve been aboard too long and we’d like to stretch our legs. Care to lead the way?”
Blank-faced, the men lifted their empty litter and started up a sandy path toward the town.
Oliver followed, studying the outlying structures with interest. One story, for the most part, with what appeared to be bamboo walls and thickly thatched grass roofs. Not much to keep the cold out, but they didn’t need to worry about that in Imbon.
Down from the airship and away from the steady breeze, he unbuttoned his coat, and with a surreptitious glance at the fully suited and wigged captain, he loosened the ties on his shirt. He could already feel the moisture beading on his back. That was one thing he always forgot about the tropics when he was away, how hard the heat and humidity hit you.
As they entered the town, it seemed as prosperous and orderly as Captain Haines had described it. Oliver guessed at least one hundred simple huts were spread out below the hill where the Company compound and governor’s mansion sat. Homes and workshops with sparsely attired natives darting between, busy with daily chores that didn’t seem much different from what he saw people in Westundon doing. The climate, the food, and the building material might be different, but the place suddenly struck him as remarkably similar to the hamlet of Harwick.
He turned and said as much to Sam.
“Let’s hope we find a different reception here, then.”
He blinked and turned back to observe the village life. Murder, secret societies, the clues they were meant to follow in Archtan Atoll — it had all somehow slipped his mind. He shook himself. A few more days, then he would worry about that.
Soon, they were following the litter bearers up the incline that led to the Company compound. It was a fortified square set atop an earthen berm. A castle, of a sort, except the fortifications were the same bamboo as the huts in the village below. The handful of cannon that oversaw the corners of the compound hadn’t seen use since they had been placed there except perhaps the occasional salvo to mark an auspicious holiday. In truth, the Company relied on the strength and fear of its airships to keep attackers at bay. A colony may be attacked, and the raiders could flee before defense was mustered, but there wasn’t a place on the sea the pillagers could sail that an airship couldn’t reach in half the time. Once engaged, a ship on the ocean had no chance against bombardment from above.
All the same, it was foolish to leave the place unguarded. A reckless, short-sighted pirate captain or simple thief were always a concern in the colonies, and native uprisings had plagued the Company in the past, so they paid for cannon and the men to man them. It was about as boring of an assignment as Oliver could imagine, but the rumors of the free-spirited native women kept Imbon a popular posting even after a decade of colonization.
They entered the gates of the compound, and Oliver glanced around, pleased at what he saw. The last time he’d been on the ground in Imbon, work was just getting started on building the berm, and the architects were still scratching drawings for the governor’s mansion, the royal marine barracks, and the quarters for t
he Company’s factors.
The place had come together in the following decade, it seemed. They found themselves standing in a tidy courtyard, ringed with simple but pleasantly dressed buildings. There was none of the stone that he was used to in Enhover, but the bamboo and local woods had their charm. Verdant green, brightly flowering native plants and vines climbed the walls in some places, contrasting with the pale wood and giving the square a cheerful aspect.
On the second floor of the compound, each building was dotted with wide windows and double doors, most of them thrown wide in the afternoon heat to catch the steady sea breeze. The winds blew constantly across the settlement, and placing the governor’s mansion up high where it could get the full strength of the breeze was not merely a decision based on security.
“Duke Oliver Wellesley,” boomed a voice.
The duke glanced at a red-faced, silver-haired man who was striding across the hard-packed earth of the courtyard.
“Giles,” said Oliver, sticking out a hand. “The Company still trusts you as a factor in these seas? I thought you’d been relegated to counting pallets of inventory at the warehouse in Southundon.”
“Senior Factor,” replied the man with a wink. He gripped Oliver’s hand and pumped it firmly. “That little altercation with Finavia’s men has been long forgotten. Governor de Bussy decided it wasn’t worth pestering the Company to clap me in chains and turn me over, and the Company decided they liked my initiative. The Board of Directors issued a stern reprimand, of course, but an entrepreneurial man could read between the lines and see the real message.”
“The real message?” questioned Oliver.
“Do what it takes to get the sterling, but don’t get caught,” said Giles, throwing back his head and laughing. When he got a hold of himself, he offered Captain Haines a friendly nod then bent and took Sam’s hand in his, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “M’lady, you are the finest sight I’ve seen on this island since… since I got here.”
“I’ve heard that line, Senior Factor Giles, in another time and another place,” remarked Sam. She glanced at Oliver, and he winked.
“No surprise, m’lady. It’s the honest truth.” Standing back up but not releasing Sam’s hand, Giles begged, “M’lady, please tell me you’ll be staying in Imbon. A woman like you could be royalty here.”
Oliver snorted.
“I’m not staying,” replied Sam, pulling gently on her hand.
The factor smiled at her and didn’t let go.
“He’s a merchant, always trying to sell something regardless of whether or not anyone wants to buy it,” remarked Oliver. “It’s how the man was raised and all he knows.”
“He’s right,” replied the factor, a twinkle in his eyes. “It is how I was raised, but I’d never be so crass as to say all transactions need be financial. I’ve learned a secret to success in my time. Now, I’m always trying to please my partner.”
In the blink of an eye, Sam’s free hand dipped behind her back and reappeared with a hand-length dagger. She spun it confidently and claimed, “That’s funny. I was raised in the kitchens butchering animals, and I’m always trying to cut something off.”
Senior Factor Giles dropped her hand and stepped back quickly. “By the circle, Wellesley, you sure do pick them.”
Oliver offered a friendly grin. “She’s a priestess, Giles. The Church teaches them how to care for themselves. Now, will you escort us to see the governor?”
“Of course,” said Giles, keeping a sharp eye on Sam. “The old man doesn’t make it much farther than his porch these days, but I’m told the warm climate keeps him breathing. I don’t think the toad would survive a week back in Enhover’s cold fog.”
Taking them toward a three-story building at the back of the compound, Giles continued, “I’ve missed you, Wellesley. Remember that girl in the Southlands? The one we thought might be from the Darklands with the two big brothers? My, wasn’t she a handful…”
Sighing, Oliver fell in line behind the old factor, reminding himself he’d left Enhover and its society far behind. Out in the colonies, the rules were different.
Governor Towerson met them on his veranda, waddling out of his quarters and flopping into a chair before offering chilled pitchers of water, white wine, and a punch he said was made with a liquor distilled from sugarcane, local fruit juice, and spices. “It’s no proper tonic like you’d find back in Enhover, but in the climate, I find it suits.”
“How is it so cold?” wondered Sam, marveling at the feel of the cool crystal glass of punch in her hand. “Surely you cannot find ice anywhere on this island.”
“No, we can’t make ice on Imbon,” replied Towerson with a laugh. “I have it imported for my private stock. I keep it in a spirit-bound icebox. Cost me a spirit-forsaken fortune to get that chest inscribed, and it’s not cheap to bring in the ice, but on a day like today, it’s worth every shilling.”
“A spirit-bound icebox?” asked Sam. “I didn’t know…”
“Aye,” responded the governor. “Some sort of shaman up in Rhensar did it. From what I understand, they find a spirit affiliated to cold and tie them to the chest. Not my field, you understand, but it keeps the ice cold, and that’s all I need to know.”
“A druid is doing this to get paid?” inquired Sam. “That’s… surprising, and a bit concerning, to be honest.”
“Since when does the Church care about life spirits and magic?” wondered Oliver. “I thought it was just underworld spirits and sorcery that the Church was concerned with.”
“You’re right. The Church hasn’t outlawed communing with life spirits in Enhover because, well, it doesn’t happen anymore,” began Sam. She brushed her jet-black hair behind an ear, furrowing her brow in thought. “The difference between druidic magic and sorcery is the nature of the practitioner, not the spirits. To the spirits, there is no good and evil. There is opposition between life and death, but it is not aspected. The spirits follow their own nature. They do what they do. There’s no intent behind it, no motive. You cannot blame rain for ruining your day, and you cannot blame the sun for shining and burning your skin.”
“I can,” grumbled Governor Towerson.
Sam continued, ignoring the man, “The spirits exist, but the concepts of them, good and evil, those are things we’ve assigned them. To them, there is no difference whether they are in our world or the underworld. There is only balance and the cycle — the ever-turning wheel between life and death. In practice, though, there is one difference. Death spirits must be forced — compelled — and life spirits must be, ah, negotiated with. Convinced, I suppose, is the proper word. I’m surprised there’s a practitioner out there with enough skill to convince a life spirit to be bound to an icebox, and that something so mundane is what they choose to do with that skill. It doesn’t fit the nature of a druid, you understand?”
“No difference between life and death spirits, no natural aspect, just different places on the wheel?” questioned Oliver. “That’s not the way your bishop talks about the spirits during his Newday services.”
“He’s not my bishop,” said Sam with a sigh. “The Church has taken a… a simplified version of things. They believe it will be more palatable that way. The Church’s version meets the needs of most of her followers. It explains what’s real to them, but it doesn’t explain everything that is real in the world.”
“She’s got a point there,” suggested Captain Haines. “In Enhover, things are rather simple compared to out here. Out in the colonies, well, it gets complicated doesn’t it?”
“That it does,” responded Towerson, raising his glass.
Oliver frowned at Sam but raised his glass along with the rest of the group. The strange priestess, who wouldn’t admit she was one, was getting stranger by the day.
“So, Duke Wellesley,” asked Towerson, “can I thank business or pleasure for this visit?”
“Business,” remarked Oliver, “though not business with you. We have a matter to attend to in
Archtan Atoll, so I’m afraid this is just a short stop to resupply, but while we’re here and Captain Haines is restocking provisions on the Cloud Serpent, I wouldn’t mind seeing some more of the island. It’s been a decade since I last stopped over, and I’m curious to see what changes you’ve wrought.”
Towerson nodded. “Well, the bulk of the change is here around the Company compound and within the village below. If I recall, none of that would have been in place when you were last on Imbon. Down in the lowlands, there’s not much else that’s different. The beaches, the jungle, we’ve found little value for the Company there, so it remains largely pristine. There are even a few native villages still scattered around where they follow their old ways. They fish, harvest from the jungle, and the like. We don’t interfere with them as they don’t interfere with us. The midlands,” continued Towerson, pausing to rub a cloth over his sweat-damp head, “those have seen some change, though little of it may be interesting to you. We’ve cultivated many of the spice trees and bushes found on the island and organized them into orchards and gardens. It’s more efficient that way. Instead of having to thrash through the jungle undergrowth, our pickers can walk down a neat and orderly row. We’ve reduced the labor involved in harvesting Imbon’s spices by four-fifths. We’re now growing two-thirds of Enhover’s pepper supply in those orchards, you know? Mace, clove, cinnamon, nutmeg, we’ve got it all. Just a passing fascination, though. If you’ve seen one spice grove, you’ve seen them all.”
“I can taste the nutmeg,” remarked Oliver, lifting his punch glass. “I was thinking the highlands, though.”
The governor sipped his punch. “Too much of a hike for me, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to give it a go. I’m told it’s rather safe now, and the view is spectacular, as it always has been. Truth be told, it’s rare anyone finds the energy in this heat to make the hike to Imbon’s peak. If you want a view, look out over the gunwale on the way in, I say. Up high, the soil isn’t as rich, and there’s little wildlife, so even the natives tend to stay at the lower elevations.”