The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  “Of sorts?” wondered Oliver.

  “The natives have no government of their own,” explained Giles, “hence no chief. Masuu represents their interests when there is a conflict between one of ours and one of theirs. He’s well-respected by his people.”

  “Where’d he get all those scars, then?” wondered Ainsley, studying the approaching man with interest.

  “I don’t imagine you get to be chieftain without dispatching a few rivals,” guessed Giles. “First time I’ve ever seen the man without his shirt, actually. He’s normally quite civilized.”

  “Too bad.” Ainsley sighed.

  “Captain, get a hold of yourself,” said Oliver, studying the man’s scars as he covered half the distance between his companions and the gate. They were painful-looking scars, twisted into symmetric patterns across the man’s broad chest. Not from combat, those. It was ceremonial scaring. It could be simple tradition that had been passed down and lost its meaning years or ago, or it could be something else.

  “You are Masuu?” asked Oliver when the man stopped.

  “I am,” rumbled the giant.

  “Is Governor Jain Towerson alive?”

  “Come down and find out,” barked Masuu.

  “Tonight, when you see the glow from our fires, know it is the figurines we found inside of the tomb,” shouted Oliver back down to the man. “Which spirits are bound to those objects? Those of your own ancestors? I viewed them when we arrived here, and despite being found in a flooded pool, the wood is quite dry. I suspect it will take less than a quarter turn of the clock to turn them all to ash.”

  Masuu’s mouth fell open and he stared at Oliver. Behind him, the party he’d arrived with shuffled agitatedly. Giles cursed under his breath.

  Oliver ran a hand back over his hair, checking the knot at the back. Perhaps he’d come on a little strong. His intent had been to negotiate calmly, to try to understand the reason the natives had rebelled, but it hadn’t come out like that. Well, he’d started now, nothing to do but continue.

  “What will happen when those bindings are broken? Will their spirits pass to the underworld?” called Oliver. “If you have no means of contacting them, I imagine that will be like losing them all over again.”

  Oliver waited, watching Masuu and the other men’s reactions. He regretted the missed chance at sensible conversation, but with blood spilled on the sand already, there would be no peaceful resolution. He only hoped for a chance to get Governor Towerson back alive, if that was still possible. If not, he wanted confirmation the man was dead. Whether or not the natives held a peer in captivity made all of the difference in the amount of iron and fire the Crown would unleash upon the place.

  “Those are not our ancestors,” cried a man who was scrambling up behind Masuu.

  Oliver glanced at Giles.

  The senior factor shrugged. “Never seen him.”

  The newcomer, white-haired and wizened, had the look of an elder or a shaman. That or the village drunk.

  “Those figurines contain the spirits of our enemies, foreigner!” declared the old man. “If you destroy them, you will release their shades upon this world. They will not return to the underworld where they belong. They cannot return. If you release them from the traps we fashioned, the angry spirits will stay here. They will ravage.”

  “Your enemies,” replied Oliver tartly. “I can guess where they will go first.”

  “You do not know of what you speak,” wailed the old man.

  “No?”

  Frustrated, the man clenched his fists. Beside him, Masuu looked like he was ready to charge the gates alone.

  “Yes, you are right,” admitted the old man. “If released, the shades will come and rend our souls from our bodies. Our people would be slaughtered. Do not be foolish and think the shades will stop there. These shades, reavers in your tongue, they will never stop. They will kill anyone they can reach. They will inhabit the corpses and then come again. You cannot kill what is already dead, foreigner! Your wigs and scarves, your airships and your stone palaces, your technology, it will do nothing to protect you. This is old magic, magic your people have lost.”

  Oliver frowned and called back, “We’ve not lost as much as you think.”

  “You know nothing!” cried the old man. “Our ancestors? Why would we hide the spirits of our ancestors in an underground cavern and then flood it? The spirits trapped within those statues are ancient enemies of us all! You must not destroy the statues. You must not break the bindings.”

  “He seems pretty serious,” whispered Ainsley under her breath.

  “You are a shaman?” called Oliver.

  The old man shook his head, his thick shock of white hair waving in the tropical breeze. Like Masuu, he was shirtless, dressed in traditional native garb, his skin marred with scars.

  “What is it you want from us?” asked Oliver. “Why did you attack the compound? Why did you take Governor Towerson?”

  “We attacked to prevent you from doing what you claim you will,” growled Masuu. He pointed to Senior Factor Giles. “Tell him, Factor. Tell him he can trust my word. It is a foolish mistake to release the uvaan.”

  “Perhaps I would have trusted you before you attacked, killed scores of my friends, and tied up and dragged off my superior,” growled Giles.

  “If you want your governor back, you will have to trust us,” declared Masuu. “We are willing to bargain. We will end the blood-letting, but you must be willing as well.”

  “What do you want in exchange for him?” asked Oliver.

  “We want the uvaan back, the figurines,” answered the big native. “Bring them and set them outside of the gate, every one of them, and we will release your governor.”

  “Let me see him first,” said Oliver. “Surely you understand we need to know Jain Towerson is alive before we return the… the uvaan to you. You cannot ask for our trust without giving us that small bit of assurance.”

  The big man crossed his arms, but the older man tapped his shoulder. They bent close and whispered to each other for a long moment.

  Finally, Masuu stood. “We ask for your trust, so I will show you trust. I will bring you your governor and release him to you, but in return, I demand the return of the uvaan. They are worthless to you, foreigner. Bring them to the wall, and we will send you your governor.”

  The smaller native scampered back to the delegation, and after quick words, another man split off and trotted down into the village.

  “Well, that was easier than I expected,” stated Giles. “Want me to send word to the Cloud Serpent to lower the figurines?”

  “No,” replied Oliver slowly, watching as the man below disappeared into the thatch-and-bamboo village.

  Much of the place had been damaged from the cannon fire that the defenders on the walls had unleashed, but at least half the buildings still stood. Any one of them could contain the governor. Any one of them could contain scores of attackers waiting in hiding as well. After the airship had arrived, the crew of the Cloud Serpent had reported frantic activity below. Now, it was all quiet. Where had the people gone?

  “No?” asked Giles. “What is all of this for if not to recover the governor? We can’t all flee on your airship, Oliver, but a few of us could. We can be to the United Territory colonies in the Vendatts in two days. Governor de Bussy would assist us, for a price to be sure. We could be to Archtan Atoll and back in a little over a week. We can go get help, Oliver.”

  “If they wanted the figurines back, why didn’t they ask for them earlier?” wondered Oliver. “If that was their purpose, what was the point of waiting until I arrived in this place? Why not ask right after the initial conflict died? Why not in the days that followed?”

  “Well… I don’t know,” admitted Giles.

  “They attacked, were repelled, and have been waiting since. What were they waiting for?” A tremor of worry crawling along his back, Oliver turned and glanced up. Hanging one hundred yards above them was his airship. He looked
back over the village. “They weren’t waiting for me. They couldn’t have known anyone more senior than Towerson or yourself was due to arrive. They could only be waiting on something they knew would eventually come to this place. Something that wasn’t already here.”

  “Th-They can’t get up to the airship, can they?” stammered Ainsley. “Even if they took the compound, the crew isn’t going to let a swarm of attackers climb the ropes. They’ll simply cut them free. There’s no way to board the Cloud Serpent unless you’re invited up.”

  “No, not… Wait,” said Oliver, smacking his first against the wooden palisade they stood on. “I recognize a symbol from the tablets. The last time I saw it, it was on the back of a dead man’s neck. I’d just sliced it in two.”

  “Say that again,” requested Giles, scratching the back of his own neck, looking confused.

  “They can take control of a man’s body,” said Oliver, “and manipulate them like a puppet. With a human marionette under their sway, they could sabotage the airship and drop it within reach. There are thousands of natives left, didn’t you say, Giles? If they made it within the compound, they could easily overwhelm us.”

  “But why the airship?” wondered Ainsley. “Things have been peaceful here for years. What has changed?”

  “The tablets and figurines,” said Oliver. “If that symbol is what I think it is, it’s evidence of sorcery. They had to know that eventually we would recognize it, and once we did, the Crown, Company, and Church would all be united in eradicating it. It’s why they risked storming the compound. They must have figured they were already dead. They were willing to risk everything to protect those artifacts, the uvaan they called them. These people have been living a hidden life, defying Church law, right under our noses! They’ve been practicing sorcery, and now that we’ve discovered the evidence, they’ll do anything to escape.”

  “Escape where?” wondered Ainsley.

  “Somewhere they can’t use one of those sea-going vessels to get to,” said Oliver, pointing at the harbor. “They’re going to go somewhere only an airship can reach.”

  “There is Governor Towerson,” murmured Captain Ainsley, pointing down the slope.

  Oliver spun, peering down the hill where the governor was supported between the arms of two burly natives.

  “He looks worse for wear,” complained Giles. “They’re not making much effort to care for the poor man.”

  “It does look like they are holding their end of the bargain, though,” remarked Ainsley. “They’re going to carry him up here and turn him over.”

  “Shoot him,” instructed Oliver, watching the governor’s stiff, stumbling progress up the slope.

  “What!”

  “The snipers,” continued Oliver. “Have them shoot Governor Towerson.”

  “You can’t be serious,” declared Giles. “When I suggested we attack, I didn’t think he was actually still alive. He’s there, Oliver! We can’t… we can’t shoot the man!”

  “They’ve taken over the body of the governor,” said Oliver, certain now he recognized the symbol on the tablets. The governor’s straight-legged, halting movement was identical to the footmen he’d battled in Westundon. “If they want to commandeer the airship, the easiest way would be to simply hand that man over, knowing we’ll hoist him up immediately to get him out of danger and into proper care.”

  “If you’re right!” cried Giles. “What if you’re wrong?”

  “Shoot the man and we’ll find out,” barked Oliver.

  “M’lord, I don’t think—”

  Next to them, a pistol cracked, and a cloud of burnt gunpowder billowed around the two men. Ainsley cursed and holstered her pistol, drawing her second without pause.

  “Now!” cried Masuu from below them. “Now!” The native man continued in a frantic stream of incomprehensible shouts.

  “How many passengers can we hold on the Cloud Serpent, Captain?” asked Oliver, his voice taut, his gaze locked down on the village where swarms of natives were pouring out of the bamboo-and-thatch structures.

  Squinting one eye and peering down the barrel of her second pistol, she said, “I—”

  “You won’t hit him from here, not with that weapon,” chided Oliver. “We need to evacuate what we can of the compound. How many can we flee with?”

  “With the crew, ah, another thirty souls somewhat comfortably. Fifty or sixty if we stuff them in the hold, m’lord,” said Ainsley. “We’re not provisioned for it, though. We have water to make the Vendatts with that many. We’ll come short of the atoll. M’lord, getting them on board…”

  “Giles,” said Oliver calmly, his hand finding the basket-hilt of his broadsword. “Begin with the women and… Are there any children? Before hoisting them up, strip every one of them down and examine them. Anyone with a strange tattoo or marking stays. I don’t care how long ago they say they got it. Have the crew haul them up by rope and don’t let that airship drop within fifty yards of any structure within the compound. Ainsley, you ascend first and prepare the Cloud Serpent for passengers. Giles, you get… get as many as you can.”

  Swallowing, the senior factor nodded, his eyes fixed down below where the natives continued to bring Governor Towerson closer. More and more of them streamed out of the village behind. Ainsley held her pistol, still cocked, her arm trembling.

  “Both of you go now!” snapped Oliver.

  Giles bolted off. Oliver guessed he was heading to Company House where his wife resided, and their children, if they had them.

  His native wife.

  Oliver opened his mouth to call out to the factor, but Ainsley interrupted, asking, “What will you do, m’lord?”

  “I’ll lead the defense. I’ll give you as much time as I can,” declared Oliver.

  “The defense, the defense against… Frozen hell,” breathed the captain.

  A sharp, terrible cracking drew his attention, and Oliver turned to see a scaled behemoth shoving its way through the broken, ruined village. Dark green with bright orange spikes down its back, the thing stretched the length of one of the sailing vessels in the harbor.

  “It looks like a monitor lizard,” said Oliver, “except—”

  “Except it’s spirits-forsaken big!” cried Ainsley.

  “Get to your airship, Captain,” instructed Oliver.

  Shouts of fright and surprise rose from the men on the walls. As Oliver scrambled to climb up the cannon platform at the corner of the compound, he heard a rising tide of cheers below. In the village, the natives had begun their charge. Dozens and then hundreds waved clubs and farming implements. They were racing toward the soil incline that led to the gates, and then they spread out to climb the berm that the compound sat upon.

  Oliver made it to the top of the platform and began shouting instructions to the men. “Turn it, turn it! We need the cannon on that— Damn. There are three of them. Shoot those spirit-forsaken lizards!”

  Behind the first of the giant monitor lizards, a second and third had emerged from the surrounding jungle.

  “Frozen hell,” cursed a cannoneer.

  Grunting, Oliver rushed to the heavy brass cannon where a pair of men were trying to turn it. He placed his shoulder against the hot metal and shoved with them, grimacing as the weapon slowly scrapped across the wooden boards.

  “Is there no swivel for this thing?” he muttered.

  Beside him, one of the two royal marines offered apologetically, “Don’t often have to turn it, m’lord. In this humidity, the gears rust…”

  Muttering foul curses as a team, they maneuvered the heavy brass cannon to face the three giant lizards.

  Oliver stepped back, wondering where the hell the creatures had been hidden. Buried artifacts, giant lizards, what else was happening in Imbon that he and the Company were not aware of?

  The cannoneers scrambled to adjust the aim of the giant weapon.

  A man struck a taper and glanced at Oliver. “I’d cover your ears, m’lord.”

  The man lit th
e fuse. Seconds later, the weapon thundered. Smoke and fire burst from its angry brass mouth, rolling over the platform, obscuring the field in front of them.

  The Priestess VII

  A guard eyed them suspiciously, his gaze sliding over the spear she clutched in front of her, down to the kris daggers on her hips, and then over to the cart where Ivar val Drongko and his donkey stood pretending to wait patiently.

  “We’re going to need to search the contents of that cart and, ah, examine some of your items…” The guard looked as if he’d say more, but he paused, like he was unsure how to address her.

  “Do you stop and search everyone who enters Romalla?” wondered Sam.

  “No,” responded the guard, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Then why us?”

  “You know why,” muttered the guard. He glanced over his shoulder to where a partner was in discussion with a man hauling his own radish cart. Or what looked like a radish cart. If the scrawny man had strength to pull the thing loaded with such a towering pile of radishes, Sam would be amazed.

  “Unrefined poppy bulbs,” said Ivar, nodding at the cart.

  Their guard frowned.

  “Go on then,” suggested the colorful perfumer. “See what he has hidden underneath.”

  The guard glared at him. “That man isn’t the only one attempting to sneak contraband into this city.”

  “I work for the Church,” said Sam. “I am a priestess.”

  “From Enhover?”

  “You can’t tell from the accent?” jested Sam, attempting a smile.

  “Here with Bishop Yates?” questioned the guard.

  “Bishop Yates, is he… Yes, I am here with him.”

  “What’s he look like, then?” asked the guard, his voice stern and his stance square.

  “Fat,” said Sam. “He’s got three chins and a belly I could fit inside. It’s been years since his white hair has reached the top of his head, and his nose is bright red from too much sherry. Is that a close enough description for you?”

  The guard shrugged. “I have no idea what the man looks like.”

  “You will if you keep holding us up,” said Sam. “I had an assignment that delayed me. The bishop asked me to catch up as quickly as possible. We’re scheduled to meet with the Council later this evening.”