by A. C. Cobble
“There’s only one churchman in Westundon who rates a mechanical carriage,” said Sam, her gaze fixed on the brilliant golden circle emblem embossed on the door of the lacquered black vehicle.
Cautiously, they peeked back down the street and saw the carriage stop in front of a gray, granite building. Above a set of stairs and a pair of impressive mahogany doors hung a bronze oak tree wreathed in ivy.
“Is Bishop Yates a member of the Oak & Ivy?” wondered Oliver. “It seems a rather extravagant expense for a churchman, and I’ve never seen him inside of the place.”
“He likes his sherry, but I can’t imagine the common parishioners or other priests would appreciate him being a regular member,” said Sam. “Perhaps he’s a guest?”
“You don’t think…” mumbled Oliver, reaching up to touch his hair, then jerking his hand away when he felt the wig instead.
“I don’t… Wait, you think he’s meeting Raffles?”
Oliver shrugged. “I’ve seen them together before. They were both in Philip’s study when I was assigned to investigate the Dalyrimple murder in Harwick. They both had legitimate reasons to be there, but…”
“But the coincidences are piling up,” finished Sam.
“They are, aren’t they,” muttered Oliver, looking back to catch a glimpse of a rotund man in priest’s robes waddling up the stairs to the club and disappearing inside. “They’re arriving at the same club within minutes of each other shortly after we reappeared in Westundon. We don’t have much on Raffles other than suspicion, and until this moment, we didn’t even have that of the bishop. They both fit the profile, though, powerful men who are old enough to have been involved twenty years ago. Neither one came from the peerage, but they’ve somehow risen to impressive heights. They know each other and have been known to act together.”
“It’s enough,” declared Sam, clenching her fist. “What other reason would Raffles have to meet with Yates right now unless they’re both involved?”
Oliver shook his head. “It’s not enough. There are a thousand innocent explanations why these men might be together and only one sinister one. We have to learn more.”
Sam remained silent. He could tell she didn’t agree. Suspicion alone was enough for her, but it wasn’t for him. They had to know before they did anything rash.
“I don’t imagine we’ll have much luck sneaking into the Oak & Ivy and getting close enough to eavesdrop on the two of them, assuming they’re even sitting together,” said Oliver. “When they leave, they’re almost certain to take different directions. Raffles may go to Company House or his townhome. I imagine the bishop will go to the Church. At any of those destinations, we’re going to have a hell of a time sneaking in and spying on them. You have any thoughts?”
“What if we don’t sneak?” asked Sam.
“Sam,” chided Oliver. “I mean it when I say we need more information. We won’t move against either of these men until we’re sure they’re guilty of something. That’s an order.”
She rolled her eyes but clarified, “I mean, what if you walk in and surprise them? Look them in the eyes, accuse them, and see how they react. Sorcery requires preparation and secrecy, so there’s little they can do to you if ambush them in a public space. We’ll have to scramble to get away without them following you, and it’s quite possible they could scry for us, but they could do that anyway if they had the right materials and were willing to risk it. If they are the culprits, you’ll see evidence of it in their faces. No one is that good of an actor.”
Oliver frowned.
“I’ll go with you,” offered Sam. “If there’s nothing you see, perhaps I can sense something.”
Oliver glanced back at the Oak & Ivy, noticing that the Company and Church carriages were still there, idling. “Why does it seem we always jump into these things solely because of lack of a better plan?”
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” said Sam, snatching the ridiculous powdered wig off his head. “For this to work, they have to know it’s you.”
Wig gone, rogue wiped off, most of the powder brushed away, he still felt out of sorts in the ill-fitting driver’s suit, but it was better than what it had been. He had his sword at his hip and Sam at his side, and that gave him some measure of confidence. Oliver strode up the stairs to the towering mahogany double doors of the Oak & Ivy. They didn’t open. He frowned, knowing there was an attendant on the other side.
“They don’t know who you are,” whispered Sam. “It’s the clothes.”
Oliver slammed a fist against the door, smashing the heavy wood, hoping to hear it rattle in the frame, but his battering landed quietly on the thick, wooden surface. It was enough, though, to draw the attention of the attendant.
A neatly groomed man in the crimson vest of the Oak & Ivy staff swung open the portal and whined, “This is a private club. No public entry is allowed.”
“I’m here as a guest of Randolph Raffles,” asserted Oliver.
“Our membership is private as well,” snapped the officious attendant, “but I can assure you, no one of that name left instructions for another guest to be allowed in.”
“Yates has arrived already, then?” asked Oliver, watching the attendant’s eyes widen in surprise. “That is wonderful. Pease run and tell them that Duke Oliver Wellesley is here and ready for their audience. I hope you don’t mind bringing them out so we can speak here on the stairs? I’m loath to violate the sanctity of your private club.”
“I, ah, I… M’lord, I didn’t… Your jacket…”
Oliver smiled and brushed the black driver’s guild coat, cringing as a small puff of wig powder billowed up. “I’m afraid it is only sometimes that my fashion choices result in the season’s hottest trend. Do you think this outfit is better left in my closet?”
“No, m’lord, I would never presume to—”
“Go fetch Raffles and Yates, will you?” requested Oliver. “And, if it’s not too much of a bother, may I wait in the foyer?”
“No, of course, m’lord. Come inside,” babbled the attendant. “I did not recognize you. Come in. Come in.”
Oliver strode into the grand entryway, trying to walk like he owned it, and then spun to the attendant.
“Wait, ah…” stammered the thin-faced man, glancing around nervously for support.
“You’re intent on seeing me wait, eh?” asked Oliver. “Another protester of the king’s taxes? Is my family too much of a burden on the gentlemen of this club?”
The man flushed, his face matching the red of his vest. He began insisting that they follow him, and in his rush to avoid offense with the duke, he didn’t ask about Sam or mention that the two of them were heavily armed. Oliver suspected that was also a rather large violation of club policy.
The sweating attendant led them unerringly to the club’s smoking room. It was filled with luxuriously stuffed red leather chairs that matched the shade of the attendant’s vests. Comfortable booths were spaced along the walls for quiet conversation, and a vast array of clear crystal bottles of liquor were displayed behind a polished brass bar. The room was only a quarter full, and Oliver saw Raffles and Yates before the two men saw him. They were situated at the far side of the room, facing the entrance. Leaning close together, locked in a heated discussion, they were oblivious to the rest of the room.
Oliver smiled to himself, thinking their suspicions might be right, until he remembered what that meant. If Sam’s and his instincts were right, these two men were exceptionally powerful sorcerers who’d sacrificed every man, woman, and child in Northundon. When considered in those terms, there was no joy at unmasking them, but it did steel his resolve. He was striding quickly toward the men when suddenly Raffles saw him from the corner of his eye and jerked back, his hand clutching Bishop Yates’ wrist. The bishop’s jaw fell open, all three of his chins wobbling as they landed on his chest.
“O-Oliver…” spluttered Raffles.
“I heard you were looking for me?” inquired Oliver.
�
��I-I was,” acknowledged the director. “Surely, ah, we have to discuss what happened when… when you left. I admit I don’t know all of the facts, but, Oliver, it appeared on the ground that the Cloud Serpent fired upon the Cloud Wolf as you departed. Is that… is that the case?”
Oliver frowned, his hand inadvertently rubbing over his hair, touching the knot at the back.
“I just spoke to Philip, and he requested we work this out amongst ourselves,” continued Raffles. “You are aware as I am of the commercial impact of something like this. Tell me, Oliver, why did you do it?”
“You know why,” snapped Oliver.
“I’m afraid, my boy, that I do not,” declared Raffles, the trembling in his arms slowing, the tone of his voice dropping into his normal octave.
He was recovering from the initial shock of seeing Oliver and falling into his regular, patronizing pattern of communication. Seeing it now, Oliver realized that for years, the old man had been manipulating him, acting as a friendly uncle while he was anything but. The act was so practiced and polished that even suspecting him of one of the most heinous acts in history, Oliver felt a worm of doubt crawl across his mind.
“Shades, Raffles,” hissed Oliver, his voice lowered to below the thrum of conversation in the room. “Shades called by you. We were peppering them with blessed scattershot. Can you tell me if we got them all?”
“Shades?” wondered Raffles, glancing at Yates. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Perhaps the bishop can comment? Gabriel, isn’t sorcery dead in Enhover?”
“We’d assumed so,” said Yates, his demeanor calm now as well. “Of course, there was the Dalyrimple affair. Terrible business, that. You say you saw shadows on the airship, Oliver? I’m afraid there were no other reports. Can you describe these shadows? I assure you the Church will look into it, but unfortunately, a bit of darkness seen at a distance on a foggy night is not much to go on.”
“Will you look into the wolfmalkin you sent against us in the apothecary as well?” demanded Sam, taking Oliver’s side and glaring at the two seated men.
“Wolf… what?” asked Yates. “I’m not familiar with those, my girl. When did you come back from Ivalla? I was told you would be stationed there under Bishop Constance. She’s more of an expert on these matters than I. Perhaps you should go see her about your inquires?”
Oliver’s fists clenched. The two men were practiced liars, whether or not they were sorcerers. Without the element of surprise, they weren’t going to give anything away. He had to shock them.
“Do you know how we found you here? We followed the taint of the dark trinity right to you.”
Both men jumped at that.
“You’re wondering where I was,” he continued, leaning close. “I was in Northundon, visiting my mother’s garden. I know about the sacrifice that took place there. We went to the Coldlands, too, and we spoke to one of their surviving elders. We know you sacrificed Northundon in a failed attempt to bind the dark trinity. We even know why you failed, the missing piece. We know it all, gentlemen.”
He stared down at the seated men, satisfied at the stunned faces looking back at him.
“What, you thought killing a few people in the Feet of Seheht and Mouth of Set would cover your tracks?” questioned Sam. “You were too late, and you didn’t get them all. We’d already infiltrated your meetings. The survivors have been talking to us, telling us everything. They even gave us a copy of the Book of Law. I’ve been reading your grimoire. I know what you know.” She traced a quick symbol in the air in front of the men.
Oliver felt an uncomfortable thrumming in his arms.
Director Raffles’ eyes bulged.
Oliver decided he’d seen what he needed to. The director and the bishop weren’t just stunned. They recognized the terminology he and Sam were using. They recognized the symbol she’d made. These men knew sorcery. They were the ones behind everything. He knew it, and he could see in their expressions that they realized the masks were off. The four of them all had their cards on the table, and now, it was time to play the game.
“We’ll be seeing you around,” said Oliver. He turned, trying to ignore the creeping, cold sensation crawling along his spine.
“Yes, boy, we will be,” called Raffles, speaking to Oliver’s back. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Oliver strode to the exit, Sam beside him.
When they made it through the doorway, she let out an explosive breath. “I was nervous they were going to do something, even in such a public place.”
“They didn’t,” said Oliver, stomping down the stairwell, not pausing to speak to any of the attendants, not taking a chance that the two men would come racing after them. “They will, though, the moment they can find privacy. There is no more hiding, for us or for them. Let’s get in position and see what they do next. Maybe in their panic, we’ll have our opportunity.”
“They’ll protect themselves now,” warned Sam. “They might flee. Let’s not give them the chance.”
Oliver shook his head. “These are men who slaughtered tens of thousands in the pursuit of power. Their souls are steeped in murder. They’ll be strong, Sam, capable of far more than Isisandra was able to throw at us. They won’t hide, and they won’t avoid the fight. They want it just as much as you do. Did you see Raffles right when we turned? He’s done hiding. They’ll open a way for us to come at them. We just have to figure out how to do it without walking into a trap.”
Sam grunted, and he nodded. These men were everything he’d said and maybe more. The sorcerers would be stronger than he and Sam. The two of them had to be smarter.
The Director V
“Well, that was rather stupid of them,” breathed Director Raffles. “We are sitting here trying to figure out how to hunt them down, and they walk right in the door.”
“And right back out of it,” muttered Yates. “They know about us, Randolph. They know everything!”
The director rubbed his chin. “I am not so sure.”
Yates raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear something I did not?”
“They claimed they knew we were here because of…” Raffles leaned in close, “because of the taint from the dark trinity. You and I both know there is no taint on us. We’ve taken every precaution. But this morning, I shipped the dagger to William.”
“They followed the dagger,” said Yates, blinking rapidly.
“I don’t know how, but they must have figured out a way to do it,” said Raffles, striking a match and relighting his pipe.
“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” worried the bishop.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” replied the director. “For one, I can only assume the pair of them will be lurking outside waiting for us. And two, if they had additional resources, they would have already brought them. There is no squadron of royal marines coming to arrest us, Bishop. The Knives of the Council are working for us, not them. They cannot get help from the Church.”
“They didn’t have a squadron of royal marines, yet,” argued Yates. “Oliver could be running to his brother at this moment to get assistance.”
“He won’t do that,” said Raffles. “Think about it, man. If he had any proof we are what he accuses us of being, he would have come with an army of marines at his back in the first place. He has no proof. They were just testing their suspicions. What would he do, haul us in front of a magistrate? With what evidence? Do you think his family would take his side after he fired upon the Cloud Wolf, aiming at shadows no one else saw? If he goes to his brother or father and tells them we are sorcerers, it will only make him seem crazy. Think of the scandal.”
The director sat back and drew on his pipe, his mind working furiously.
“Testing their suspicions…” muttered Yates. “I’m afraid we may have failed, my friend.”
“I believe you are right about that,” acknowledged Raffles. “I was stunned, and that may have been enough for them to confirm their wild guesses. Us stammering a response to such an accusat
ion, though, is not enough for Philip. The prince would want to see hard proof, something indisputable that ties us to the dark path. I’m confident there is nothing in my residence that would incriminate me. And despite what the girl said, I’ve personally accounted for everyone within the Feet of Seheht who might suspect who Redmask really is. I killed the last pair of them yesterday.”
“I cleansed my haunts as well,” said Yates, picking up his sherry and taking a long, steadying sip. “If there are any clues remaining, I overlooked them. I cannot imagine anyone else would be able to piece together what they might be.” Yates laughed, his mood visibly lightening. “I just returned from meeting with the Council of Seven in Romalla. I brought two Knives with me to Enhover on an airship that I chartered. If I were innocent, I couldn’t be doing more to hunt down sorcery.”
Grinning, Raffles nodded. “There’s nothing that leads to us, nothing that should spoil our plans, except… the tainted dagger, and that is out of our hands now.”
Bishop Yates frowned. “We must get word to William.”
“We must,” agreed Raffles. “More immediate, though, we have to decide what to do about Oliver and the priestess. They may not be able to prove to Philip that we are what we are, but coming here, accusing us, they couldn’t be clearer about their intentions. The girl is a Knife. She’s trained to assassinate men like us.”
“She is,” said Yates. “Just like the two Knives I brought with me. She and Oliver admitted to traveling to Northundon and the Coldlands. They told us they spoke to a shaman there in the frozen forest. I daresay the first thing I should do is inform Raymond au Clair and Bridget Cancio of this terrible turn of events. I’m certain they’ll be eager to hear.”
“Let the Church do her job,” said Raffles, puffing on his pipe, trying to keep a smile off his face.
“The Knives are capable sorts, but let us not underestimate Oliver and the girl again,” warned Yates. “They figured us out, somehow, and they survived the encounter below Derbycross. They avoided our trap on the Cloud Wolf, and if what they said is true, they somehow survived the legion of shades that still haunts Northundon. Between them and the Knives, it could go either way.”