The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  Raffles nodded. “Perhaps it is safer to assume the Knives will only buy us some time, and then it will be on us to finish the task.”

  Yates finished his sherry and waved impatiently at the attendant for more. “I do dislike getting my hands dirty, but I suppose exceptions must be made. No one ever said it was an easy path, did they?”

  When the attendant deposited a fresh round of drinks, Yates requested a message be sent to his secretary, and Raffles informed the crimson-vested man that they’d be expecting two more guests in the next hour. Then, they settled back to wait.

  The Cartographer XX

  Steam billowed as he poured another cup of water on the hot stones suspended above the tiny, iron stove. Sweat poured down his face, dripping from his nose and chin. His shoulders and chest where slick with it, and the towel wrapped around his waist was going to be sodden if he sat in the moisture-filled sauna much longer, but he didn’t want to go out. He didn’t want to exit and face what they would have to face.

  The day before, crouched in hiding outside of the Oak & Ivy, Sam had tensed beside him. She’d uttered a string of the vilest curses he’d ever heard pass her lips or any others. Two people that she recognized as Knives of the Council had entered. It took no great leap in intuition to guess they’d been called there by Yates. They could only assume the two Knives had been directed to hunt down and kill them.

  They’d planned to lurk outside of the club and look for an opportunity to ambush Raffles and Yates, but after seeing the Knives go inside, they’d decided to retreat, to regroup and plan. They had discussed running to Philip, requesting the assistance of the Crown, but that would only alert Raffles and Yates to their location. There was little Philip could do about sorcery, and Oliver thought it possible his brother might not believe them. At the least, he’d want proof, and they didn’t have the sort that a magistrate would accept.

  Sam had surmised that if the sorcerers were going to scry for them, they already would have. It was possible the men didn’t have the necessary materials, and she speculated they might also be worried her training included defense against scrying, so they had time, but the difficulty was, the longer they waited, it gave their enemies more time as well.

  Their enemies, the two men who might be the only ones in the world who knew what had happened to his mother. He knew she wasn’t dead, but there were no clues to her location. He’d considered requesting Sam scry for her, but what if they were wrong and she was dead? What if she was captive to some sorcerer who could ensnare them? If she were captive, it would explain why she’d never contacted his father or brothers, and it made scrying for her incredibly risky. No matter how badly he wanted to know, he couldn’t gamble that. There had to be another way they could pry the information out of Raffles and Yates before… before they had to end things.

  Another drop of sweat dripped off his chin, falling silently on his chest. His hair, unbound, hung around his face, damp with the moisture boiling off the heated rocks. The leather thong, the one he wore to remember his mother by, was in his hands, his fingers working tirelessly, moving the thin leather in a circle. It was worn smooth from his countless fiddling, and he knew there’d be a day when the thong broke. He wouldn’t retie it when it happened. When the strip of leather snapped in two, it would be over, he told himself. Before then, he promised he would know what happened to her.

  Sighing, he stood, tugging the towel tight and trudging out of the steam room at the bath house adjacent to the Four Sheets Inn. He would plunge into one of the pools there, confident that no one at the darkly lit, irreputable bath house traveled in any of the same circles he did, then return to the Four Sheets, to the attic room occupied by Sam’s friend. Friend, Sam had said, though the other woman didn’t seem to see it that way.

  As he cleaned himself and dressed, Oliver’s thoughts bounced between how to find his mother and how to kill the men responsible for her disappearance. He would have killed the two men for that alone, but images of Northundon’s destruction, the tens of thousands of shades that had dogged their steps inside those ruins… Raffles and Yates had to die. If he could learn a clue to his mother’s disappearance, he would take it, but no matter what, those two men had to face justice for their crimes.

  Afterward… No, there was no afterward. Not yet.

  The Priestess XVIII

  She gripped the other woman’s hair, clutching the silken, black locks like they were a rope thrown over the side of an airship. Mouth open, she felt Kalbeth’s soft lips on hers, the other woman’s tongue questing, tangling.

  Kalbeth rolled her over, hovering above her. She grabbed Sam’s arm from behind her head, loosening the priestess’ grip on her hair, and pushed it down on the bed. She caught Sam’s other arm and held it down as well.

  Sam, stronger, only resisted lightly, letting Kalbeth put her moist lips first on her neck, her shoulders, and then farther down. Sam stared at the exposed rafters above her, orange light dancing on them from the lone candle in the room. She writhed while Kalbeth continued the journey south. Her mind was churning, unfocused, frantic, until Kalbeth got where she was going, and all other thoughts fled. Sam’s thighs closed around Kalbeth’s head, and she reached down and gripped her friend’s silky hair again.

  A fleeting awareness, the knowledge of what was coming, that death was coming, was furiously pushed away. Death was coming, yes, but now, she needed to live. She needed to live within the full current of life, to flow on the stream of light that Kalbeth offered, that others had offered before. She needed it. She needed life so that soon, when she was steeped in death, she could turn back from the dark path. She could come back to life as long as she maintained her grip upon it.

  Her mentor had taught her that, demanded that. She had to stay within the current of life. She squirmed, her back arching. She was in the current. She had to stay in the current, or else there was only the dark path.

  Half an hour later, she was lying naked in the bed. Kalbeth was in the other room rustling about, hopefully fetching some wine. Sam’s eyes were open, still staring at the flicking shadows and light that danced along the rafters above.

  “After that, I’m going to have to find the bathhouse you sent Duke to,” she said, calling out to the room.

  Kalbeth did not respond.

  Sam let her head fall to the side to see what her friend was doing. She was standing beside her small cupboard in her living room, making tea. Unfortunate.

  “Why do you do it?” asked Kalbeth, turning to face her. Her pale skin gleamed in the low light, the dark tattoos that swirled on her skin crawling with the dance of the candlelight.

  Sam sat up. “Do you have any wine?”

  “I do,” replied Kalbeth.

  When the girl turned back to the cupboard, Sam answered, “I do it because no one else can. Northundon, Kalbeth, if you’d seen it! They sacrificed the entire city for what? Power? If I were to sit by idly while that happened, I would be no better than they. I did not ask for it, but Thotham gave me the ability to act. It’s all I have from him or from anyone else. It is who I am. These are evil men, Kalbeth, and if I spend every breath for the rest of my life opposing them, then my life would be well spent.”

  “I did not mean that,” said the girl, turning with one cup trailing steam and one sloshing with wine. “I meant, why do you do it with me?”

  Sam blinked at her. “I-I prefer—”

  “Why me, Sam?” insisted Kalbeth, stopping at the edge of the bed and handing her the wine. “For two-thirds of my existence, we’ve been flitting in and out of each other’s lives. I help you with what you need, and then you are off. We are sometimes lovers, friends maybe, but why me?”

  Sam offered the woman a sly smile and a wink. “Because you’re beautiful, Kalbeth.”

  Kalbeth snorted. “I met you over twenty-five years ago, Sam. Before Thotham, before Northundon, before your duke. We were girls, awkward, gangly girls. Skin and bone, not a sliver of meat on either of us. You did not pursue me b
ecause I was beautiful, and I will not ask if you love me. I know that you do not, but do you even care for me? If I were not here the next time you drop in unannounced, would it be more than an inconvenience?”

  “Of course, I—”

  The door rattled as someone tried to open it. Then, there were three sharp raps.

  “That’s Duke,” said Sam. “Anyone else would knock first.”

  Without a word, Kalbeth turned and walked to the door. When she opened it, Duke stood in the doorway, a key in his hand and a frown on his face. He saw Kalbeth and his jaw dropped to his chest.

  “Come in,” offered Kalbeth. “How was the bathhouse?”

  “It was…” he mumbled, unable to take his eyes off of her. “The what?”

  Kalbeth walked back into the room, and Duke followed before cursing and turning back to close the door behind him. Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he came to the bedroom door and jumped again, seeing Sam naked on the bed.

  “Ah…” he said, reaching up and checking the knot at the back of his hair. “I’m back.”

  “I can see that,” responded Sam. She slipped out of bed and brushed by him in the doorway, looking for where she’d torn off her clothes two hours earlier. “Don’t get excited, Duke. It’s not for you.”

  She could feel his eyes on her and she took her time bending over to collect her trousers, which had somehow gotten thrown underneath Kalbeth’s tiny table. Knowing Duke was watching, she wiggled her bare bottom. Living in the full current of life as it were. She had to stay in that current if they were to succeed at what was next, though, she had to admit, teasing the poor man had nothing to do with that. She just enjoyed making his head spin.

  Sliding her legs into the tight leather trousers, Sam turned and saw Kalbeth, still naked, stand on her tiptoes and peck Duke on the check. The tattooed beauty let her lips linger, her nipples brushing against the peer’s shirt before she stepped away.

  Kalbeth told him, “Sam infuriates me, too, Duke. Maybe we’ll have to talk privately about that, sometime.”

  Sam waited for the hot flash of jealousy she knew should come. She watched Kalbeth’s eyes turn to her, knowing the other woman was looking for it as well.

  “You know my name is not Duke, right?” asked Duke.

  Kalbeth shrugged, her eyes still on Sam. “You two should talk. I will get dressed.”

  “Get us more wine when you’re decent?” Sam called to Kalbeth, peering at the cupboard. “You’re almost out.”

  “South, southeast,” said Kalbeth, fiddling with the furcula. “Southundon, you think?”

  Sam nodded. “That’s logical.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Duke. “If Raffles and Yates are the sorcerers, why is the device leading us south? Why is it not pointing directly to them?”

  “There are three,” guessed Kalbeth, “a trinity. It is the strongest geometric structure and useful in sorcery. It stands to reason that whoever enacted the betrayal of Northundon used triangles in the formation in their ritual. You said the shaman in the Coldlands claimed the conspirators were attempting to bind the dark trinity, yes? Mirroring is powerful, and if these men knew what they were doing, they would attempt to use that as well in their pattern. If you think you’ve identified two of the conspirators, you should follow the tug of the device and find the third point of the triangle. It could be the taint follows control of the entity, or as you’d speculated, it might be associated with an object that man was carrying. It’s not unusual for objects to acquire the aura of the underworld.”

  Sam took the furcula from her friend and felt the gentle tug. She moved it about, but it always led the same direction.

  “There’s a missing piece here,” warned Kalbeth. “You told me this all started with Ca-Mi-He, that the other sorcerers you’ve confronted had contact with that spirit. If so, how is it that their superiors are associated with the dark trinity? Those entities oppose each other. Their animosity predates us and Enhover. No sorcerer who knows their craft would involve themselves with both of those spirits. It’d be too dangerous. I think it best you follow the furcula and find out who else is in the cabal, find the missing piece, understand their relationship to these spirits. You must know your foes before you move against them.”

  Duke shook his head. “No. The Knives of the Council are in the city, and we can only assume they’re hunting us. Raffles and Yates are loose, and there’s no telling what they are plotting. We cannot go to Southundon and delay. We’ve done too much of that already. Harwick, Archtan Atoll, Derbycross… every time we do not finish the job, more people die.”

  Kalbeth shook her head. “If you charge in blindly, it may be you who dies this time.”

  “It’s just the three of us,” said Sam, rubbing her chin.

  “Two,” responded Kalbeth. “There are two of you.”

  Sam stared at the other woman in surprise. “What do you…”

  “Your fight is not my fight, though it could have been,” remarked the woman, her fingers tracing the inked lines on her forearm. “You’re opposed to what I am, and I see now that will not change. I will not stand in your way, not ever, but we are not in this together.” The black-haired woman’s hard stare spoke volumes. “I will not help you further except for this advice. If these sorcerers are in contact with the dark trinity, they will be far more powerful than you. Your only hope is surprising them.”

  “They know we’ll come for them,” reminded Duke. “Not much chance for a surprise.”

  Kalbeth nodded. “They will be waiting. You must do the unexpected. You must go where they think you are unwilling to go.”

  The Prince II

  “Where do you think he is?” he asked his wife.

  “I haven’t the faintest, Philip,” said Lucinda with a sigh. “Why don’t you come to bed?”

  “Soon,” he murmured. “As soon as I finish these letters and ring the boy to run them down to the glae worm operator. I want these dispatches out tonight.”

  “Writing your father again?” wondered the princess. “He won’t intercede between you and Oliver. He never has.”

  “You’re right. He’s always taken that scamp’s side,” complained Philip.

  “That isn’t true,” chided Lucinda.

  “It’s true enough,” argued Philip. “The old man has always given Oliver more leeway than the rest of us. Whether it’s drunken escapades in Finavia or blasting cannon into a Company airship for no apparent reason, Father has always shrugged it off. The folly of youth, the old man would claim. Oliver is no youth! He’s a grown man, thirty… thirty-four winters, I think. By his age, we were married, we had two children, and I was ruling Westundon. He’s busy gallivanting about, getting drunk, seducing nubile peers, and then dashing off over the next horizon. He’s no longer a boy, Lucinda, and it’s time Father had that discussion with him.”

  “Did King Edward ever have that discussion with you?” asked his wife.

  “He didn’t need to,” declared Philip.

  “Write all you want,” advised Lucinda, “but your father won’t step between you and your brother. If you want to chastise Oliver, you’ll need to do it yourself.”

  “I may,” muttered the prince, turning back to the slips of parchment he’d been scrawling on.

  “You said letters,” mentioned Lucinda. “Your father and who else?”

  “Admiral Brach and Uncle William,” answered Philip, not looking up from his writing.

  “Brach and William?” said Lucinda, sitting up. “Why are you writing your uncle and the admiral so late in the evening? Surely, it can wait until morning.”

  “You and I both know what my brother is up to,” said Philip. “He thinks he’s hunting sorcerers. Whatever reason he thought he had to open fire on the Cloud Wolf, whatever reason he came back to Westundon, it has to do with that.”

  “And…”

  “And my brother is a flighty fool,” said Philip, “more interested in seeing the bottom of a tankard or that
of a pretty woman than reading to the bottom of correspondence from the Congress of Lords, but…”

  “But he did find sorcerers that no one else believed were there,” said Lucinda, finishing her husband’s thoughts.

  “He did,” replied Philip, setting down his quill and turning to face his wife. “My brother thinks of his own ambition before the imperatives of the Crown, and that needs to change. If I could, I’d wrestle him down and force him into the administration to teach him some discipline. But as undisciplined and unprincipled as he is, he did Enhover a great service. I don’t know what would have happened had the sorcerers been allowed to operate with impunity, but I know we’re better off with them dead. My brother, my rakish, lothario of a brother, is the one who did it. Where were Brach’s royal marines? Where were my uncle’s inspectors? We employ these people for a reason, and they failed us. My father is not keen to press the matter, but I will. Admiral Brach and my uncle must answer for why their organizations failed.”

  “And you want assurances they are not failing again,” guessed Lucinda.

  “My father believes the threat is over. Bishop Yates claims that sorcery is again dead,” said Philip. “They’ve said that before, though, haven’t they? Brach and William both assured me that we had no worries during the Dalyrimple affair, but they were wrong. Now, I am guessing that my brother is racing in pursuit of what he thinks is another lead. What if, despite everything my intuition tells me, he is right, and they are all wrong again?”

  “What would you have them do?” wondered Lucinda. “Oliver is in hiding, just as likely on the floor of some ale sink as in wait for a clue. If he knows something, he is not sharing his suspicions. The admiral and your uncle have no information to go on. Perhaps they should, but until you know what your brother does, what will you tell them? Nothing that will result in any firm action on their part, I assure you, my husband. You are the prince. You can harangue them, and they’ll fall over themselves to appease you, but you cannot send them marching without telling them where to go. If there are sorcerers still active in Enhover, where is the evidence?”