by A. C. Cobble
The Knife swallowed and stepped forward, looking closer at his former partner. “Why would the bishop do it, then? He is the one who brought us here. This was no ritual, Samantha, despite what it looks like. The other materials, the patterns, are not present. This was a simple murder.”
“Perhaps,” vacillated Sam. “This killing is nearly identical to Hathia Dalyrimple’s. At the time, we assumed it was a ritual performed by members of the Mouth of Set. We never found what the ritual was meant to accomplish, though, but I did find out who the leader of the Mouth of Set is.”
“You’re implying it was the bishop,” said Raymond. He moved across the bed from her, Bridget’s body in between them. “Why would he do this?”
“I could tell you my suspicions,” Sam said, “but you won’t believe anything I say, will you? You’re a trained investigator. Search for yourself. See what you find.”
“And if it appears that you were responsible for this?” he asked.
“I’m not going to let you kill me, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she replied dryly. “I want to talk, not fight, but if it comes to that…”
Frowning, Raymond au Clair glanced around the room.
“I’ll be down at the pub across the street,” offered Sam. “That way you can do a proper investigation without worrying about what I’m doing.”
“I’ll see you in a little bit, then,” responded Raymond.
She sat at the back table, toying with the half-full mug of ale in front of her. Only her second, which was unusual, but the night was young, and she had work to do. It took longer than she expected, and she began to worry that Raymond had gone running to Bishop Yates to request assistance, but eventually, the foppish Knife appeared in the doorway of the pub.
His oiled ringlets were gone, and his damp hair was tied back behind his head. He no longer wore the intricately embroidered doublet she’d seen him in earlier. His dagger, the one with the jewel hilt, had been replaced with a simple steel weapon. As he approached her table, she smelled that the heady perfumes he’d worn earlier had been washed away.
“I wondered why you took so long,” she remarked.
“I thought it might be time to work.” He sat across from her and placed a rucksack in the middle of the table. “Have any more of that ale?”
“I saved you a bit,” she said, nodding to the pitcher and an empty mug. “What’s in the bag?”
“What do you think is in the bag?” he replied, reaching forward and pouring himself an ale.
She shrugged. He sipped from his mug and sat back, shifting nervously. She smiled, knowing that he was feeling anxious with his back exposed to the room behind him.
“I did not find any evidence that he committed the murder,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to those around them, as if any of the drunks at the nearby tables cared what he was saying. “I didn’t find any evidence that you did, either. You were in the room, though, and that’s difficult to explain if you were not involved.”
“I’ve been trailing the bishop,” said Sam. “I saw you two were here, and it was no great leap to infer why you were in Westundon. I came to find Bridget and meant to discuss it with her, to convince her I was not the target you should be seeking. When I found her, she was already dead. I sent the messenger so you could view her body and investigate it. If I wasn’t there, I knew you’d jump to the conclusion that I was involved anyway, so I waited for you, hoping we’d get a chance to talk.”
He frowned. “That’s true. I would have suspected you. I still do. Why did you try to approach her and not me?”
“She seemed reasonable. I believed I could convince her I was no sorceress,” answered Sam. “You seem like an ass.”
Raymond shook his head. “You’re not making this any easier on yourself.”
Sam shrugged. “Did Bridget tell you about us in Romalla?”
Grunting, the Knife sipped his ale.
“She told me about you when she and I were together,” said Sam. “She was a talker. Surely, you know why I approached her first?”
“What do you know about the Mouth of Set?” asked Raymond, changing the subject.
“Set…” murmured Sam. “An aspect of the dark trinity, is it not? Along with Seheht and, ah, a third one.”
“Seshim,” supplied Raymond. “The third aspect of the trinity is Seshim, which you know. You brought it up earlier.”
“Gabriel Yates leads the Mouth of Set,” declared Sam, a fierce grin on her lips. “Is that what you wanted me to say?”
“He sent you to investigate a murder they were involved in,” replied Raymond, “and then he requested Bridget and I to clean up the mess when you failed to snip all of the threads. If he was involved, why would he do that?”
“The same reason he’d invite you to Enhover,” said Sam. “What better way to cover his involvement? What better way to allay suspicion?”
“What better way to actually deal with sorcerers?” countered Raymond.
“Bishop Yates requested your presence in Enhover twice now,” said Sam. “Cardinal Langdon is uninterested, summering in the south of Finavia. Bishop Constance is denying what is plainly apparent, that sorcery is thriving in Enhover. Who do you think will get credit for stopping sorcery in Enhover? Who do you think King Edward Wellesley will thank for protecting the realm? We like to think the prelate is the most powerful man in the world, but let us be honest, it is King Edward. Attached to the king’s side, what heights could Bishop Yates achieve? A place at the head of the Council of Seven, a position as cardinal in Enhover? Even prelate?”
Raymond frowned at her. “King Edward has no interest in—”
“He does,” insisted Sam, leaning forward and pinning Raymond with her gaze. “Whatever you think about me, whatever suspicions cloud your mind, do not let them obscure what you know. When I say I know what House Wellesley is thinking, you know I speak the truth. Harwick, Archtan Atoll, Derbycross, you know who was with me at each of those locations. You say the king has no interest in sorcery, then please tell me why he sent his son to ferret it out?”
“But,” complained Raymond, “sorcery was dead in Enhover. Everyone knows…”
“The king knew that it was not,” insisted Sam. “He’s been one step ahead of the Church, the Council of Seven, and her Knives this entire time. Ever since Northundon, he’s held a dismissive attitude toward the Church, toward everyone in it, except for one man, who might be able to get close enough to whisper in the king’s ear.”
Raymond picked up his ale and drank deeply.
“You know the facts, Raymond,” declared Sam. “Discount the seriousness of it if you like, but you know there was sorcery in Harwick, Archtan Atoll, and Derbycross. Each time, I was there. Each time, the Crown’s representative was there. Each time, the Church has turned a blind eye. Tell me, Raymond, who would gain from such an attitude?”
“What’s your assertion, Sam, that he’s climbing the ranks of the Church or that he’s a sorcerer?” demanded Raymond.
“Both,” she said then pressed her lips together in a tight smile.
She picked up her own ale and sat back to let the man think. She’d only been able to draw tenuous connections, threads of truth woven through threads of pure speculation. The more she’d spoken of it, though, the more certain she’d grown. Yates was one of the sorcerers she and Duke sought. He’d been involved since Harwick, long before, though he and his cohort had managed to keep it secret for years. It wasn’t until Harwick that they’d stumbled and left clues in the open.
Raymond busied himself drinking, thinking. When she’d started speaking, she wasn’t sure he would believe her, but now, she thought he might. Some of it was the truth, after all.
He looked up at her. “You mean for us to hunt down Yates tonight and kill him?”
“That’s what we do,” said Sam. “He’s a sorcerer. I hoped Bridget might… Well, I hoped she would see reason and come with me to confront the man. Risky, showing our faces, but between the two of us,
I thought we would shock him into tipping his hand, confirming it for her. With two of us there, I thought we’d be sufficient.”
“Evidently not,” remarked Raymond, cringing. She guessed he thought of his dead partner. “Do you read ancient Darklands script?”
“Some,” acknowledged Sam. “My mentor taught me what he could, but we rarely had the opportunity to study authentic texts. All legitimate documents in that tongue are immediately shipped to the Church’s archives in Romalla. When I have seen something in ancient Darklands, it’s been difficult to decipher. The old language and the new are similar but not the same.”
“Few people know the old Darklands script these days,” agreed Raymond. “Even in the Church, it’s become rare. I suppose because the official line is that sorcery is dead. Why bother to read it if that’s the case?”
“Why indeed,” murmured Sam.
“I’ve been wondering, since you left Bridget’s room, why so many of our leaders are so certain sorcery is dead,” continued the Knife. “You are right, of course, that it was practiced in Harwick and Derbycross. There’s no question it was, so why would the Church claim it was not, that it was impossible despite all evidence to the contrary? Before we even came to Enhover, I wondered who stood to gain from this knowledge being suppressed.”
Sam tilted her head and waited.
“Bishop Yates was a scholar before he was an administrator,” continued Raymond. “He spent his early years in the Church deep in the vaults below Romalla. He studied ancient texts, ancient languages. I know this because periodically those scholars come to our attention. They are the ones studying the guide posts to the dark path, after all, and some take the first steps. The Council has always been quick to act against those of our own who betray the Church’s principles. Yates was one of the most promising young scholars, though at the time I do not recall any suspicions about him. He taught some of my classes, actually, when I was a young priest, just starting my own journey. I wish I recalled more of those lessons, now.”
“If it makes you feel better, I never suspected him either,” said Sam honestly.
She’d known Yates was a scholar, but that hadn’t been enough to raise her suspicions. There’d been nothing else to tie it to, no other clue to connect. She’d never considered the possibility until the bishop had walked in to meet Raffles. What other clues had been lying in the open that she’d missed?
Shaking her head, she lied to Raymond, “A scholar, I did not know that. He’s been an administrator for as long as I’ve known him. Do you think that’s why he was recruited onto the dark path, or do you think he is the one who did the recruiting?”
“I’m not certain he is either, but…” Raymond flipped open the pack on the table, displaying a gleaming silver emblem, a quill bisecting the Church’s circle. “I found it underneath of Bridget’s pillow, right next to the knife she always keeps there. This is a symbol for a small cohort of scholars within the Church known as the Sect of Sages. They’re given these emblems when granted a certain rank. It allows them access to the restricted archives, and it necessarily draws our attention. There are only two score men and women within the group, and I know all of them. Bishop Yates is one.”
“Is he?” asked Sam.
Raymond asked, “Did you steal this from him?”
“If I could get close enough to steal that from the bishop, I’d kill him instead,” said Sam with a snort. “Why do you think Bridget would have one of these symbols?”
“You knew it was there,” he accused her.
“How would I know that?” she asked. “Under her pillow? How would I know Bridget keeps things there? How do you— Ah, of course. You slept with her as well.”
“Years ago,” admitted Raymond. He leaned forward. “Have you seen this emblem before?”
“Have you?” countered Sam. “I spent a night with Bridget. We were both swimming in the current. It was nothing more. She did not spill all of her secrets to me, and I did not share mine. I do not know why she would have this, unless she was conducting an investigation outside of your knowledge. Maybe, suspecting Yates, she was afraid to voice her concerns to you. Perhaps she collected this symbol on the airship from Romalla. Perhaps Yates learned of it, and that’s why she’s dead.”
“Someone put this pendant underneath her pillow for me to find,” stated Raymond.
“I didn’t know what that was until you told me. Could Bridget herself have put it there?” questioned Sam. “Who else would know she kept something underneath of her pillow?”
Raymond stared back at her, his jaw clenched, his hands grasping the edge of the table. Finally, he said, “You led me into this.”
“I thought I could warn Bridget, but I was too late. Once I saw she’d been killed, I knew you had to see it on your own,” responded Sam. “If I’d told you everything I suspected, you’d be suspicious. You never would have believed me. If you came to understand yourself, though…”
Raymond nodded and drank deeply of his ale. “Bishop Yates and the new factions in the Church that align around him are the ones who proclaim most loudly that sorcery is dead. I thought he did it as a political ploy, as you hinted. It’s no secret he’s using Langdon’s prolonged absence to grow close to the Wellesleys. In a few years, he probably would have been named cardinal, but perhaps there is more.”
“The dark trinity,” said Sam. “Set, Seheht, and Seshim. Three spirits, three sorcerers.”
“What else do you know?” growled Raymond.
“There’s a man, a director of the Company, Randolph Raffles,” she said. “He’s a sorcerer. I was following him and saw him meet with Yates. That’s how I learned the bishop was involved.”
“You want me to move against him?” questioned Raymond.
“No.” Sam smirked. “The Crown is already taking care of that for us. I told you. They’ve been a step ahead of the Church.”
“Duke Wellesley?” asked Raymond.
“I don’t know if I can face Yates alone,” said Sam, not bothering to confirm Raymond’s guess. “You’re right. I led you into this. I had to, once I saw Bridget was dead. Come with me, Raymond, and let us take care of our own.”
The Knife glared at her, his fingers beginning a slow drum on the table. “Do you have proof?”
“Not yet, but I have a plan to get it,” she answered. “I do not expect you to strike until you are sure. Is that a fair deal? Come with me and only act when you are certain?”
“It is what we do,” replied Raymond. He placed a hand on the pack and pulled it into his lap. “I do not trust you, Sam, but I will go with you. I’ll see if there is proof of this man’s allegiance. I warn you, if you make a move toward him before I am convinced, I will kill you.”
“You don’t trust me. I understand that,” said Sam. “I promise you. Before the night is over, you will.”
The Knife I
He edged along the outside barrier of the estate, placing each hand and foot slowly so he did not lose his grip on the narrow wall. His fingers clung to the top, his body hung down. His boots, the toes dipped in tar, provided traction on the smooth stone. The wall had been designed for privacy and beauty, not security. It was thinner than those he was used to sneaking along. Still, it served the purpose, and he’d scouted the entire back side of the building before he swung over the top and let go to drop inside.
His soft boots landed with barely a thump on the stone courtyard. No plants, he noticed. Just statues, benches, a tinkling fountain, and… He paused. It appeared to be a sun-clock, but between the notches for the hours and the minutes, an intricate web of thin gold strips was inlaid in the stone. If the center of the clock was removed, the design would be suspiciously similar to ones he’d seen in sorcerous texts. It would not be unlike what that inspector had drawn depicting the scene in Harwick.
Had the infuriating girl been telling the truth? Earlier, he wouldn’t have placed the odds at more than one in five, but the golden pattern inset in the stone courtyard was anothe
r weight on her side of the scale. He shook himself and moved forward.
Either Samantha was lying, and he’d be beside the bishop to protect the old man when she attacked, or she wasn’t lying, and the bishop truly was a sorcerer. Either way, he was going to be in the right place.
He grimaced and shifted, the contents of his pack rolling against his back as he tightened the straps. It made him uncomfortable, carrying it, but if she was telling the truth, her plan made sense. It was spirits-forsaken crazy, but he thought it would work. In another turn of the clock, he’d find out. Whichever way it went, he would avenge Bridget. One or the other was responsible for his dead partner, and they were going to pay.
Glancing over his shoulder, he wondered if Samantha was holding her end of the bargain and following in his footsteps as he snuck inside. If she’d lied, he would want to take her quickly. If she hadn’t lied, and Yates really was a sorcerer, he might need her help.
Shaking his head and forcing himself back to the matter at hand, he left the curious sun-clock and scampered across the open stone of the expanse behind the bishop’s mansion. It was no secret that Church leadership lived in opulent quarters, but the leaders in Ivalla at least had the decency to make those quarters part of the Church complex. Their comings and goings were known, and while they lived in luxury, they still lived within the bounds of the Church’s domain.
This, though, was something else. Perhaps Sam hadn’t been lying.
He found the back wall of the building and peered into a window. So far, he’d seen no guards except the two lumps at the front gate. As if anyone with seriously bad intentions would bother knocking on the gate. The fact that there was no obvious sentry in the back meant they were rather better at their jobs than he would have expected, or the bishop had fashioned another manner of security.
Frozen hell. What if she wasn’t lying?
From the moment he’d opened the door and saw her sitting with Bridget’s body to the shoddy acting and feigned surprise she’d shown at the emblem for the Sect of Sages, he had been so sure she was lying. He was so certain that he’d agreed to her ridiculous plan as a way of bringing her in. Yates had asked for her alive, if possible. Raymond au Clair, Knife of the Council, was walking the murdering, sorcerous bitch right in the back door.