by A. C. Cobble
“A merchant, then,” said Oliver. “What is your business, Mister Cabineau?”
“Salted hams, m’lord,” said the man, his smile faltering just slightly. “I’m the President of The Exalted Tounnes Company. We make our trade ferrying items between western Finavia and Southundon. A shadow of your mercantile enterprises, I am certain, but it’s provided a healthy enough income for my purposes.”
“Of course,” said Oliver, nodding, recalling nothing he’d ever heard about The Exalted Tounnes Company.
Salted hams. Not worth the Company’s time. There were dozens of smaller enterprises in existence now, modeling themselves after the Company, trying to establish regular trade routes that didn’t have volume to attract the interests of serious players. They weren’t doing anything different than what merchants had always done, but such organization allowed those of smaller means to pool resources and find a seat at the table. Men like Cabineau, it seemed. And evidently, the man had done well enough with his hams to gain an invitation to the party and well enough that his name had found its way onto Bartholomew Surrey’s list. Was the man listed there because he was an acquaintance or because he was involved in Surrey’s nefarious activities?
Oliver offered his hand and his congratulations, feeling the strain of his forced smile. “Well done, Cabineau, and I hope someday I can try one of these hams of yours.”
“Certainly, m’lord!” exclaimed the man. “Perhaps I can—”
“Save us, spirits, from this talk of swine and sterling!” cried a young woman, pushing herself in between Oliver and Cabineau.
“My sister, Baroness Victoria Thornbush,” introduced Avery. “She’s been eager to meet you from the moment we received your reply to the invitation.”
Victoria Thornbush, rouge and paint covering her cheeks and lips, her dress covering very little of her shoulders and cleavage, leaned forward and held up her hand.
Oliver took it, dipping to kiss the smooth material of her silk glove, trying to keep his gaze somewhere safe, which didn’t end up happening. When he rose, the baroness twitched, letting the skirts of her dress whisper around her ankles.
“Do you like it, m’lord?” she asked, pulling on the dress. “I had the seamstress make it special for this evening.”
Billowing and frilly was how he’d describe the bit below her waist. Clinging precariously was how he evaluated the top half. The dress was a startling white.
“A bold shade for this time of year,” he murmured, trying to find something polite to say.
“It is, isn’t it?” replied the woman with a smile. “It’s been such a dark time in the capital that I thought it worth bringing a little light into our lives. I was close friends with Lannia, you know? I cannot tell you how horrified I was to learn of what happened to her. Please know, m’lord, the Thornbushes share your loss.”
Oliver swallowed.
“Dispense with the formality, sister!” exclaimed Avery. “Oliver has come to us this evening to have his heart raised. Let us not add a pall of gloom to the occasion.”
“Yes,” said Oliver to the baroness. “Please, call me Oliver.”
“Oliver,” breathed Victoria Thornbush, offering him her hooked arm. “I cannot recall ever being so intimate with royalty. It’s making me quite breathless. Please, let me show you around our humble home.”
The baroness took him by a small bar in the back of the room where a sharply dressed fellow was emptying bottles of sparkling Finavian wine into a seemingly endless array of crystal glasses. Then, she tried to take Oliver upstairs.
She was a beautiful woman, and he had no doubt she was well experienced, but Sam was supposed to be up there snooping through the Thornbush’s private chambers. Flushing, Oliver declined the young woman’s invitation. The sacrifices a loyal servant of the Crown must make.
Victoria, however, was not yet ready to release him to the other hounds, and she kept her arm linked with his. Shooting angry scowls at any other woman who dared to approach, she kept him moving on a circuit around the room.
Oliver smiled politely, sipped his wine slowly, and kept his eyes open. He tried to make use of his newfound acquaintance. Her brother, after all, had been the first name on Bartholomew’s list. Avery Thornbush and Janson Cabineau were the reasons Oliver had decided to attend the party. He’d seen little sign of it so far, but it was quite possible the two men were involved in sorcery. Sorcery and hams. He supposed it could be the case.
Oliver questioned the baroness about her family’s history, their current business, and their favored entertainments. It was a story he heard every time he was in Southundon and visited with the minor peers. They had everything they needed, but they constantly quested for more, endlessly jockeying for commercial prospects, standing amongst the others, and access to the finest the city had to offer.
Ruefully, Oliver admitted there was no greater prize in that chase than himself, and he led the baroness along so that she kept spilling information about her family. Letting her hang on his arm while they paraded around the party was a small price for the information he sought.
Did her brother Avery know Bartholomew Surrey? Yes, he did, though the marquess spent many of his days in the city of Southwatch. What had her brother studied at university? Ancient languages and commerce. He’d attempted to turn it into a business locating and selling rarities and had even taken a share of an auction house, but she believed he’d sold that business. Did Avery keep odd hours, or was he a regular at the usual haunts of the lesser peerage? Odd hours, Victoria shared incuriously.
Finally, she pulled Oliver close and whispered, “I worry, m’lord, that you’re more interested in my brother than you are in me.”
He smiled at her. “No, of course not. I’m just fascinated. Your brother seems to keep such strange acquaintances.”
“Strange?”
“Janson Cabineau,” prodded Oliver. “An odd character for a social gathering such as this, is he not?”
“My brother has many peculiar interests, m’lord,” said Victoria quietly. She looked around the room, licked her lips, and then continued, “Cabineau is not the first well-built young man who’s caught my brother’s eye. It is no secret, I suppose, but I do not believe our parents know. Their generation… you understand?”
“Your parents… Your brother prefers men?”
Victoria nodded, biting her lip with sparkling white teeth and eyeing him nervously.
“Oh,” said Oliver, startled, blinking. “Surrey, Thornbush, Cabineau… they are all single men. That… that explains it.”
“Surrey, you mean Bartholomew Surrey?” asked Victoria. “Explains what?”
He smiled down at her, holding his arm close so she stood right by his side. Softly, he said, “I’m glad I accepted your brother’s invitation this evening. It’s been a delight to meet you, m’lady.”
“My brother is not the only one of us who enjoys the company of a vigorous man,” remarked Victoria.
She allowed herself to be pulled close to him, arching her back so he was nearly forced to stare down the front of her dress.
“It’s clear you want to learn more about my brother,” continued the baroness. “On business for the Crown or the Company, no doubt. We Thornbushes have no secrets, m’lord. If it pleases you, I’ll answer any question you have, tell you anything you’d like to know, but I think it a bit unfair if you are the only one who gets what pleases you.”
He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say.
“Come to the back rooms with me, m’lord, and everything the Thornbushes can offer will be yours,” she pleaded. “If I am not to your taste, then you never need call upon me again, but I think you will, m’lord. I can be very generous. Please, m’lord, allow me to show you?”
Oliver swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The girl was beautiful, but he was meant to be investigating her brother. Of course, she claimed she’d tell him everything. If he was no longer interested in her charms, that may not be the case. A pleas
ant bargain, he decided, and anyway, it seemed that perhaps the secret Avery Thornbush was hiding was not what they had suspected.
Oliver told her, “M’lady, I admit I’ve a keen interest in your family. Perhaps we can find somewhere private to discuss it?”
She smiled at him. “My brother’s study is on the first floor. We can duck in without taking the stairwell in front of so many prying eyes. I’m sure none of the guests will miss us if we’re quick, and if we’re not, I don’t care what any of them think.”
Grinning down at her, struggling to keep his eyes on her face, Oliver gestured for her to lead the way.
She hugged his arm tight and pulled him toward a narrow hallway that led to the back of the house. “Stay behind me, if it pleases you, m’lord.”
“Oliver, just Oliver,” he murmured, allowing the young woman to guide him away from the party toward a quieter part of the building.
They walked down a narrow but well-appointed corridor to a polished, steel-bound wooden door.
“My brother’s study,” said Victoria. Then she turned and swept open the door.
Oliver stepped inside and paused.
On the desk in the center of the room, facing away from the door, sat Janson Cabineau. He was shirtless, and Avery Thornbush, also shirtless, stood on the opposite side of the desk. Avery lifted his head from where he’d been nuzzling Janson’s neck. His startled gaze met theirs.
“Oh my,” said Victoria, covering her mouth with her hand. “I thought you were out with the guests…”
“It’s not what it looks like,” claimed Avery, standing straight and reaching to adjust a coat he wasn’t wearing. The young peer shifted uncomfortably. “I, ah…”
Oliver, ignoring both of the siblings, stared at the bare back of Janson Cabineau. The man’s shoulders were corded with taut muscle and traced with finger-width black lines of intricate tattoos.
Oliver, recognizing a symbol in the center, mumbled, “The Hands of Seshim.”
“What?” asked Victoria.
Her brother and Janson Cabineau sprang into action.
The merchant spun his legs and leapt off the table. The peer jerked open a drawer in the desk and removed a stick of bone-white chalk. Cabineau charged, and Avery bent, scrawling on the surface of the desk with the chalk.
Oliver dipped his hands into his dress coat and gripped the two katars he’d secreted there. He yanked them out in time to meet Cabineau’s charge. He slashed at the man with one of the blades and pulled back with the other, preparing to punch the razor-sharp tip into Cabineau’s face.
Crying and gripping an arm sporting a bloody gash, Cabineau stumbled out of reach. Avery cursed and threw his chalk down, only a few unsteady lines scrawled on the table. He darted to the side of the room where he picked up a leather rucksack and then rushed to the window, kicking it open.
Behind Oliver, Victoria was shrieking in panic.
Oliver advanced on Cabineau, gripping the two katars, feinting blows which forced the shirtless merchant to retreat.
Avery scrambled out of the window, and moments later, Oliver heard a strangled cry of surprise. He grinned. Sam must have been drawn by the shouting. Cabineau, apparently realizing that, weaponless, he was certain to lose the fight, turned and sprinted toward the open window, diving out of it without pause.
Oliver ran after him, Victoria Thornbush following close behind. She was shouting and wailing in confused fear. Clambering out of the window, Oliver saw Sam leaping to her feet, glaring at the stunned form of Cabineau who lay on the cobblestones of the back alley.
“Where the frozen hell did you come from?” she shouted at the prone man, rubbing the back of her head.
“The window,” mentioned Oliver as he jumped down.
“I saw a different man in the alley and started after him. Then this one came out of nowhere,” complained Sam. “Are these… How come neither of them is wearing a shirt? What’s going on inside of that party?
Oliver pointed a blood-stained katar down at the merchant. “He’s got the markings of sorcery on his back. The other one—”
He turned to look where Avery had fled around a corner of the building. Suddenly, the man came pelting back, the rising shouts of the inspectors chasing him. Moncrief’s men were doing their part, and with the inspectors already in position surrounding the townhouse, there was nowhere for Avery Thornbush to run.
“I’ve got this one— Oh hells,” muttered Sam.
Avery, skidding to a stop in the center of the alleyway, plunged a hand into his leather bag and removed a fistful of what appeared to be thin copper chain. He tossed it smoothly, and the chain fanned out, forming a circle and then falling silently onto the cobblestones where it flashed with brilliant blue flame.
Oliver gapped at the pattern the delicately linked chain had formed, a perfect circle inset with a five-pointed star. The baron stepped inside of the circle as a group of Moncrief’s inspectors came racing around the corner.
“Hells,” muttered Sam. She jabbed a finger down at Cabineau and turned to Oliver. “Watch him.”
Grunting, Oliver strode forward and kicked as hard as he could, catching Cabineau in the ribs and lifting him from the cobbles with a terrible thump.
Sam, her kris daggers held wide, leapt at Avery Thornbush.
The man was pinching his thumb and middle finger together on both hands, muttering a strange incantation. Around him, springing from the links of the chain, sparks of incandescent white-blue flame rose into the air in a twisting column.
Oliver could feel a wave of cold air rush past him from the growing barrier. The alleyway was filled with a sound like cracking ice. He raised his katars, prepared to charge after Sam, but she burst through the wall of blue sparks like she was striding through a sheet of falling water.
The sparks fell away from her, running off her shoulders and back, and her daggers found the panicked peer, stabbing deep into his chest, piercing his heart. The man’s hurried chanting stalled as his breath left his lungs and his soul his body. Avery Thornbush slumped to the ground in the center of his pentagram.
Sam turned to look back at Oliver. She cried, “What is she doing?”
Oliver glanced down and saw Baroness Victoria Thornbush kneeling beside Janson Cabineau, two fingers pressed against the man’s neck.
She looked up to Oliver. “He’s dead, m’lord. Your kick killed him. What—”
“Spirits forsake it, Duke,” growled Sam. “We needed one alive. There’s another name on that list.”
“I just kicked him!” complained Oliver, looking from his boot to the motionless Cabineau. “Frozen hell, I’ve kicked my brothers twice as hard, and they’re still alive.”
Muttering, Sam knelt within the circle, the flickering white-blue sparks still rising around her. To Oliver’s shock, she drew the edge of one of her kris daggers across her palm and then sheathed the blade. She used her good hand to force open Baron Thornbush’s mouth, and she let her blood drip down onto his tongue.
“Sam,” worried Oliver. “What are you…”
“You can’t!” screamed Victoria Thornbush.
She lunged forward, trying to intervene. Oliver caught her and pulled her close.
“It’s all right. She’s not hurting him,” he whispered into the ear of the struggling woman. He almost clarified, not hurting the dead man anymore.
The frantic woman’s nails dug into his arm, and she kicked back at him, but he only held her tighter, feeling her hard muscles beneath soft flesh, whispering into her ear but failing to calm her.
Over shouts of protest from Victoria, Oliver heard Sam demanding of the dead body, “By my blood, I command you. Avery Thornbush, who are the other members of your cabal?”
Sam bent over the body, whispering closely.
“Who amongst you lives!” she cried, blood from her wounded hand still dripping into the corpse’s mouth.
Oliver could hear no response, see no motion, but evidently Sam did. She kept pressing the spirit, de
manding answers.
“Who—”
Then, she stopped and looked to Oliver and Victoria Thornbush.
“Frozen hell,” muttered Oliver.
Victoria stomped on the bridge of his foot with the sharp spike of a high heel and then she swung her head back at him, a pile of intricately pinned and upswept hair bouncing off of his face. Her small white teeth clamped down on his arm, and he cried out in pain, instinctively releasing her. She spun, drawing a steel pin from her hair and swinging it at him.
He raised a forearm to meet hers, blocking the attack, and then he punched her in the face.
The baroness staggered back, one hand still holding the steel pin, the other clutching her face where blood poured from a broken nose. Crimson liquid painted her full lips and chin, splattering on the stark white of her dress.
“I’m sorry. I—” babbled Oliver.
Sam reached around the woman’s neck and slashed her sinuous dagger across Victoria’s throat, opening the flesh wide and sending a prodigious waterfall of blood cascading from the open wound.
Oliver looked away, grimacing.
Moncrief’s men scrambled around, shouting commands, rushing inside to corral the confused peers that had been at the party, but steering clear of the bodies and the copper pentagram Avery Thornbush had laid out.
Oliver, taking deep breaths, finally got a hold of himself.
Sam cleaned her weapons and put them away. “I didn’t find anything in the carriages or upstairs. How did you know it was them?”
“Male intuition,” groused Oliver.
“Yes, m’lord, we can have them removed tomorrow. The contraption below, the one with the, ah, the wings, will be placed in the throne room by the end of today.”
Oliver nodded and waved the work foreman away.
The man placed his floppy cap back on his head and disappeared inside.
Oliver resumed pacing the rooftop of the ancient druid keep, trying to ignore the three iron crosses his uncle had used as sacrificial altars and also the itchy feeling that, if he wanted to, he could know what work was happening deep within the keep without the foreman’s input. Dozens of men with hammers, saws, and other heavy tools were removing all traces of his uncle’s occupation. The gates and manacles William and his minions had installed would be gone. The scraps of bindings, the bones of those bodies who’d not been removed yet, it would all be gone. The only remaining tie to his uncle’s terrible use of the place would be the blood still splattered on the floors and the walls.