Simon arched an eyebrow toward the man as they approached the lit doorway. “You’ve expressed quite some ingenuity in the number of ways you’ve managed to avoid saying that Whitten Hall is in revolt.”
Tom frowned but quickly regained his composure. “One man’s revolutionary is another man’s criminal.”
The door opened before him, forcing Simon to drop his voice to a whisper so as not to be heard by their host. “Too bad for Whitten Hall that those who see you as criminals have so many guns at their disposal.”
The man who stepped from the manor’s open door looked far younger than Simon would have expected. His skin was smooth, lacking the traditional lines of wear seen on those who spent so much of their time in the sun. The chancellor, for that was who Simon assumed him to be, was immaculately dressed, clearly attired specifically to impress his guests.
The chancellor marched confidently into the darkness of night to meet Simon as the Inquisitor approached.
“You must be Inquisitor Whitlock,” the chancellor said, a broad smile spreading across his face. Even in the darkness, Simon could see the sincerity behind his obvious pleasure. “My name is Martelus Whitten, as I’m sure someone of your renown has already deduced.”
“I would hardly call myself renowned, Chancellor, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
The chancellor’s smile lingered for a moment longer before he shook his head, as though awakening from a stupor. He stepped aside and gestured for Simon and the others to enter.
The interior of the house clearly lacked electricity. Candles burned in recessed sconces along the walls. An elaborate chandelier of candles, which dangled precariously overhead, brilliantly lighted the foyer. Despite Tom’s admonition that the manor required upkeep, the interior was surprisingly well kept. The smell of wallpaper glue permeated the room, exuded from the recently refurbished walls. Plush, cushioned chairs adorning the sitting room to the right of the foyer, albeit antique, were well maintained and clean.
“Forgive me, sir,” Tom said, breaking the still hush that had settled over the group, “but there is a mountain of paperwork that requires my attention.”
The chancellor patted Tom firmly on the back before leading him to the door. “Of course, old friend. Get some rest tonight and I’ll see you before we leave tomorrow morning.”
Tom left, closing the door behind him. The chancellor turned back toward the trio. “Please, follow me. I wish I could offer you more comfortable surroundings, as I’m sure you’re accustomed, but my home doubles as my office, unfortunately. We lack the trappings of affluence, in such a small mining community. We simply make do with what we have at our disposal.”
Simon glanced toward Mattie. “You’d be surprised the austere living conditions in which an Inquisitor often finds himself, Chancellor.”
The chancellor shook his head. “Please call me Martelus. We can dispense with the formalities, if it pleases you. I find titles often get in the way of two men truly expressing what’s on their minds.”
“Very well,” Simon nodded as Martelus led them into a study.
Bookcases flanked a roaring fireplace, their shelves laden with assorted manuscripts and rolled maps. At quick glance, Simon saw an assorted collection of archaic and modern books on mining operations, intermixed without rhyme or reason with classical literature.
The study lacked a large, oaked desk as had seemed to become the norm amidst people of power. In lieu of the desk, two long couches sat perpendicular to the fireplace with a plush single chair at the head of the formation.
“Sit, please.”
Simon and Luthor sat on the couch across from the chancellor while Mattie quietly took the lone chair facing the fireplace.
“I would offer you a drink,” Martelus began, “but I fear drinking so late would impede the rest of your investigation.”
“You’re a wise man,” Simon replied, “though I’m not sure ‘investigation’ is quite the correct term. We were sent on quite a less auspicious task, one I might add that has already concluded.”
Martelus arched an eyebrow. “Truly? On what mission were you sent, if I might inquire?”
Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We were sent to investigate the matter of attacks occurring on the train.”
The chancellor swallowed hard and looked away from the Inquisitor, clearly embarrassed.
“I see that you’re intimately familiar with the issue at hand,” Simon surmised.
Martelus turned back toward the group, a sad frown replacing the previously jovial smile. “I’m ashamed that I do.”
Simon leaned back in the couch and nodded toward the chancellor. “Please do explain everything. I will fill in the blanks with what I know as well.”
The chancellor cleared his throat. “We quite honestly meant no harm or even disrespect. You’re more than familiar with our current situation and the strain between Whitten Hall and Callifax?”
Simon nodded his concurrence.
“Then you’re also aware that it’s only a matter of time until the crown sends its soldiers to reinstate the flow of iron to the capital. You’re not the first royal representative to travel to Whitten Hall. We’ve had a plethora of tax collectors, constables, and even a handful of bounty hunters, all coming to either coerce or threaten our town, should we not comply with the crown’s demands. To be honest, I feared you were yet another and it set me a bit on edge. A Royal Inquisitor is quite a bit more threatening than a simple tax collector.”
Simon smiled at the compliment. “I can assure you that we’re not here to take any political or legal action against your town. I merely want to know about the episodes on the train, if we could return to that issue.”
“Of course,” the chancellor replied, his smile slowly returning. He ran a nervous hand through his lush, brown hair. “With so many representatives from the crown arriving as quickly as the trains pulled into the station, I spent nearly as much time entertaining unwelcomed guests as I did tending to my responsibilities as chancellor. To that end, one of the men in town, and forgive me but I cannot recall who, had the idea to stop visitors before they ever arrived.”
“To that end, you staged vampire attacks on the train.”
“I’m, again, ashamed to admit that we did. We meant no disrespect, as I mentioned before. In fact, no one was permanently harmed during our escapades. The ‘vampire’ attacks, if you will, were merely meant to scare away the passengers on board. You see, most royal representatives lack the intestinal fortitude once they perceive their lives are at risk, present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course,” Simon replied.
“Begging your pardon,” Luthor interrupted, “but someone was harmed on this last train ride.”
“Who was harmed?” the chancellor quickly asked.
“Your vampire,” Simon replied flatly.
Martelus appeared crestfallen at the news. He lowered his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Wallace was a good boy; I knew his family well. Would it be a correct assumption that you had something to do with his untimely death?”
“You would be right in that assumption,” Simon replied, though his words lacked any haughty underpinnings. “I regret that your man had to die, but staging vampire attacks on a train with an armed Inquisitor was a fatal mistake.”
“I don’t blame you, sir,” Martelus replied. “Our staged attacks had worked so many times previously; I think we merely became overconfident that they would continue to keep the crown at bay.”
Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “In that regard, your attacks most certainly did keep the tax collectors at bay. Despite your political… difficulties, my mission has nothing to do with your mine and your production, or lack thereof, of iron.”
“I wondered as much. It seemed excessive to include a Royal Inquisitor in what is, at its core, a labor dispute.”
Luthor cleared his throat. “Forgive my interruption, Chancellor, but would it be too forward of me to ask about yo
ur labor dispute?”
“Not at all, Mister… Strong, is it?”
“Indeed it is, sir. At its crux, why have you ceased iron shipments to the capital?”
Martelus smiled knowingly, as though he had answered a similar question hundreds of times previously. “You misunderstand our dilemma. We didn’t cease shipping iron to Callifax. We ceased mining iron all together.”
“I don’t think I understand,” the apothecary replied.
Martelus held out his hands, palms upward, as he continued. “You, like many who have come to Whitten Hall, assume that we’re hoarding the iron ore that rightfully belongs to the crown. The simple truth is that we have no interest in the ore. What concerns us is a pay that more properly equates to the labor and dangers we assume working in the mines.”
He raised his left hand as he continued. “On average, we mine nearly a quarter tonne of iron every day. Consider that every weapon in their arsenal, every vehicle on the road, every cannon guarding the king’s parapets, is forged from the very iron and smelted steel that we provide, you can imagine our frustrations when our back-breaking labor is used to fill already fat coffers, every day that we are in operation.”
He lowered his left and raised his right hand. “For our troubles, we’re paid a mere pittance. The daily wages for the miners in Whitten Hall is barely five copper pieces. At the current exchange of one hundred copper coins per one gold coin, our nearly one hundred miners are paid five gold coins in total for a quarter tonne of iron they provide to the crown. Compound that for each day of the year, and you can see the incredible boon we provide the crown, but the utter lack of appropriate compensation.”
“Then all of this is merely to increase your wages?” Simon asked.
The chancellor sighed but nodded. “It may seem trivial to someone used to the affluence of the capital city, but to those of us on the outskirts of the kingdom’s benevolence, a few extra copper coins per day could make the difference between life and death, especially during the harsh winters when food is a premium and carries a premium’s cost.”
“I understand far more than you could imagine,” Mattie said. To her surprise, the chancellor turned toward her and nodded appreciatively.
Simon glanced toward the entryway, as though seeing something beyond the thick wood of the closed door. “Our initial report stated that one hundred and fifty people lived in Whitten Hall.”
Martelus smiled. “Yet you passed through our small town and noticed not nearly as many as that are still present?”
“You are a perceptive man,” Simon replied.
“Not perceptive, but rather familiar with the questions asked by visitors. At the height of our mining operations, it’s true that one hundred and fifty men, women, and children lived in Whitten Hall. When the decision was made to withhold iron shipments, however, we held a town hall meeting and offered those who did not support our plan a chance to leave town. Many did leave, though quite a few remained.”
Simon uncrossed his arms. “Forgive my line of questioning. I didn’t mean to impugn your motives.”
“No offense was taken. As I explained before, we have no nefarious plans other than to contest the pittance earned for our skilled labor.”
Simon glanced toward Luthor and Mattie but saw no further questions.
“This isn’t the first time an element of the kingdom has chosen to stand against the crown,” Martelus quickly added. “Were you here during the tradesmen uprising after the formation of the Rift?”
Simon frowned deeply and his eyes darkened.
“I see that you were,” the chancellor continued, the fire dissipating in his voice. “Forgive me, I meant nothing by the comparison.”
“It’s I who should apologize,” Simon replied. “Some wounds just seem fresher than others. I believe I understand your position well enough.”
Content, he stood. Martelus quickly followed suit and extended his hand. As Simon shook, however, Luthor cleared his throat once more.
“You said that the mines are no longer in operation?” Luthor asked.
Martelus nodded slowly. “We have no reason to keep them open as we have no desire for the iron. The crown frowns upon requesting an increase in wages, but it’s not treason. Stealing iron that belongs to the crown, however, is, and is far more an open invitation for an invasion by royal guardsmen.”
“Would it be too much trouble, then, for us to see the mine?” the apothecary asked.
Simon glanced at him with a mixture of irritation and genuine curiosity, having known Luthor long enough to know that the apothecary rarely acted without good reason.
Martelus shrugged. “The hour is late, but I suppose I could take you. I warn you, though, there’s little to see.”
“Thank you, Chancellor,” Luthor replied. “We’d be honored if you could grant us this request.”
“Allow me to gather my things,” Martelus said, “and we’ll be on our way.”
As the chancellor walked away, Simon arched his eyebrow toward the apothecary.
Martelus led them from the manor. As soon as they emerged into the night air, they were flanked by guards carrying the same hooded lanterns that until recently hung on either side of the entryway.
At the end of the drive, they turned away from Whitten Hall and continued deeper into the darkness of the canopied woods. The chancellor spoke rarely, usually jovially, as they walked, but Simon heard little of the conversation, aside from his polite responses. He stole glances toward Luthor and sought an opportunity to speak in private.
The group approached a covered bridge spanning a wide but shallow river. As they stepped within, Simon dropped back a step until he was beside the apothecary.
“Would you care to explain why we’re traipsing through the woods instead of enjoying a drink in the tavern?” the Inquisitor asked.
“Would you be referring to your flagon of scotch?” Luthor chided.
Simon frowned and glanced around, ensuring their low conversation wasn’t overheard. “You know what I mean.”
Luthor shook his head. “Something doesn’t feel quite right about this scenario, sir.”
“Do you have any empirical evidence or is this merely, as you stated, a feeling?”
Luthor frowned at the obvious derision. “No, I have no evidence. I have a habit of listening to my gut and right now it’s telling me something’s amiss.”
“Mine’s telling me I’m hungry,” Simon teased.
“I’m serious, sir.”
“As am I, Luthor.”
“Don’t you ever act simply on a feeling in your gut?”
“Basing my investigations on feelings that could just as easily be explained away as indigestion is absolute rubbish, Luthor. There’s a reason the world of science is so universally accepted. We base our findings on fact and experimentation, not some sixth-sense nonsense.”
“I don’t have indigestion,” Luthor muttered.
“You’re jumping at shadows that just don’t exist, Luthor. There’s no conspiracy here to be uncovered.”
Luthor turned sharply toward his traveling companion but continued walking across the wooden bridge. “You don’t think his answers seemed a little too rehearsed?”
“They are rehearsed, since he’s had to answer the same questions dozens of times for dozens of different people.”
Luthor sighed. “He had an answer for every question, the perfect answer, I might add. That’s a clear sign of someone who has fabricated a story.”
“It’s equally a sign of someone telling the truth, someone who’s been forced to tell the same truth repeatedly.”
“That’s the same argument used for people who tell a lie so many times that they start to believe the lie as truth.”
“Or it’s merely the truth.”
The clicking of soled shoes on the wooden beams filled the silence between them. The end of the covered bridge approached, and the gloom of the woods seemed far lighter than the inky blackness within the bridge.
&n
bsp; Simon bit his lip as he considered his next words. “Since when did you become the skeptic and I the trusting mediator? I don’t care for this new disposition.”
Luthor smiled. “I’m not a skeptic, sir, but merely a cautious sort. Perhaps Mister Gideon Dosett set me on edge and made me far less trusting of politicians and businessmen. After all, Gideon was hardly a good man.”
“He was a businessman,” Simon replied, “and a fairly successful one at that. Honestly, even if he weren’t a spawn of the Abyss, I still wouldn’t have called him a good man.”
They both laughed softly, drawing inquisitive stares from the chancellor and his guards. Simon merely shook his head, informing them that there was nothing of which to be concerned.
“What, pray tell, do you hope to find at the mine?” Simon asked as they emerged from the covered bridge.
Martelus glanced over his shoulder curiously, as though expecting the Inquisitor to rejoin him at the front of the group.
“I have trouble trusting a man who sits upon one of the richest iron veins in the kingdom, but expresses no interest in the wealth. I just want to be sure that the mine is, in fact, no longer in use.”
“Then you will be satisfied?” Simon asked. “Afterward, you’ll be comfortable returning with me to the tavern, drinking about two flagons more than what would be considered healthy, and enjoying the mundane scenery that Whitten Hall has to offer until our train arrives?”
“Consider it a deal, sir,” Luthor replied.
Simon smiled and nodded before rejoining Martelus. As he matched the chancellor’s stride, the man turned toward the Inquisitor.
“Is anything the matter?”
Simon shook his head. “My poor apothecary companion is still shaken after our last mission. He’s being overly cautious, though I’ve pointed to your obvious sincerity. I’m sure all will be fine after we see the inoperable mine.”
The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) Page 15