Treachery’s Devotion_Masters’ Admiralty

by Lila Dubois

  “You look tired,” Tristan said to James.

  James’s normally warm-brown skin had a gray cast to it.

  “Not tired. Worried.”

  “Worried?” Tristan sat forward. “Why?”

  “Because I think I know what the mask means.”

  “What does the mask mean?” Sophia asked. Instead of taking the seat she’d been sleeping in, she settled on the couch across the aisle from their chairs.

  Tristan immediately rose. “Please.” He gestured to his seat.

  “No, no, no. I’m fine here.” She tucked her legs up in a cross-legged position. “What does the mask mean?”

  James considered waiting for breakfast. Maybe this would be less terrifying if they had something to eat.

  Stalling. You’re stalling.

  James sighed and began speaking.

  “Masks have many different meanings. Since there were a variety of different masks presented on the coins, we could interpret the mask in several different ways.”

  “The mask is going to kill the fleet admiral.” Tristan’s voice was grim.

  “Yes, but what is the mask?”

  “Don’t you mean who?” Tristan asked.

  “Not necessarily. The mask could signify a group—masks have in the past been used to provide the safety of anonymity to a group.”

  “Protestors wear scarves, something over their faces,” Sophia said.

  “Exactly.” James looked at Tristan. “Think of Guy Fawkes’s masks.”

  “Shit. I would much prefer it if this were one guy. That’s what we figured based on the bodies.”

  Sophia tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “How?”

  Tristan looked between them and shook his head. “Later. Let’s figure out this mask thing. I’m assuming you have a point, Rathmann.”

  James’s jaw clenched. Maybe it was time to just cut to the chase. “There are many different kinds of masks.”

  “We’re been over that. Different coins,” Tristan snapped.

  “Why don’t you shut up and listen?” James snarled. His voice was louder than he’d meant it to be.

  No one spoke.

  James held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m worried.”

  Tristan opened his mouth, but Sophia stretched out one leg and tapped his knee with her foot. He closed his mouth.

  “In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England, masquerade balls were popular. Most men wore small masks that just went around their eyes, along with evening kit. Those kinds of masks are called a ‘domino’ mask—”

  Tristan exploded out of his chair, his face white under his gold-kissed complexion. He fumbled for his phone.

  “I have to call our admiral.”

  James shoved his tray to the side, his empty cappuccino cup tipping over. “You know about the Domino?”

  “Yes. Damn it, yes.” Tristan held his phone to his ear, then pointed at Sophia. “Call your brother. Tell him they were killed by the Domino. Tell your brother he’s back, and tell him to get your father in line. We don’t have time for secrecy and politics. Not if the Domino is going after the fleet admiral.”

  “Domino, like the game?” Sophia was looking at Tristan, who was pacing the tiny cabin of the private plane, but her words were for James.

  James joined her on the couch. “Yes, is the word the same in Italian?”

  She raised a brow. “The word is the same in English. Dominos were invented in Italy.”

  “Oh.” James looked slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”

  Sophia waved one hand dismissively. “Everything important was created in Italy.”

  He laughed, the sound low and warm, and he was sitting close enough to Sophia that she could feel the heat of his body.

  “According to my cousin—she’s an historian—the Domino has been an enemy of ours for centuries.”

  “Centuries? Then it’s not a person, it’s a group.”

  “Possibly.”

  Sophia raised an eyebrow. “You think perhaps it is a…what is the word, a vampire?”

  Again, James laughed, and it was a glorious sound. “Not a vampire. But my cousin said they think it’s one man per generation. He passes on the legacy to another.”

  “Like an apprentice.”

  “Yes. Though I was going to say like the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

  “So this man, he calls himself the Domino. He left the mask coins so we would know it was him?”

  James nodded. Sophia thought about what he’d said for a moment. “If he is called the Domino, why would he not leave a domino? If you hadn’t been there, looking at the coins, we might not have understood the message. Or, if I’d called in another numismatist, one who wasn’t English, who wouldn’t know that there was a type of mask called a domino, we might not have known.”

  “You were going to call someone else? Who? Hagen? She’s an idiot.”

  “James, you must see that it’s unlikely that this is the Domino.”

  Tristan dropped into his seat. “Funny. That’s what Lorelei just said.”

  “Lorelei?” Sophia asked.

  “The vice admiral of England. She asked for our evidence, and said that if it really had been the Domino, he would have left a domino. Usually snake eyes.”

  James shook his head. “He did that fifty, sixty years ago, yes, but there has been one other murder, thirty years ago, that my cousin thinks was the Domino, and that time he left a mask.”

  “Our vice admiral disagrees. She says this isn’t the Domino. It’s a different killer. The Mask.” Tristan sighed. “I just made an ass of myself. Again.”

  James looked between them, his lips parted in shock. “You really don’t believe me.”

  “James, man, when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. You’re a coin expert with a family full of historians. Put those together and you’re seeing something where there’s nothing.”

  “The more logical explanation is that the current Domino decided to leave different clues.” James was biting off each word, but stopped as the flight attendant brought them trays of bread, jam, butter, and fruit.

  Sophia touched James’s shoulder. “You haven’t slept. Eat something. We’ll land on the Isle of Man soon.”

  “But I’m right about this. I need the two of you to believe me. Trust me.”

  “This isn’t an issue of trust.” Tristan held up his hand in a placating gesture. “The masks mean something. The threat to the fleet admiral is clear.” Tristan sighed. “At least I think so.”

  James didn’t touch the food. He crossed his arms and stared at Tristan. “The Domino hasn’t always used dominos. There was a point during the First World War where he drew two black dots on his victims’ bodies. He didn’t use an actual double-one domino piece, he just drew two dots. It wasn’t until after WWII that someone, my great-aunt in fact, made the connection.”

  Sophia shared a look with Tristan, who grimaced. She was starting to see Tristan’s point.

  “James, I understand that your family has some ties to this person, and that you want—”

  “We don’t have ties to him.” James turned his imposing glare on her. “It just so happens that my great-aunt was also an historian. She’s the one who put it together.”

  “Or maybe the black spots were random markings, or the records about the condition of the bodies was incorrect.” Sophia was, after all, an officer of the Carabinieri—she knew how to work through a mystery, to ask the tough questions. Making assumptions and trying to make the facts fit a theory was unacceptable.

  “Eh, fuck off and listen to me.” James glowered at both of them. “If this is the Domino, we have to be careful.”

  Sophia narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you just say to me?”

  “Damn it, woman, listen—”

  Tristan pulled his sword free of its sheath. The quiet, menacing sound of the blade against the scabbard made Sophia and James both look over.

  “Enough.” Tristan rested the tip of the blade
against the carpeted floor, both hands on the hilt.

  Sophia took a deep breath and let it out. They were all tired, frustrated, and scared. They were also strangers to one another, no matter how easy their rapport.

  James uncrossed his arms. Sophia stretched out her legs, flexing her ankles. After a few moments of silence, Tristan slid the sword back into the sheath.

  “What were you going to do with it?” James asked conversationally.

  “Usually all I need to do is draw it. You’re both legacies. I was betting that you’d respond to the authority of a knight.”

  “It worked.” James blew out a breath, then reached out to snag a small breakfast roll, slathering it with butter.

  It was Sophia’s turn to pseudo apologize. “We all saw the bodies, we are going to be careful. No matter who the enemy is.” She picked up her cafe latte. “Knowing this is the Domino wouldn’t change anything.”

  “Actually…” Tristan washed down a mouthful of food with a sip of coffee. He grimaced as he drank. “If this were the Domino, we would put all the territories on high alert.”

  Sophia’s mouth dropped open in shock. She shook herself. “What? What do you mean?”

  “When I was a squire, we were briefed on possible threats. James is right that the Domino has been operating for a long time. He’s killed plenty of members, including the admiral of Bohemia.”

  “Why have I never heard of him?” As the daughter of an admiral, she was privy to more information than general members had.

  “Because he hasn’t been active in a long time. And because if people knew about him, someone might try to hide a crime of their own by throwing a domino on the ground at a crime scene.”

  That made sense. “Then why aren’t you taking James seriously?”

  “Switched sides, eh?” James didn’t quite smile, but some of the anger faded from his face.

  “For the reasons you said,” Tristan replied. “The connection isn’t strong enough.”

  “What would it hurt to put the territories on alert? Why won’t the vice admiral do it, just to be safe?” James asked.

  Sophia met Tristan’s eyes. There was anger in the depths of his golden gaze.

  “Politics,” she answered for Tristan. “If England puts up the call and is wrong, they lose face, possibly they would have to pay reparations or penalties for any strife resulting from the alert.”

  “Pay reparations?” James crossed his arms, his anger once more seeming to fill the cabin of the small plane. “That’s idiotic. It means no territory is going to say anything about pending danger until it’s too late.”

  “Stupid. It’s really fucking stupid,” Tristan agreed. “I don’t think it’s the Domino, but I do think there’s a threat to the fleet admiral.”

  “Does our vice admiral?” James asked.

  Tristan shrugged. “She didn’t order me to stop.”

  James looked to Sophia. “Is that why your father was hesitating to say anything to the fleet admiral—he doesn’t want to pay reparations?”

  “It was probably one of his many reasons.” Sophia pushed away her nearly untouched plate. Her stomach was in knots.

  There was silence for a moment, each of them thinking their own thoughts. Sophia wondered if either of them had thoughts similar to hers. The captain announced they were beginning their final descent, so she and James rose and went back to their seats.

  When they were buckled in, and the flight attendant had hurriedly picked up their breakfast dishes, she leaned forward to ask the question she’d been worrying over.

  “What if…what if it is the Domino?”

  James and Tristan looked at one another, and then at her.

  “For our sake,” Tristan said slowly, “let’s pray James is wrong.”

  The plane lurched through some turbulence, the sound of the wind and engines increasing as they neared the ground.

  All the noise meant she almost didn’t hear James and Tristan’s low-voiced conversation. Almost.

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “You need to be. Because if you’re not, this whole thing is going to turn into a bag of shite.”

  Sophia tugged her phone out of her slacks. She hadn’t bothered to turn it off, so as they rumbled and vibrated toward the Isle of Man, she fumbled through a text message.

  Killer may be the Domino. In English domino can mean mask. Stammi bene. Bacioni.

  When the phone dinged indicating the message had been sent, Sophia leaned back and closed her eyes, pressing her phone to her chest. All this talk of secret, masked killers, and the still-fresh sight of the dead bodies had amped up her fear and anxiety. Logically, she knew that they were twenty-five hundred kilometers away from the real danger. The killer was mostly likely still in Italy, not on the Isle of Man. Someone capable of doing what had been done in that cave would want to stay close to the investigation. He, or she, would want to keep an eye on the investigation. Possibly insert themselves into it. Sophia’s heart clenched in worry for Antonio, but her brother was capable, and dangerous. He may be in danger, but she wasn’t. She was headed to one of the safest places in all of Europe—the seat of power of the Masters’ Admiralty.

  The headquarters were guarded by the entirely terrifying Spartan Guard, and even if there was an attempt on the fleet admiral’s life, there was no way it would be successful.

  She repeated that line of thought, reminding herself again and again that this was most likely a fool’s errand. That the fleet admiral was well protected. That the Isle of Man had served as the stronghold and refuge since the time of the plague and their founding.

  She, Tristan, and James were not in danger.

  They were not in danger.

  The wheels touched down and the dread that seemed to coat her, weigh her down, doubled.

  As they taxied the short distance to the terminal, her logical mind lost the battle with her emotions and she was sure, sure, that something was about to go terribly, terrifyingly wrong.

  Chapter Eight

  Tristan paused a moment as he exited the plane, looking out at the Isle of Man. It was gorgeous as always—a piece of pastoral paradise in the middle of the Irish Sea, halfway between the Lake District and the eastern edge of Northern Ireland. Typified by green fields, rocky shoreline, stone cliffs, and whitewashed cottages, it had seen a resurgence in interest and tourism in the last fifty years.

  The capital city of Douglas boasted a population of twenty-six thousand, while the isle’s total population topped out at just over eighty-five thousand. It was overall prosperous and peaceful. The schools were good, the people healthy and happy, and the median income higher than that of either England or Ireland. The island’s main economy was tourism—and it attracted visitors who wanted to romanticize the past. Though the living history demonstrations of the life of crofters made sure to mention the poverty and disease that would have plagued those who’d worked the land, the truth was, Man’s tourism industry was selling a fantasy. The fantasy of a simpler life, a time when a family could live in peace and pastoral security.

  “They know we’re coming?” James asked as they descended the steps out of the plane.

  “Yes.” Tristan once more took James’s bag. He looked at Sophia’s small rolling suitcase, trying to decide if he could take that too while still keeping his sword arm free.

  The problem solved itself when the cab driver the flight attendant had called ahead to arrange ran over and took Sophia’s bag. He touched his hat to his fingers as he did it—an old gesture of respect. Privately, Tristan considered almost every aspect of the isle a front designed to hide and protect the society’s seat of power. But he shouldn’t forget that there were people here who could trace their ancestry back a thousand years. People who still spoke the original language of the isle—Manx. People who he thought were probably a security threat, because there was no way these families had lived here for generations without noticing something.

  The official reason why the Isle of Man’s flag
and coat of arms included a triskelion—three legs joined together at the top of the thigh—was unknown. But the Manx people surely would have noticed the strangers who moved to their island, took control, and always traveled in threes.

  The Masters’ Admiralty was classist. He knew that from experience. The admirals and fleet admiral assumed that anyone who wasn’t a member, or who didn’t do something that elevated them to the point of being considered for membership, was blind and deaf. When Tristan had voiced this opinion, he’d been applauded for his “inventive” thinking, and then they’d given him his first assignment and nothing more was said.

  Without speaking, the driver opened each of the doors. James took the front seat, and the driver’s eyes widened a little as James wedged himself into the compact blue car. Tristan finished loading the bags, then offered Sophia a hand to assist her getting in. She slid into the car without taking his hand, but gifted him a warm smile. Tristan ignored the way his heart thumped as if he were a schoolboy, and closed her door before circling around the back and climbing in the other side.

  It took them nearly forty minutes to get from the airport to their destination, which was due to the roads, not the size of the island. No one spoke during the ride. Sophia was looking out the window, James had his eyes closed, and Tristan was clenching and unclenching his fist around the handle of his sword. They passed through populated areas on the outskirts of the capital city, then headed up and in, the road rising as they traveled toward the mountainous center of the island. To an outsider, the rolling green fields and carefully tended whitewashed cottages would have seemed peaceful and nearly timeless.

  The history of the isle was far darker and more complex than most of the residents knew. It had been the seat of power for the Masters’ Admiralty since 1440 AD, and the fact that the isle was a self-governing British Crown dependency, and not a fully integrated part of the British Empire, was entirely a result of the work of past fleet admirals.

  Cashtal Ny Tree Cassyn was located on the northern tip of the island, far from Castle Rushen—a medieval castle that served as a museum and major tourist draw—and the cities of Douglas and Port Erin.