by A. C. Cobble
“When we were younger, I did,” replied the older brother. “It’s been years, though. I always travel by airship now when I leave Westundon, not that I leave very often these days. Last time on the rail, I believe it must have been before we began mixing red saltpetre with charcoal for the fuel? It was a slow way to travel back then, and Father hadn’t invested in the new lines. Is it smooth now, the ride?”
“Far smoother than that carriage of yours, brother.”
“I hope the entire errand is just as smooth, then,” offered the prince before withdrawing back inside the carriage.
“Sam is the name of your companion,” called Bishop Yates from within the confines of the carriage. “One of our best, I am told.”
“Got it,” said Oliver, waving the bishop off as the man called more reminders and instructions.
The old rooster was too used to preaching and listening to his own voice. You couldn’t tell him that, of course, or then you’d really be in for a lecture. You couldn’t tell his superior, the cardinal, either, simply because you couldn’t find him. The cardinal had been off in the United Territories for over a year, leaving his bishops to their own devices. Each Newday was a painful reminder that no one was properly supervising the whole affair. A brutal test of endurance, listening to the man declaim from the pulpit, but he supported the Wellesley’s publicly and often, and that’s all it took to keep the prince and their father, King Edward Wellesley, happy. If the two of them were happy, then Oliver supposed the cardinal would be happy as well, had he been around.
Checking that his satchel with his notebooks and quills was secure, Oliver collected the rucksack and broadsword and slung them over his shoulder, wincing as the scabbard of the broadsword banged against his back. His father would be scandalized to see him traveling so light, carrying his own bags, but the prince chalked it up to the charm of a little brother who had no official responsibilities.
That suited Oliver just fine. It was why he made his life in Westundon instead of Enhover’s capital. Oliver felt comfortable in the west, away from their father’s busy court in Southundon or the stifling formality of their brother Franklin’s court in Eastundon. Despite what his eldest brother thought, though, he still had responsibilities. Crown, Company — and he reminded himself — the Church. As King Edward Wellesley’s youngest son, he had responsibilities he couldn’t escape, even if they didn’t involve ruling the provinces like his older brothers.
Forcing down his frustration that his expedition to the Westlands may be delayed, Oliver clambered aboard the lead railcar, trying to get excited about the journey to Harwick. Trying and failing. Harwick would have been his to rule, once, back when there had been a city and province of Northundon.
“Duke Wellesley?” asked a voice.
He turned and peered down the narrow corridor of the railcar. A girl, no, a woman, was leaning out of one of the private rooms. She was beautiful. The perfect distraction during a long trip on the rail. Putting on his most rakish smile, he leaned against the wall of the corridor that ran down the center of the car. “Guilty as charged. Do you recognize me from some boring official event, or perhaps we met at one of my brother’s galas?”
“Your brother?” asked the woman, frowning. “No, no, you match a description given to me by my mentor. You are Duke Wellesley, correct?”
“Yes…”
“I’m Sam,” she said, stepping out into the hallway. “I’m meant to accompany you on this… this investigation. Evidently, the bishop felt the Church should be represented. I’m sorry if I seem a bit daft. It was a long night last night.”
He blinked at her, his gaze roving from her long leather-wrapped legs, up to a narrow waist, her medium sized breasts, shoulder-length black hair, and finally to her pretty lips that were twisted into a scowl at his examination.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she suggested.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” admitted Oliver, taking a step closer. “When Bishop Yates said he had someone in mind to accompany me, well, he’s a churchman, isn’t he? I thought he meant an investigator of some type, a stuffy old priest who’d seen this type of thing before. I didn’t even know the Church had priests like you. Priestesses, I guess. They certainly don’t trot you out in the sanctuary on Newdays, do they?”
The girl’s scowl deepened.
“You are beautiful,” offered Oliver. “Surely, the most glorious sight in all of Westundon.”
The car lurched as the locomotive kicked into gear. Oliver stumbled, catching himself with one hand, but the girl remained in the center of the aisle, barely noticing the jolt.
“Do you use that line on all of the girls?” she asked.
“No. Who told you—”
“I’m not here to sleep with you, Duke. I’m here to assist with your investigation,” she advised, speaking slowly like she was informing a child of the rules to a new game. “I’m not trained as an inspector, but the Church felt I do have some skills I could lend you. Understand up front, none of those skills will involve the bedroom, which is unfortunate for you as I’m quite talented there.”
He ran his hand over his hair, checking the knot at the back of his head, struggling to think of something to say to that.
The girl didn’t wait for a response. She turned and ducked back into the compartment she’d emerged from. On her hip, he couldn’t miss the wavy blade of a kris dagger. Its sinuous curves complemented the girl’s, but he suspected the edge wouldn’t feel nearly as sharp.
The train picked up speed as it sailed along the rail, the only detectable motion a slight swaying when it rounded a bend.
Shaking his head, Oliver strode to the compartment and glanced inside. The girl had taken a seat and was sipping at a steaming cup of coffee.
“A long night last night,” she said, “followed by a busy day.”
“You told me,” he muttered, taking a seat on a plush, padded bench opposite of her. “It was a long one for me as well.”
“There is plenty for both of us, Duke,” she said, gesturing to a silver pot and an empty cup that a steward must have delivered while she was waiting for him.
He poured himself a coffee and met her eyes. “I must apologize for getting off on the wrong foot. I’m a little hungover, to be honest, and when I saw you, I was a bit confused. From the name I thought… well, I was surprised.”
“Sam,” said the girl.
“Sam, yes,” mumbled Oliver. “It is typically a boy’s name, isn’t it?”
“It is,” acknowledged the girl, “but I am a woman.”
“I can see that,” remarked Oliver. He sipped at his coffee then quickly sat it down. It was scorching hot. “I was surprised and I’m thinking a bit slowly this afternoon. Do you think we can begin again by introducing ourselves properly?” The girl nodded, so he continued, “Duke Oliver Wellesley, as you know.”
“And what do you do, Duke?” she asked.
He blinked at her, uncertain. “I, ah…”
“Why are you the one they selected to solve this murder?” she asked. “My mentor told me the prince himself assigned you.”
He picked up the coffee cup again and took another sip to buy time, a scalding sip. Cursing himself, he set the cup back down.
“Add a bit of milk,” suggested the girl.
He grunted then answered her earlier question, “I’m not sure I’ll solve anything. I’m hoping there are capable inspectors in Harwick and that they’re able to get to the bottom of this mystery. I’m merely going so we can show that something is being done. I have no experience with this sort of thing, but my brother insisted.”
“Your brother?” she asked, setting down her own cup. “What is it you do when you are not solving murders, Duke?”
“I’m a cartographer. A mapmaker for the Company,” he replied, patting the leather satchel at his side. “That’s what I enjoy. Leading an expedition, charting new lands, drawing the lines where knowledge meets imagination.”
“A cartographer fo
r the Company,” responded the girl, brushing a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. “That is quite a unique position. How did you end up with it, Duke?”
“It is unique, I suppose,” he confirmed, eyeing the strange girl, wondering if perhaps this was her first encounter with royalty. “After what happened in Northundon, I took a bit of a break from my life. I was a bit lost and needed something, I just didn’t know what. For years, I switched between intensive studies and just-as-intensive rebellion against what was expected of me. Eventually, I settled down a bit, but by then, my family had no place for me, as I am sure you’ve heard.”
She frowned, apparently confused, but he’d seen the look before. No one expected him to be so frank, but he had found it was the best way to cut through the fluff of polite conversation and get to the meat of a discussion. Honesty and transparency, while not exactly his family motto, served him well enough.
“I loved travel, even when I was younger,” he continued, giving her time to process what he’d said. “I spent a few years bouncing around Enhover, seeing the sights, meeting the people, finding myself in the little adventures that young men do. Occasionally, my tutors would catch up to me and arouse my interest with some new field, and I’d spend several weeks or months in study, but then I’d be off again headed to another distant horizon. Over time, though, I found I enjoyed the solitude of study and spent less time carousing. I began to think about what was next, and I found myself drawn to the blank pages on the maps, those spots outside of the cities, outside of what was known. In Enhover, those spaces contain mostly sheep and wheat, of course, but shortly after I came of age, I caught a ride to the United Territories and explored there, every month, every year, moving further and further away from home.”
He tried his coffee again and shot her a surreptitious glance over the rim of the cup.
She was paying attention.
That was a good start to regaining his footing. Finding out so much personal information about a man of his stature could be disarming, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made use of the tactic. He wouldn’t try to sleep with her, he decided, not after the reaction she’d had. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be friendly. The days ahead would be more pleasant if she wasn’t spitting venom at him at every turn. He would give her a smile and pluck the thorns from those branches.
“Well,” he continued, “it wasn’t long before the Company heard about my adventures. This was, oh, twelve years back, I suppose. They were in the early stages of their expansion, still flush off the success in Archtan Atoll and ready to deploy that capital settling other colonies. They needed someone who could lead the expeditions, assess the areas for commercial value, and map it out so others could come back and find the place — the United Territories, the Vendatt Islands, Imbon, the Southlands, and of course, the full scope of Archtan Atoll.”
Sam smiled and nodded in response, so he kept talking, “In fact, when we are done with this little errand, I’ll be off to the Westlands to continue my work there. Funny story, if you want to hear it. I was the first man from Enhover to spot Imbon. It hasn’t achieved the fame of Temsin’s discovery of Archtan Atoll, but it is an amazing feat to be the first man to put the lines down and chart an unknown island, don’t you agree?”
“That line is better than your first one, Duke,” murmured the girl. “Where knowledge and imagination meet, I like it.”
He rubbed a hand back over his hair.
“The most beautiful thing in Westundon,” she reminded him. “That’s what you said when we first spoke out in the hallway. I imagine that works on the most vapid of barmaids and few others.”
“It has worked on more than barmaids,” he grumbled, thinking of the twin baronesses.
“Duke,” said the girl, leaning forward, “is that true what you said, that you’ve been to Archtan Atoll?”
“Of course it is,” he replied.
She sat back. “I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve traveled far and wide, but never quite that far.”
“Without an airship, it’s several months journeying,” he acknowledged, “and difficult travel, at that. Even with an airship and good winds, it takes two weeks. It’s worth it, though, if you ever get the opportunity.”
“It was a good story, Duke, line or not,” admitted the girl.
“You don’t have to call me ‘Duke’,” he said. “You can call me Oliver.”
“Duke is your name, is it not?”
He stared at her, mouth agape.
“Duke Wellesley,” she said. “I thought that’s how you introduced yourself. My apologies if I got it wrong.”
“I-I am Duke Wellesley,” he stammered. “The Duke Wellesley. Well, one of them.”
She blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“My name is not Duke,” he explained. “That is my title. Surely you’ve heard the name Wellesley? King Edward Wellesley, Prince Philip Wellesley?”
“Of course I’ve heard of King Edward Wellesley!” she exclaimed. “Everyone has, but I’ve met a dozen others who share the name. I understand several generations ago it became quite fashionable to assume the family name Wellesley, and I suppose a few who did were even distant relations. A duke you say you are? What are you a duke of? And don’t tell me Westundon. I know Prince Philip is the duke of this province. I have seen him, and you are not him.”
“I’m his brother,” muttered Oliver. “His younger brother.”
“His younger brother is, ah… Frank in Eastundon?”
“Franklin,” snapped Oliver. “Duke Franklin Wellesley of Eastundon and Duke John Wellesley of Southundon are also my brothers. There are four of us, and I’m the youngest. I am Duke Wellesley.”
“You claim you’re the brother of these dukes, and that you were still named Duke?” asked Samantha, her face scrunching in confusion. She glanced down at her half-empty coffee cup, as if it contained the answer.
“My name is Oliver, not Duke!” he nearly shouted. “I am a son of the king, and all of us were granted the title of duke on our thirteenth winter. It is a title, not a name.”
The girl stilled, understanding slowly creeping across her face.
He sat back, crossing his arms across his chest, trying not to be upset she’d never heard of him.
“Duke is your title,” she repeated. “My mentor did not tell me. He just said you were going to investigate the murder. I never thought royalty would… You are serious?”
He nodded.
“Duke of what?”
“Duke of… I’m the Duke of Northundon,” he answered.
“Northundon is gone, isn’t it?” she asked slowly, clearly concerned about offending him now. “I thought during the war, the Coldlands raiders destroyed the city, and what wasn’t done by them was done by Edward… ah, your father’s airships and bombs.”
“I was named Duke of Northundon on my thirteenth winter solstice,” explained Oliver. “The Coldlands raiders attacked two moons later while I was studying in Southundon. The province of Northundon still exists, legally, though you are right, there’s not much to it anymore. Everything north of the Sheetsand Mountains is virtually uninhabited, just a few herders clinging to the slopes. Farther north there are… strange happenings, sometimes. Odd sightings, disappearances, that sort of thing. It’s, well, no use bandying around it. There are ghosts haunting what used to be the city of Northundon. It is still my province, but Northundon is no longer a place for living men.”
“I’m aware of what haunts the ruins,” replied Samantha softly.
“Even though I am the Duke of the Northundon, my brother Franklin in Eastundon has taken over the day-to-day responsibilities for what remains of the province. It’s easier for him to manage. He has a strong ministry in Eastundon to rely on, and it taxes them little to keep an eye on the north.” He drew a deep breath and released it, cursing himself for nattering on like some teacher on his first day at school.
“I understand now,” offered the girl.
&nbs
p; He thought she meant it.
“I am sorry I thought your name was Duke.”
He sighed. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said the girl. Quickly, she added, “That didn’t come out right! I just didn’t expect—”
Glaring at her, he interjected, “I am sorry I thought you’d be a man.”
She frowned at him, crossing her arms across her chest in mirror to his pose.
They sat silently for a moment, then he dropped his arms to his side. “It seems neither of us had the right idea going into this, did we?”
“No, we didn’t,” she agreed.
“Shall we start over again, again?” he asked.
She smirked. “That sounds good to me.”
Having more than enough of speaking about himself, he asked, “You know about me now, but I know nothing of you. Who are you, and why did the Church send you with me, if that is not rude to ask?”
“No, it is a fair question,” replied Samantha. She toyed with her coffee cup before answering, “My name is Samantha, but most people call me Sam. I’ve been working for the Church for over two decades now, since I was a little girl.”
Oliver nodded, waiting.
She looked back at him.
He took a sip of his coffee and scratched his ear.
“Have you been to Harwick before, Duke?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t,” he remarked. “I’ve traveled extensively all over Enhover, but I never found any reason to go to Harwick.”
“I wonder why the countess was there. She’s from Derbycross, yes? That’s over a hundred leagues from Harwick, and if I recall correctly, there’s no direct route from one to the other. Coming from Archtan Atoll, I imagine the countess must have landed in Southundon, right? Isn’t that where the Company’s airships berth?”
“Many of them,” he confirmed. “Ah, Saman—Sam, were you going to tell me a little about yourself?”
“I did,” she responded. She glanced out the window, watching the rolling hills of Westundon province flash by as the train coasted down the track. “Has anyone informed the governor in Archtan Atoll that his wife is dead?”