by A. C. Cobble
Oliver sat back, shaking his head. “No, not yet. There’s no glae worm filament that stretches across the sea. When the message is sent, it will be by airship. Before that, the Company’s directors and my family thought we should have some answers. Governor Dalyrimple deserves to know what happened, which means, we need to find out what happened.”
“On that, Duke, we’re agreed,” she said. She winced. “Sorry, I meant—”
“Oliver.”
The Priestess II
“Duke,” she asked, “are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbled. “It’s Oliver, you know.”
“Of course,” she responded. “Oliver. I’ll have it next time.”
“I’m sure you will.” He blinked heavily, looking around the rail car and then at the landscape flashing by out the window. “Where are we?”
She stared at him as she had been for the last hour. The man was unlike anyone she’d ever met before, and she couldn’t quite figure him out. Though, she supposed she had never met a royal, and apparently the man really was one. Perhaps that explained his easy confidence?
She imagined that he’d never met anyone like her before, either. Few people had.
He clearly didn’t understand what they were walking into, and she wanted to warn him, but she worried he would brush it off with the assured experience that he had successfully dealt with every other obstacle in his life, if there had been any. He had no reason to think this time would be any different. She could tell him more about herself, try to explain what they were getting into, but she didn’t think he was ready for that. No, she would have to let him see for himself.
“Are you staring at me?” he asked, his eyes finally staying open. He shifted into a seated position on the wide bench, rubbing his face in his hands, then returning her look.
“I am staring at you,” she confirmed. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He paused, mid-yawn, one fist hanging in the air on the way to cover his mouth. Finally, he closed it, and replied, “I suppose they do.”
“Are you any good with that?” asked Sam, glancing at the broadsword laid on a shelf above the padded bench he had been sleeping on.
“I’m passing fair,” he replied after seeing what she was looking at. He turned and peeked out the window. “I trained a great deal as a child for battle and for fencing. Fencing is popular these days, but during the early years of the Coldlands war, my family trained me for real combat. I saw what happened at Northundon myself, and it motivated me, you could say. I’ll never forget it. I don’t train like I used to, but I’ve been in a few scrapes, and I still know which end of the thing is sharp.”
“I remember Northundon as well,” replied Sam quietly. “It will be with me always, I think.”
“You remember?” asked Duke. “You can’t be a day older than me. What were you, ten winters when the Coldlands War happened?”
“Twelve,” replied Sam. “I saw it, though.”
Duke frowned at her.
“I was on one of the airships that flew to north to meet the threat. I-I saw Northundon burning. I saw the reprisal against the raiders.”
“You were in the fleet? A twelve-year-old girl?”
She shrugged. “My mentor accompanied a contingent from the Church in case… in case there was anything unusual that happened. I was with him to observe.”
“He brought a twelve-year-old girl to observe a battle?” exclaimed Duke. “That’s… terrible. What exactly was this priest mentoring you in that you needed to see a battle?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed out the window. “We’re approaching Harwick now. That’s why I woke you. When we arrive, shall we go to the inspector’s station and see if we can locate the man assigned to the case?”
Duke shook his head. “No, if they aren’t waiting on us already, we’ll send word when we arrive at our hotel. They’ll come to us.”
“You’ll just ask them, and they’ll…” She frowned at him. “I suppose they will, won’t they?”
He shrugged. “Of course they will.”
The car began to slow, and within moments, a uniformed porter appeared at the door. “M’lord, m’lady, the other passengers will wait until you depart before disembarking. Will you have a carriage waiting? Let me know and I will load your bags into it while you refresh yourselves.”
Duke glanced at Sam. “Do you need any assistance?”
She snorted and stood, buckling her belt and kris daggers around her waist and then collecting her simple rucksack from storage. “I packed light.”
“As did I,” said Duke, waving off the porter. He strapped on his broadsword, adjusted his satchel, and hung his rucksack on his back. “Neither one of us is planning for a long stay, are we?”
The car coasted to a halt, and Sam gestured to the door. “After you.”
Duke grinned. “Ladies first.”
“I’m no lady,” she responded.
“Lady, woman, it’s all the same,” he claimed, bowing with a flourish. “Regardless of station, the fairer sex is always welcome to go before me.”
She laughed. “That’s a line I bet you don’t tell the noblewomen you’re wooing. You’re doing better, though. There’s hope for you yet, Duke.”
She slipped out the door, forcing herself to keep moving until she heard him stomp after her, muttering under his breath about his name. She hopped down from the railcar and surveyed the station. Nothing like Westundon, she saw immediately. It was small, the end of the line. A grim row of buildings began no more than fifty yards from the station. Stark gray granite, two-stories, with moss-covered shingles on the roofs.
“Duke Wellesley,” called a voice.
Duke stepped beside her and offered the approaching man a curt nod.
“Senior Inspector Joff Gallen,” said the man, bowing at the waist. “We received word over the glae worm filament that’d you’d be arriving today. Come, come. I’ve arranged lodging at the Cliffwatch.”
“The Cliffwatch?” asked Duke.
“It’s, ah… it’s our finest inn, m’lord,” explained the senior inspector. “I hope it will suffice?”
“It will have to, won’t it?” replied Duke. “Are you handling the matter we’ve come to inquire on?”
“No, my subordinate, Inspector Patrick McCready, is taking the lead on the investigation,” responded Gallen. “He’s… he’s my best man, m’lord.”
“Take us to the inn, then, and send for McCready,” instructed Duke. “I’m sure your man is experienced and has all in hand. We’ll do our part and I hope we can resolve this matter in short order.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Senior Inspector Gallen, turning quickly and ushering them away from the rail into the narrow, granite-bound streets of Harwick.
Sam frowned, falling in line between the men. The senior inspector’s tone was bright and cheery, but his shoulders were slumped and his body moved stiffly. He’d assigned a junior man to the case, and he’d skipped over the ingratiating small talk she had witnessed every senior official and fellow first-class passenger engage in the moment they saw Duke. Duke was a son of the king. He had the power to promote with the wave of his hand, and the senior inspector wanted to stay as far from them as he practically could. Either the man had no concern for personal promotion, or…
Hopes of a quick resolution were fading rapidly. Sam turned to study the walls, doors, and windows of Harwick. In one of these buildings, a woman had been killed. If the reports bore out, then someone in the village had attempted sorcery.
The Cliffwatch sat at the top of the hamlet of Harwick, back to the cliffs that loomed over the village. It ironically looked down on the town and the harbor below, and from the comfortably embroidered, stuffed, and broken-in chairs that they were ensconced in, they couldn’t even see the cliffs. Instead, they looked out over the mossy roofs of the buildings down to the choppy water of the harbor. The crisp scent of saltwater, hanging over the soggy stench of refuse, drifted up through the vill
age and floated into the open windows of the Cliffwatch’s tea room. The scattered candles and crackling fire did little to battle the reek of the harbor. Evidently, Harwick shared at least one characteristic with Westundon.
Sam inhaled her brew, trying to banish the scent of the sea, and glanced out at the moss- and lichen-covered buildings underneath the balcony. It was chilly and damp in the room, but she guessed from the flora it might always be chilly and damp in Harwick.
Across from her, Duke nursed an ale and stared moodily outside. The sun had already fallen behind the cliffs and the town was near dark. They’d only been in the place a quarter of an hour, but Duke was restless, anxious to begin their investigation.
Finally, they heard murmured voices that proceeded a red-faced and exquisitely mustached man. They stood to greet him, and the man headed directly toward them.
Duke offered his hand. “Inspector McCready?”
“I am,” answered the man, tentatively taking Duke’s hand and allowing the royal to pump it firmly. “I am told you will be leading the investigation, and I’m to assist. Please let me know what I can do to support you, m’lord.”
Duke grunted. “We’re far enough away from the capital that we can dispense with the dance, don’t you think, Inspector? This is your trade, not mine. When we need a map drawn or a smiling face to dance with the eligible debutantes at a winter ball, I’ll take the lead. For now, you’re in charge, and we will follow.”
McCready swallowed nervously.
Duke chuckled. “I understand your concerns, Inspector, but it’s not a trap. All I want is to get this resolved. I am here to open doors, provide guidance from Crown and Company, and facilitate whatever you need to locate Countess Dalyrimple’s killer. Please, tell us what you know so far.”
Duke gestured to the cluster of comfortable chairs they’d been seated in and nodded to the pitcher of ale and pot of tea that sat atop a small table. The inspector eyed the ale for a moment before picking up the tea pot.
“Have an ale, Inspector,” advised Duke.
“He’s not so bad once you get to know him,” added Sam, winking at Duke.
“Go on, then,” muttered Duke after the inspector poured himself a tea.
“Well,” started McCready, eyeing Sam curiously before returning his gaze to Duke, “no offense to yourself, but if you want my true, honest opinion, I’m not sure it’s Crown and Company we need help from. I believe this murder is a Church matter, or at least, it’s been made out to look like one.”
“We can help with that, too,” replied the nobleman, nodding toward Sam. “I brought a representative of the Church. I’ve read your reports, of course, but I’d like to hear it directly from you. Why do you think this is a Church matter?”
McCready knuckled his mustaches and then said, “It’s late, m’lord. Perhaps in the morning we could go to the scene and I can show you there? I’m not a man of words, m’lord, and I think you’ll understand when you see it.”
“Let’s go now,” suggested Duke. He stood, tossed down the rest of his ale, and waited while the others stood around him. “I’m sorry if you have plans, Inspector, but the quicker we solve this, the quicker I can be out of your hair.”
“I can’t tell you, m’lord, if it’s real sorcery or not,” admitted McCready.
“I haven’t the faintest,” agreed Duke.
They were standing in the apothecary looking over the scene. With the body removed, the pentagram was obvious. Black lumps of melted wax marked the five points of the star, ashy chalk formed the lines between. Blood filled the space as cleanly as if it had been painted there by a master artisan, barring the smudges where the body had been removed.
Sam, ignoring the two men, knelt beside the pattern. Not touching it, she hovered close and sniffed. She eyed the clean lines and then glanced at the three walls that formed the room. Hesitantly, she picked up one of the wax lumps and rubbed it in her hands, watching as it crumbled between her fingers. Wincing, she dropped the wax and stood, looking for a cloth to rub the grimy residue from her hand.
“Here’s my rendition of what the body looked like when it was here,” offered McCready. He laid out a worn leather notebook and flipped through until he had the page he wanted. They gathered around the apothecary’s stained and pitted table and examined the sketch.
Sam peered over Duke’s shoulder, seeing the rendition of a naked woman. The inspector had accurately captured the scene in the room as it was, so she had no reason to doubt he hadn’t also accurately depicted the dead woman. She shuddered.
“She had recently had sex?” queried Sam. “I assume you know that because fluids were leaking from her body? Could the physician tell — was she violated, or was it consensual?”
Duke turned and blinked at her.
McCready coughed uncomfortably. “We, ah, we did see the-the remains of the activity, ah, leaking... The physician did an examination, and I’m not sure what he’d be able to tell, but there were no signs of that type of violence on her body. No bruises, no marks of a struggle on her arms, legs, under her fingernails, or, ah, down there. Below her neck, she was quite uninjured.”
“Please do not be nervous around me, Inspector,” instructed Sam, walking slowly around the room, looking at the three pentagrams that had been marked on the walls, and leaning close to study the other symbols and designs. “I’m familiar with sexual activity and the results of it. None of us are children here.”
Behind her, she could feel the inspector sharing a glance with Duke. In other circumstances, it would have brought a smile to her lips, to shock the two men, but not now. Now, she wondered why her mentor had sent her on this errand instead of coming himself. Whether or not any contact with underworld spirits had been made, she wasn’t yet certain, but someone had made the attempt. Someone had practiced sorcery — real sorcery. Why would Thotham send her and not come himself?
“Inspector,” she asked, “how are bodies disposed of in Harwick?”
“They’re cremated, m’lady.”
“Can you take us to the place they are burned?”
“What?” exclaimed Duke. “What does that have to do with this crime? Countess Dalyrimple was not burned, Sam.”
She turned and eyed the two men. “The pentagrams on the walls are drawn with what looks like plain chalk, nothing special about it, and I’m not certain what half of those symbols are meant to represent. Those could have been drawn by anyone, but the materials on the floor are authentic. Both the chalk and the wax were formed using the ash of the recently deceased. Perhaps we can find out where they got the ash. Look at the blood — see how cleanly it pooled? Power was called here. Inspector McCready, your report was correct. Sorcery is alive in Enhover.”
McCready grimaced.
“Fetch us a carriage?” asked Duke.
“The mortuary will be locked this time of night, m’lord,” replied the inspector. “I’ll roust the physician and have it opened up, though. Shouldn’t take more than a turn of the clock.”
Duke nodded.
“In the meantime, you could look upstairs where the second victim was discovered.”
“Was that victim involved in the ritual?” asked Sam.
“I’m not sure,” responded McCready. He pointed to a curtain at the back of the room. “Through there, up the stairs. There were no… no obvious signs like down here, and the physician couldn’t determine which person died first. There was no evidence linking the apothecary directly to Countess Dalyrimple’s murder, but it doesn’t take an inspector to infer they were related. Perhaps you’ll see something I did not. We removed the body and the valuables, but the shelves were left like we found them.”
“There were items missing?” guessed Sam. The inspector nodded confirmation, and she cursed. “That kind of apothecary, was he?”
The inspector glanced outside where his supervisor was standing. He drew a deep breath, then said, “That kind of apothecary.”
The Inspector II
“Looks like
you were right, McCready,” muttered Senior Inspector Gallen.
Patrick McCready grunted in assent. It was true. He’d been right, but he wasn’t happy about it. He rubbed his knuckles across his mustaches, brushing away the damp from the fog, feeling the soft whiskers beneath his fist. He looked up and down the quiet street, dead so late at night.
“What’s on your mind, McCready?” asked Gallen.
“Nothing, sir,” he replied.
His supervisor snorted. “Don’t lie to me, Pat. We’ve got Duke Wellesley here in Harwick, investigating a murder that we don’t have a single lead for. You know he’s got the power to wave his hand and put us out of work, right? How do you think that’s going to make the missus feel when you show back up at the house with no job, no income? And don’t be thinking you’ll find any other work, not anytime soon, and not in Harwick. You got friends here, Pat. You are well-liked, but no one is going to cross the duke and give you a helping hand. He turns on us, Pat, and we’re finished.”
McCready glanced at the senior inspector and shook his head. “The duke isn’t going to run us off the job, sir. He doesn’t seem the type. That’s not what’s got me worried.”
“Maybe you’re not worried…” muttered Gallen, crossing his arms and hugging himself in the chill air. “What is it, then, Pat?”
“There hasn’t been sorcery in Enhover in twenty years,” replied McCready, staring down the street at the fog slowly drifting between the granite buildings. “Not since the Coldlands War, not since Northundon. Why here, why now?”
“Hells if I know,” declared Gallen.
“A countess with an estate in Derbycross, a husband who is governor of Archtan Atoll… She probably has estates in all of the provincial capitals, so why is she here, sir?” questioned McCready. “A peer, one who by the looks of things is involved in sorcery somehow. Why’d she come to our little hamlet? There’s nothing here but whalers and moss. Why’d she come to this building, sir?”