by A. C. Cobble
“I will, but I cannot convince Oliver to travel to Archtan Atoll on my word alone,” responded Raffles, his pipe hanging forgotten in his hand. “And, Gabriel, I expect to see this artifact, soon.”
“William and Philip,” suggested the bishop, his jowls wobbling and he bobbed his head. “We can ask the prime minister to discuss the matter with the prince. Have William convince Philip that the Crown has an urgent interest in discovering the responsible party behind the murder of a peer. From what has already been shared, it appears all clues lead to the atoll already, and we may just need to give a gentle push.”
“If Philip is convinced then he’ll demand his younger brother go,” replied Raffles, cursing when he saw his pipe had burned out. He set it down and picked up his sherry. “Are we sure about this? If we set Oliver on the path, we have no control of what he uncovers…”
“The Dalyrimples were up to something that neither you nor I was aware of. So, there is a risk that Oliver could find something we’d rather leave buried,” mused Bishop Yates, twisting his sherry glass between his fingers. “But we have to get the man out of Enhover until Harwick is cleansed, and whether or not it is painful, we need to find out what was going on in Archtan Atoll. We’ve gotten too far to be surprised, Randolph. If not Oliver, then who has the authority to investigate the governor?”
“Very well then,” remarked Director Raffles. “You will contact this priest of yours tonight about Harwick? If so, I’ll head to the glae worm station and dash off a message to William. With his help, we’ll bring Philip on board, and by tomorrow, Duke Oliver Wellesley will be dispatched to Archtan Atoll.”
Bishop Yates nodded and stood, surveying the room.
They were still mostly alone in the posh quarters of the smoking room, but other members were beginning to trickle in the as the sun set over the city of Westundon. Several of them nodded at the bishop, and the portly churchman waved in acknowledgement.
“See you in the sanctuary on Newday, Yates.”
The bishop grunted and departed without further comment.
Drinking deeply of his sherry, Director Randolph Raffles settled back in his chair, unable to relax. He was familiar with the Church’s knives, the men and women who tracked and hunted sorcerers throughout Enhover and the United Territories. They were skilled, but any blade so honed had a chance of turning in the hand. If any vestige of Yates’ influence in Harwick remained, the man Thotham might find it.
And Oliver, venturing into the unknown in Archtan Atoll. What if he found… Raffles shuddered. The risk was high, but Yates was right, who else was there? If the governor was walking the dark path, they had to know and stop him. Grimacing, Raffles collected his pipe and tapped out the ash. He stood, tucking away his smoking implements.
Bustling over to clear the glasses and dispose of the ash pile, the attendant murmured, “Dinner service is set in the sea room, sir.”
“Cancel it,” growled Raffles. “I have work to do tonight, and I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”
The Cartographer IV
His booted feet clomped down the hallway and he briefly wondered why there were no carpets in his brother’s ministry wing. In the prince’s personal quarters, lush fibers absorbed the sound of even the most determined stride, but in the administrative area, where the government of Westundon Province was run, each footstep could be heard a hundred yards away.
Clerks and functionaries darted about, all veering out of Oliver’s way, offering quick bows or scurrying from sight without acknowledging him. He had no official role in the bureaucracy of his father’s and brother’s government, but he still retained the title of duke. The ministry served at the pleasure of his family, and while he rarely bothered to get involved, there were plenty of stories of his siblings swooping in and tossing out or demoting both junior and senior ministers on a whim. Serving Enhover and the royal line came with its privileges and its risks.
The sound of his boots announcing his approach, he turned a corner and slowed as he drew near to his brother’s offices. Outside of the closed door, two guards stood tall, halberds held slanted across their bodies, prepared to drop in front of any interloper, while daggers and compact blunderbusses hung from their belts.
Oliver grinned at the thought of the men trying to use the cumbersome firearms in an emergency. The hand-cannons were just as likely to explode in the face of the user as they were to wound an enemy, but he supposed regardless, the thunderous explosion as they discharged would alert the rest of the guards that there was a problem.
“M’lord,” called one of the men before offering a short bow, “your brother is waiting.”
“I’m sure he is,” remarked the duke, striding without pause through the door the second guard swung open.
Westundon’s Chief Minister, Herbert Shackles, was waiting in the anteroom, poring over documents, a quill poised in one hand and stained with bright red ink. The man spent more time correcting reports and chastising underlyings than he did anything else, but Oliver knew it saved his brother Philip from paying a bit of attention to the administrative details of running the province. Philip thought of himself as a leader, not a clerk. All well and good, as long as the actual clerks did their job.
The duke had to cough loudly to draw the attention of Shackles, and the man looked up with a start.
“Ah, Oliver, you’re back.”
“We accomplished what we set out to do,” he replied. “I have business to conduct, and there was no reason to linger in Harwick.”
“The Westlands, right?” asked the chief minister, rising to his feet. “The papers have been full of speculation about the expedition. Exciting times, Oliver, very exciting. Speaking of which, Director Raffles is in with your brother.”
The duke frowned.
“What’s the problem?” asked Shackles, sensing Oliver’s hesitation.
“Is Raffles here on another matter or here to see me?”
Westundon’s chief minister shrugged. “You know that answer better than I. For the director to make his way to the palace from Company House, there must be a compelling reason.”
Grimacing, Oliver followed Shackles through another door, past a brace of secretary’s desks, and into his brother’s sanctum.
“Oliver!” cried Philip, setting down a cup of tea and rising.
After a moment, Director Raffles rose as well.
“Come, sit by the fire. It’s quite cold out today, isn’t it? Have a spot of tea to warm you up,” suggested Philip. “Tell us about what you and Bishop Yates’ emissary learned.”
“I already related everything I thought was important by the glae worm transmission,” said Oliver, sitting in the third chair his brother had arranged in front of a small crackling fire. “We found a man named Robertson who we believe helped conduct the ritual that resulted in Countess Hathia Dalyrimple’s death. It is my thought that she was a willing participant in the operation. This man Robertson appears to have killed his own wife as well. We couldn’t question him, though, because he was killed by an assassin, a man formerly in his employ, who also attacked us and a local inspector. The inspector did not survive, but we fought off the assassin. I think it likely the assassin was hired by someone outside of Harwick.”
“Do you know who?” wondered the prince.
“No, and I’m afraid the trail is quite cold in that regard,” admitted Oliver. “It’s likely that another player involved in sorcery dispatched the countess and Robertson because they were rivals. We did uncover a secret society known in Harwick as the Mouth of Set, though aside from possibly Robertson himself, none of the members appear competent enough to be involved in any sort of nefarious plot.”
Philip nodded, sipping his tea, absorbing every word.
Oliver continued, “While I don’t believe they were involved in this matter, I recommended a talented inspector should be dispatched from Eastundon to determine if this society was involved in any other crime. Additionally, there is a lead pointing to Southundon wh
ere we believe the countess utilized a glae worm station, but I suspect that well will come up dry. I’ve requested some documentation from Company House in Southundon to see if we can determine when Countess Dalyrimple arrived, but beyond that, I’m afraid the rest of the mystery lies in Archtan Atoll. Perhaps there someone could find how the countess got involved in sorcery and why she traveled to Enhover. There is at least one man who may be able to answer to that, the governor himself. Unless we’ve already heard from him?”
Director Raffles shook his head. “Not a word. The last dispatch from Governor Dalyrimple was the official quarterly update. It’s quite possible the countess was still on island when he sent it, but it’s also quite possible she had already left. Regardless, there is no mention of a problem with her in the report. While you were in Harwick, I inquired around and none of Dalyrimple’s close associates have had any personal communication with him in some time. All is well, we believe, as our airships continue to arrive with no reports of trouble, but…”
Oliver frowned. “Have any docked in the last few days? Surely they would have left after the countess.”
“There’s been no word of her,” responded the director. “None of the captains I tracked down recalled her at any social events on the atoll, but they did not recall any concern about her missing, either. She’s known to be reclusive.”
Sitting back in his chair, the duke sipped at his tea, confused.
“The mystery deepens, doesn’t it?” quipped the prince. “As far as the Crown is concerned, the killer of the countess has been dealt with. There are some outstanding questions, but justice has been served.”
“What about Inspector McCready’s killer?” queried Oliver.
“You and the priestess killed him, no?” asked Philip.
“I don’t think he was acting alone,” mentioned the duke. “Someone hired the man.”
“As you requested, we’ll dispatch more inspectors to the hamlet and they’ll get to the bottom of it,” replied Philip. “With the noblewoman’s murder solved, I’m comfortable leaving that in other hands.”
Oliver grunted.
Director Randolph added, “And as far as the Company is concerned, we have a line of inquiry we need to pursue with a key employee. If the governor is aware his wife has gone missing, why has he not raised the alarm? Why is he evidently unconcerned?”
“Perhaps he knew she was traveling to Enhover and hence has no reason to suspect anything is amiss?” speculated Oliver.
“I checked and confirmed it with your uncle William,” replied Raffles. “She had no social engagements planned in Southundon where you say she sent the messages and perhaps disembarked from an airship. Her staff at Dalyrimple Manor in Derbycross did not expect her… I understand you’ve made inquiries as to the shipping manifests, but until they are compiled, we will have to leave that for the moment. Unless there is evidence in the shipping manifests, the glae worm transmissions are the only trace she even stopped in the city.”
“It concerns me there has been no word from the governor, Director,” mentioned the prince. “Too much is unknown. The health of the Company is important to the Crown. If you need our assistance, you need only ask.”
“I appreciate that,” replied Raffles, bowing in his seat.
“There’s also the matter of the Church’s continued inquiry,” continued Philip. “Bishop Yates is still unsatisfied. He tells me it is uncertain there was any outcome, but the materials and practice involved in Hathia Dalyrimple’s murder appear authentic. Gentlemen, someone attempted sorcery in Harwick. Both the Crown and Church have outlawed such practices, and rightfully, the bishop is distraught about it.”
“Yes,” agreed Director Raffles. “Bishop Yates expressed his interest in continuing the investigation in his conversation with me this morning. He’d like to find the source of this… ritual that Countess Dalyrimple was a victim of. The Church has no means to quickly send a representative to Archtan Atoll, and as you know, their presence in the tropics is not formidable.”
Oliver’s eyes darted back and forth between his brother and the director.
Prince Philip tilted his head, waiting on his brother.
“I’m to depart for the Westlands in two days,” Oliver mentioned. “There’s an airship being loaded with supplies as we speak. The men are already assembled. It’s a massive opportunity for the Company — the largest unexplored territory in the world!”
“The Westlands are not going anywhere,” replied Philip.
“We found levitating rock in Archtan Atoll, red saltpetre in the Vendatt Islands, fae lights and glae worm filament in the Southlands… I’m sure you are aware, there have been early reports of star-iron in the Westlands. There’s flora and fauna no one has ever seen before. We don’t even know the size of the territory yet, except that it is multiples larger than Enhover itself. The commercial opportunity is, well, it’s unprecedented.”
“Our flag has been planted on Westlands soil,” drawled the prince. “There is no nation with strength to contest our claim there. A month, two months, it will matter little in the life of our empire. The Company has plenty of sterling in its coffers. It can wait a little bit longer as well.”
“He’s right,” agreed Director Raffles. “The Company has existed for over a century — a small period compared to the Wellesley line, but a little delay isn’t enough to stop us! The opportunity is as rich as you describe, Oliver, but it is not going away.”
“What will come of the expedition?” asked Oliver. “We’ve already invested substantially in it, and while I agree the Westlands are not going anywhere, the sterling we’ve spent on that airship will. Financial commitments both you and I have made, Director.”
Director Raffles grinned. “You’ve become a true Company man, eh? Do not worry. The profit from the expedition will still be yours. Instead of the Westlands, the airship could be dispatched to Archtan Atoll with you on board. You’re our chief cartographer, a certainty for director the moment you are ready to settle down, and our only partner that shares blood with the royal line. Oliver, your personal gain will be delayed by this unexpected detour, but it’s not going away. The other directors have no desire to step in front of what we all believe is rightfully your opportunity.”
“Crown and Company, brother,” added Prince Philip. “It is part of our bargain as Wellesleys. We have great power, great wealth, great opportunity, but we also have great responsibility. You saw what happened in Harwick. You are part of the royal line and a shareholder of the Company. You’re the best man to go to Archtan Atoll and settle this matter.”
“Crown and Company,” grumbled Oliver. He set down his teacup. “Do you have anything stronger to drink, brother?”
The Priestess IV
The ring of the bells stifled their conversation and they sat back to wait. Three bells rung six times each to signify the start of the day.
“I don’t know how anyone lives near here,” complained Sam once the vibrations and echoes had faded from the soaring, stone-arched room.
“I lived here once,” reminded her mentor.
“Rarely.”
The old man shrugged. “It was a good home.”
“If you ignore the bells,” complained Sam, “and they do not treat you like this is your home. I’ve seen the way Bishop Yates looks at you. It’s as if he’s seeing a stray, mangy dog.”
Thotham grinned. “The bishop is a different generation from mine. To him, sorcery is about defying the Church’s rule. It’s an irritant, like the purported prophets of the One God you occasionally see in the market squares or a member of the peerage who decides they’d rather keep their sterling than tithe the Church. Gabriel Yates has never witnessed actual dark magic, even like what you saw in Harwick. He only half-believes it even exists. It doesn’t stop him from using it as a bludgeon during his sermons to scare the populace into hanging on his words, but sorcery does not frighten him. To him, it isn’t real. The Church has already eradicated the threat. It’s no
t even worth considering, and that’s what truly keeps the man up at night. If there is no sorcery, is there a need for the Church?”
“It’s not just Bishop Yates, though, is it?” asked Sam. “From the prelate down, the Church claims there is no more sorcery in Enhover.”
“They can make the claim because since the Coldlands War, no one has seen it. Do you think they are right?”
She frowned at the old man.
“What you saw was real, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” she responded. “You knew it would be, didn’t you?”
The old man bobbed his white-haired head. “I did.”
“Then why did you not go yourself? Why send me?”
“You are my apprentice. You have to learn,” he replied.
She snorted. “To instruct me, you have to be present. My mentor? It’s been years since that has truly been the case. Your increasing disappearances, your reluctance to answer direct questions… We can call you the mentor and me the apprentice, but is it still so?”
“It will always be so, Samantha,” answered the old man. He leaned back in the pew and looked up at the soaring arches that flew into the dark recesses of the sanctuary far above their heads.
Half an hour before dawn, the sanctuary was quiet. It was the quietest place in the building and the perfect place to talk. It wasn’t very comfortable, though. Sam shifted on the hard wooden pew, cursing whatever ancient church leader had decided that uncomfortable congregants were congregants more likely to pay attention. More likely never to return, she thought bitterly, but return they did. Return and return with tithings in hand.
“The time of my prophecy is nigh,” claimed Thotham suddenly.