by A. C. Cobble
Oliver finished his drink without replying and looked out over the town below. From the commander’s veranda, the entire settlement spread out below them. Only the governor’s mansion, the local Company House where the factors did their business and made their homes, and the barracks sat behind them.
A gentle breeze blew off sea, bringing with it the heavy scent of saltwater, the cauldron of spices from the market, cooking foods from the taverns, fresh-cut wood from the shipworks, and the verdant vegetation from everywhere else. Oliver breathed in deep of the heady aroma.
Atop the stone walls that surrounded the mansion and the barracks, marines walked on patrol. Down below the walls, people were scurrying about their last errands before complete darkness fell. The sounds from the shipworks were fading, and he could see a steady stream of laborers walking along the hard, sandy road from there into the town. The harbor was still busy, and it would remain so most of the night, preparing for the change in tide. In town, lights were flaring to life, and music and the sounds of revelry were starting up in dozens of taverns. All was peaceful, normal life in the tropics.
“We should go,” said Oliver, turning and looking back into the commander’s office.
His imagination traced back through that wood and stone, across the open courtyard, to where the governor’s mansion sat — the former home of Countess Dalyrimple, the source of this mystery. None of it was any clearer to him now, even after he’d sat there and had looked the governor in the eye.
“M’lord,” asked Commander Ostrander, “you said you had bad news for the governor. What was it?”
“His wife is dead,” answered Oliver. “Did you know anything was amiss?”
Commander Ostrander rolled his glass between his hands, looking at his feet. “I will be honest, m’lord. I had little social interaction with the governor, his wife, or their daughter. They keep to themselves in the mansion. How… how did you know she was dead, m’lord?”
Oliver stared at the man. “She died in Enhover.”
“Enhover?” exclaimed the commander. “What was she doing in Enhover?”
“You didn’t know she was gone?” asked Oliver.
Ostrander shook his head.
“I don’t know, Commander,” he replied, finally. “I don’t know what she was doing in Enhover.”
When they returned to the governor’s mansion, Dalyrimple’s chief of staff informed them the governor had retired for the night to grieve for his wife. Hiding his doubts, Oliver had allowed the man to settle them into rooms and had begged off an audience with a variety of people who had heard a member of the royal line, and a senior Company official, was in town.
“Why didn’t you agree to meet with anyone?” asked Sam over a quiet dinner with just the two of them. “You don’t think another opinion on what is going on in this place is warranted?”
“You’re right,” agreed Oliver, setting down his fork. “We need more information, but I need time to think before we delve any deeper into this.”
“Think about what?” asked Sam, taking a bite.
“We came here with the plan to inform the governor about his wife’s passing and to investigate any ties she had to sorcery.”
Sam nodded, chewing a mouthful. “Is this goat meat, do you think?”
“I didn’t see any goats. Did you?”
She swallowed slowly, frowning at him.
Oliver continued, “Why is the governor acting so strange? I had thought he might be the one to answer our questions, but now I realize that’s not the case. He’s the one we need to ask questions about. Whatever his wife was involved in, I am certain now he is involved, too. I don’t believe for a moment that she fled to Enhover for fear of these corsairs. If he is lying about that…”
“Isn’t that even more reason to talk to others around the man?” questioned Sam. “Someone has to know what the governor is up to.”
“It is good reason,” agreed Oliver, “but we cannot act on rumor or speculation. If the governor is involved in sorcery, I will need to remove him from power and not just that. Recall that sorcery is illegal by both Church and Crown law. We’ll have to execute the man, Sam. We need hard proof before even a rumor of this leaks out.”
Sam nodded slowly.
“And there’s the matter of the pirates to deal with,” reminded Oliver. “It seems clear there are pirates, but what is to be done about them? And why hasn’t it already been done?”
“Could Commander Ostrander handle that?” questioned Sam. “He seems a capable sort.”
Oliver snorted. “Now that I am here, the man will defer to me. A military man of his rank understands one thing most clearly, and that is keeping the king happy. He already knows he’s stuck in the bramble bush because of his disagreement with the governor. His allegations that the Company has not delivered his messages could not be any more serious if true, and he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t believe it to be true. He’ll see only one way out, and that’s on my coattails. If I make the decisions, he’s protected.”
“If there’s sorcery afoot, and the Company is somehow involved…” Sam trailed off, her fork held in her fist, poised as if she meant to use it on something other than her meat.
“Then we should proceed with caution,” replied Oliver. “Right now, the issue with the corsairs is public knowledge, and everyone will expect me to address it. Our investigation into Countess Dalyrimple’s death and the clues that led us here are not public knowledge. I suggest we split up, and each of us pursues the different inquiries. I can handle the political and military tangle around these pirates, and you can look into the dark magic. Sound fair?”
Sam nodded. “It sounds fair.”
“Every evening,” added Oliver, “we compare notes, just the two of us. That way, we stay informed in case these investigations collide. We’ll watch each other’s backs as much as we’re able.”
“Is that just an excuse to dine with me each night?” asked Sam, sitting back with a grin on her face.
Oliver rolled his eyes.
“It’s a good plan,” admitted Sam. “The best I think we have, at least.”
“Good,” said Oliver. “For now, we both need some rest. We’re going to have a long couple of days ahead of us.”
The Priestess VII
The next morning, Sam leaned against Archtan Town’s battlements, looking out at the levitating islands in the distance. That early, they were lit by the sun coming up behind her, painting the mammoth rock formations in dazzling pastels. They drifted peacefully above the water, uncaring about the trials of sorcerers or men.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” asked a voice.
She turned and saw a blue-coated soldier leaning against the battlement beside her.
“Sorry if I surprised you,” he drawled. “Saw you standing here, and I couldn’t help but come offer you a good morning. The only thing more beautiful than this sunrise, I told my partner.”
She looked around him and saw another soldier pretending not to watch, but in the space of a dozen heartbeats, she saw him glance over twice.
“You’re new in Archtan Town?” asked the soldier. Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Everyone does it on their first day. Comes up here and looks over the water at the floating islands. Historians, poets, merchants, even lords and ladies. I’ve spoken to them all up here on these walls. Prettiest place in the empire, they’ve told me. And if you think it’s a sight now, you should see it at sunset. It’s something you’ll be able to tell your kids and husband about, ma’am. That is, if you got ‘em…”
“I don’t,” murmured Sam, turning from the man and looking through the crenellation at the hanging spires of stone.
“Well then,” said the soldier. He shuffled a little closer. “How did you end up out here in the tropics?”
“A lord who was supporting me kicked me off his ship,” she claimed. “I got a little bit of, ah, you know, sores. Normal sort of thing, right? But he didn’t like it one bit. Tosse
d me on the docks. Told me to get myself straightened out before I saw him again.”
“Sores?” asked the soldier, pushing off the battlement and standing straight.
“Not the kind of thing I fancy telling the town physician about,” she replied. “Word like that gets around and follows you. Sooner or later, I’m going to need myself another man, you know? I don’t suppose you know of anyone… anyone discreet?”
“What, ah…”
“Maybe your friend does,” she suggested. “Perhaps I should go talk to him.”
“No, ah, no…” stammered the soldier.
“I’d be grateful if you can help me,” offered Sam, stepping toward the soldier. “Maybe after I’ve had a chance to heal, you could show me around town a little? There aren’t a lot of women in this place, are there? I need someone to be my friend, and you need… What do you need?”
The soldier shifted his weight. “A friend, huh?”
Sam batted her eyelashes at him and bit her bottom lip suggestively. “I’m very kind to my friends.”
“I’ve heard there’s a woman that the local girls use named Madam Winrod,” he said, his voice cracking. “The men, too, I guess. I’ve never seen her, though. She doesn’t have a place in town, but if you travel to the other side of the island, there’s a little base there. They harvest coffee beans on the other side, and there is a pier where they load the beans into the ketches. They carry the stuff here to the proper harbor for transport in the big cogs. There’s a village beside the pier, a couple of taverns. I don’t think it has a real name, but everyone knows about it. The girls go there when they… they need help with that sort of thing. Ask for a ride to the coffee pier and then look for Madam Winrod. Someone’ll direct you to her.”
“Thank you,” said Sam, smiling.
“You, ah, you need help getting a ride over? It’s too far to walk. Maybe I could—”
“I’ll find a ride,” she assured him, and she started down the wall toward the nearest stairwell.
“Where can I find you?” he called after her.
“Around.”
Four hours later, after checking in with Commander Ostrander, she sat at the bow of a small sailing skiff. The little craft knifed through the gentle chop that surrounded Archtan Atoll just outside of the breakers. She found herself smiling, the wind in her face, the salt spray kissing her cheeks.
Behind her, two royal marines manned the tiller and the sail. They’d been pressed into service providing her transport around the island and had gone from elated at the prospect of showing the new priestess around to dejected when they learned she’d arrived with Duke Oliver Wellesley. Before long, she thought half the world would assume she was his paramour. More his problem than hers, though, particularly if her little story from that morning spread around.
When they returned to Westundon, she would retreat into quiet obscurity, flitting between her apartment and the grounds of the Church, and he’d still be the son of the king. Her smile grew wider as she pictured him trying to explain rumors of a diseased paramour with sores to the twin baronesses.
The trip to the coffee bean landing took only two hours over the water, but she saw the soldier from the wall had been right. Across land, it would have taken forever to hack through the dense jungle. In some places, there were inviting beaches, but just as often, the jungle met the sea at the waterline, falling from a steep, vegetation-covered cliff. There was no easy travel on Archtan Atoll, except on the water or where the jungle had been tunneled through by man, and effort was made to keep it constantly clear.
“Up there, m’lady,” called one of the marines.
She didn’t correct the man. One, because it was getting tiresome. And two, she found she liked the way men would snap to attention when they believed her to be a noblewoman.
Looking where the man was pointing, she saw a simple, wooden dock that thrust from the jungle. Behind it and over the impenetrable wall of foliage, she saw thatch roofs and whispers of smoke. As they drew closer, buildings began to peek through the openings that had been bored through jungle to reach the pier. She guessed there were two dozen structures and likely several hundred people scattered around the area.
“You want us to wait at the dock?” asked the other sailor as they drifted up to the pier.
“Is there an inn here?” she asked.
“Of a sort,” the man replied. “It’s… it’s rough, m’lady.”
“Too rough for you?”
The man coughed. “Many of the people here were running out of welcome back in the Company town. They’re not exactly criminals, but they’re not exactly upright citizens either, you understand?”
“Get a room for the night,” instructed Sam, “and we’ll plan to leave in the morning. Meet me by the boat at dawn.”
The two soldiers glanced at each other. Without comment, they helped her out of the boat onto the dock. A few curious faces peeked out from the archway of vegetation that guarded the village, but once they saw the coats of the royal marines, they lost interest.
Sam walked into the settlement and looked around, observing sandy streets, simple wooden huts, a few larger structures that must be for warehousing and roasting the coffee beans, and a few open-air taverns for the workers once they’d finished the day. Chickens and goats meandered through the streets, ignoring the people passing around them. She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the animals, thinking back to her meal the night before, then shook herself, resuming her study of the settlement.
A dozen paths led into the jungle from the village, where she guessed people lived and where the coffee beans were grown. The streets were packed sand, and the pervasive scents of woodsmoke, animals, and coffee hung over the place.
There were no ships on dock aside from the one she’d arrived in, so activity at the warehouses was minimal. The taverns were open, but quiet.
She walked down the street, peering into buildings, not knowing exactly what she was looking for but knowing she’d recognize it when she saw it. On the first pass through the two dozen structures, she didn’t see anything. Sorcery, witchcraft, whatever the local term was, it was outlawed in Enhover and its colonies. The royal marines wouldn’t bother tracking down a simple medicine woman, but that didn’t mean Madam Winrod would be easy to find by an outsider, either.
Sam found a promising-looking tavern and took a stool at the plain, rough-plank bar.
A gruff woman, one who’d seen the harder side of life, approached and asked, “Ale or punch?”
Sam guessed the woman was the offspring of an early settler from the Company and a native woman. The kind of colony resident who hadn’t found welcome in either community as a child but had the tough-mindedness to start a business of her own. The kind of woman who’d know the secrets of the island and may be open to sharing them with someone she trusted. Only someone she trusted.
“How’s the punch?” asked Sam.
“Same recipe as it is everywhere,” drawled the woman. “Fruit, spices, and kill-devil.”
“Punch, then,” replied Sam.
The woman bent below the bar and returned with an earthenware jug and a wooden cup. She filled the cup and pushed it to Sam.
“Leave the jug, will you?” requested Sam.
The barkeep peered at her curiously and then moved on, organizing her stock, setting out semi-clean-looking cups, and preparing for the evening rush.
Sam sat and drank, sighing regretfully that there wasn’t any ice to splash in the cup. A few weeks with the duke and she’d gotten soft. Grunting, she swallowed a mouthful of the warm punch then settled in to sip it, watching the patrons in the open-air tavern and the movement out on the street while letting the barkeep watch her.
Leather trousers, which were sweltering in the tropical heat, her vest unfastened, her linen tunic unlaced to get a little air, two kris daggers on her hips, more daggers secreted about her body if anyone knew what they were looking for… she knew she stood out. She was counting on it.
/> Finally, after what she guessed was two hours, the tavern began to fill with Enhoverian and native laborers. Men who carried heavy sacks of coffee beans worked for small time traders or supported the business in some other way. Rough stock, but they looked to be set on getting happily drunk after a day’s work rather than intent on causing mischief.
The sun’s rays fell below the cover of the jungle around them and the place got busy.
The barkeep returned. “What do you think of the punch?”
“Same as it is everywhere,” agreed Sam. Then, she added, “Not as strong as I’ve had on the other side of the island, though. You put more sugar in it, or perhaps overripe fruit? If so, it’s too bad. I came to drink alcohol, not juice.”
The barkeep snorted and moved on. Sam smiled to herself.
Another hour passed and the tavern was bustling. Men and a few women crowded around the tables, and earthenware pitchers of warm ale and punch were passed over the counter at a steady clip. But while the place was packed, and almost every seat was taken, the stools on either side of Sam remained empty. This was a watering hole for locals, and Sam was clearly out of place.
Finally, the barkeep reappeared and questioned, “You planning to drink that entire jug?”
Sam shrugged.
“You said it’s not as strong as the other punch, but it ain’t weak, girl,” warned the barkeep. “You drink all of that, you’re going to be stumbling. You got a place to go tonight?”
“Not really,” mentioned Sam.
The barkeep frowned. “Girl, it’s tame right now, but we get some tough trade in here. Men that travel around a bit, don’t have a family or a woman to keep ‘em straight. When the moon gets out, and they get the drink in ‘em, you gotta watch yourself.”
Sam tossed back the remainder of the punch in her cup. She poured herself another without speaking to the barkeep.