by A. C. Cobble
“Elder,” she mentioned, “you asked to see me?”
“I did,” he agreed. “I want to know if you intend to join us as an initiate in the Feet of Seheht.”
She blinked. “I have studied—”
“Your parents studied,” corrected the small man. “They were members, as you know. If they shared their knowledge with you, they shouldn’t have. It is against our laws to speak of our business with non-members. It’s against our laws to even speak of the Feet of Seheht, in fact. You know this, do you not?”
She frowned.
“Our secrets are meant for members, not for their children,” explained the elder. “The fact that you knew to come here is enough for me to know your parents broke our laws. Breaking our laws comes with penalties.”
A ball of worry was building inside of her stomach.
“I did not kill them,” said the man suddenly, holding up a sallow, liver-spotted hand. “That is what you were asking Redmask about, isn’t it? You were requesting his help in finding who killed them. I did not kill your parents, but I might have if I’d known they shared information about the Feet of Seheht with you.”
“Their killer was… was someone here?”
The man shrugged. “I do not believe so.”
“Then—”
He sliced his hand through the air, stopping her. “As I said, I do not know who was behind their murders. It is not my concern. What is my concern is that you are a party to our knowledge, yet you are not a member. That leaves us two options, and one of them is quite unpleasant. Instead, I would like you to become an initiate, to join us. You will be bound by our rules, as is any member, but it will allow you to continue your studies uninterrupted. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I do,” she confirmed.
“Will you join us, then?”
Her eyes moved from the man to the wall of books behind him. Countless books. Unfathomable wisdom.
“There is a cost in sterling and in other ways,” mentioned the elder. “I do not think you need worry about the expense, but are you familiar with the other requirements? Will you make the sacrifice to become one of us?”
“I will inform my banker to arrange the funds tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“The next quarter moon, then,” offered the man. “We can begin your initiation then. Unless you need to travel to Derbycross?”
She shook her head. “The next quarter moon, I will be here.”
“Very good,” said the elder and he stood, his message clear.
She stood as well and, within a moment, stepped out of the chapter house to find a carriage waiting in the courtyard. It was only four blocks to her parents’ home — her home now — but the Feet of Seheht insisted on the carriage. No one should know who came and went from the chapter house, though, the secrecy seemed foolish to her. As if a talented spy could not follow her carriage for a few blocks and see exactly who she was. The face of the Feet of Seheht was that of a bumbling group of peers play acting at serious ritual, but… but she knew what her parents had taught her, some of which they had learned within the society. There was truth there if she was willing to put up with the rest of it.
Shaking herself, she climbed into the carriage and peered out the window after a footman closed the door behind her. They were in an interior cobblestone courtyard, the only opening blocked by a heavy, wooden gate. The front door of the building rarely opened, as members entered in carriages through the courtyard and servants through the back, but she’d gotten in, and she would do what was necessary to stay there until she learned what she wanted. Then, she’d move on. The Feet of Seheht was a step on the path to vast power, but it wasn’t the end of the path.
Sighing, she sat back. The initiation and quest for knowledge would be painful, but her parents had prepared her for worse. She knew what was possible, and as soon as she found justice, she would dedicate herself to climbing the ranks quickly, to learning what she could, and to becoming what her mother had been close to achieving.
The Cartographer XII
“Thank you for inviting me, Duke Wellesley,” she purred, hugging his arm tightly and pressing her body against his side.
“Of course,” he said, striding as quickly as he could without spilling the girl on the cobblestones.
Behind them, a footman shut the door to the puttering, mechanical carriage. Up and down the street, revelers ascended stairs to open doors, piled in and out carriages, and traipsed between house parties. Valeance Street was where the young, wealthy, and eligible in Westundon mingled and connived, mixing the heady excitement of a night on the town with the serious business of improving their family’s standing in the peerage. It bored him now, though years ago, he’d regularly been one of those bright-eyed revelers. He knew the lay of the terrain, and he’d teach it to her… if he could peel her off his arm long enough.
“I had been meaning to contact you,” she breathed, peering up at him through heavily kohled eyelids, “to properly show my gratitude for everything you did for me in Archtan Atoll. I was so distraught. I’m afraid it must have felt like I was ignoring you.”
“You had a right to be — have a right to be — distraught. You went through a lot, Isisandra. Please do not be hard on yourself. You deserve a chance to grieve. I worried that perhaps tonight is too soon, that you’re not ready to—”
“No,” she said, following him up the steps to the brightly lit row house. “This is good for me, I think. Getting out, meeting other people our age, that will be a pleasant distraction. Much better than sitting alone in my parents’ old house continuing to brood.”
He saw her grimace. “Our age”. She shouldn’t have said that, and they both felt the awkward silence as the statement hung in the air. He forced himself to smile at her, remembering why he was there. His brother insisted it was the right thing for the Crown, to usher the girl into polite society. Sam insisted it was important for the Church and their investigation, to keep an eye on the girl. They hadn’t witnessed anything suspicious, but after Archtan Atoll and her parents’ involvement, he’d agreed they should watch her.
Breaking the moment, she looped her arm in his, pressing her hip against his side. He looked down at her and felt a genuine smile. There was no question she was a beautiful girl. A woman, he admitted, at eighteen winters.
Truth be told, he’d had far worse assignments.
Gathering himself, he knocked on the door. In heartbeats, a uniformed servant opened it and offered a quick bow.
“Duke Wellesley,” murmured the man, “and I’m afraid…”
“Lady Isisandra Dalyrimple,” introduced Oliver.
The man’s eyebrows rose and he stepped aside, gesturing them into a lavishly decorated foyer.
“Shall I announce you?” he inquired.
“Please,” replied Oliver.
They followed the man toward the sounds of bubbling conversation, light music, and the tinkling laughter of the young and unworried. The servant brought them to a long, open parlor and, over the din of the conversation, announced the duke’s arrival.
Immediately, a gaggle of young women broke off. Oliver steeled himself to dodge their advances, but instead of him, they clustered in front of Isisandra and began offering their condolences about her parents, asking how she found Westundon, if she had plans to return to Derbycross, and a brisk stream of unsolicited advice on how to navigate the currents of society in Enhover.
Oliver gritted his teeth and after squeezing her arm, left Isisandra for a moment to collect drinks for them both.
“The twins are going to murder you,” murmured a low voice behind him.
Turning, he grinned. “Countess Lannia Wellesley. I’m to dine with your father tomorrow, but I didn’t know you were in the city. Philip hasn’t said a word. How long are you here for? How long has it been?”
“I’m here for a few days, and you know it’s been far too long since you’ve bothered to check in on me,” remarked the willowy young woman. She reached around
Oliver and collected her own fluted wine glass. “My father has business, and I wouldn’t let him leave Southundon without me. The theatre scene in the capital is truly dreadful this season.”
“Is it?” asked Oliver, looking to see if Isisandra was surviving amongst the sharks.
“It is,” confirmed his cousin. “I was hoping that my father would escort me out while we’re here, but he’s been up to his neck in meetings. I cannot imagine the ministry is in such need, but last night, the poor man was working until well after midnight.”
Oliver grunted.
“How is your brother?” asked Lannia.
“Philip is quite well,” replied Oliver. “He hasn’t voiced a word of complaint to me about the administration, so whatever William is up to, it hasn’t been a major concern for the Crown. Philip would have told me if it was. He’s certainly had plenty of other words for me lately.”
Lannia winked and nodded toward Isisandra. “Serious courtship or merely following orders? She’s a bit young, isn’t she?”
“She is, and you know me.”
“Never serious,” responded Lannia. She looped an arm around Oliver’s and suggested, “Why don’t you introduce me before those vultures scare her off to Derbycross?”
“I will,” agreed Oliver, “and after I do, perhaps you’d care to accompany her to the theatre? If you take her with you, I’ll get you seats in Philip’s box and a table at whatever restaurant you’d like to be seen in.”
“I’d rather go with you, but good seats are good seats,” declared Lannia airily. “Go on then. Let’s have an introduction.”
The Initiate III
“Lannia Wellesley,” said Isisandra. “She was rather kind. She is your cousin?”
“Yes, my uncle William’s daughter,” confirmed Oliver. “You’ve probably not met him. He’s the prime minister, the head of my father’s government operations, and he’s only stopping into Westundon to oversee the ministry’s staff here. You enjoyed Lannia? She was sincere about her invitation, and you cannot find a better guide to the intricacies of the theatre. I really think you should take her up on it. As you say, it will get you out of your rooms and into society.”
“Perhaps,” demurred Isisandra. She sat back in the carriage, studying him.
“It’s just a quarter turn of the clock to your house,” said the duke, seemingly at a loss for conversation.
“Fifteen minutes should be plenty of time,” she said. “I owe you a proper thanks, after all.”
He blinked at her and then gasped as she reached behind her back and tugged at the laces of her dress, quickly untying it and tugging it off, revealing nothing but skin underneath.
“I…”
“What?” she asked, cupping her breasts in delicate hands. “You don’t like girls?”
“I-I… No, I do,” stammered the duke. “It’s just… Isisandra, this is not necessary.”
“If you won’t claim your reward,” she pouted, “then I’ll just have to come and give it to you.”
She slipped off the bench and knelt in front of him.
“Please, I—”
“I’m not getting dressed until I’ve thanked you, Duke Wellesley,” she murmured, taking time to slowly lick her lips while looking up at him. “I’ve heard stories about you, you know, about what you like.” She rubbed her hands up his thighs, smiling as he squirmed under her touch. He gasped as she reached his manhood. “Oh, my. It seems like this part of you is ready.”
“Isisandra…”
She unbuckled his belt, not wanting to give him time to wiggle away from her. She had her orders, and Redmask was right. There were worse things he could ask her to do. There were far worse things one might do in pursuit of knowledge.
The Spectator I
Lannia beamed down from the box, looking over the wigged, coiffed, gowned, and bejeweled crowd below them, the height of society in Westundon gathered in rows stretching back from the stage. The closer the seat, the more important the occupant. Of course, the true powers were scattered amongst the box seats across from her and behind her. She grinned. She, in the prime location, in Prince Philip’s own seats, reserved by Oliver for her and the Dalyrimple girl.
She smiled at Isisandra, and the girl returned it, a bit. Her lips curled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. No matter. The girl had caught Oliver’s interest and attended a party upon his arm, which meant she was worth bringing under the wing.
It was unlikely the slip of a thing could keep a man like Oliver locked down for long, but the relationship would do Isisandra good. Oliver was an entry into the swirling currents of high society. After stepping out with him, Isisandra could move onto another young man who would be more suitable for her, closer to her station, and actually looking to make a permanent match.
Oliver, with his penchant for adventure in and out of the bedroom, was interested in anything but a permanent match. He was a perfect gentleman who refused to abide by society’s expectations. It made him a poor choice of husband, but without a doubt, he was the most fun of King Edward’s brood.
His brothers were a bit insufferable, if she was honest, but at least Princess Lucinda had talked her husband Philip into purchasing the theatre tickets. The woman’s patronage had raised the level of theatre in Westundon over the last several years. It wasn’t uncommon that Lannia declared Westundon’s season superior to the capital’s, which was a shame, since her father was ensconced in Southundon in his role as prime minister.
If the most eligible bachelor in the city hadn’t been her cousin, she’d consider a permanent match for herself in Westundon, but alas, all she could do was enjoy her occasional visits.
Watching as the curtains drew back, the evidence was clear to her that a little patronage could go a long way, though she couldn’t convince her father William or uncle Edward of the fact, and they’d let Southundon’s theatres languish. Without their attendance, it lowered the society in the crowd, and others found different arts to support.
The first lines of the opening act burst from the mouth of a costumed actor, bouncing over the crowd below. Dazzling set pieces were lit by sparkling fae lights behind him, giving the stage an otherworldly aspect. Beautiful and brilliant. Yes, a little patronage could go a long way.
She reached over and placed a hand on Isisandra’s. The girl offered her a tentative smile, her eyelashes fluttering.
Lannia leaned close and whispered, “Tell me how it went with Oliver?”
The girl blushed, and she grinned, squeezing the hand tight before letting go. She had no interest in the particular details, but the girl’s flushed skin told her true enough. There were details. A young, wealthy girl, new to town and with an opportunity. She needed the strong, confident hand of a patron to show her the way.
“Hold onto him as long as you can, Isisandra, but don’t fret if he slips away,” she advised. “He’s a large step into proper society, and with the right guidance, you can use that step to go anywhere you wish.”
“And you’re to give me that guidance?” inquired Isisandra, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the orchestra starting up.
“If you want it,” agreed Lannia, leaning close to the girl. “Men have their social clubs, their societies, but us girls just have each other. We have to look out for our own sex if we want to maintain our status. That’s the mistake too many young girls make. They rely on a man to get them what they want. A man is all well and good, and I’m sure we both agree they serve their delightful purpose, but a strong woman makes her own way in the world… with or without a man.”
Isisandra finally offered her a true smile.
“You understand then. That is good,” continued Lannia. “With the right friends, there is no peak you cannot ascend.”
Still buzzing from the inspired performances, Lannia and Isisandra settled into the carriage — Prince Philip’s own — conveniently parked first in line when they exited. Knocking on the screen between them and the driver, Lannia called for the man to go.
“What was that?” asked Lannia.
“You mentioned clubs and secret societies,” answered the girl. “Do they not allow women to join?”
“I forget you have almost no experience with these things, not in Archtan Atoll,” murmured Lannia. “There are some clubs that allow women, but none of the good ones. My advice is to stay clear of the others. The societies, you know the ones I mean, those with the creepy masks and midnight meetings, they allow women but not in the upper echelon, not in the highest ranks where the reins of power are held. Women like you and me, they’d let us in right quick, but for one reason only.”
Isisandra raised an eyebrow.
“Sexual rites,” explained Lannia, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Most of those secret societies perform strange occult rituals, and if someone like you or me happens to be around, you’d better believe that it will involve us spreading our legs.”
“Oh, my,” said Isisandra. “I’d heard stories, but…”
Lannia grinned. “Mind you, it can be a bit of fun if that’s what you like. I spent a few years when I was your age passing through some of those circles, but it wasn’t long before I realized that I didn’t need to wear some ridiculous set of robes and perform a chant to get that. If you want fun, there are easier ways. Ask my cousin Oliver about it, and he’ll be happy to show you.”
Isisandra blushed, and Lannia laughed.
“He’s already shown you, then?” she guessed, confirming her earlier suspicion.
Isisandra kept blushing and looked down at her hands.
“Don’t worry, Isisandra. I won’t tell a soul,” she assured. “You want to have some fun? Then do it with a man like Oliver. You want to spread your legs for some other reason, to gain a little leverage or access a rich opportunity, do that with a man like Oliver, too. The mumbling and the chanting in those secret societies isn’t worth the hassle if you ask me. There are quicker, more pleasant paths to power.”