by A. C. Cobble
“I’m glad you warned me,” murmured Isisandra.
“They’ve already tried to bring you in?” questioned Lannia. When Isisandra didn’t respond, she grasped the young girl’s hand. “Stick with me, and I’ll steer you right. They never do what they say they will, never give you what they claim they can. If they made you a promise, I assure you it was a lie. My father the prime minister, Oliver, that’s where the true power lies.”
Isisandra grunted.
Taking it as an invitation to continue, Lannia added, “And the truth, in those societies, they’ll recite some intonation about gaining strength every new moon, but it’s the furthest thing from what you’ll find. Think about it. If they’re so powerful, why are they hidden behind the curtain at midnight? If you seek a comfortable match, if you seek to obtain your own power, do it in the light of day. The power in Enhover is not behind the throne, it’s on the throne.”
“Thank you for the warning,” replied Isisandra. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The Cartographer XIII
“Your brother told me you took out the Dalyrimple girl,” boomed William Wellesley. “Right nice of you introducing her to society. She’d been in Archtan Atoll, what, several years, isn’t it?”
“Five, I believe it was,” acknowledged Oliver.
“How did it go, then?” questioned the prime minister. “She get the famous Oliver Wellesley treatment?”
Oliver coughed, feeling a warm flush growing in his face.
The prime minister sat back, slapping his knee and laughing. “I talk to your brothers, you know. No secrets amongst the family and all of that. Ah, to be young, single, and a Wellesley.”
Oliver snorted. “You are a Wellesley.”
“I am,” chuckled William. “It was more fun before I got married. Don’t let Philip talk you into it.”
Oliver ran a hand over his hair and declared, “I didn’t ask for this meeting to discuss my, ah, my evening with you.”
“Now, now,” said the prime minister, a grin splitting his face. “Just an old man having fun with his nephew. I’m not trying to pry into your personal affairs too deeply. I know you didn’t schedule this appointment only to talk about yourself. What is it you need, Oliver?”
“You heard about Countess Dalyrimple and the governor?”
“Of course,” said William, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “Not to bring up the subject again, but I know that’s why Philip asked you to spend time with the girl.”
“In addition to, ah, introducing her, Philip is concerned there is still no resolution on the matter of her parents’ death,” claimed Oliver. “He has tasked the inspectors with doing a bit more research, trying to figure out what exactly happened, and whether it could happen again. Unfortunately, we don’t seem to have anyone who has experience with these matters. Sorcery, you understand? We thought if we can find someone who’s seen it in person, someone who faced the Coldlands raiders perhaps, they could shed some light onto what exactly we saw in Archtan Atoll.”
“Sorcery is all just ritual these days, isn’t it?” questioned William. “Silly men and women in their secret societies wasting their evenings with all of that Darklands mumbo jumbo. From what the Church says, the connection with the spirits is gone from here. It’s not even possible anymore, was my understanding. I suppose that could be just in Enhover, though, and mayhap that is why you were able to see what you saw in Archtan Atoll?”
“Could be,” agreed Oliver. “Despite what the Church claims, though, Philip isn’t convinced it is impossible, and to be honest, neither am I. We saw evidence in Harwick. Someone made the attempt, William. You experienced the Coldlands raiders more personally than most, and you saw the outcome. Do you have no concern it may happen again?”
“I did see the Coldlands up close and personal,” confirmed William, unconsciously reaching up to grip and massage his shoulder where Oliver knew an old puckered scar hid beneath his shirt and jacket. “That was a long time ago, though. If sorcery was still possible in these lands, how come we’ve seen no evidence of anyone practicing it? I’ll never forget what I saw twenty years ago, Oliver, and if that kind of thing was happening in our cities and towns, we would have heard about it. We would know.”
“Are you sure?” asked Oliver.
“That kind of evil doesn’t exist in our world, not in Enhover, not anymore,” claimed William. “Your father and I stomped it out hard enough that it’s never coming back. Those of us who were there know that. The Church knows that. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Oliver.”
“What if we’re all wrong?” asked Oliver. “We cannot allow what I saw in Archtan Atoll to come to our shores. It was pure evil, Uncle. There was a circle with bodies flayed like… like animals. Their souls were trapped somehow within that circle.”
“Trapped? Are you sure?” questioned the prime minister.
“I am sure,” declared Oliver. “I felt it when we killed the pirates. It was as if a darkness reached up from the underworld and touched the place. It was cold and painful. If that’s not what the underworld feels like, I can’t imagine what does.”
“You felt it?” murmured William, his hands falling down to grip the sides of his chair. “That was not in the reports I read.”
Oliver shivered. “I felt it and it will stay with me. As far as the reports, they had to be truncated for the glae worm transmission. We couldn’t include everything we saw and felt — or suspected.”
“Suspected?” wondered William.
“A priestess was with me. One trained in… in this type of thing,” explained Oliver. “She believed these souls were trapped within the circle and used to power the ritual and perhaps as a bargaining chip with an underworld spirit. A powerful one, from what I understand. Ca-Mi-He, though the name means nothing to me.”
“Ca-Mi-He,” asked William, a look of deep concern on his face. “Was the practitioner able to contact the spirit?”
“Maybe,” said Oliver. “We believe an object, a dagger, may have been tainted and brought to Enhover by Countess Dalyrimple.”
“Was the dagger recovered?” wondered William, rubbing his chin.
“No,” replied Oliver. “There was an empty box found in the building with Countess Dalyrimple’s body, but nothing that… nothing that held the taint of the underworld. The trail goes cold in Harwick.”
“Interesting,” muttered William.
Oliver nodded. “Have you heard of Ca-Mi-He?”
“No, ah, no…” mumbled the prime minister, looking down at his half-eaten dinner. He did not move to touch his fork or knife.
“Did you hear of anything like that during the Coldlands War?” wondered the duke, watching his uncle’s eyes. “Or like the ritual I described? I’ve heard the stories, of course, about the terrible sorcery the Coldlands raiders harnessed, but there are no specifics. I opened Duvante’s history of the war last night for the first time since my tutors pressed it on me, but there are no details on those pages, either. It’s as if the entire confrontation is only described in vague, ephemeral language.”
William sat quietly.
“Uncle,” pressed Oliver, “you led a battalion into the Coldlands themselves. Surely you saw something that could help us understand what we face.”
“I did lead men into that evil place,” muttered the older man. “I didn’t… I didn’t see anything like what you describe, though.”
“What did you see?” asked Oliver. “Any evidence of how they bound the spirits, how they performed their magic?”
“We didn’t stop to take notes,” protested William, his eyes rising to meet Oliver’s. “We destroyed what we found and didn’t ask questions about it. Questions about this stuff are dangerous, Oliver. The less you know — the less everyone knows — the better. Knowledge is like a disease. It spreads from one host to another. This type of knowledge… it’s best to not contact it in the first place. Yes, we saw things in the Coldlands, but we didn’t study them. We burn
ed them, Oliver. We burned everything. We burned it without looking because once that disease begins to spread…”
“We have to know what we’re fighting,” argued Oliver.
“I can’t help you,” muttered the prime minister.
“Just tell me something!” exclaimed Oliver.
William sat forward and looked directly into his nephew’s eyes. “There is one thing I can tell you. Leave this to the Church and the inspectors. Sorcery is a dark path to start upon, Oliver. That is why we destroyed what we found, why we didn’t ask questions about it. Once on that path, it is difficult to turn back. That is all I can say that will help you. Stop now while you can. Let the Church do its job. They have people trained for this sort of thing, or, at least, they used to.”
Oliver sighed. “I’d hoped you’d seen something. I’d hoped someone had.”
“There are few left from that time,” responded William, finally picking up his knife and fork again. “It was hard fighting and hard on the lads when they returned.”
“We’ve only found one other from that time,” remarked Oliver, sipping his glass of wine and peering over the rim at his uncle. “One other living, at least. If I’d known when I was in Harwick… but I didn’t. It seems man by man, nearly everyone in your old battalion has passed to the other side.”
“One other?” asked William, looking up.
“Lieutenant Standish Taft,” replied Oliver. “Retired now.”
“Taft!” barked William. “He’s dead.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”
“Of course I know him,” growled the prime minister, standing and beginning to pace across the room. “He was my second in the battalion. He was there when we… when we crossed the sea to the Coldlands. When we first landed on that rocky spirit-forsaken beach.”
“That’s what I was told,” responded Oliver. “It seems one of the inspectors served with him in the years after the war. He told me a bit about Standish Taft. He told me that he knew where the man was. Why did you think he was dead?”
The prime minister threw himself back into his chair. “Us old war dogs keep track of each other, Nephew. Going through an experience like that, it bonds men together like a second family. I-I’d heard from someone that Taft was dead. Can’t remember who said it, now, but I damn well remember hearing it. Can you tell me, if he lives, where is he?”
“Swinpool,” answered Oliver.
“What’s the old snake doing in Swinpool?” questioned William.
Oliver shrugged.
“Where is he in Swinpool?” pressed the prime minister. “I wouldn’t mind going to see him on my way back to Southundon.”
“Pretty far out of your way,” mentioned Oliver.
“War dogs stick together, pup,” chided William. “You have an address? It would put a smile on both our faces if I could surprise him.”
Oliver shook his head. “No address, just… a reference, I guess you could say. Heard he runs a little place down there for the fishermen. It seems he hasn’t wanted to be found. The inspector was nervous, actually, that if he showed up, the man would vanish. I volunteered to go do the interview myself as I don’t have much else to do until I leave for the Westlands. Heading down there tonight on the late rail, in fact. I have to move fast before Philip catches wind and tells me to leave it to the inspectors. You know how he is. He wants us Wellesleys focused on state business, and once I found who murdered the countess, it was no longer my concern. With any luck, I’ll find Standish Taft tomorrow. I’d love to give you a chance to surprise him, but this can’t wait. I’ve got to talk to him and find out what he knows.”
“The rail tonight?” asked William. “That’s sudden. If you think there’s something dangerous out there, you shouldn’t rush into it. Maybe if you wait, I can—”
Oliver held up a hand. “Swinpool can’t be any more dangerous than Westundon. I know you and my brother are meant to address the senior ministers tomorrow, and I wouldn’t consider taking you away from your responsibilities. I’ll look in on Taft and let you know what I find.”
William frowned at him, his hands clutched tightly together.
“I’ll be all right, Uncle,” assured Oliver. “Perhaps one day soon, Lieutenant Taft will be the one surprising you. I’ll let him know you’d like to see him, and if he’s amendable, I’ll even put him on a rail headed your way.”
“You do that, then,” said William, leaning back. “There are not many of us left from the war. Not many at all. I’d give a lot just to know where he is.”
Oliver smiled and stood. “The moment I find him, I’ll dash off a note on the glae worm filament. You’ll know when I do.”
“You,” said Oliver, frowning at the girl standing in the middle of the rail platform.
“Me,” she agreed.
“Did Bishop Yates send you to accompany me again?” he asked. “I wasn’t told anything about it.”
“Something like that,” replied Sam. “Do you not want my company?”
Oliver shrugged. “I’m just surprised, is all. To be honest, we are winding things up on our end. This is the last little bit. Then, I’ll hand it over to the inspectors and, I suppose, your fellow priests. I’ll be leaving for an expedition to the Westlands in a few days.”
“Well, while you’re here, I’ll stick by your side if that is all right with you.”
“It’s all right with me,” said Oliver, giving the girl an odd look. “Come on, then.”
“All aboard!” a conductor cried. “Hurry up now before… Ah, sorry, m’lord. I didn’t recognize you. Take your time, m’lord.”
“I don’t mean to hold everyone up,” said Oliver. He waved Sam toward the first railcar.
“I don’t have a ticket,” she admitted, shooting a glance at the waiting conductor.
“Neither do I,” replied the duke dryly, “but I’m a duke. Let’s go find an open cabin.”
He climbed aboard and walked along until he spotted an empty first-class compartment. Sam joined him, and a moment later, the car lurched as the locomotive tugged it into motion.
“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” asked Oliver.
“It does,” agreed Sam. “Where are we going?”
“You don’t know?” questioned Oliver. “Did the bishop not… He didn’t send you, did he?”
“Not exactly,” admitted Sam. “I came looking for you and heard a rumor you were going to the rail station. I rushed to meet you before you left. We’re not going far, are we? I didn’t pack a bag.”
“No, not far,” he confirmed.
They sat quietly as the train gathered speed and plowed through the fog that descended over Westundon each evening. The powerful locomotive blasted an open tunnel through the chill mist. The car jerked as they met a switch and turned down a curving section of track, taking them out past Westundon’s harbor, through a half-league long tunnel, and then back out onto the coast.
“We’re going south,” said Sam, looking out the window at the moonlit sea flashing by.
“We are,” confirmed Oliver. “Swinpool.”
“Another murder?” inquired Sam. “Or is it Company business this time?”
“Why are you here, if you don’t know where we are going or why?” asked Oliver, frowning at her. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “I’m going to interview a military man, a former lieutenant. He led men against the Coldlands and pursued the raiders across the sea. My hope is to learn what he saw and if he has any insights that can help us understand what we saw in Archtan Atoll.”
“Knowledge is valuable,” agreed Sam.
“And becoming rare,” grumbled Oliver. “After my uncle, Lieutenant Taft is the only military man from the campaign that I can find still living.”
“Your uncle, the prime minister?”
“He was a battalion commander before my father inherited the crown from their father,” explained Oliver. “While my father and the airships did the bulk of the work from above, William led the m
en on the ground. They tracked down what wasn’t bombed into pulp, killed the Coldlands raiders that survived, or chased them into places they knew they wouldn’t. William led the men both in Northundon and then when the army crossed to the Coldlands themselves. He even took the fight down into the United Territories and forced the treaty which made those nations our tributes, though everyone knows the airships had more to do with that than anything else. Still, it was several years of hard campaigning. They told me stories about it when I was a boy. These days, it seems neither my father nor my uncle has anything left to say about it. It was dark times, I know.”
“It was,” agreed Sam. “I remember.”
“You do?” questioned Oliver. “You said something about that before, no? But you couldn’t have been more than, what, ten winters?”
“Twelve,” replied Sam. “My mentor took me north when the first wave of airships crossed the Sheetsand Mountains and approached Northundon. We were there, and we saw…” She paused. “You should speak to him, to Thotham. He’d know more about what the Coldlands were capable of than any of your military officers. If that’s the angle you want to pursue, he’s your best resource.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” asked Oliver. “Not that I don’t appreciate your company, but why you and not him? Harwick, Archtan Atoll, and now. I’ve seen you fight and have no doubt of your skill, but if this man mentored you and knows what we’re up against — more so than you — then why hasn’t Bishop Yates sent him to us instead of you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Sam. “I’ve asked Thotham the same thing.”
“What did he say?” wondered Oliver.
She shrugged. “He sent me. He said I needed to be ready. Said to help you in whatever way I could. He’s worried, I think, but I don’t know why he isn’t here himself. He claims he has other assignments from Bishop Yates, but… It’s not like him to listen to the bishop. Not like the man who raised me. I wish… I wish he’d tell me. My hope is that maybe he’ll tell you. You’re Duke Wellesley. How can he not?”