by A. C. Cobble
“I am Duke Oliver Wellesley,” snapped Oliver. He stood, glaring at the clerk. “Let me in to see the bishop now, or I’m on my way to the ministry of finance to discuss the Crown’s allocation to the Church. After you explain to the bishop and the bursar that their budget is cut in half next year, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the rest of your life cleaning the toilets in this place.”
The clerk pressed his lips tightly together.
Oliver leaned forward and gathered a handful of the man’s cassock. “Do you understand me?”
“I-I do, m’lord,” stammered the clerk, evidently deciding that his small pleasure at turning someone away wasn’t worth the wrath of the king’s son. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid, m’lord, that you still cannot see him.”
Oliver turned his hand, gathering another twist of fabric and jerking the clerk forward.
“He’s not here!” squeaked the man. “The bishop is not here.”
“Where is he?” asked Oliver, letting his voice go quiet with menace.
The clerk swallowed, the apple in his neck brushing against the duke’s fist. “He-he instructed me not to tell anyone.”
“Do you really think making an enemy of me is a good idea or that the bishop really wants to hide his whereabouts from the Crown?”
The little clerk was trembling now, his eyes darting as if he thought help would come running. None did. “I don’t know where he is, m’lord. Yesterday, he came out of his office and instructed me to keep everyone out, to tell them he was busy. He said he had to leave, but he didn’t tell me where he was going! I swear on the circle, m’lord. I don’t know.”
“Who would know?” asked Oliver, not letting go of his iron grip.
“I don’t know,” babbled the clerk. “I asked his valet last night. The man and I share a wine sometimes when our duties… He doesn’t know any more than I do, m’lord.”
“How many days did the valet pack the bishop’s bag for?” questioned Sam.
“He-he didn’t,” claimed the clerk. “He thought it strange, but… The bishop leaves alone sometimes, just for a few turns of the clock. He’s never been gone this long. M’lord, I did not know who you were at first. I swear if I had known, I would have told you right away. The bishop is a private man, m’lord, but of course I would hide nothing from you.”
Oliver and Sam shared a look, and he finally released the front of the clerk’s robes and stood.
“Do you know a priest named Thotham?” asked Sam.
The clerk shook his head.
“He is tall, wiry. He has close-cropped white hair. He wears a standard priests’ robe and sometimes carries a spear, though I suppose he wouldn’t carry it into these offices. He’s old, older than the bishop, and has tan, weather-beaten skin. It’s the color of that satchel over there. He acts like he knows everything.”
The clerk glanced at the satchel and then his eyes darted between Sam and Duke. “There is a man who fits that description that comes to see the bishop every few weeks, but I don’t know his name. It could be this Thotham.”
“Where can we find him?” asked Oliver.
The clerk shrugged.
“Who can tell us which room is his?” questioned Sam.
The clerk blinked. “He does not stay here, I don’t think. I-I was under the impression he was a leader at one of the monasteries along the coast, or maybe he hailed from Middlebury. He—”
“We’ve heard enough,” growled Oliver, looking to Sam.
She nodded, her lips twisted in frustration. “Let’s get a drink.”
“I’ve never been in this place,” marveled Oliver.
“I’d be surprised if you had been,” muttered Sam. “It’s quiet. Everyone here will know to leave us alone, and no one you know is going to walk in that door.”
Late morning light streamed in a single open doorway, and otherwise, the place was unlit. Oliver could barely see the edges of the room in the gloom, but Sam was right. It was quiet, and no one he knew would ever step through that doorway.
The barman arrived and raised an eyebrow at Sam.
“Ale,” she said. “Your best.”
“You want the best? You’ll have to pay for it,” he said. The barman scratched at his bearded chin. “I stock some pretty fine ale out of Rhensar for my personal consumption, and I’d be willing to pour a draught for you, Sam, but it’s quite expensive, and you’re quite poor.”
Sam snorted and hooked a thumb at Oliver. “He’ll pay.”
The barman eyed the duke then shuffled over to his taps.
“A pitcher, Andrew,” called Sam.
The man waved a hand at her without looking back and tugged on a lever, sending a stream of foaming, golden liquid into a large, earthenware jug.
Oliver eyed the jug, noting it wasn’t a pitcher and wondering when it was last cleaned, but the ale looked like… ale, and the barman didn’t look like the type who wanted feedback.
“So, what do we know?” asked Oliver after two mugs were filled, and the barman went back to the far corner, nursing a late-morning ale of his own. Oliver scratched at his arm, wondering if it was too soon to lose the sling. “We have a series of unexplained murders and we have a missing priest and a missing bishop.”
“Let’s spell it all out,” suggested Sam.
He nodded, holding up fingers as he counted, “Countess Dalyrimple, the apothecary Holmes, Inspector McCready, Merchant Robertson, Governor Dalyrimple, ah, Standish Taft of course. That’s-that’s what, six murders?”
“Seven, with Captain Haines,” added Sam. “Though, should he count? We’re certain he was the one who killed the governor, right?”
“He probably did,” agreed the duke.
“So, does he count?” asked Sam after taking a sip of her ale. “Six or seven murders, and two missing churchmen. Perhaps a few more deaths we could include, such as the assassin-whaler and those corsairs…”
“Can we agree there are several unexplained murders and leave it at that?” asked Duke. “Whatever the number, it’s a lot. We know sorcery is at the root of it all, but where does that lead us?”
“Right. Sorcery is the root, but the root of what?” agreed Sam. She took a pull on her ale and smacked her lips. “What could someone possibly hope to achieve by killing these people?”
“And where did your mentor and the bishop disappear to?” added the duke, hissing in frustration. “I suppose we should also ask if they disappeared together, or is it completely unrelated?”
“It’s safe to assume that both Standish Taft and Captain Haines were murdered to keep them silent, agreed?” speculated Sam. “It’s a simple explanation, but simple usually means correct. In both cases, the timing supports it. Haines was imprisoned and presumably murdered to prevent him talking. Taft was killed moments after we arrived for I imagine the same reason.”
“Makes sense,” allowed Oliver, trying the ale and nodding appreciatively toward the barman. “If that’s the case, someone knew our movements both in Archtan Atoll and in Swinpool. In Swinpool, they could have been following us. The coincidence is difficult to believe if they were not. But… who could have followed us all the way to Archtan Atoll?”
“It’s also safe to guess that the Dalyrimples’ murders are related as well, though I’m unclear if they were killed because of this dagger the countess may have had, or… well, that makes no sense then for the governor, does it?” mused Sam, pinching her chin with two fingers. “The clerk claimed Bishop Yates is known to vanish, so I am not certain if that has anything to do with our investigation. But at the same time as my mentor? If Thotham left to follow a lead, it could be important. If-if it was related to the death of Standish Taft…”
Oliver placed a hand on hers. “If the man taught you, then he can handle himself. Let’s not get worried until we know something is amiss.”
She nodded and turned up her ale.
“I’m more confused about all of this than when we first walked in here,” admitted Oliver.
“You an
d me both,” confided Sam.
The sat silent for a moment, nursing their ales, staring morosely at the twisting grains of wood along the top of the bar.
“Isisandra Dalyrimple,” said Oliver, finally breaking the silence. “She’s the only lead we have. Maybe I should see if she’s available tonight and find out what else she can tell us. Her mother’s death was what kicked this off, at least as far as we know. Did she believe the story that her mother was afraid of the pirates? Did she notice either of her parents disappearing for periods of time when they could have been visiting the corsairs in Farawk? What connections did she see but not understand at the time?”
“And someone hired Captain Haines to stop him talking, but who?” asked Sam.
“The same person who snuffed out Standish Taft,” guessed Oliver.
“Maybe. It could be the same mastermind or group,” remarked Sam. “It makes sense except…”
“We have no idea who,” finished Oliver.
“You’re right,” agreed Sam. “Isisandra Dalyrimple is the key. Whoever is behind this must have had contact with her parents, agreed? Whatever secrets are buried, they weren’t buried alone by those two. The circle in Farawk wasn’t fashioned by the countess alone. They have accomplices. Isisandra could have seen something or noticed someone who didn’t belong. As you say, the girl may have a lead even if she doesn’t know it.”
“She’s been reluctant to talk,” murmured Oliver. “Perhaps it’s time to push harder.”
“Perhaps it’s time to change the questioner,” argued Sam.
Oliver frowned at her.
“If you see her again, can you keep it in your trousers?”
“Of course I can!” snapped Oliver. “That was a one-time thing.”
“You said she was a virgin,” reminded Sam. “Do you think she’ll believe it was a one-time thing? Do you think she’ll be able to ignore that little tryst and suddenly open up and answer questions about her parents’ death? Come on, Duke. If anything, she’ll be more emotional and distraught. I know you didn’t mean it to turn out that way, but I can speak from experience. A young girl who just had her first sexual encounter is not going to be focused on helping our investigation. Not around you.”
Oliver frowned into his ale.
“I can tell her you sent me, that you’d like me to deliver a message or perhaps that you’d like me to check over her lodging and ensure it’s safe. We can pretend you’re concerned about her safety.”
“I am concerned about her safety,” declared Oliver.
“Perfect, then,” replied Sam.
Sighing, Oliver conceded, “You can take a shot, but go easy on her. If you do not learn anything, then I will see her again. Maybe we can use those emotions instead of making them a distraction. You’d be surprised at some of the pillow talk I’ve heard.”
“No,” responded Sam. “I don’t think I would be. That’s fair, though. If she doesn’t talk to me, we’ll give you another chance. In the meantime, what will you do?”
“I’ll approach it from a different angle,” said Oliver. “Isisandra is the key, but what about the lock? The countess wasn’t always the countess, and the governor wasn’t always the governor. I’m certain something they did led to them getting killed, but what and when? Whenever this journey started for them, I suspect it was here in Enhover. Maybe I can find some clue by looking into who they were.”
Sam nodded. “Find out who they associated with when they were younger, and we might uncover another thread to follow. The countess came here for an important ritual. There had to be someone other than Merchant Robertson that she was in contact with.”
Oliver poured them both another ale and added, “Sam, we should keep this quiet. My brother thinks this is in the hands of the inspectors now and we have unanswered questions about both the bishop’s and your mentor’s whereabouts. As far as everyone else is concerned, we’re done investigating. I’m busy preparing to depart for the Westlands, and you are busy… Ah, what do you do, actually, when you’re not around me?”
“I sit around dreamily wishing I was,” said Sam with a snort. She turned up her ale and then slammed it back down on the counter.
The Priestess X
“You said Oliver sent you?”
“He did,” confirmed Sam.
Her gaze drifted off the woman reclined on the chaise and she glanced around the room. It was lit by two dozen candles supported by silver-armed chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Half again as high as her head, the suspended lights gave the appearance of a sky filled with burning orange and yellow stars.
One wall of the room was filled with books, thick volumes bound in leather, embossed with silver and gold print. A veritable fortune worth of titles. A desk was bare except a stoppered ink jar and a pair of quills sticking from a white porcelain vase. A tray was covered in delicate crystal decanters of wine and spirits. Three huge windows were hidden behind lush purple curtains. Couches were covered in stuffed pillows, bracketed by low tables and the chaise that the girl was sprawled out on. It had the look of her father’s office taken over by her and now used for social engagements and after dinner drinks before taking someone off to bed. It wasn’t the room of a girl, only eighteen winters, who’d had her first sexual encounter days earlier.
“Is this your mother’s room?” asked Sam.
“My father’s old office,” remarked Isisandra, “though he rarely used it. We lived in Archtan Atoll the last four years, but when we returned on visits, he spent most of his time in Derbycross attending to affairs there. We would pass through Westundon on each visit, though, and he had to have somewhere to receive visitors. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t mean to offend,” mumbled Sam, walking through the room, letting her hand trail over the silk cushions piled on a long couch. “It feels feminine to me.”
Isisandra laughed. “I live here now. The pillows are mine.”
Sam nodded, looking at the floor-to-ceiling curtains blocking both the light and sound from the street outside.
“Why are you here?” asked the girl.
Sam turned to her, noting a long, exposed leg underneath a red, silk dressing gown. She wondered what else was beneath the gown.
“Duke Wellesley asked me to check and make sure you have all that you need. He wanted to be certain you’re well-provided and safe. I have some experience in security, and he asked me to look over your home, make sure all is in good order.”
“Such a gentleman, the duke,” murmured Isisandra. “I haven’t had word from him since we last saw each other. Am I to take this as a sign he’s still interested in me?”
“He sent me, didn’t he?” replied Sam.
Isisandra pursed her lips, bright red paint forming a tantalizing pout.
“I am certain he will be in touch with you soon,” added Sam. “In the meantime—”
“Security, you said?” interrupted Isisandra. “I thought you were a priestess.”
“I work for the Church,” explained Sam, not bothering to clarify further. She watched Isisandra re-cross her legs, the silk robe falling farther back on her thighs. Sam worked her tongue in her mouth, finding it suddenly dry.
She tore her eyes away from the girl’s leg and ignored the silver chain that traced her collarbone, dropping out of sight under the red silk. The girl’s pale skin was luminescent in the flickering light of the candles above them.
“I apologize,” said Isisandra. “When we were on the airship from Archtan Atoll, I paid you very little attention. I thought you were some plaything of Duke Wellesley’s, using the claim of priesthood as a convenient excuse to share his room, or perhaps you really were a priestess. Either way, I was not interested, which I suppose was the point. I was wrong, though, wasn’t I? You are something different. Not a priestess, I don’t think, but not his plaything either. I wonder… Have you slept with the man?”
Despite herself, Sam flushed. The girl was a decade and a half her junior, but something about her demeanor set Sam�
�s nerves a titter. The girl spoke with such… confidence. This was no trembling virgin, whatever Duke thought.
“No, I have not,” answered Sam.
She studied Isisandra’s face as the girl smiled back at her. She couldn’t decipher the look. They’d been keeping an eye on her, and Duke doing a bit more, but they’d uncovered nothing that led them to believe Isisandra was involved in her parents’ activities. Still, there was some mystery there, something they had not discovered. Isisandra had a secret.
“Would you pour me a drink?”
Sam glanced at the drinks cart and nodded. “What’s your preference?”
“Wine. Red.”
Sam selected a half-full decanter and bent to pick up two glasses from the bottom level of the cart. She glanced back, catching Isisandra looking at her. “Is this one all right?”
The girl nodded, and Sam filled the two glasses. When she brought one to Isisandra, she let her hips sway, the tight leather that encased her legs swishing as she walked. She stood an arms-length from the girl and handed her the wine. Isisandra took it and drank deeply.
Sam sipped her wine, looking down at the girl.
“Go ahead,” said Isisandra dryly. “Pour yourself some of my wine.”
“Duke Wellesley thought you were a virgin,” mentioned Sam.
Isisandra laughed, the sound tinkling like rain on a pond. “Did he?”
Sam walked away, studying the room again. “You were, in a way.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Isisandra.
“Did your parents know?”
“Know what?” asked the girl. “Whatever your relationship with the duke, you’re being rather forward. I am being nice because you are close to him, but do not think—”
“You prefer girls,” stated Sam, knowing as she said it, that it was no guess.
Isisandra sipped her wine and did not respond, confirming Sam’s intuition.
“So that is your secret,” surmised Sam. “What was it? Servants in the governor’s mansion, native women, maybe even female sailors who stopped over? Or perhaps it was all of them? Duke was right, you have no experience with men, but you’ve been with plenty of women, haven’t you?”