Quill

by A. C. Cobble

  “That’s not business of yours!” barked Isisandra. “What, do you plan to blackmail me somehow? Tell the duke that—”

  “You were willing enough with him,” interrupted Sam. “Why was that?”

  Isisandra stood, her face stern, and stepped toward the desk, her father’s empty desk.

  “You think he’ll make you a rich husband and behind his back you can get what you really want?” questioned Sam. “Maybe someday you would even tell him? You wouldn’t be the first noblewoman married for convenience, but that does not strike me as who you are. You want something grander than being on the arm of an important man, don’t you?”

  “What do you want?” asked Isisandra, moving around behind the desk.

  Sam watched the girl closely and then walked after her. She couldn’t stop herself. For weeks, they’d been speculating about what the girl had been hiding, if anything. Now, Sam knew. Isisandra had hidden her preferences from her parents, just as they’d hidden their activities from her. The House of Dalyrimple had been shrouded in secrets — none of them had really known each other. No one had ever truly known this girl, guessed Sam.

  “I should call my men and have you dragged out of here,” declared Isisandra, glaring at Sam.

  “Servants, natives,” responded Sam. “You’ve never been with anyone who wasn’t subservient to you, have you? They say what you want them to say, moan when you want them to, kiss where you want them to. You’ve never experienced what a real woman is like. One that knows what she wants or knows what you really want.”

  Isisandra’s hand traced along the table, moving over the edge, to the knob of a desk drawer. She snapped, “I am tired of this game. Tell me what you want, priestess, or whatever you are.”

  Sam darted around the table and caught the girl’s wrist as Isisandra was opening the drawer. She looked into the compartment and saw a sheathed dagger there. “What were you going to do, girl, threaten me with that? If you wanted me to leave, you’d simply call for your men like you said.”

  Isisandra glared a Sam and struggled, trying to free her wrist. The priestess tightened her grip and smiled.

  “What do you want?” snapped Isisandra. Her breathing was coming heavy, her face was flushed but not from fear.

  “I’ll show you what I want,” said Sam. She put down her wine glass and yanked Isisandra close. She maintained her grip on the girl’s wrist and with her empty hand, she reached around and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it for a kiss.

  The girl’s soft lips mashed against hers. Isisandra struggled for half a dozen heartbeats before her mouth opened. She returned the kiss fiercely, and when Sam pulled away, she could see hunger in the girl’s eyes.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sam. She’d found what she’d come to find, and now it was time to go. She turned and started toward the door.

  “No, you don’t,” growled Isisandra. She grabbed Sam’s arm, spinning her.

  Sam smirked at the girl and then let out a yelp as Isisandra’s hand flashed up and slapped her face, leaving a stinging welt.

  Sam slapped back, knocking the girl’s head to the side, a glowing red mark where her palm had impacted the pale skin of Isisandra’s cheek.

  They stood, breathing heavily, staring at each other.

  “You are right,” said Isisandra finally. “I’ve never been with a woman who knows what she wants. Aside from a few servants, no one has ever known…”

  Sam knew she should leave. She knew it was a terrible idea. Isisandra wasn’t what Sam had thought she was. She wasn’t some malevolent sorceress, but she was no blushing virgin eager for Duke’s protection, either. That was not what Isisandra wanted. Right now, Sam knew exactly what she wanted. She knew she should leave, but she didn’t.

  Isisandra swung another slap at her face, and Sam caught the girl’s wrist.

  “Nice try,” she muttered then dragged Isisandra to the chaise. She tore the girl’s robe off of her and threw her down on the cushioned furniture.

  While Isisandra watched, Sam stripped her britches and boots off, leaving her shirt on.

  “Kiss me,” demanded Isisandra, parting her legs, eyes fixed on Sam.

  “No,” replied Sam, and she climbed on the chaise, straddling the girl’s face.

  The Cartographer XV

  His fist beat on the door again. He waited, annoyed.

  “Maybe he saw it was you,” drawled Prince Philip.

  Oliver glanced back at his older brother.

  The prince stood halfway up the steps to the townhouse. His arms were crossed and a foot was tapping impatiently. Behind him, a dozen men wearing House Wellesley livery stood in the street, shifting just as restlessly. Each man had a halberd half again as tall as they were and on their belts were sturdy short swords. On the streets, they didn’t carry the cumbersome, apt-to-miss blunderbusses. The men weren’t used to having to wait, not when they were escorting the prince.

  Two mechanical carriages sat puttering quietly behind the men, one well-appointed and plush, the other braced with platforms and brass bars where the men would hang on and follow the prince throughout this domain.

  “We should have sent word,” grumbled Philip.

  “And give him time to prepare?” asked Oliver. “The entire point of this was to surprise him.”

  “Well, he’ll be surprised when he comes home and finds us camped out on his stoop,” complained the prince. He waved his arms, gesturing at the neighboring palaces that flanked the broad, tree-lined boulevard. “I’m going to be explaining what I was doing out here every day for weeks. How many peers do you think have spied us already, Oliver, just standing on Nathaniel’s doorstep?”

  Oliver turned and pounded his fist on the door again, but like before, there was no response.

  “No one is home. Let’s head back,” suggested Philip.

  “Baron Child may not be home,” argued Oliver, “but his staff should be. There should be a dozen people working in a home this large, and at least a few of them have to be inside right now.”

  “Perhaps they’re scared of the arms men.”

  Oliver grunted and stepped back, looking up at the stone facade of Baron Nathaniel Child’s Westundon townhome. It was true. The baron could be out. He was a single man with high prospects. He could afford any of the entertainments in the city and would always have a woman wanting to drape herself on his arm. Oliver was in much the same circumstances and frequented the same venues. He knew the baron wasn’t out on such a cold, foggy evening. Nathaniel Child cared for his gold, not the baubles and entertainment he could buy with it. This late in the evening, the man would be home. His servants were certain to be.

  “Look at the lights,” said Oliver.

  Philip merely shrugged and glanced up and down the street, as if embarrassed to be caught standing before an unanswered door.

  “There aren’t enough lights on for this time of evening,” continued Oliver. He pointed at one of the arms men. “You, come bash in this door with your halberd.”

  “You’re going to break in his door?” cried Philip. “Why don’t we just come back in the morning? This is foolish, Oliver.”

  “A-Ah…” stammered the arms man, his eyes darting between the duke and the prince.

  “Go ahead and do it,” instructed Oliver, “or give it to me and I will.”

  Philip snorted but didn’t move to intervene as the arms man clanked up the stairs. Taking that as a sign the breach was condoned, the man hefted his halberd and aimed the butt at the handle of the door. He smashed it against the wood, rattling the door in the frame, but it didn’t open. Oliver circled his finger, and the arms man struck again then several more times until the stout, wooden door burst open.

  “You’re paying for that door, Oliver, and not out of the Crown’s accounts,” declared Philip as he strode the rest of the way up the stairs and into the foyer of Baron Child’s townhouse. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ask for a share of your Westlands stake as punishment for invading h
is home.”

  “How did you… Never mind.”

  Philip frowned over his shoulder then slowed his walk and quickly stopped. The house was dead silent. From his face, it was evident that even the prince was growing suspicious something was not right.

  Oliver called up the rest of the arms men and instructed them to spread out through the house and search it. In less than a minute, a voice called out from the back. Oliver and his brother followed the sound to find one of their men standing in the kitchen, a grim look on his face and the bodies of two young scullions at his feet.

  The sergeant of their guard appeared a moment later in the doorway. The man cleared his throat and said, “Upstairs, m’lords, there is… Oh.”

  “Send a man to fetch the inspectors,” instructed Oliver. “Seal the building. No one else leaves or enters, and have your men search every yard of this place, touching nothing. We need to find out if the baron is… is here or somewhere else.”

  Another guardsman burst in from the carriage yard behind the house. His face was flushed and he exclaimed, “I found a dead man out back! A big fellow. Looks like he went down fighting.”

  “Jack, the baron’s body man?” questioned Oliver. “Bald, with a bushy mustache?”

  The guard blinked at him, then his gaze fell to the bodies of the dead scullions on the floor, then to his sergeant. “I-I don’t know, m’lord. He… yes, he was a big man, just as you describe.”

  “Frozen hell,” muttered Prince Philip, rubbing his face with his hands.

  “Fourteen dead servants, his body man, and not a sign of the baron,” growled Prince Philip. “Where could the man be?”

  “Dead,” replied Oliver.

  His brother spun, an angry retort on his lips, but it faded. He knew as well as Oliver did.

  “Philip, we have to consider that this may be related to the murders of the governor and the countess. I know there is no apparent connection yet, but so many peers dying or disappearing in unexplained circumstances cannot be coincidence.”

  “You were meant to leave that investigation to the inspectors, Oliver,” chided Philip. “Is that why you dragged me out here to see Nathaniel?”

  “No, of course not,” mumbled Oliver, rubbing his arm where he’d removed the sling earlier in the evening. The arm was still tender, but the strap had been chaffing his neck something awful. He glanced at his brother. “Since we’re here, and the man is missing… Why do you think I brought you to Nathaniel’s townhouse as part of the investigation?”

  “Nathaniel Child courted Hathia. He meant to marry her, as I’m sure you discovered somehow,” responded Philip crisply, shaking his head at his younger brother. “I cannot believe you dragged me into this. He was quite broken up about it when she married Sebastian and he became a Dalyrimple, but that courtship was years ago.”

  “Quite broken up,” responded Oliver. “A bit of bloodshed, wasn’t there?”

  Philip grunted.

  “I was told you had to intervene personally.”

  “Nathaniel was upset,” said Philip with a sigh. “He challenged Sebastian and they foolishly had a duel. Sebastian won and was honorable enough to leave Baron Child whole. Nathaniel couldn’t let it drop, though, and attempted to pursue the matter further. Father asked me to step in before Nathaniel got himself killed. I did, and ensured the matter was finished. That was a long time ago, Oliver. How did you even learn of it?”

  “I checked for official reports filed relating to the Dalyrimples,” said Oliver. “That one stood out.”

  “So, what — you believe Nathaniel killed the Dalyrimples, his entire staff, and fled?”

  “I don’t think Baron Child fled,” murmured Oliver. “I think he was killed, and somehow, it is related to the Dalyrimple murders. What can you tell me about his courtship with Hathia, what wasn’t in the official reports?”

  “Nothing,” replied Philp. “It was an unfortunate incident, but with such a woman involved, these things happen. Surely that’s not reason for Nathaniel to be killed? There are dozens of prominent men who courted Hathia before she married Sebastian. She was striking when she was younger, and with the Dalyrimple name and Derbycross as her dowry, every eligible bachelor in the province would have taken her hand. If association with Hathia was enough, we’d be finding bodies stuffed in every alley in this city.”

  “Would we?” asked Oliver. “How many of those former suitors are in Westundon now? We should find them, Philip. Check on them. Question them.”

  Prince Philip stood and began to pace. “The inspectors should be handling this matter, Oliver. There is nothing we can add, and it’s best if we create some distance between ourselves and whatever scandal is unfolding.”

  “Nothing we can add?” chided Oliver “I am the one who followed a lead here. I am the one who discovered Baron Child is missing. Philip, something is afoot. Something terrible. Did you know that Bishop Yates is also unaccounted for? No one has seen him in two days.”

  “Bishop Yates is missing?” questioned the prince. “Murders, missing people… I agree it’s bad, but how does it all tie together? Is it political, do you think, a threat to us? Nathaniel Child was certainly making waves in society, spending money the last few weeks that I don’t think he had. Bishop Yates, well, the man doesn’t even have a title. His games are within the Church, and I’ll be honest, Oliver, I cannot fathom what anyone would have to gain by killing or capturing the man. We can try to shake that tree and see if any priests fall out of it, but my advice is that first, we follow the money. Where did Nathaniel Child get his? If you can find out where this influx of sterling came from, I’m— What?”

  “I know why he was so flush,” mumbled Oliver, staring at his boots. “It has nothing to do with his disappearance.”

  The prince stopped his pacing and placed his fists on his hips. “Anything you care to tell me?”

  “No,” replied Oliver, not looking up.

  “Tell me what you’ve done,” instructed Philip.

  There was a knock on the door, saving the duke. One of Prince Philip’s guards ducked his head in. “Bishop Yates, m’lord. He says the duke left an urgent message for him.”

  Prince Philip turned to Oliver, an eyebrow raised. “Send him in.”

  The bishop shuffled inside, a kindly smile on his lips. “Apologies, m’lord, coming by so late in the evening, but I was told your brother… Ah, Oliver, just the man I was looking for.”

  Philip kept his eyes on his younger brother. “Well, Oliver, here he is.”

  Oliver looked up and saw the bishop peering at him curiously. “I, ah, I came by the Church, Gabriel, looking for you.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did,” confirmed Oliver. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the other two men standing around him but thinking it would look awkward or threatening if he stood in the midst of the questioning. “Neither your secretary nor your valet knew where you were.”

  The bishop offered a tiny shrug and a knowing wink.

  “I needed your assistance,” said Oliver.

  “Apologies, Duke Wellesley,” offered the bishop. “As you know, both the Church and myself are always at your disposal.”

  “Where were you?” demanded Oliver.

  “You’ve never had a secret assignation?” asked the bishop. He paused, but before Oliver could answer, he remarked, “Of course you have. Your reputation is well known. As a man of the Church, though, I’m afraid I must be more circumspect, particularly around my subordinates. It is frowned upon, as it should be, but I am just a man. I hope you two can keep my faith and not share my little secret.”

  “This assignation, who was it with?” pressed Oliver.

  “Oliver…” warned Philip.

  “A common woman,” said the bishop, clutching his big belly and chuckling. “A seamstress, in fact. She’s, ah, she’s married to a sailor… I know that is terrible, but as I said, I am just a man, and men have needs. I hope you do not think less of me.”

  Oliver
stared at the bishop in consternation, not believing a word of the man’s story but at a loss how to challenge him on it without drawing rebuke from his brother.

  “What did you need my help with?” asked the bishop. “I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience, but perhaps I can still assist you?”

  Philip crossed his arms, and Oliver understood the signal. He had little time.

  “Bishop Yates, do you know a priest named Thotham?”

  The bishop frowned for a moment but then nodded. “An older fellow, yes?”

  “He is,” confirmed the duke. “The representative you sent with me to Harwick, she is looking for him.”

  The bishop pushed a white tuft of hair behind his ear and responded, “The representative that accompanied you to Harwick… Ah, I’m afraid I can’t recall the individual.”

  “Sam,” offered Duke. “She— Sam is apprenticed to Thotham.”

  “A girl you say, Sam?” questioned Bishop Yates. “That sounds familiar, and I do believe you’re right. She does follow the man Thotham. I’m afraid I cannot help, though. The priest you speak of is, ah, he’s a bit of a free rover. A son of the Church, but one who walks his own path. He does not live within our compound and has no official duties from my office. I’m afraid he tends to answer only to himself. Surely the girl told you this? If she is apprenticed to him, she knows the man far better than I.”

  “What did she tell you, Oliver?” questioned Philip.

  “He’s missing,” said Oliver, running his hand over his hair and checking the knot in the back, hoping he covered his wince. “He spends a lot of time on Church grounds, but we could not find him.”

  “Everyone seems to be going missing recently,” remarked Philip coldly, his arms still crossed, a glare fixed on his face.

  “Did you check his apartments?” wondered Bishop Yates.

  “We, ah… She is not sure where those might be,” admitted Oliver.