Quill

by A. C. Cobble

  “This girl, his apprentice, is not sure where Thotham lives?” wondered Bishop Yates.

  Ignoring his brother’s pointed look, Oliver tried another tact. “Do you know how to contact the man?”

  The bishop shook his head. “As I mentioned, he follows his own path. He comes to see me, but I’m afraid I have no idea where to find him. I do know he keeps an apartment somewhere in the city and spends a great deal of time traveling all over Enhover. That is part of his role within the Church. I promised help, Duke Wellesley, and I meant it. Perhaps I can ask around and see if anyone is friends with the man. Surely one of our priests can lead us in the right direction. I think we’ll find this priest of yours is on one of his regular excursions around the countryside and will turn up in short order.”

  “We appreciate your help, Bishop Yates,” said Prince Philip. “I believe that is all my brother has for you this evening. Is that right, Oliver?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Oliver. “I do appreciate your help at such an awful hour, Bishop.”

  The old man smiled and nodded again. “The Church is always happy to assist the Crown. We wouldn’t want our allocation to be cut in half, after all.”

  Oliver couldn’t hide his wince that time.

  “You have no fear of that as long as a Wellesley is on the throne,” assured Philip, not picking up on the subtext and the bishop’s sly smile.

  “I’ll take my leave then,” said the old man.

  After he left, Philip turned on Oliver, stabbing a finger toward his brother. “I hope this girl isn’t putting ideas into your head.”

  “She’s not,” muttered Oliver.

  “When I asked you to assist with the investigation of Countess Dalyrimple, I meant as a passive representative of the Crown and the Company. You’ve taken it too far, brother, and I’m afraid you’re just making a muck of it,” chastised Philip. “The situation may be worse now because of your involvement.”

  “That’s unfair,” protested Oliver.

  “There are more bodies, and you have no leads,” responded Philip sharply. “I’m not saying your actions led to their deaths, but you certainly didn’t prevent them, did you? Don’t you think it’s time to step aside, perhaps finally make that expedition to the Westlands, and let the professional investigators finish this?”

  “Are you giving me an order?” muttered Oliver.

  “I’m asking you a question,” replied his brother. “Do you really think this is the best use of your time as a senior officer of the Company and a member of the royal family? Because I do not.”

  “I’d like to continue to pursue this,” said Oliver, adding quickly when he saw his brother’s expression, “a few days, at most. I still have five days until I’m scheduled to depart. You are right, the inspectors should be handling this, but I know the Child family, brother. I couldn’t sleep knowing Nathaniel may be out there somewhere in danger. The inspectors will lead, but I’d like to assist in what ways I am able.”

  “Two more days,” agreed Philip, a suspicious frown on his face, “Then, Oliver, it is time to move on, regardless of how close you are with the Child family. Two days. Then you are done. And that is an order from your prince. Go to the Westlands if you’re still interested in exploration and incredible wealth, refresh some of your old maps if you are not, attend the theatre or gamble at the tracks, visit Lannia in Southundon, woo Isisandra Dalyrimple, woo the twins… Do anything other than this, brother.”

  “I understand.”

  For the second time that night, he found himself hammering a fist on a closed door. The lacquered, wooden surface was damp with dew from the thick fog that blanketed Westundon. Lights burned in street lamps hung at the ends of the block, barely cutting through the heavy mist, but the house he was knocking on was well-enough lit, the foyer bright, and a window in the room he believed to be Isisandra’s was glowing as well.

  It was terribly rude and socially unacceptable to call upon a young woman so late, but he was tired and frustrated. Every lead, every angle they’d pursued, led to a dead end. Literally, in most cases.

  All except one. All except Isisandra Dalyrimple. Somehow, she was at the heart of the matter, and he was done waiting. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and by dawn, he’d know what she knew. If there was some clue, some lead hidden in her mind, he would find it.

  The click of a bolt and the scrape of iron on wood snapped his attention back to the door, and slowly, it swung open.

  Oliver stared in confusion.

  “We need to talk,” muttered Sam, brushing past him and shutting the door behind her.

  “Wait. What?” he asked, hurrying after her down the stone steps of Isisandra’s stoop. Sam kept walking, so he grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around more violently than he intended. “What are you talking… Are your trousers unlaced?”

  Sam looked down and muttered a curse. Awkwardly pulling up the belt she kept her kris daggers on, she hastily cinched the leather thongs that kept her trousers on. She tied them off in a bow then readjusted her belt.

  “Why are your trousers unlaced?” demanded Oliver.

  “I said we need to talk,” mumbled Sam, turning again and starting off into the fog.

  “Where are you going?” asked Oliver, chasing after her.

  “The Befuddled Sage,” said Sam, not looking back. “I need a drink, and so do you.”

  “It’s almost dawn,” he complained. “What are you talking about?”

  She didn’t respond, so he followed her as she plowed through the roiling clouds of cool moisture that poured over the dark streets. Finally, they arrived at the pub. It was even dimmer than the last time he’d been inside. Lanterns braced the open door, illuminating the drifting mist with a ghastly glow. Half a dozen patrons were scattered around the room when they walked in, and the barman Andrew simply nodded and collected an earthenware jug.

  Sam sat at the bar as far from the other patrons as she could manage, and Oliver pulled up a stool beside her. Since she had opened the door to Isisandra’s house, she hadn’t met his eyes, and she still didn’t. Her gaze was fixed on her hands.

  Oliver leaned close. “Is something wrong? Tell me—There is lip paint on your neck!”

  She shifted.

  Suddenly, he bolted upright, knocking over his stool. “You didn’t!”

  Andrew sat the jug down on the bar along with two empty mugs. He glanced between the two of them, shook his head, and then declared, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “You didn’t!” exclaimed Oliver again.

  “I said we needed to talk,” mumbled Sam.

  “About… about this?” cried the Oliver. “You slept with my paramour, didn’t you?”

  “Is she your paramour?” snapped Sam, looking up to meet his glare. “It sure seemed to me like you regretted the dalliance and were trying to avoid her. She said you hadn’t contacted her since the night you were together. Is that true?”

  “I didn’t send her a note quick enough, so you moved in?” accused Oliver. “Are you just hanging around me hoping I cast off some noblewoman you can stick your… your…”

  “Tongue?” asked Sam coldly. “Is that the word you’re looking for?”

  Oliver blinked at her. “Well, actually, I was thinking… Is that how you do it?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” muttered Sam, grabbing the ale jug and sloshing a pour into her mug.

  “I thought…” Oliver raised his hands, moving his palms and fingers into a complex matrix. “Well, isn’t…”

  “Is that supposed to be a leg?” wondered Sam, pointing to one finger which stuck out from the pattern he was forming.

  “That’s an arm, here… Ah, the legs are down below.”

  “Well, no, that’s completely wrong,” said Sam. She tried to rearrange his fingers but then gave up. She explained, “It is simple. Two women do the same things that a woman and a man would do.”

  He frowned at her. “Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with how that goes, bu
t the man takes his penis and—”

  “I know that part!” cried Sam. “I meant with your mouth and your tongue. Don’t you ever, you know, go down?”

  “Go down?”

  “Do you kiss the girls… down there?”

  “Of course not,” huffed Oliver. “Why would they even want that?”

  “Do you like it when they do it for you?”

  Oliver ran a hand over his hair, checking the knot in the back, and snatched the ale mug from in front of her, taking a long pull instead of answering her question.

  “If you like it, don’t you think they would like it too?” pressed Sam. “Surely someone, at least once, has asked for that.”

  They sat quietly for a long moment. Then, he replied, “When you have a penis, you don’t need to do things like that.”

  “It’s no wonder girls go looking for other girls,” responded Sam with a sigh.

  “No one has ever complained,” he muttered.

  “Just because they don’t complain to you doesn’t mean they aren’t complaining,” replied Sam.

  Another long moment passed, and they both drained a mug and half another.

  Oliver asked, “How did it happen? Did you two start talking and she… Did she complain? Perhaps she wasn’t fully satisfied, but we had little time. It was in a moving carriage, and well, she’s inexperienced. It’s hard when—”

  “No,” interjected Sam. “She didn’t complain about you if that makes you feel any better. It wasn’t about you at all.”

  “What happened, then?” questioned Oliver. He was torn between confusion and disbelief. He knew how the girl had pursued him. She’d wanted it even more than he had, but he couldn’t fool himself. Why else had Sam’s trousers been unlaced coming out of Isisandra’s front door in the middle of the night?

  “It-it’s hard to explain,” mumbled Sam. “I went there, as we discussed, to try and shake some information out of her. While I was there, I figured out why she seemed so inexperienced to you. To me, she acted so confident… It turns out I was right. I caught her looking. I voiced my suspicion, and she admitted that she’d been with women before. Lots of them, I imagine, though in Archtan Atoll they all would have been her subordinates. That’s different from… from what we did.”

  “So, before we ever met her, you think she preferred girls?” wondered Oliver.

  “I’m sure she did,” claimed Sam.

  “Did,” murmured Oliver, rubbing his chin. “You think she’s into men, now? Perhaps after she and I were together, she realized what she was missing.”

  “N-no,” stammered Sam. “I didn’t say that at all.”

  “You said ‘did’,” argued Oliver. “As in, past tense.”

  “I, ah…” Sam trailed off and tilted up her ale mug. When she sat it down, she turned to look into Oliver’s eyes and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure you were amazing, but believe me when I say this, Isisandra likes girls. It’s the way she is, and you’re not going to change her mind.”

  “Well, at least it’s a good excuse I can tell my brother,” grumbled Oliver.

  He was torn between curling tendrils of jealousy, disbelief, and relief that he wouldn’t have to either marry the young countess or find some creative way to brush her off. He fought hard to cling to that fleeting sense of relief and push down the rest of it.

  He finished his ale and poured another round. “So, I’m assuming you didn’t find any clues? I’m guessing you were too busy rolling around with her? Did you even try to question her?”

  Sam collected her newly filled mug and shrugged. “What would she gain from killing her parents?”

  “Immense wealth,” reminded Oliver. “Or a chance to come back from the colonies and rule like a queen.”

  “She had immense wealth,” replied Sam, shaking her head. “Her parents certainly didn’t seem to stint on anything she wanted. You saw her rooms in Archtan Atoll, and they’re even more extravagant here. I don’t think her father would have hesitated at purchasing anything for his only daughter. From what we saw before he was killed, she had him wrapped around her finger. Not to mention, at eighteen winters, she is of presentable age. She could have come back on her own, lived exactly as she is now, and gained even more wealth while her father collected on Company shares. The governor had no other heirs, so anything he accumulated would eventually pass to her. The fact is, the governor was worth more to the girl alive than dead.”

  Oliver sat back, turning the ale mug in front of him.

  “You two done fighting?” asked the barman, Andrew. He had approached silently, and Oliver jumped when the man spoke.

  “Fighting?” protested Oliver. “We weren’t fighting. We were, ah, discussing—”

  “I could hear every word,” mentioned Andrew.

  Oliver flushed, and Sam seemed to have swallowed ale down the wrong pipe. She coughed violently into her fist.

  “I can’t tell you what to do about this girl that you’re both sleeping with,” rumbled the barman after Sam recovered. He brandished an empty mug and filled it with ale from their jug. “Honestly, that seems like a thorny problem that any sensible pair of people would have avoided in the first place.”

  “Thanks for your help,” grumbled Sam.

  Andrew grinned at her. “I was going to offer you a suggestion on your other problems. You need to talk to the old man. He can set you straight.”

  Sam glared at the barman. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” admitted the barman, “but I know you can find him in the waking dream.”

  Oliver blinked at the man in confusion and then looked to Sam. She was tapping a finger on the bar, pursing her lips. The barman sipped at their ale, smacking his lips with pleasure.

  “What do you know of the waking dream?” asked Sam.

  Andrew shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter what I know. What do you know of it?”

  “I know it is dangerous to attempt and dangerous to even discuss,” responded Sam. “It’s sorcery, or close enough. The Church has outlawed it. If they even heard you discussing it…”

  He grinned and pretended to lock his lips with an imaginary key. “Everyone else left, headed to their beds before the sun comes up. It’s just us in here, and I won’t talk if you don’t. You’ve got your secrets, and I’ve got mine. Besides, everything I know about the dream is from Church folk like yourself. If it’s so illegal, you oughta keep your mouths shut about it, along with everything else you blabber about in this pub.”

  “What Church folk come in here?” wondered Sam. “I never see any.”

  The barman looked at her quizzically. “The old man. You drink with him every few weeks.”

  “His name is Thotham,” responded Sam, a grimace on her face.

  “I know that is his name,” replied Andrew. He finished his ale and reached for the jug, frowning when he found it empty. “You fancy another?”

  “You know Thotham?” asked Sam. “Really know him?”

  “Of course I do, girl,” replied Andrew. “He’s been coming here for years, long before you earned your own stool. I don’t right recall, but I figured he was the one who introduced you to this place.”

  “He did,” murmured Sam, “but I thought… You never speak to him when we are here together. You two barely look at each other. How come?”

  The barman shrugged. “Some people like you come into the pub to talk. Others come to drink. Thotham, when he comes here, is a drinker.”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t come here to talk.”

  Andrew tilted his head and waited.

  “I don’t—”

  “You’re talking right now.”

  “You are talking, Sam,” agreed Oliver. “A lot.”

  Sam turned to glare at him.

  “Thotham doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it is important,” advised the barman. “The things you folks are talking about, he ought to be involved in.”

  “I know that,” hissed Sam. She looked up hopefull
y. “Do you have any idea where we could find him, where he lives?”

  “I can tell you he is not in the city,” answered Andrew. “I don’t know where he goes, where his nest is. If you don’t know, then I doubt anyone else knows. He keeps things like that under his robes, so to speak. As I said, there is a way to find it… Think about it.”

  The barman shuffled off behind the bar without further word, an empty mug hanging loosely in his hands.

  Oliver reached for the earthenware jug of ale and frowned. “I think he stole the rest of our ale.”

  Sam, though, was lost in thought.

  “What?” asked Oliver. “What’s this waking dream? Is that some clue as to where to find him?”

  “No,” murmured Sam. “The barman was right. Not where, but how.”

  The Priestess XI

  She drew a deep breath and then explained, “We can scry for him.”

  Duke yawned, his jaw cracking. He moved a fist up to cover his gaping mouth. “Sorry about that. Scrying, is that what you said? It sounds interesting, it’s just late is all.”

  “It’s early,” called the barman from the far corner of the room.

  “Should we…”

  She shook her head. “He’s already heard everything.”

  “What’s scrying, then?” asked Duke.

  “It’s a method of seeking, seeking something that cannot be seen. It is possible we could locate Thotham that way.”

  “Well, why the frozen hell did you not mention that days ago!” exclaimed Duke. “Your mentor, the bishop, Baron Child, Lieutenant Taft… All we’ve been doing is looking for people who are lost.”

  “I didn’t mention it because there are requirements to scry for someone. Requirements and risks,” she grumbled. “It’s illegal, for one.”

  “Illegal?” queried Duke. “I’m the son of the king. Nothing I do is illegal.”

  “Illegal by Church law, and don’t think that your father can shield you entirely from doing something you know the Church outlawed. Bishop Yates would take such a charge very seriously.”

  “We can take the risk,” argued Duke. “If we’d done it sooner, maybe Standish Taft would be alive.”