by A. C. Cobble
The Cartographer
Complete Series
AC Cobble
QUILL text copyright © 2019 AC Cobble
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 9781947683167
ASIN: B07QK7LJR9
STEEL text copyright © 2019 AC Cobble
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 9781947683198
ASIN: B07QK7LJR9
SPIRIT text copyright © 2020 AC Cobble
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 9781947683235
ASIN: B085F2JFZH
Cobble Publishing LLC
Sugar Land, TX
Contents
Keep in Touch and Extra Content
Quill
The Inspector I
The Cartographer I
The Priestess I
The Cartographer II
The Priestess II
The Inspector II
The Priestess III
The Cartographer III
The Director I
The Cartographer IV
The Priestess IV
The Cartographer V
The Priestess V
The Cartographer VI
The Priestess VI
The Cartographer VII
The Priestess VII
The Cartographer VIII
The Priestess VIII
The Cartographer IX
The Initiate I
The Cartographer X
The Captain I
The Priestess IX
The Cartographer XI
The Initiate II
The Cartographer XII
The Initiate III
The Spectator I
The Cartographer XIII
The Initiate IV
The Cartographer XIV
The Priestess X
The Cartographer XV
The Priestess XI
The Cartographer XVI
The Priestess XII
The Initiate V
The Cartographer XVII
The Prophet I
The Priestess XIII
The Initiate VI
The Cartographer XVIII
The Director II
The Priestess XIV
The Cartographer XIX
The Priestess XV
The Cartographer XX
The Priestess XVI
The Cartographer XXI
The Priestess XVII
The Cartographer XXII
Steel
The Cartographer I
The Priestess I
The Cartographer II
The Prince I
The Cartographer III
The Priestess II
The Cartographer IV
The Priestess III
The Captain I
The Cartographer V
The Priestess IV
The Cartographer VI
The Priestess V
The Cartographer VII
The Priestess VI
The Cartographer VIII
The Priestess VII
The Cartographer IX
The Priestess VIII
The Cartographer X
The Priestess IX
The Captain II
The Director I
The Cartographer XI
The Spectator I
The Priestess X
The Cartographer XII
The Priestess XI
The Cartographer XIII
The Priestess XII
The Cartographer XIV
The Priestess XIII
The Cartographer XV
The Priestess XIV
The Cartographer XVI
The Director II
The Captain III
The Priestess XV
The Cartographer XVII
The Priestess XVI
The Director III
The Cartographer XVIII
The Priestess XVII
The Director IV
The Cartographer XIX
The Director V
The Cartographer XX
The Priestess XVIII
The Prince II
The Cartographer XXI
The Priestess XIX
The Knife I
The Priestess XX
The Cartographer XXII
The Prince III
The Cartographer XXIII
The Priestess XXI
The Soldier I
The Cartographer XXIV
The Priestess XXII
The Cartographer XXV
The Priestess XXIII
The Cartographer XXVI
The Priestess XXIV
The Cartographer XXVII
The Priestess XXV
The Cartographer XXVIII
Spirit
The Spectator I
The Cartographer I
The Priestess I
The Cartographer II
The Priestess II
The Cartographer III
The Scholar I
The Cartographer IV
The Priestess III
The Cartographer V
The Priestess IV
The Cartographer VI
The Priestess V
The Cartographer VII
The Captain I
The Cartographer VIII
The Priestess VI
The Commander I
The Cartographer IX
The Priestess VII
The Cartographer X
The Captain II
The Cartographer XI
The Priestess VIII
The Cartographer XII
The Priestess IX
The Cartographer XIII
The Priestess X
The Cartographer XIV
The Priestess XI
The Cartographer XV
The Priestess XII
The Cartographer XVI
The Priestess XIII
The Cartographer XVII
The Priestess XIV
The Cartographer XVIII
The Priestess XV
The Cartographer XIX
The Priestess XVI
The Cartographer XX
The Priestess XVII
The Cartographer XXI
The Priestess XVIII
The Cartographer XXII
The Priestess XIX
The Cartographer XXIII
The Captain III
The Cartographer XXIV
The Priestess XX
The Cartographer XXV
The Priestess XXI
The Cartographer XXVI
The Priestess XXII
The Captain IV
The Cartographer XXVII
Thanks for reading!
Glossary
Keep in Touch and Extra Content
Thank you for checking out the book! You can find larger versions of the maps, series artwork, my newsletter, my blog, and information about my other books at accobble.com. I save the best stuff for Patreon, so if you’re a big fan, that’s where to go for exclusive, behind-the-scenes updates!
After reading the Cartographer, be sure to keep an eye out for my next series, The King’s Ranger which debuts September 1st!
Happy reading!
AC
The Inspector I
A heavy thumping woke him, followed a moment later by a sharp metallic clanging. His jaw cracked and he let his head fall to the side. He groaned and snuck a fist from under the sheets to rub the sleep from his eyes. He glanced at the curtain-covered window and saw it let in only a faint glimmer of light. It was night still, late at night. Muttering, he struggled out from under the heavy blankets and winced as his feet landed on the cold stone floor.
“Damnit, McCready,” mumbled a voice beside him. “Didn’t you tell them
bastards to stop using the knocker after sunset?”
The metallic clanging continued. He cursed to himself as he shuffled his feet along the floor, trying to find his trousers in the dark room.
“They keep hittin’ that knocker, McCready, and you’re gonna be sleeping at the station,” warned his wife.
He sighed and looked back at her. The light bleeding through the window curtain illuminated the silhouette of her bare shoulder. She was still naked underneath the blankets. He smiled, remembering a different kind of ruckus that had been going on earlier in the night, but the knocker kept clanging, drawing his mind back to other matters.
Finally, he located his woolen trousers and tugged them on. He found his shirt as well and pulled it over his head. He could finish dressing after he answered the door and quieted the night watchman’s racket.
“I love you, hun,” he whispered, stooping to kiss his wife’s tousled hair.
“Tell them bastards people are sleeping,” she said, not turning to meet his kiss.
Grimacing, Inspector Patrick McCready hurried out of his bedchamber, only years of practice at waking in the middle of the night saving his toes from crunching against the wooden frame of the doorjamb. As he moved through his narrow house, he grabbed his boots and pulled on his overcoat, his hat, and his gloves. A heavy truncheon was last, and he was still gripping it when he yanked open his front door.
Standing outside, face half-lit by the lamp at the end of the street, was a clean-shaven man wearing a thick, dark wool overcoat that hung down to his knees. A hat was perched on his head, pushed back, allowing McCready to see him. Or perhaps it was late, and the fellow was being sloppy.
The man eyed McCready’s truncheon and backed up, hands held in front of him, showing his palms to the inspector. “Whoa there, Pat, whoa there. They told me ya was on call tonight.”
Inspector McCready hung the truncheon on his belt and opened his mouth to apologize, but then he saw the curtain across the street twitch, and he knew the hateful widow who lived there would fill his wife’s head all day with complaints.
“You’re not supposed to use the damn knocker after dark, Jonas,” complained McCready. “It wakes the whole damn neighborhood. Damn, man, I know I’ve said it before.”
“Sorry, sir,” acknowledged the night watchmen, giving the inspector an apologetic nod.
“Well, I’m up now. What do we have?”
Thick, tacky blood puddled around the corpse. The familiar copper scent of the sanguine fluid permeated the air. It appeared liters of the stuff had drained from the mutilated woman, leaving her skin milk-white. She was young, perhaps, or maybe a bit older and well taken care of.
The inspector knelt and he let his gaze drift slowly over the body, from toes to head, forcing himself to take his time, to not rush the observation.
Most obviously, she was naked. Her bare legs were spread wide, but the pale skin was unbruised. No sign of forced assault there. Her torso was unmarred as well, and he saw her stomach was flat. He suspected it would stay that way even if she was upright. Her breasts sagged with the force of gravity, though, and he amended his earlier assumption. Middle-aged, he decided, though it would take further study to be certain. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to look further, to her face, or where it had been.
Stark white bone, bright red muscle, and pits where her eyes once sat. The grisly hollows in her face stared back at him. From the bottom of her jaw to her hairline, the skin had been carefully peeled from her face. Blood surrounded the woman, but the bone of her skull was clean, as if someone had wiped it away or carefully dabbed up the liquid with a towel.
She was alive when it happened, judging by the volume of blood that was spilled on the floor. Her heart had pumped the blood out while someone was doing this to her. If she’d been dead, McCready would have expected to see a fraction of the stuff. He looked at her hands, at her manicured fingernails, and saw no sign of struggle. No defensive cuts or scratches, not even a broken nail. She wasn’t just a well-kept woman, he realized by looking at those hands. This was a woman who could afford pampering, one who didn’t work and likely never had.
“Not good, is it, Inspector?” queried the night watchman.
“No, Jonas,” responded McCready, looking over his shoulder at the man. “It is not good.”
Jonas knuckled his bushy mustaches, his eyes darting quickly from the woman, her missing face, the apparatus in the room, and then back to her.
“Why don’t you check around outside, see if you can spot any clues?” suggested McCready. “Look for footprints or carriage tracks, perhaps. Whoever did this arrived some way or another.”
The night watchman ducked out the door, and McCready turned back to the gruesome scene in front of him. A dead, faceless woman sprawled immodestly on the stone floor of an apothecary. This crime — this murder, he amended — had taken time.
McCready shuffled around to the other side of the woman and bent closer to the body, taking care to avoid dipping the hem of his overcoat in the blood spread around the corpse.
He paused. The blood had pooled in razor-straight lines that ended in black lumps of wax. In the low light of the room, it wasn’t obvious, but as he looked more carefully, he saw the blood couldn’t have followed a cleaner edge if it had been drawn along a carpenter’s plumb line. He frowned, a finger hovering half a yard in the air, tracing the lines and the pattern they made. He sat back on his haunches and took a moment to think.
Shivering, he stood and looked around the room, already knowing he’d need more light and more men. Before they arrived, though, he needed to walk through the rest of the building and take inventory of the room. He needed to sketch the scene and understand it before the clumsy boots of more watchmen damaged whatever evidence had been left.
McCready pulled out a notebook from his overcoat. Its cover was worn, saltwater-stained leather. Half the pages inside were filled with his cramped notes, and he’d replaced those pages a dozen times over the years. Complaints against rival whaling captains, minor assaults in the tavern, a few domestic incidents — that was the bulk of it. Nothing like this. No, nothing like this.
He flipped through the pages until he got a blank one and then he turned, pondering the scene. He grimaced. “Jonas, get back in here! Stand in the corner and don’t touch anything!”
The sun was coming up, bathing the top of the sea and bottom of the clouds in iridescent shades of yellow and orange. The light sparkled on the water, a million jewels scattered at the feet of humble Harwick. Riches fit for a queen, but Harwick was undeserving of such grandeur.
The little hamlet was comprised of squat buildings of thick granite topped with moss-covered wooden shingles. The low granite and mossy humps crept up from the small harbor toward towering cliffs that protected and stifled the place. The buildings were like embarrassed relatives, knocking at the door of the holiday feast with only half a loaf and a bottle that could have been described as vinegar just as easily as wine. That was Harwick.
It sat on the fringe of Enhover, just like one of those embarrassed relatives. Invited to be a part of the family but placed in the corner of the room, far from the table. Harwick was a small, dreary place, nowhere near the king’s seat of power in Southundon or even the provincial capital in Eastundon. It was a miserable place to reside for an ambitious professional, unless such professional happened to be a whaler.
Harwick suited Inspector Patrick McCready just fine, though. With a military background, he’d quickly made inspector in the quiet village, partially due to lack of sober competition. The assumption around town was that he’d be promoted to senior inspector just as soon as the current one managed to squirm his way out of the village and into some nobleman’s good graces. Pat McCready was in no hurry, but for most in town, his supervisor, Senior Inspector Joff Gallen, couldn’t be gone soon enough.
