by A. C. Cobble
“You couldn’t have done anything for him,” said Duke. “I don’t know — I don’t know what just happened. I couldn’t see a damned thing. All I saw was the inspector screaming and iron sticking out of him. Even when I attacked, I was just swinging. I hit something, but I never saw this man until you killed him.”
“He was wearing black,” offered Sam in explanation. She tossed the harpoon onto the cobbles and knelt beside Duke to examine their attacker.
Down the street, shouts and stomping feet heralded the arrival of McCready’s companions in the watch. They would handle his body, and she was certain Senior Inspector Gallen would be in charge of a new investigation. Before he arrived, she wanted to see who she had killed.
“Do you think he was attempting to assassinate me?” wondered Duke.
She frowned. “Why would he… right, you’re a son of the king.”
“If he’d come at me first…” murmured the nobleman, “I didn’t even know he was there.”
“Why didn’t he, if that’s what he was after?” she asked.
They both frowned and turned to look at their attacker.
The man was short, even shorter than her, and in the flickering light of the carriage driver’s lantern, he was dark, his face weathered from exposure to the elements. On his face were swirling tattoos, drawn across his forehead in place of his eyebrows. His cloak was plain, and underneath it, he wore simple trousers, shirt, and a wool jacket — attire that wouldn’t be out of place on the streets of Harwick or Westundon as long as he painted over the archaic script that made up his eyebrows. His pockets were empty, and he carried no purse, no objects, nothing but the cloak, the clothes, and the harpoon.
“In his ears, those piercings along the top,” remarked Duke. “They’re typical of sailors in the Vendatt Islands and Archtan Atoll. It’s a safe assumption the man worked the tropics at some point.”
Pursing her lips, she picked up the harpoon and turned it. The haft was simple wood, painted black, except where Duke’s blade had cut out a finger-wide chip. The tip was iron, further blackened by soot to hide it in the dark. She wiped the point on the dead man’s clothing, rubbing away the ash and blood, revealing small, intricate runes. The metal was roughly gouged where she cleaned away the soot. Freshly carved, possibly done earlier that evening.
“That’s strange,” remarked Duke.
“Not that strange,” replied Sam.
Using the dead man’s cloak, she wiped her kris clean as well and showed it to him. Along the edge, small symbols had been etched into the steel. Over the years and countless sharpening, many of them had been rubbed away, but they were still recognizable enough she knew that even in the dim light, Duke would see the similarities.
“What—”
“What happened?” cried a voice. They turned and saw Senior Inspector Gallen standing over the body of his subordinate. “He… Is he dead?”
Nodding her head in the direction of the inspector, Sam whispered to Duke, “I’ll tell you later.”
“Gallen,” barked Duke, turning to face the man. “Yes, Inspector McCready is dead. He was killed by this man.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” babbled the senior inspector.
Duke pointed to the corpse at his feet. “Do you recognize this person?”
The senior inspector gaped at him.
“Look at him, Gallen,” instructed Duke. “He killed your inspector. Do you recognize him?”
“I-I… No,” stammered the senior inspector.
Sighing, Duke turned to the carriage driver and waved him over.
“A whaler,” said the man, standing beside his horse, trying to calm the creature. “I’ve seen him down in the taverns. Can’t miss those markings on his face.”
“A local, then?” wondered Sam, surprised.
“He wasn’t born in Harwick, no,” replied the driver. “He’s been around for a bit, though. Had those markings when he showed up. He keeps to himself, bit of a drinker. Can’t tell you where he lives or who his friends are, if he has any.”
“You know he’s a whaler, though?” questioned Duke. “There must be something else you can tell us.”
The driver glanced meaningfully at Gallen then turned back to Duke.
Duke turned to the man. “Inspector…”
“I don’t know him!” cried Gallen, wringing his hands. He glared at the driver. “A whaler, you say?”
“Could be he works for Merchant Robertson,” muttered the driver, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the watchmen arriving on the scene. Rubbing the back of his hand across his lips, and flicking his eyes at Gallen, the driver added, “Worked for, I mean.”
“Where can we find Merchant Robertson?” asked Duke, looking between the two of them.
Neither the driver nor the inspector answered.
Duke growled and took a step toward Gallen. “Where can we find Merchant Robertson, Inspector Gallen?”
The man was trembling, refusing to meet the duke’s eyes.
“In a village this size, surely you know every prominent merchant?” questioned Sam. “What are you hiding?”
Gallen swallowed uncomfortably and shifted his weight. “I, ah, I do know Merchant Robertson. He and I are both members of an… an organization. That has nothing to do with this. Patrick McCready was my best inspector! It’s just, ah, this group—”
“A secret society,” guessed the nobleman. “Which one?”
“Mouth of Set,” whispered Gallen.
Sam swallowed, the name sending a shudder down her spine.
“Mouth of Set,” said Duke, rubbing his chin, studying the portly inspector. “You’ll get us in.”
“I-I…”
“That wasn’t a question, Inspector.”
The Cartographer III
“The Mouth of Set, you are familiar with it?” Sam asked.
“A secret society, though, it’s not much of a secret amongst the social set,” he replied. “They get together at the light of a full moon, perform some rituals, drink odd concoctions with wormwood in them… that sort of thing.”
“Rituals?” asked Sam.
“Initiation rites, some chanting, I imagine.”
“Real rituals?” she wondered. “The name Set is well-documented in texts that are best left unread. It could have been plucked from those pages by some bored nobleman, or…”
“Real rituals? I do not think so, but I’ve never been, and I wouldn’t recognize the real thing if I saw it,” replied the duke, shaking his head as the carriage bounced over a series of uneven cobbles. “The Crown is aware of the group, and no one has ever moved to stop them. I think it’s just bored, wealthy, old peers and pretty young boys and girls. There are half a dozen of these societies between the provincial capitals. They’re a sort of extension of the social clubs, and they all have their quirks. They’re harmless, as far as I know, but when confronted with strange rituals and a killer that’s apparently connected…”
“Connected to someone who was connected,” corrected Sam.
Oliver shrugged. “I think we’ll just find some old men and women chanting and having an orgy, but we have no other leads unless you think there’s more to that crematorium angle than you’ve said.”
“You’re probably right, and it’s just foolish peers playacting,” murmured Sam, shaking her head, “but what happened in the apothecary was real. That man killing Inspector McCready was real.”
“One thing I do know about these secret societies,” said the duke, “is that they use odd preparations in their rituals. Preparations with ingredients that one may purchase from an apothecary. This organization will likely turn out to be pretend, but…”
“Not all of it is,” remarked Sam. “Real sorcery involves odd ingredients as well.”
“Interesting,” replied Oliver, eyeing her.
Sam asked, “How do you think the senior inspector is involved? He was reluctant to share with us. Was he embarrassed about this society, or is he hiding somet
hing?”
Oliver shrugged.
“He looked legitimately upset about the death of his man McCready,” she continued, fingering the hilt of her kris, “but why was he reluctant to tell us about the merchant? Perhaps he feels some obligation because of their relationship in the society? In this small village, certainly any prominent member would socialize with the others. The senior inspector, the apothecary, the merchant… They must all know each other well.”
“I imagine you’re right,” he replied. “Gallen strikes me as a man who would attach himself to anyone of a higher station. The question is, what is the nature of the relationships he has with these people? It’s quite possible even if Robertson or this Mouth of Set is involved, Gallen doesn’t know. My understanding is that these groups have several ranks where purported secrets are shared as one advances. They keep their initiates in the dark.”
“They may keep us in the dark as well,” said Sam with a sigh. “To be honest, the Church functions in much the same way. Secrets are power, after all. Hidden knowledge, a masked face…”
He grinned. “I’m a duke. If they think a mask is going to stop me, they aren’t very familiar with my family or the royal marines. I’ll send word down to the harbor if necessary and we’ll have a score of well-armed chaps up here in moments. Those boys would love nothing more than smashing through some high-society secret meeting and disrobing the participants.”
“Being a duke has its perks,” conceded Sam.
“It does,” he agreed.
“So, what do we do? Just bust in and demand everyone strip off their masks?” asked Sam.
“I don’t have a better idea.”
“Good,” she said, tapping a finger on the hilt of her dagger. “You are right. This is a better option than the crematorium, and I think it’s going to be a lot more fun.”
He banged on the door impatiently. Behind him, the carriage stood in the center of the dark street, its horse snorting softly and shifting in the traces. Sam and Senior Inspector Gallen watched, the senior inspector cringing from the lantern light.
Oliver knew the man would face the wrath of the members of the Mouth of Set as soon as they saw Gallen had brought him to the meeting, but there was no time for social niceties. Besides, a minor society on the fringes of Enhover did not rate his caution. There was no amount of noise they could raise that would bother him. If it meant the senior inspector was ostracized from the social circles of the place, well, he should have caught the killer before his subordinate had been stabbed to death in the street.
Starting to feel more angry than impatient, he pounded on the door again, rattling the heavy wood in its frame. Finally, a bolt slid in the door and it swung open. A man with wispy, white hair, sallow skin, and the general mien of a cadaver stood calmly in the doorway.
“We’re here for the meeting,” Oliver claimed.
The man blinked back at him. “What meeting, sir?”
“You know what meeting,” barked the duke.
The old man shifted but was in no hurry to permit entrance, or to do anything at all, it seemed.
“Duke,” called Sam, “tell him we’re with the inspector.”
Grunting, Oliver stepped aside and hooked a thumb behind his back toward Senior Inspector Gallen.
The butler eyed the senior inspector, a question in his eyes. Gallen, for his part, gave the man a curt nod.
“Very well,” offered the butler, evidently recognizing the inspector and evidently without the authority to keep such a man outside.
They followed the slow-shuffling servant into a wood-paneled foyer. A crystal chandelier hung above, lighting the space brightly. A brace of painted and framed seascapes hung on the walls. Silver candlesticks graced a polished mahogany table, and a plush carpet hid the sounds of their boots as they stomped inside.
Sam whistled.
He glanced at her, confused.
“This is nice,” she whispered.
“Is it?” he asked, turning to study the room. It was rather small, and he didn’t spot a bit of gold. The paintings were second quality at best, and there were only two of them. The carpet was a decent weave, though. Shrugging, he left his study of the foyer and turned to glare at Gallen.
“Take us in, Jeeves,” instructed the senior inspector, clearly reluctant but just as clearly sure that refusing the wants of the king’s son was going to be even worse than whatever his friends in the Mouth of Set would do to him.
The butler’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he did not object. He turned and led them deeper into the manse. It was a larger place than it appeared outside, narrow but deep. Oliver guessed it must extend all the way back to the cliffs that rose above the hamlet.
“Jeeves?” whispered Sam. “That has to be a fake name, right?”
“When you’re inquiring about a position, you tell them what they want to hear,” replied the duke.
Near the back, they reached a closed door and heard the mumble of voices on the other side.
“Chants?” wondered Sam, her hand gripping the hilt of one of her kris daggers.
“I told you,” said Oliver. He turned to Senior Inspector Gallen. “What are they doing in there?”
The man was nervously looking to the side. “Ah, there’s an initiation ritual tonight. It’s… it’s not like what we saw in the apothecary. This is just—”
“All right then,” Oliver said, interrupting the man. He strode forward and gripped the doorknob. It was locked.
Shame-faced, the senior inspector crept forward and knocked three times on the door, then once, then three times again. A muffled call came from the other side, and Gallen repeated it, sounding like a sick scavenger bird and then what Oliver thought might have represented donkey, though he admitted that made no sense.
Sam rolled her eyes.
Glacially slow, the door opened, and a cloaked figure stood in the entrance.
“Brother Tiger,” intoned a deep baritone, “once the initiation begins, there… Who are these people, Brother Tiger?”
“We’ve come to ask you some questions,” said Oliver, moving forward and pushing the figure back into the room by the determination of his stride.
The party followed him in. They found almost a dozen cloaked people standing above black silk pillows. Sconces held black wax candles, and the walls were sheathed in black shimmering silk. It gave the impression of stars, twinkling in the night sky.
“Masks off, please,” requested Oliver, thinking to himself that a little color would brighten the windowless room up considerably.
The man who opened the door shook his head. “We do not allow strangers in our midst, and we will not remove the masks until our ceremony is over. You must leave, at once.”
“I’m not leaving until our questions are answered,” declared Oliver.
Sam sidled around the edge of the room, keeping her back against the wall, her eyes on the figures. The robed men and women displayed no overt threat, but one of them was connected to the assassin who’d stabbed an inspector to death in the middle of the street. They may not look it, but the twelve, no, eleven of them were dangerous.
She turned to Oliver and whispered, “Eleven of them, twelve counting the senior inspector.”
He frowned at her, not understanding, and then turned back to the members of the Mouth of Set.
“We refrain from violence,” boomed the cloaked figure, apparently the leader, “but that does not mean we refrain from enforcing our laws. If you do not leave, we will be forced to put a hex upon you!”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Silence met him.
“He is Duke Oliver Wellesley,” mumbled Senior Inspector Gallen, his eyes on his shoes.
“Wellesley…”
“That Wellesley,” advised Oliver, drawing himself up and shooting a glance at Sam. “Do not make me ask again. Remove your masks. A man dressed in similar attire to yours attacked me a turn of the clock ago. The same man killed one of Inspector Gallen’s sub
ordinates as well. The assassin is connected to a member of this society. You must be aware that an attack on a royal person is a capital crime, and if I decide you are all involved in the conspiracy, the royal marines will be happy to march up here and behead every one of you the moment dawn lightens the sky.”
“All of you, do as he says,” quaked Gallen.
Quickly, hoods were pushed back and masks were stripped off.
“Thank you,” Oliver said, smirking.
It felt a bit childish to threaten such a severe outcome, but he had little respect for those who hid behind masks and even less for those who wouldn’t want to assist solving the spate of murders in their village.
He took his time and studied the revealed faces. He was not surprised to see mostly older visages staring back at him — merchants, members of the peerage if there were any in such a small hamlet, and a handful of attractive young men and women. Ceremonial sexual rites were a part of many secret societies, and if the members wanted to get naked with someone their own age, they would have done it with their spouses. The younger members, at the expense of making themselves available, gained access to the elite members of society. It made him queasy thinking about it, but it wasn’t unusual.
None of the members of the Mouth of Set appeared remarkable or anything different than what he would expect in such a group, though. He didn’t recognize any of them, even just in passing. He doubted any of them were peers, and few would have mercantile interests outside of Harwick. They’d all be far below Countess Darlyrimple’s station, he thought, which only deepened the mystery.
“Who is missing?” asked Sam. “There are eleven of you, twelve counting the senior inspector. There should be thirteen.”
Duke turned and raised an eyebrow in question.
“I know nothing about the Mouth of Set,” she explained, “but I do know there should be thirteen in this circle.”
