The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  Looking where the man was pointing, she saw a simple, wooden dock that thrust from the jungle. Behind it and over the impenetrable wall of foliage, she saw thatch roofs and whispers of smoke. As they drew closer, buildings began to peek through the openings that had been bored through jungle to reach the pier. She guessed there were two dozen structures and likely several hundred people scattered around the area.

  “You want us to wait at the dock?” asked the other sailor as they drifted up to the pier.

  “Is there an inn here?” she asked.

  “Of a sort,” the man replied. “It’s… it’s rough, m’lady.”

  “Too rough for you?”

  The man coughed. “Many of the people here were running out of welcome back in the Company town. They’re not exactly criminals, but they’re not exactly upright citizens either, you understand?”

  “Get a room for the night,” instructed Sam, “and we’ll plan to leave in the morning. Meet me by the boat at dawn.”

  The two soldiers glanced at each other. Without comment, they helped her out of the boat onto the dock. A few curious faces peeked out from the archway of vegetation that guarded the village, but once they saw the coats of the royal marines, they lost interest.

  Sam walked into the settlement and looked around, observing sandy streets, simple wooden huts, a few larger structures that must be for warehousing and roasting the coffee beans, and a few open-air taverns for the workers once they’d finished the day. Chickens and goats meandered through the streets, ignoring the people passing around them. She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the animals, thinking back to her meal the night before, then shook herself, resuming her study of the settlement.

  A dozen paths led into the jungle from the village, where she guessed people lived and where the coffee beans were grown. The streets were packed sand, and the pervasive scents of woodsmoke, animals, and coffee hung over the place.

  There were no ships on dock aside from the one she’d arrived in, so activity at the warehouses was minimal. The taverns were open, but quiet.

  She walked down the street, peering into buildings, not knowing exactly what she was looking for but knowing she’d recognize it when she saw it. On the first pass through the two dozen structures, she didn’t see anything. Sorcery, witchcraft, whatever the local term was, it was outlawed in Enhover and its colonies. The royal marines wouldn’t bother tracking down a simple medicine woman, but that didn’t mean Madam Winrod would be easy to find by an outsider, either.

  Sam found a promising-looking tavern and took a stool at the plain, rough-plank bar.

  A gruff woman, one who’d seen the harder side of life, approached and asked, “Ale or punch?”

  Sam guessed the woman was the offspring of an early settler from the Company and a native woman. The kind of colony resident who hadn’t found welcome in either community as a child but had the tough-mindedness to start a business of her own. The kind of woman who’d know the secrets of the island and may be open to sharing them with someone she trusted. Only someone she trusted.

  “How’s the punch?” asked Sam.

  “Same recipe as it is everywhere,” drawled the woman. “Fruit, spices, and kill-devil.”

  “Punch, then,” replied Sam.

  The woman bent below the bar and returned with an earthenware jug and a wooden cup. She filled the cup and pushed it to Sam.

  “Leave the jug, will you?” requested Sam.

  The barkeep peered at her curiously and then moved on, organizing her stock, setting out semi-clean-looking cups, and preparing for the evening rush.

  Sam sat and drank, sighing regretfully that there wasn’t any ice to splash in the cup. A few weeks with the duke and she’d gotten soft. Grunting, she swallowed a mouthful of the warm punch then settled in to sip it, watching the patrons in the open-air tavern and the movement out on the street while letting the barkeep watch her.

  Leather trousers, which were sweltering in the tropical heat, her vest unfastened, her linen tunic unlaced to get a little air, two kris daggers on her hips, more daggers secreted about her body if anyone knew what they were looking for… she knew she stood out. She was counting on it.

  Finally, after what she guessed was two hours, the tavern began to fill with Enhoverian and native laborers. Men who carried heavy sacks of coffee beans worked for small time traders or supported the business in some other way. Rough stock, but they looked to be set on getting happily drunk after a day’s work rather than intent on causing mischief.

  The sun’s rays fell below the cover of the jungle around them and the place got busy.

  The barkeep returned. “What do you think of the punch?”

  “Same as it is everywhere,” agreed Sam. Then, she added, “Not as strong as I’ve had on the other side of the island, though. You put more sugar in it, or perhaps overripe fruit? If so, it’s too bad. I came to drink alcohol, not juice.”

  The barkeep snorted and moved on. Sam smiled to herself.

  Another hour passed and the tavern was bustling. Men and a few women crowded around the tables, and earthenware pitchers of warm ale and punch were passed over the counter at a steady clip. But while the place was packed, and almost every seat was taken, the stools on either side of Sam remained empty. This was a watering hole for locals, and Sam was clearly out of place.

  Finally, the barkeep reappeared and questioned, “You planning to drink that entire jug?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “You said it’s not as strong as the other punch, but it ain’t weak, girl,” warned the barkeep. “You drink all of that, you’re going to be stumbling. You got a place to go tonight?”

  “Not really,” mentioned Sam.

  The barkeep frowned. “Girl, it’s tame right now, but we get some tough trade in here. Men that travel around a bit, don’t have a family or a woman to keep ‘em straight. When the moon gets out, and they get the drink in ‘em, you gotta watch yourself.”

  Sam tossed back the remainder of the punch in her cup. She poured herself another without speaking to the barkeep.

  Shaking her head, the woman went back to producing ales and punches, but in minutes, she returned again. “Look, girl, if you’re trying to find a man, there are easier ways to do it. You want me to point someone out for ya?”

  “I’m not looking for a man,” replied Sam.

  “A woman?” asked the barkeep, leaning on the counter.

  “I’m looking for someone who can help me with a problem,” said Sam. “A very specific problem.”

  “We all got problems here, girl.”

  “Madam Winrod,” replied Sam. “You know her?”

  The barkeep stood back up. “I do.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I’m not sure she’ll see you, girl. Her business is with the natives. Maybe a few girls that get brought in by someone and need help, but… she don’t deal with folks like you, girl.”

  Sam’s fingers dipped into her pouch and she laid two pounds sterling on the counter, covering it with her hand so that only the barkeep could see it.

  “That’s for her?” asked the woman.

  “That’s for you,” responded Sam.

  The barkeep shifted nervously.

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble for her,” pleaded Sam. “I just want to talk to her. I’ll make it worth her while. Believe me. I think she’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  “If she wanted coin, she could get it,” mumbled the barkeep, eyeing the coins.

  “Like I said, they’re not for her,” replied Sam. “These are for you. I’m not planning to give Madam Winrod a single shilling.”

  The barkeep frowned.

  “Perhaps you can pass a message to her for me,” suggested Sam. “Then she can decide for herself if she wants to meet with me.”

  “I’m not sure she can read,” muttered the barkeep. “Neither can I, to be honest.”

  “If she’s close, you could just tell her,” remarked Sam.
“If I don’t have to spend too much time looking, it might be worth a bit more to me. How long would it take you to earn four pounds sterling selling punch and ale?”

  The woman’s eyes flicked from the coins on the counter to behind Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam turned and smiled. She stood, leaving the coins there. “Appreciate your help.”

  “Frozen hell,” grumbled the barkeep.

  Sam slipped amongst the crowd, moving between tables and drunken patrons to a spot in the corner. A matronly woman sat there, her dark face craggy from years and the sun, her hair bleached as white as bone. In front of her, a nervous-looking woman was scooping up a small burlap pouch.

  Sam waited and then took the nervous woman’s place when she stood to leave.

  “Can I help you with something, girl?” asked the older woman. “Saw you sitting at the bar there, but it’s not often someone such as you seeks me out. There are proper apothecaries and physicians for your kind, girl. Head on back to Archtan Town, and I’ve no doubt they’ll get you sorted.”

  Sam laid her hand on the table, turning it over and pulling back the sleeve of her shirt, exposing the beginnings of a line of dark, twisted script. It led from her wrist to back underneath her shirt.

  “What’s that, girl?” the old woman inquired, looking up to meet Sam’s eyes. A toothless smile was locked on her lips, but Sam saw the tremor in her eyes.

  “You know what this is,” answered Sam. “Can we speak somewhere quiet? Your home, perhaps?”

  “It’s a tattoo,” responded the woman. “If you’re wanting another, I can direct you to a good artist. The sailors around here love—”

  “An artist who can do one like this?” pressed Sam, leaning forward.

  The woman swallowed, and Sam smiled at her.

  “Very well,” mumbled the crone. “Illona won’t mind if we head to the back. It’s private there, behind the tavern.”

  “I think your home would be better,” responded Sam.

  “I don’t bring people to my home.”

  “Bring me,” insisted Sam.

  “Girl, I’m a simple—”

  “Your home,” demanded Sam.

  For a long moment, the old woman sat, studying Sam’s face, her clothing, everything but the exposed tattoo on her wrist. Finally, she requested, “Show me your other arm.”

  A confident smile on her lips, Sam did.

  “It’s a bit of a walk,” said the old woman, standing.

  “I didn’t expect it to be in the village,” replied Sam, rising as well and following the woman into the dark night.

  Madam Winrod’s home, more of a shack considered Sam, was buried a thousand yards into the jungle. It sat on stilts, hanging over a black pool which was formed from a thin stream that trickled down out of the hills above. Thick foliage surrounded them, blocking the light from the village and much from the stars in the sky. No wind made it through the dense canopy, but Sam could hear the rush of the waves on the shore and the constant shriek of monkeys as they clambered through the trees around them.

  “So much for peace and quiet,” remarked Sam.

  “Quiet isn’t necessary for peace,” replied Madam Winrod. She looked over her shoulder, one foot on the doorstep of her shack, one on the sandy path. “Though, I don’t have either tonight.”

  Sam inclined her head in acknowledgement.

  “Welcome to my home,” said the crone, and she opened the door and led Sam inside.

  She began lighting candles that were placed around the corners of the room.

  Sam stopped her before she got to the fifth one. “That’s enough.”

  Holding a smoldering stick in her hands, Madam Winrod shrugged and moved to sit on her bed, pointing toward a rickety chair beside a table. “I don’t invite guests here, so I’m afraid my seating options are limited. Most are happy to conduct our business back at Illona’s tavern. The drinks are better there.”

  Sam peered at the objects on the table, not sitting down.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Madam Winrod. “A potion to prevent a pregnancy or to end one? An elixir to make your man fall hard for you or forget the other woman? A tonic for your troubled—”

  “The monkeys,” interrupted Sam, “you sacrifice them? What do you compel their spirits to do when you summon them? It is certainly not to achieve great wealth or fame.”

  “No, girl, it is not,” said Madam Winrod slowly. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a seeker of knowledge, like yourself,” said Sam, standing from the chair and removing her vest. “A seeker — and sometimes — a destroyer.”

  “You mean to kill me?” asked the crone.

  “Do you only sacrifice primates, or is there more?” questioned Sam. “What of the people in the village.”

  Madam Winrod sneered at her. “The people know who I am and they welcome me. Do not seek to make this something other than it is. If you mean to kill me, save the discussion and do it.”

  “I walked behind you the entire way here,” reminded Sam. “I could have stabbed you at any time and rolled your body into the jungle. No one would have been the wiser. I have a boat waiting at the dock, and I’d be back in Archtan Town by morning. Who here would report you missing? Who would ask for an inquiry?”

  “No one,” agreed Madam Winrod, flashing her gums as she smiled. “If not to kill me…”

  Sam unlaced her shirt slowly, her eyes moving restlessly around the room. “What do you know of dark magic being conducted in the governor’s mansion?”

  The old woman blinked at her.

  Sam turned from the table and held the woman’s gaze. “I came to talk, but if you do not want to…”

  “There are worse fates than getting myself killed, girl,” replied Madam Winrod. “You’ve shown enough of your hand that I’m certain you understand that. Death is not an end. It is just a change, a period of time, until life begins anew. I have friends on the other side. Death does not scare me.”

  “But the question does?” asked Sam.

  “My place is here, in this jungle. It is not in the governor’s mansion amongst those people. You are correct. I do not seek wealth, power, or fame. Others, though, perhaps they do.”

  “I need details,” insisted Sam.

  “Those are not my secrets to share.”

  Sam rolled up her sleeves, revealing long, sinuous lines of tattooed script flowing from both of her wrists, up past her elbows, and underneath of her shirt. She tugged at her collar, pulling the laces apart, revealing the upper slopes of her breasts, but more importantly for Madam Winrod, the script following the line of her collarbone, leaving only a hand-width space between the two tattoos.

  “Can you read this?” asked Sam, eyeing the crone. “No, of course you cannot, but you know what it means, correct?”

  Madam Winrod nodded and stood.

  Sam traced a finger along her collarbone, across the dense, archaic characters tattooed there. The black ink was the width of a finger, drawn in a tight, compact row, sharp letters permanently etched into her skin. Letters that had no breaks, formed no words. Some letters that would have been familiar to any educated child in Enhover and some that were not. Letters that writhed underneath Sam’s finger as she moved it across her skin.

  With each inch she moved her finger, Madam Winrod’s face tightened, and by the time Sam reached her shoulder, the crone was sweating. The old woman’s visage was twisted in a grimace of agony. Sam stopped and dropped her hand, tugging her shirt back over her shoulders but leaving her sleeves rolled up.

  The old woman’s eyes fell from Sam’s face to the hilts of her kris daggers.

  “We both know how this ends. Why should I tell you anything?” snapped the woman.

  “Are you any more comfortable with what is happening in the governor’s mansion than I am?” questioned Sam, pushing down the sickening churn in her stomach at the certainty of the old woman’s statement. “You have no fear for yourself, but what about the others in this community? You care fo
r them. I can tell. Why else would you spend your evenings trading your blood and sweat for a few shillings and cocoa husks? Help them by helping me.”

  “You’re here in the colony alone?” asked Madam Winrod. “Your kind likes it that way, don’t they? You should have brought more. You’re not capable of dealing with… with what you ask about.”

  “Am I not?” asked Sam. “Tell me then. What is happening here?”

  “Ca-Mi-He,” said the woman, sitting back down on her bed.

  Sam gasped and stumbled back, falling against the old woman’s work table.

  The crone smiled grimly. “It is not direct contact, yet, or you would know it. It’s… I felt a reach and then an acknowledgement. Something here, in this world, was touched by that spirit.”

  “Touched by the spirit… Was it tainted?”

  “Tainted? Some may say blessed,” mumbled the old woman.

  “I was in the governor’s mansion,” challenged Sam. “I felt nothing.”

  “Not in the mansion,” agreed the old woman. “Fifty leagues south of here, there is an island…”

  “The corsairs?” guessed Sam.

  “They do not perform the rites,” said the old woman. “Someone else does that. They provide the location. They provide the souls.”

  “The captives from the captured vessels,” said Sam, a frown creasing her brow. “They are all dead?”

  “If not yet, they will be,” replied the old woman. “You are right. I care for the people here, and it sickens me that… It sickens me. I don’t have the strength to do anything about it, girl, and neither do you. There are two hundred men on that island. Cannon, swords, fists, and teeth. They’d fight you to the end, girl, but you won’t even get close. That little boat you arrived on? They have good, brass cannon. You’d be sunk before you got within five hundred yards of shore. If you did make it to shore, you think those daggers will stop that much muscle and steel? I don’t know what they teach you in the Church, but certainly you’re smart enough to see that for yourself. If you think to approach the military on this isle, well, they could have acted already if they wanted to. Why do you think they have not? Your word is not enough to overcome that of the person behind this.”