by A. C. Cobble
“I won’t be taking the boat,” remarked Sam. “Shot and sword. What else? What other protections do they have? If Ca-Mi-He… Tell me what you know. If I die, you will lose no sleep, will you? If I succeed, it will benefit your people.”
“Ca-Mi-He has provided no protection for the island,” answered the woman slowly. “He gave his blessing and withdrew. The corsairs are puppets, like you. They do not command the spirits.”
“Who does?” pressed Sam.
“I will not tell you that,” replied the crone.
“Why not?” Sam let a hand fall to a kris and gripped the hilt, staring into the old woman’s eyes.
“I do not fear death because I have friends on the other side,” declared the woman. “Friends that owe me favors. Friendships that were difficult to make and would be easy to lose. I will not tell you the name of the sorceress, girl. Do not waste either of our time trying to make me.”
“Sorceress?” asked Sam.
The woman only tilted her head. “She’s not on the atoll anymore. She and the blessed object departed these seas weeks ago. That is all I will share. Go ahead, girl, do what you will do.”
Two hours later, Sam strode down the dark path, lit from behind by growing flames. The wood of the shack, damp from the humidity and rain in the jungle, boiled smoke as the heat of the fire cooked the moisture away. Chemicals and preparations cracked and exploded as the heat touched them, and toxic fumes whirled into the air, carried high by the hot, rising smoke. Any creature that came close in the next half hour and breathed the noxious mixture wouldn’t survive the night. Sam hoped the wind didn’t carry the haze toward the village, but at a distance the people should survive if it did. She hadn’t had a choice. The place had to be destroyed. Below the burning home, floating face down in the water, a deep gash across her withered neck, Madam Winrod had already journeyed to the other side.
Sam paused, standing in the center of the sandy path, then lunched to the edge and gagged, virulent bile spilling from her mouth. The sorcerous material had sickened her, she worried for a moment, but as she continued to heave, she realized it had not. The material had not, but the task had. Madam Winrod was no simple medicine woman, she killed to gain power. Her death was necessary, the only way to stop her. Thotham had taught Sam that. She knew it deep within her soul. But he hadn’t taught her what the woman’s blood would feel like, pouring from her cleaved neck, leaking over Sam’s hand.
She waited until the swirl in her guts stilled, then wiped her mouth clean, and started back toward the village. She walked into the tavern and sat on the same stool she’d occupied earlier.
“Still with us?” asked the barkeep.
“A jug of that punch to go,” requested Sam, her voice rasping from a tight throat.
“Where are you going tonight?” questioned the woman, stooping to collect the requested jug.
“Where do people sleep in this place? Strangers?”
The woman frowned.
“There are some friends I need to collect,” explained Sam. “I need them to sail a boat.”
“Tonight?” asked the barkeep. “The shore along Archtan Atoll is gentle, but the currents are not. I don’t think any experienced sailor would—”
“They’ll be rather drunk,” replied Sam, tapping the side of the jug, “and I’ll keep them that way. And don’t tell me it is dangerous, I know that. It doesn’t matter. We cannot delay.”
“Tomoes’ Inn,” said the barkeep. “They’ll be at Tomoes’. It’s three buildings down. They’ll either be gambling at the tables or upstairs with the girls.”
“Thank you,” said Sam. She flipped another pound sterling into the counter and added, “Tomorrow, you will learn why I came here. It is not your fault. If not you, another would have led me there.”
“My fault,” asked the barkeep, her eyes turning to the empty table where Madam Winrod had sat.
Sam gathered the earthenware jug of punch and left without another word.
The Cartographer VIII
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured.
“As am I,” responded Isisandra Dalyrimple. “My father is distraught, and I do not believe he will leave his rooms today. Is there anything I can do to assist you while are you here, Duke Wellesley?”
“On behalf of Crown and Company, I came to offer condolences and to offer the support of both organizations to your family with anything you need.”
“My mother’s body,” said the girl, brushing her straight black hair behind a delicate ear. “We’d like to give her a proper burial, one suitable for a woman of her station. Will that be possible?”
“Yes, of course,” responded Oliver, shifting uncomfortably on the short couch. “The countess is being preserved as best our physicians are able. A proper burial when you return to Enhover can be arranged. Or, if you prefer, we could transport her… here or wherever you think is best.”
“No, no,” objected Isisandra. “A proper ceremony then a burial in Derbycross where her family is from, that is best.”
“I will inform the physicians when I return,” assured Oliver.
“Before the burial, may I see her?”
He swallowed. “Ah, I’m afraid after so much time… Ah, I’m not sure what the condition of the body will be, then.”
“You saw her?” asked Isisandra.
“I did,” confirmed Oliver, suppressing a wince. He ran a hand over his hair, checking that the knot was secure in the back. He wished he was doing anything other than discussing the body of the girl’s dead mother with her. Aside from the grim awkwardness of the conversation, he couldn’t help but recall the governor’s reaction. The difference was distinct.
“In Harwick?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“What happened to her, Duke Wellesley?”
He raised his hand and then forced it down, gripping his knee. “She was murdered, as I hope your father told you. It was… I will not lie to you, Isisandra. It was an unpleasant scene. A man was found responsible, though.”
“What happened to the man?” asked the girl — the lady, Oliver reminded himself, as she’d recently come of age. In Enhover, she would have been properly presented two years ago, but things were different in the colonies.
“He was killed,” said the duke. “He was stabbed to death.”
“Was it painful?” asked Isisandra.
“Yes, m’lady,” replied Oliver. “I think it was likely very painful.”
“That is good, at least,” murmured the girl. “Can you tell me why this man murdered my mother?”
Oliver winced. “I must admit, m’lady, we are not sure. The circumstances were unusual. It appeared your mother knew the man who was responsible and conducted some, ah, some business with him. Why he killed her, we cannot say. By the time we located him, he was already dead.”
“There must be some idea, some clue?” pressed Isisandra.
Oliver shifted in his seat.
“That is why you are really here, isn’t it?” guessed the girl. “Do not worry, Duke Wellesley. I am not offended. If there is some clue that led you to the tropics, I want you to follow it. No one wants justice for my mother more than I do. I understand it is not pleasant for you, and you’re also faced with the difficult duty of informing us, but you have my support. Find who killed my mother, Duke Wellesley.”
“You do not seem surprised there is a clue that leads to the atoll,” murmured Oliver. “Is there someone here you have reason to suspect?”
“The killer was probably one of these corsairs or at least financed by them, the ones who are taking the ships,” suggested the lady. “I know my father has asked Commander Ostrander to stamp them out, but the commander has refused. These men, these awful men, would stop at nothing. They know my father is their enemy, and my mother and I are his weakness. Those bloodthirsty men will continue until something is done to stop them! Do you think…”
“Your father mentioned the same to me,” replied Oliver. “I’m lookin
g into the situation.”
“If they followed my mother to Enhover, Duke Wellesley, these men will do anything to strike at my family.”
Oliver frowned, consciously avoiding the sensitive fact that, with little doubt, the girl’s mother had been involved in sorcery. Someday, Isisandra would learn the truth, but he hoped it was only after they’d had a chance to complete their investigation. If she knew, then anyone connected to the matter in Archtan Atoll might overhear and go into hiding. No, until they had the truth, Isisandra would have to be kept in the dark.
“I-I’m not sure the timing…” he stammered, “ah, the circumstances of the scene… I-I’m not sure that was the reason your mother was killed, m’lady.”
“If you are not sure, then you agree these corsairs might have been behind the murder?” pressed the girl, her green eyes hard like emeralds. “You do not have any other leads, do you? My mother feared these men, and it seems she was right to do so. I fear for myself, Duke Wellesley. I hope the same fate does not befall me.”
“It will not,” assured Oliver, his palms sweating against the cotton of his trousers. “I am addressing the situation with the corsairs and you have nothing to fear from them. I promise you that, m’lady.”
“I should retire and be with my father,” murmured Lady Dalyrimple, standing abruptly. “You said you are here to support us. If that is so, then deal with these pirates that plague us so, Duke Wellesley. Crush them. Punish them for what they may have done to my mother and for what we know they’ve done to so many innocent sailors in these waters. Every day we delay, Duke Wellesley, more lives are at risk. Do this, and you and the Crown will have the gratitude of the Dalyrimples.”
“I understand,” mumbled Oliver, standing and offering the girl a short bow.
“What do you mean she hasn’t been around all day?” snapped Oliver, glaring at the timid man in the doorway.
“I-I don’t know where she is m’lord,” mumbled the servant, his eyes on the floor. “She left shortly before you woke and went down to the walls to watch the sunrise. After that… Do you want me to alert the household guard, m’lord?”
Oliver waved his hand. “No, no. We’ll see if she turns up in the morning.”
“Very well, m’lord.”
The servant backed out, and Oliver returned to his dinner and his maps. Sam was supposed to check in before dark. That had been two hours ago, and there was still no word of her. The girl was more than capable of handling herself in any of the scraps and rough behavior that was common in colony settlements, except… except they were tracking a sorcerer, maybe. A murderer, certainly.
He forced down his worry and let his eyes pick out details on the maps in front of him — Archtan Atoll, the landmasses around it, and the small island of Farawk where the corsairs were reported to berth. He’d gathered every map of the surrounding area he’d been able to get his hands on and he was studying them, looking for opportunities. Unfortunately, he was coming up empty-handed.
The island where the corsairs had established their base had been well chosen. It wasn’t large, but it was sufficient to support several hundred men. It lay fifty leagues southeast of Archtan Atoll, outside of any established shipping channel and far away from any other significant settlements. There were several smaller landmasses nearby which would barely be enough to tie a sizable ship to, but he had no doubt they would make great locations to station a lookout. Long before any ship on sea would be able to approach the heart of the pirate lair, they’d get warning and be able to make whatever preparations they could.
For a parlay, there was no neutral location between their territory and the Company’s. It was a scenario that didn’t invite diplomatic solutions. Oliver was no admiral, but even he could read the situation well enough to know that any action would need to be authoritative. No tentative thrusts would be worth attempting. When they moved, they needed to move hard.
He sat back, frowning at the maps and forcing down another thought of Sam. She was fine. He was sure. He just wasn’t sure he was sure.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he grimaced when Commander Ostrander stuck his head in the room.
“I apologize for interrupting your supper, m’lord.”
“It’s just me in here, Ostrander. Come on in. Pour yourself some of the governor’s wine, and tell me what you’ve got.”
The commander came and stood across the table but didn’t make a move toward the wine. “Another attack, m’lord, this one against a small community known as the Eyies. It’s an island on the northwest of the atoll formation. It houses the Company’s nutmeg plantation. It’s just twenty-five leagues from here, m’lord.”
“A Company settlement… That’s a first, yes?” asked Oliver. “What was the damage?”
“Two cutters taken as prizes, maybe twenty men,” answered Commander Ostrander. “The women and children had already been removed from the plantation, but we hadn’t completely shut down the operation. The men were out loading cargo and didn’t know the approaching vessel was hostile until it was too late.”
“How many from Enhover, and how many natives?” Oliver inquired.
“Six from Enhover, m’lord.”
Oliver rubbed a hand across his face.
“Your orders?”
“Convene a war council in the morning,” instructed the duke. “Yourself, your senior officers, one turn of the clock past dawn. Commander, invite the governor as well.”
Ostrander’s jaw clenched.
“Commander, the pirates attacked an Enhoverian settlement. They had to know what they were doing. It is a direct challenge to our authority and an act of war against our nation. If they think to ransom the captives, they will be sorely disappointed. Enhover does not negotiate in war. We fight. If we delay, how many more ships will be taken as prize? How many more captives will these rogues accumulate? We gamble the lives of those captives, and I know they likely won’t survive our assault, but it’s not a gamble we can afford to delay any longer. Prepare your men, Commander. We have no choice but to sail.”
“I’m glad you are here, m’lord,” said Ostrander before sketching a quick bow and departing, leaving Oliver to wonder what exactly the man meant by that. Glad because they had a bold call to action, or glad because Ostrander wouldn’t have the blood on his own hands?
The next morning, Oliver cracked open the door to Sam’s room, dreading that it’d be empty. Instead, he saw her sprawled out on the bed, still fully clothed. He breathed a sigh of relief then squeaked when she stirred.
“Spying on me?” she croaked, one eye opening and blinking blearily.
“I was worried,” he admitted. “We made a plan to check in each evening, remember? I’m glad to see you’re all right. Go back to sleep. You’ve got until afternoon. Then, I need you ready to move. We can catch up on the flight out.”
“Flight out? We don’t have time for that,” she grumbled, pushing herself into a sitting position. “We have to move against the corsairs. It’s… We have to move quickly.” She tumbled out of bed, barely keeping her feet and standing unsteadily. She looked around, flicking her tongue over dry lips then asking, “Is there water in this room?”
“Move against the corsairs?” questioned Oliver. “You heard about the attack?”
“Attack?” she asked, spying the washbasin and stumbling toward it. She stood in front of it, eyeing it dubiously.
“There’s a pitcher of water out in the sitting room,” he suggested. “I think that will go down a bit better, and I’m certain it wasn’t used last night.”
Sam lurched across the room and out the door, calling behind her, “Sorry. I don’t think I slept more than two turns of the clock. It was a busy night.”
“The attack on Eyies,” said Oliver. “Is that why you think we need to face the corsairs? You’re in luck if so. I’ve already called a council to discuss plans, and Commander Ostrander is assembling his men. If all goes as I plan, we fly this afternoon. A few turns of the clock be
fore dawn tomorrow, we’ll be in place to strike. We have people there, and I hope we can get them out, but—”
“You don’t have people there,” said Sam, drinking straight from the pitcher. “Not for long.”
“What?” exclaimed Oliver. “Why?”
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” mumbled Sam. “You need to know what I know before you begin your council, and then… then, I need to rest. It will be another long night.”
The sun set behind them as they sailed a thousand yards above the sea. Oliver stood on the forecastle of the Cloud Serpent, the airship representing the Company’s interests in eradicating the corsairs. Ahead of them, flying in a tight formation, were three airships of the royal marines. Commander Ostrander had efficiently organized his men, and in addition to the formidable munitions on the airships, he was carrying half the contingent of soldiers stationed on Archtan Atoll — six hundred men and women in total, well-armed and ready.
The plan was to swoop in quickly and lay a field of bombardment over the pirate lair. They’d carpet the place with fire and the concussive force of red saltpetre-mixed munitions. Once they demolished the structures and any gun emplacements, they would drop the marines, who would sweep over the area, rooting out any targets who survived the aerial assault.
“If we leave even one of these bastards alive, it will be too many,” growled Governor Dalyrimple.
Oliver looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. The governor was leaning on the gunwale, his elbows on the wood, his hands clenched into fists.
“Some of our people are down there, too,” reminded the duke.
“They could be,” acknowledged the governor. “Sailors, laborers, a writer or two from the nutmeg plantation… no one of any consequence.”
Frowning, Oliver responded, “They’re citizens of Enhover. Even on this side of the world, they’re of consequence. They deserve the same protections as any citizen of our nation.”
