by A. C. Cobble
Oliver hissed in frustration. “It makes sense, but it leaves us nowhere. The trail goes back to Enhover? How are we ever going to reach the end of this?”
Sam looked at him. “There is one person who may know.”
“Dalyrimple,” he growled.
“The man was quick on his feet and he offered a plausible story, but… how much of it do you believe?”
“Little,” answered Oliver, standing and beginning to pace across the room. “This is close to him, too close for him not to know what is happening. He’s involved, but I don’t know if we have enough to prove it. An earl, a governor, we can’t simply accuse him of sorcery and think that’s enough. We need something solid to tie him to this.”
“He’s not the sorcerer we seek,” remarked Sam, her hands clenched tightly together. “I know that does not make your position any easier, but it’s the truth. He knows more than he’s telling us, but he’s not the one who fashioned that circle and trapped the souls. He doesn’t have the knowledge.”
“You’re certain?” asked Oliver.
“He nearly touched the ouroboros with his bare hands,” reminded Sam. “When we found it, he reached for it. Unprepared, without additional bindings to life, it very well may have killed him. One foot in this world, one foot in the other. Which one would he end up in when he released the artifact? It could be either. Not to mention, the pirates died within that circle. Three souls to power it. If Governor Dalyrimple was a sorcerer with the knowledge to fashion that circle and the skill to use it, that would have been the end of us. He could have used that strength to kill us.”
Oliver frowned. “So, despite our strong suspicions, we cannot actually prove he’s involved in sorcery. We have nothing to show he violated the law, not Church or Crown law.”
“Nothing we can prove in front of a judge…” remarked Sam, her eyes looking up to meet his. “It was no accident the man found that clearing. He knew what he was looking for.”
He glanced at her and shook his head. “I’m a duke, the son of the king.”
“You make your own law,” suggested Sam.
“The Congress of Lords makes the law,” retorted Oliver, “along with my father and the administration. The lords protect their own, and they’ll be ripping down the walls of their chamber if they hear we arrested one of their members without cause.”
“We’re in a Company colony, not in Enhover,” replied Sam. “Can’t you—”
“We need more!” exclaimed Oliver. “We need to prove this man is guilty of… something. Our feelings aren’t enough.”
She sat back, crossing her arms back across her chest.
“We need more,” he insisted.
“I know you don’t understand what we saw on that island,” replied Sam quietly. “I know the name Ca-Mi-He means nothing to you. But you saw enough, and you understand enough. What we’re up against is evil, Duke. Pure evil. The murders in Harwick, the captured sailors… human sacrifice! Duke, we may not be able to prove it in front of a judge, but you and I both know that Governor Dalyrimple is neck deep in this. Crown, Company, Church — some things are beyond those laws. You feel like you have obligations to uphold order, to abide by the rules of those institutions, but we both have a fundamental obligation to do what is right. Duke, if you cannot, I will.”
“Following the law is right,” hissed Oliver. “If I, my family, were to bend it to our will, where does that leave Enhover? Enhover thrives because even my father is subject to the law of the land. Chaos exists if we throw away the rules we’ve spent hundreds of years developing. In Enhover and her colonies, the rule of law stands, Sam.”
“The rule of law,” she snorted. “What do the spirits of the underworld care for your laws?”
He stared at her, watching her determined stare, the set of her jaw. She meant it, he saw. Whatever he decided, she had no intention of leaving Archtan Atoll without putting Governor Dalyrimple in chains or a grave.
“We will go speak to him now,” declared Oliver, “but, Sam, I will lead the discussion. You will do as I say, and if I say we need more evidence on the man, then we need more.”
She offered him a curt nod, and he turned to the door. He paused and then collected the basket-hilted broadsword he’d left leaning in the corner. Strapping it on, he led them toward the governor’s office.
“That’s preposterous!” shouted Governor Dalyrimple. The man towered above his desk, red-faced. His hands clenched and unclenched. He glared across the wooden surface at Sam and Duke. He bellowed, “If you weren’t the son of the king, I’d challenge you, boy! We’d settle this out in the courtyard with steel. I will not have you besmirching my name or that of my wife.”
The door behind them was thrown open, and Oliver glanced back to see Captain Haines rushing inside. “What—”
“This little pup is accusing me of being a-a sorcerer!” screamed the governor. “From what you told me, Oliver, my wife was killed as part of some dark ritual in Enhover! What do you think, was that some sorcery I did? Do you think I killed my own wife across the world?”
The duke shifted in his chair. The confrontation was not going as planned.
“Hold on. Hold on,” said Captain Haines, stepping beside the desk, placing himself in between Oliver and the enraged governor. “I’m sure it’s not like…” The captain frowned at Oliver. “Wait. Are you really accusing him of what he says?”
“There is a sorcerer on this island,” declared Oliver. “I have no doubt of it. What we saw in Farawk was proof enough, and the countess was involved.”
“What did you see?” questioned Captain Haines. “I went to look but it was destroyed. Burned. Nothing but charred bone and… and that altar.”
“We destroyed it because we had to,” said Sam quietly. “That abomination was too dangerous to leave unguarded where anyone could stumble into it.”
Captain Haines frowned.
“If not you, then who?” demanded Oliver, staring at the governor. “The stench of this mess is all over you, m’lord. It defies imagination that so much of this can revolve around you, but you have no idea what is happening. I will not believe that. You claim you are not involved. Very well. Tell me who is.”
The governor snorted and then suddenly seemed to calm. “What are you going to do, boy, arrest me?”
“Yes,” snapped Oliver. “I will.”
“Do it, then,” snarled the big man. “Arrest me. Take me back to Enhover and put me on trial. Tell everyone that the Governor of Archtan Atoll, the Earl of Derbycross, is nothing more than some dark conjurer. You do that, and then in front of a judge, you prove it.”
Oliver frowned.
“I’m calling your bluff, Duke Wellesley,” continued the governor. He turned to Captain Haines. “Go get Commander Ostrander. Tell him the duke wants to put me in chains. I’m sure the commander will leap at the opportunity to see it done.”
Oliver and Dalyrimple stared at each other unblinking across the desk. Captain Haines shifted, and Oliver knew the man was looking for direction, for orders.
“Do it,” instructed Oliver. “Go get Ostrander.”
Dalyrimple snorted and turned his back, crossing his arms.
“Are you sure, m’lord?” asked Haines. “If he is what you say, isn’t he… dangerous?”
“He’s not dangerous while Sam and I are watching him,” claimed Oliver, though, as he said it, he wasn’t sure. “Go. Get Ostrander and come back with a set of irons for the governor.”
Captain Haines offered a quick bow and then hurried out of the room.
“Sit down, Dalyrimple,” instructed the duke. “Leave your hands on the desk.”
Shaking his head, his face near purple, the man sat in his heavy teak chair and slapped his palms down on the desk.
“Your wife is dead because of all of this,” said Oliver. “Talk to us. Tell us what the purpose of that… that thing was. We know the circle was used to gather souls. What was done with them? What object did your wife leave for Enhover
with, Governor? What was so important that it got her killed?”
The governor snatched up a glass half filled with gin and downed it in one gulp. He slammed it onto the desk and placed his palms back down. He glared at the duke and didn’t say a word.
They sat quietly, Oliver eyeing the man, the governor staring back. Oliver blinked and forced himself to stay still. He wiggled his toes in his boots, hoping the little motion would relieve the need to fidget. Governor Dalyrimple was growing angrier and angrier. His red face was turning purple, and his breath was coming sharp and fast.
Oliver tensed. The man had called his bluff, put it out in the open. They both knew on trial in Enhover, there was nothing Oliver could prove. He’d gambled he could force the governor to talk, but the man was more close-lipped now than when they first arrived.
Dalyrimple’s eyes were watering and his lips trembled. They were pressed together in a thin, bloodless line, quivering with the strain of the man’s blistering rage.
“Duke,” said Sam, concern evident in her voice. “I don’t think…”
Oliver stood, and the governor opened his mouth. He hacked a strangled cough and his eyes grew wide in panic.
“Governor, is something wrong?” asked Oliver.
“You… bastard…” gasped the governor through short, pained breaths.
“Get a physician,” ordered Oliver.
Sam stood and hurried toward the door, but before she made it out, the governor flopped back, a strained wheeze escaping his lips. His face had turned a vibrant shade of red-purple, and his limbs began twitching.
“A physician, now!” exclaimed Oliver, rushing around the desk.
The governor’s chest was no longer rising and falling. His face was locked in a rictus of terror, and a trickle of spit was escaping from the corner of his lips.
“Put him on the floor on his back. Press his chest to keep his heart pumping if you can!” called Sam before darting outside and yelling for assistance.
Grunting with the effort, Oliver shoved the governor’s chair back and unceremoniously dumped the big man on the floor. He flipped him over and pushed on the man’s chest. Nothing happened, so he pushed harder, and then in time with the pounding of his own heart, he pumped, putting his weight into it, compressing the governor’s chest, thrusting over and over.
In a moment, a soldier rushed inside followed by a pair of servants. Oliver shouted for them to fetch a physician. More staff filtered in then immediately exited, either scared of what was happening or because they thought they could help elsewhere.
Before long, soldiers stood on the edges of the room. Towels and pitchers of water were placed on the desk, and nervous servants clustered together watching. Still, the duke pumped on the governor’s chest.
Finally, a small man with a delicate pair of spectacles perched on his nose pushed through the growing crowd. “Out, out. Damn you, do something. Get these people out of here!”
The soldiers snapped to attention, the spell broken by the arrival of the physician, and they began clearing the room.
The small man knelt on the opposite side of the governor from Oliver, setting a black leather bag down beside him and flipping open the latch. He placed two fingers on Dalyrimple’s neck and bent toward the governor’s face. A moment later, the physician sat back. He withdrew a circular pocket clock from his coat and checked the time. He looked up and met Oliver’s eyes. Still compressing the governor’s chest, Duke jolted when the diminutive man placed his hands on Oliver’s and shook his head.
Commander Ostrander burst in followed closely by Captain Haines. “What’s going—”
The commander stopped in the middle of the room, peering at the governor’s body on the other side of the desk. In his hands were a pair of manacles and a length of chain. Self-consciously, he shuffled to the desk and placed them there, the clink of steel on steel filling the quiet room. He asked quietly, “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” said Oliver, still on his knees, his hands still on the dead man’s chest. “Captain Haines left to get you, and the governor sat there silently staring at me. Then, his breathing got quick, and I noticed his face going purple. He fell back in his chair and stopped breathing at all.”
“The two of you were alone in here?” asked the physician.
“No,” said Oliver, looking at the man. “My colleague was here as well, a member of the Church.”
The small man opened his mouth again but was interrupted by Commander Ostrander. “This is Duke Oliver Wellesley.”
The physician’s jaw snapped shut.
“What do you suspect?” asked Oliver quietly.
“N-Nothing, m’lord,” stammered the physician.
“I did not do anything to this man,” responded Oliver, “but that does not mean no one did. What were you going to say?”
“It’s highly unusual for a healthy man like the governor to die in such fashion,” mumbled the little man, refusing to look up. “I-I do not mean to cast any disparagement upon you, m’lord. I wouldn’t have said anything—”
“You would not have said anything if you’d known who I was, but you didn’t. If I was a household servant and found with the man like this, what would you suspect?”
“Foul play,” quaked the physician. “Poison.”
“I was coming to arrest the governor,” mentioned Commander Ostrander. “The man was under duress. He was facing accusations and he was to be clapped in irons. I’ve known men in such circumstances to die. Their hearts fail them, I believe.”
“It is possible,” agreed the physician, suddenly looking to the desk where Ostrander had placed the manacles. The man sounded relieved to have a less sinister explanation offered. “In such stressful times, it is not unusual for the heart to stop beating. A man the governor’s age, with his penchant for drink… Was he drinking?”
“He was,” confirmed Oliver.
“It’s a common enough cause of death, m’lord,” said the physician, reaching to close his medicine bag. “It’s unfortunate, but there is nothing anyone could do for the man. Nothing anyone could have done at all.”
The physician stood and looked around the room.
Oliver stood as well.
“Someone will need to tell Isisandra,” murmured Commander Ostrander.
“Frozen hell,” Oliver groaned.
The Initiate I
A soft, relentless tapping woke her. She was face down in bed, the silk sheet cradling her naked body. In the heat of the tropics, she didn’t need any more cover than that. The tapping continued, and a muffled voice called her name. Throwing back the sheet, she slipped out of the bed.
Behind her, a girl complained at the sudden brush of cooler air across her bare skin. Isisandra ignored the complaint and picked up her robe off the floor.
Cracking the door of her bedchamber, she peeked out and asked, “What?”
On the other side, a native woman, eyes downcast, murmured, “Duke Wellesley is here to see you.”
“Now?” wondered Isisandra. “What hour is it?”
“Two turns of the clock before dawn, m’lady.”
She brushed a strand of straight black hair behind her ear. “Why?”
“He says it’s urgent,” answered the woman.
“Of course he says it’s urgent!” snapped Isisandra. “It’s the middle of the night. If it wasn’t urgent, he wouldn’t be asking to see me. What happened?”
“He hasn’t said, m’lady,” squeaked the girl. “There was a commotion in the hall. I could hear men running. Something bad, m’lady.”
“Very well,” responded Isisandra, knowing if the duke was asking her servants to wake her, it was something that could not wait until morning. “Put him in the sitting room and make him comfortable. I will be out in a moment.”
She closed the door and moved to her dresser where she knocked on a melon-sized glass globe. The faes stirred, and a warm red light filled the room.
“What is it?” asked the girl from the bed.
Isisandra didn’t answer. She didn’t know, but it had to be her father. There was no other reason the duke would approach her directly at this hour. The raid had been successful. She knew that. She’d dined with her father that evening, and he’d told her everything. The corsairs had been eradicated, the sorcerous circle in the jungle destroyed. He’d been uninjured, and all had seemed well.
She painted a line of bright red across her bottom lip and pressed the top against it. She then took a small brush and dusted a hint of rose across her cheeks, deciding she didn’t have time for full makeup. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t make the duke wait. It was that now she was awake, she had to know what had happened. It was serious. She was sure.
She untied her robe and moved to the dresser. She opened it, glancing over her small clothes and then at the corner of the room where her dress from the evening hung on the rack.
“Is something wrong?” came the soft voice from the bed again. “Why are you getting dressed?”
Isisandra looked back at the girl. She had tugged the covers over her naked body and was sitting in the bed, covering a yawn with her fist.
“Be quiet,” instructed Isisandra.
She pulled her robe closed and looked back in the mirror. The red light from the fae globe illuminated her, shining through the thin material of the robe, hinting at the body underneath of it. She let the robe fall a little more open, displaying a hint of the curve of her breasts. Then she re-tied it and walked to the door on bare feet.
The duke was sitting in a chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands clenched together.
She sat on a couch across from him, letting the silk of her robe slide over her skin, exposing her knee and half of her thigh. Faking a yawn, she covered her mouth and mumbled, “I am sorry, m’lord. I was fast asleep. Can I get you anything? I’m afraid I’m not myself right now, and I don’t even know if my servant offered you tea or perhaps a drink? I don’t drink much myself, but I am certain they could find something that suits you.”
