The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  “Blood, saliva… semen,” said Sam, peering between the railings of the ship, down at the sea below. “They are a junction of sorts between life and death. In our body, they are part of us, part of life. Out of our body, they represent loss, something no longer alive, dead. That’s the bridge.”

  “I can’t help but think you’re accusing Isisandra of being a sorceress,” mentioned Oliver.

  Sam looked up slowly to meet his eyes.

  “She’s a girl, only eighteen winters,” reminded Oliver. “She spent her childhood in Derbycross, her teenage years in Archtan Atoll. Where would she even learn such things? When would she learn such things? I was always told it takes years of study to… to become what you say she is.”

  “I’m not accusing her of anything,” responded Sam. “I have no reason to suspect her, except… she’s the one at the center of this. Both of her parents were involved, and both were murdered.”

  “And you think that makes it more likely she’s the killer?” snapped Oliver, shaking his head. “In her tender years, she somehow learned to become a powerful sorceress and then killed her own parents? Somehow enacting her mother’s death from thousands of leagues away, and then what, convincing Captain Haines to do the deed for her and poison her father? I suppose if she did all of that, she would have killed Haines, too, somehow eluding detection by the royal marines stationed outside the man’s door? And don’t forget, there were men stationed outside of her rooms as well and a maid sitting inside watching her. I ordered them there concerned that she’d… that she’d hurt herself. Do you think they were all in on it?”

  Sam ground her teeth and then replied, “Do you think something other than sorcery was responsible for the captain’s death?”

  “I don’t know, but Isisandra being the culprit doesn’t add up to me,” retorted Oliver. “For one, she was in Archtan Atoll when her mother was killed, and I can’t imagine she somehow had contacts with assassins in Harwick to do the deed. Then, we were in the room and saw Captain Haines poison her father. If she somehow paid the man, there would have been a record of it. She’s just a girl, and any wealth would have come from her father’s accounts. No, both her father and her mother were killed by someone else’s hand, and that’s one of the few things we can prove.”

  “What about Captain Haines?” pressed Sam. “Who killed him?”

  “If she had the sorcerous ability to kill Captain Haines in that locked room, then why bother hiring him to kill her father?” argued Oliver. “She’d have no reason to hire an assassin if she has that kind of skill.”

  Sam grunted. “That’s true enough.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense to me that Isisandra would want her parents dead,” continued Oliver. “It’s true she’ll inherit the estate, but I sat with the girl and discussed both deaths with her. I was as close as we are now, and either she’s the best actress in a generation, or she felt true shock and sorrow. I don’t believe she would murder them both for their wealth, and if that was the true motivation, why do it in such strange circumstances? Surely she could find a less, ah, unusual way of committing the crimes. One that would not guarantee an inquiry.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me either,” agreed Sam. “It’s just… we have no leads. No good ones at least. We have to be suspicious of everyone. I don’t know that Isisandra is guilty of anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time — and having parents who became involved in things they should not. There’s no evidence connecting her to any of this, but…”

  “Well,” replied Oliver, “she did not have sex with me or attempt to collect any of my fluids. Does that put your mind at ease?”

  “Someone formed that circle,” barked Sam. “Someone killed a dozen people, flayed them, and hung them there. No, my mind is far from at ease. And maybe you’re right. Maybe the girl had nothing to do with the deaths of her parents, but that doesn’t mean she has nothing to do with sorcery. If they were both active practitioners, they could have trained her as well. A family tradition, so to speak.”

  “The girl in that cabin does not have the strength to kill a man, flay them, and hang them like what we saw,” argued Oliver. “I agree this is happening all around her, but she didn’t do it. She couldn’t have. The pirates began harassing the colony two years ago. The girl would have been barely sixteen winters. A girl of just sixteen winters organizing men such as those and forming them into some sort of… death cult? I cannot believe it.”

  “It does sound rather far-fetched,” admitted Sam. “But her mother and father—”

  “They are involved,” interjected Oliver. “Or, I should say, they were. I’m convinced the countess was the original sorceress who formed that circle. Both your information from the jungle witch and what we overheard on Farawk support that conclusion. You yourself said the governor wasn’t a powerful sorcerer, or he would have been able to use the power of the circle against us, but he had some knowledge of what was going on since he had been able to find the place. Perhaps he had been supportive of his wife, and they had planned to use her occult skills for some gain. But the daughter? I just cannot see how she would be behind all of this.”

  “You’re right. You’re right,” murmured Sam.

  Oliver watched her a moment and then offered, “We’ll watch her closely. Here on the airship, when we get back to Enhover, we’ll stay close to her. If she has any involvement with dark magic, we’ll find out.”

  Sam let out a slow breath. “Fair enough.”

  “Captain, ah, m’lord,” called the first mate from the steps of the forecastle.

  Oliver should be calling her captain, he supposed. With Haines dead, she had been filling the role, and she’d done it well enough he would recommend a promotion for the woman as soon as they docked in Westundon. At least some good might come of the whole debacle.

  “Yes?” asked Oliver, standing.

  “The storm is growing, m’lord,” warned the woman. “Should we take her down and hug the seas? We’re still three turns of the clock off the coast. We might beat the front, we might not.”

  “I have no idea, Catherine,” replied Oliver. “What do you suggest?”

  “Run before the wind, m’lord,” she advised. “Let the storm chase us. We try to make soil before it hits. Then, if necessary, we can come down and find a bit of shelter to break the wind. Over water, there’s always the risk we end up in it. In the air, we’re at the mercy of the storm.”

  Oliver nodded. “Do it, then, Captain Catherine. Catherine, is that your proper name?”

  “First Mate Catherine. It would be Captain Ainsley — if you promote me, m’lord,” she said with a grin. Then she warned, “Running in front of a storm at full sail is a ride if you haven’t done it before.”

  “I’m no sailor,” replied Oliver, “but it’s not my first time on an airship. Full sail. Try to beat the storm. We’ll hold on tight.”

  The Captain I

  She spun on her heel and began barking orders. In front of her, sailors jumped to it, steady hands on the ropes and canvas as they piled more on, preparing to run before the dark wall of cloud that was looming behind.

  Sparing a look back at the duke, she saw he’d settled down with his elbows on the gunwale, looking ahead of them. The strange girl, daggers on her hips, was peering back. Nervous eyes, the only sign she wasn’t as comfortable on deck as Ainsley herself. She’d seen the look before in plenty of salt-stained sailors and battle-hardened soldiers. There was something different about doing it one thousand yards above a storm-tossed sea.

  “In a moment,” called Ainsley, “we’ll string ropes along the deck. You ought to use them.”

  The girl grimaced and nodded her thanks.

  Ainsley turned and dashed off after a man who was lazily looping a thick rope into a loose knot.

  “Tight, Samuels, tight!” she barked. “You see what’s coming behind us?”

  “What’s that, First Mate?” drawled the sailor.

  She cuffed him o
n the side of the head. “I’m the captain, Mister Samuels. Until you hear different, you keep calling me that. If the duke himself can do it, then you damn well better. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to show you off the side of the ship next time we’re over land.”

  The man grunted and bent to his work on the knot with an added burst of determination.

  She strode across the deck, knowing Samuel’s newfound dedication wouldn’t last and making a note to keep an eye on the man. It wouldn’t do, allowing laziness so early in her tenure. Haines had taught her that. Show a strong hand early, and you won’t have to later. Haines… She couldn’t believe what she’d heard, but it was no rumor. She’d heard it from too many tongues. Haines had murdered Governor Dalyrimple. Murdered him in cold blood and then died himself. If what she’d heard was true, then good riddance as far as she was concerned. Poison, a coward’s weapon, if ever there was one.

  She spit over the side of the railing, offering a silent curse for Captain Haines’ name. She was glad a man — a murderer — like that had departed the face of the earth, and it didn’t hurt that she’d gotten command of his airship in the bargain.

  The spirits were dealing a fair hand for once.

  All around her, the sailors scrambled to get their work done and to avoid her attention. As she made it to the quarterdeck and climbed to where the wheel would have been located on a conventional vessel, a fresh sheet of canvas rose behind her, high up the mainmast.

  They were piling on every stitch of it they could to catch the powerful winds that ran before a storm. With a little luck, they’d be propelled at four times the speed of a racing horse and make landfall before the storm caught them. They could soak the stones, lowering the airship to right above the ground, and then lower the canvas and secure the ship to ride it out. They’d get rained on and swung around a bit, but down low, they’d avoid the most violent gusts that could threaten to flip an airship over. A skilled captain could generally avoid such a fate, but if it happened, they were almost certain to die. She saw no reason to risk it, not on her first voyage.

  The cards that the spirits dealt were fair but fickle.

  Atop the quarterdeck, she studied the darkening bank of clouds behind them.

  “Mate Pettybone!” she called.

  The second mate, a rag tied over his wild mop of hair, his mutton-chop beard bristling, snapped to attention. “Captain?”

  “Have them pull in the sweeps and shut the hatches. We’ll proceed on sail alone. That’ll give us a bit more speed, maybe enough to make it over land before the storm catches us.”

  “Putting a lot of faith in the crew, Captain.”

  “They deserve it, don’t you think, Mate Pettybone? They’ve been trained by you after all.”

  “Aye,” replied the man, bobbing his head in appreciation. “They deserve it.”

  “Let’s impress the duke, then, and maybe it can be First Mate Pettybone. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  Grinning, Pettybone scampered down the stairs and ducked into the airship to instruct the men below to pull in the sweeps and batten down the hatches. The sweeps were crucial if they were to become becalmed and helped steer in times they were not, but with the stirrings of wind she was already beginning to feel, it would only slow them down.

  She turned from the storm and looked over the decks where the crew was efficiently adjusting and then cinching down the sail. Experienced hands, all of them. They wouldn’t be on the airship if they weren’t. No one made it on a deck in the sky unless they’d spent a few years at sea. They knew their craft and performed it well. None of them had any more interest than her in riding out the storm hundreds of yards above the water.

  The wind picked up, the sails billowed, and she smiled.

  The wind whipped around her, screaming in her ears, filling the snapping sails above her head as rain lashed across the desk.

  “You almost made it, Captain,” called the duke, wiping a hand across his brow where the sudden patter of water had caught him. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to step inside where it’s dry.”

  “Another quarter turn of the clock, m’lord, and we’ll descend over Ivalla,” she said, pulling the cowl of her oiled, canvas jacket over her head as another band of torrential rain washed over them.

  “You planning to stop for some wine while we’re there?” the duke inquired, hustling past her, cursing as the rain caught him moments before he jerked open the door to the captain’s cabin.

  “We’ll need a few turns to reconfigure the rigging and dry the stones once the storm passes, m’lord,” she called after him. “You can stretch our legs, then, if you like.”

  “I’ve got plenty of wine, Captain Ainsley. If you want to be a real Company officer, you have to think like a trader. Wine’s not just for drinking. Consider what you ought to be doing with an empty hold and an unexpected stop.”

  The duke turned and ducked into the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Face wet, a smile on her lips, she stalked about the rain-splattered deck, checking the men’s work, glancing between the darkness behind them and the rapidly approaching coastline of Ivalla. One of the United Territories, it was a tribute to Enhover and just about the safest piece of land they could find to come down over that wasn’t home. On the coast, Ivalla was all rolling green hills covered in lush grasses — where it wasn’t dotted with row after row of vineyards.

  She frowned. Had the duke been testing her when he suggested picking up some wine? Down along the coast of Ivalla, the quality stuff could be had for a third the price it went for in Westundon. A tidy arbitrage if one could afford to invest in enough barrels and had the connections to sell it back in Enhover. In the manual, private trade was against Company policies, but what else could the duke have meant?

  Interim captain for a week, she certainly didn’t have spare funds to purchase a hold full of wine, but the duke did. Could she provide the opportunity, see if that’s what he truly meant, and see if he’d supply the sterling?

  She held her jacket closed and turned, searching out Mate Pettybone.

  “First Mate,” she instructed, “bring us down near those stone buildings.”

  “Is that a winery?” he asked, peering through the sheets of rain at the distant complex.

  “I believe it is,” she answered.

  Letting the First Mate handle the steering adjustment, she watched as the Cloud Serpent descended and the buildings came closer. Captain, the thrill of commanding the airship, and the rewards that came with it… It was going to be sweeter than Ivalla wine.

  The Priestess IX

  She looked up the hill, up the one hundred steps, at the towering facade of Westundon’s Church. The hulking edifice was meant to be the face of the Church, the rock on which the foundation of its teaching was built. A dark gray stone construct, giant and intimidating, looming over the buildings around it, casting a shadow across the entirety of the street leading up to it. That it was chosen as the face of the Church was telling, as far as Sam was concerned.

  Sparkling colored glass was set in a spiral pattern to let light into the cavernous sanctuary that was the heart of the building. It was the only spot of color on the entire grim frontage. It was the only pleasant section, Sam thought. Elsewhere, elaborate flying buttresses and sharp peaks of the rib-vaulted roof gave the place the look of a giant skeletal centipede. Armies of fanciful creatures lined the top walls of the building like ever-watchful guardians, peering down with stern expressions at anyone who approached. Brass doors, the height of three men, polished daily to gleam like the sun on the glass above, were closed.

  So early in the morning, the windows that flanked the doors were open to catch the cool autumn breeze, but the doors themselves were locked. No one would go in that way until mid-afternoon when the day’s sermons began.

  Sighing, she started up the one hundred steps. She’d made the climb countless times, but it didn’t get any less ridiculous. There were three entire floors of the bui
lding below the top of the steps and any one of them could have been designed as an entrance, but no, the Church expected its congregants to climb.

  At the top of the stairs, a pair of cassocked men with plain steel longswords at their hips offered her a curt nod. Whether they knew her or not, she wasn’t sure, but they would have been able to sense her, to feel the markings on her body as she drew close. Even if they didn’t know her face, they knew enough to stand clear of that feeling. They wanted nothing to do with what she was.

  Ignoring the men, she bypassed the giant, brass doors and took a simple wooden one that was hidden behind the base of a stone buttress. She entered the narthex and then, turning, took to the halls of the building that snaked around the sanctuary, avoiding the vaulted-ceilinged space. Her mentor liked the isolation of the giant, empty room, but she preferred the intimate stone halls around it.

  As she walked, she saw robed men and women scurrying about their tasks, junior priests and priestesses or perhaps even hired staff bustled like ants working tirelessly on behalf of the hive, doing the menial tasks they knew were expected of them and that they thought were important. Ignorant, like ants in the hive, they knew nothing of the larger picture.

  She passed through the building that housed the public space of the Church and moved into the living quarters — the hive. She passed deeper into the network of stone corridors, like she was walking into a cave, farther in and farther down. A narrow stairway led her to a long hallway lit by only a handful of torches. The air was rich with the scent of the flaming brands, the walls blacked where generations of those torches had burned.

  Above, in the bishop’s quarters, there were fae lights glowing softly within their glass globes. The public spaces where the light through the stained glass did not reach were lit by candles or bright mirrored lanterns fueled by distilled oil. It was only below, outside of the haunts of wealthy parishioners and senior Church leaders, that the open torches lit the path. Strangers were not welcome down in the bowels of the Church, and sometimes, she wasn’t sure the denizens of the place were welcome, either.