by A. C. Cobble
“Very well,” said Oliver, standing and starting toward the door of his older brother’s office.
“And don’t forget Isisandra,” called Prince Philip as Oliver slipped out the door.
The Initiate II
“I’m not asking, I’m telling you, Isisandra,” murmured the hushed voice.
She grimaced.
“You asked for my help tracking down your parents’ killer,” continued the voice. “That help comes at a price. He’s a good-looking man. I’m surprised you’re not… eager.”
“He is a man,” mumbled the girl. She brushed a lock of raven-black hair behind her ear. “What assurances can you give that you will find who Captain Haines’ employer was? The Crown, Company, and Church all seem to be fumbling in the dark. If they cannot—”
A gloved hand slapped down on the table. “They are fools, and fumbling in the dark is what fools do. You joined us, girl, because we are not fools. You contacted me because you know that I can find who pulled the captain’s strings.”
“If you want me to… to do what you ask,” she stammered nervously, “then I need proof you can find out who was behind my parents’ murders.”
“I don’t need to find them. I already know who it is,” snapped the man.
She blinked at him. A black cloak, the cowl pulled over his head, a red-silk mask covering his features, thick black gloves, and a silver pendant hanging around his neck. The mask and the pendant, the only identification he had offered, the only assurance that he was who he said he was. Could she trust the man?
No, she thought. Of course she could not trust him, but that did not mean he couldn’t provide what he claimed. And if he failed, then what was the loss? The duke wasn’t any closer to finding the person behind her parents’ death than he had been the moment he’d set foot on the atoll. Oliver Wellesley was lost, over his head and sniffing around all of the wrong places. If she wanted justice for her parents, she would have to get it herself.
“If you know—”
“Everything has a price, girl. Everything has a price.”
She frowned.
“There are worse things I could be asking of you,” reminded the masked figure. “A simple liaison with Duke Wellesley? Most of the women in this city wouldn’t need to be asked.”
“Why don’t you have one of them do it, then?” she snapped.
Redmask tilted his head, staring at her with cold blue eyes. He did not reply.
She swallowed, cursing herself for losing her temper with the man who held the secret to her parents’ murders. Finally, she allowed, “I will do it.”
“Leave,” the man instructed, waving his hand toward the door. “When I hear from you again, it should be done.”
She stood and walked out of the well-appointed room.
The hall in the Chapter House of the Feet of Seheht dripped with wealth — wealth, prestige, and power. The building was steeped in it. It had been for centuries. The Feet of Seheht, the home of countless peers, merchants, and others who led Enhover to be what it was. That was why her parents had joined, to achieve the next rank in society, the next tier of power. There were things that gold could not buy. Her parents had known that, and she had learned the lesson well. It did not mean those things were free, though. The man in the room had made that clear enough.
She shook herself and glanced at the cloaked figure standing in the hall, waiting for her.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked the woman.
“Not yet,” she responded.
The woman turned and led her down the hallway.
Isisandra followed, her gaze drifting over the furniture, the tapestries, the rich paintings. There were cityscapes of Westundon, dramatic storms over the sea, and rolling pastureland that spread for leagues inland. It was Enhover without the people. Below the paintings, there were silver bowls, crystal candlesticks, polished oak paneling, and pale yellow fae lights. The place was decorated like a wealthy lord’s city abode, which she supposed it likely had been once. Now, it was home to the Feet of Seheht, Westundon’s premier society, the place her parents had told her things could be made to happen.
“The elder would like to see you before you go,” said her guide.
“What about?” questioned Isisandra.
The woman smirked. “The elder does not tell initiates his desires. He only tells them instructions. He instructed me to take you to… to that room, and he instructed me to take you to him when you left. If you are willing to go, that is. You are not an initiate yet and are welcome to leave if you desire.”
The woman phrased it like a choice, but it was not. Isisandra knew enough to know that.
She was led to the front of the building and into a small library. This room had windows and was braced by a well-stocked bar and an even better stocked bookshelf. Leather-bound tomes covered an entire side wall of the room from floor to ceiling. Isisandra’s eyes scanned over the volumes, though no names were stamped onto the outside spines. She could only imagine the knowledge contained within, what could be possible with access to such a library.
“More extensive than what your family kept at the governor’s mansion, I imagine?”
She turned to see a small man seated in a giant, leather-covered, wing-backed chair.
“It is,” she responded.
The man gestured for her to sit, and she settled across from him in an identical chair. It made her feel foolish, like she was a child sneaking into somewhere she didn’t belong. She would have squirmed with discomfort if the diminutive man greeting her didn’t look even more ridiculous, almost swallowed by the giant chair.
His head was exposed, unlike Redmask. She wondered what that meant, that one was inclined to hide their identity while the other was not. Before speaking, she studied him. Large, round ears stood out from a small, round head. Wild, white hair stuck up from that head at an odd angle, as if he’d had no time to comb it when he woke, but his chin and jaw were clean-shaven. Small, brown eyes twinkled as he watched her assess him.
“Elder,” she mentioned, “you asked to see me?”
“I did,” he agreed. “I want to know if you intend to join us as an initiate in the Feet of Seheht.”
She blinked. “I have studied—”
“Your parents studied,” corrected the small man. “They were members, as you know. If they shared their knowledge with you, they shouldn’t have. It is against our laws to speak of our business with non-members. It’s against our laws to even speak of the Feet of Seheht, in fact. You know this, do you not?”
She frowned.
“Our secrets are meant for members, not for their children,” explained the elder. “The fact that you knew to come here is enough for me to know your parents broke our laws. Breaking our laws comes with penalties.”
A ball of worry was building inside of her stomach.
“I did not kill them,” said the man suddenly, holding up a sallow, liver-spotted hand. “That is what you were asking Redmask about, isn’t it? You were requesting his help in finding who killed them. I did not kill your parents, but I might have if I’d known they shared information about the Feet of Seheht with you.”
“Their killer was… was someone here?”
The man shrugged. “I do not believe so.”
“Then—”
He sliced his hand through the air, stopping her. “As I said, I do not know who was behind their murders. It is not my concern. What is my concern is that you are a party to our knowledge, yet you are not a member. That leaves us two options, and one of them is quite unpleasant. Instead, I would like you to become an initiate, to join us. You will be bound by our rules, as is any member, but it will allow you to continue your studies uninterrupted. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I do,” she confirmed.
“Will you join us, then?”
Her eyes moved from the man to the wall of books behind him. Countless books. Unfathomable wisdom.
“There is a cost in sterling
and in other ways,” mentioned the elder. “I do not think you need worry about the expense, but are you familiar with the other requirements? Will you make the sacrifice to become one of us?”
“I will inform my banker to arrange the funds tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“The next quarter moon, then,” offered the man. “We can begin your initiation then. Unless you need to travel to Derbycross?”
She shook her head. “The next quarter moon, I will be here.”
“Very good,” said the elder and he stood, his message clear.
She stood as well and, within a moment, stepped out of the chapter house to find a carriage waiting in the courtyard. It was only four blocks to her parents’ home — her home now — but the Feet of Seheht insisted on the carriage. No one should know who came and went from the chapter house, though, the secrecy seemed foolish to her. As if a talented spy could not follow her carriage for a few blocks and see exactly who she was. The face of the Feet of Seheht was that of a bumbling group of peers play acting at serious ritual, but… but she knew what her parents had taught her, some of which they had learned within the society. There was truth there if she was willing to put up with the rest of it.
Shaking herself, she climbed into the carriage and peered out the window after a footman closed the door behind her. They were in an interior cobblestone courtyard, the only opening blocked by a heavy, wooden gate. The front door of the building rarely opened, as members entered in carriages through the courtyard and servants through the back, but she’d gotten in, and she would do what was necessary to stay there until she learned what she wanted. Then, she’d move on. The Feet of Seheht was a step on the path to vast power, but it wasn’t the end of the path.
Sighing, she sat back. The initiation and quest for knowledge would be painful, but her parents had prepared her for worse. She knew what was possible, and as soon as she found justice, she would dedicate herself to climbing the ranks quickly, to learning what she could, and to becoming what her mother had been close to achieving.
The Cartographer XII
“Thank you for inviting me, Duke Wellesley,” she purred, hugging his arm tightly and pressing her body against his side.
“Of course,” he said, striding as quickly as he could without spilling the girl on the cobblestones.
Behind them, a footman shut the door to the puttering, mechanical carriage. Up and down the street, revelers ascended stairs to open doors, piled in and out carriages, and traipsed between house parties. Valeance Street was where the young, wealthy, and eligible in Westundon mingled and connived, mixing the heady excitement of a night on the town with the serious business of improving their family’s standing in the peerage. It bored him now, though years ago, he’d regularly been one of those bright-eyed revelers. He knew the lay of the terrain, and he’d teach it to her… if he could peel her off his arm long enough.
“I had been meaning to contact you,” she breathed, peering up at him through heavily kohled eyelids, “to properly show my gratitude for everything you did for me in Archtan Atoll. I was so distraught. I’m afraid it must have felt like I was ignoring you.”
“You had a right to be — have a right to be — distraught. You went through a lot, Isisandra. Please do not be hard on yourself. You deserve a chance to grieve. I worried that perhaps tonight is too soon, that you’re not ready to—”
“No,” she said, following him up the steps to the brightly lit row house. “This is good for me, I think. Getting out, meeting other people our age, that will be a pleasant distraction. Much better than sitting alone in my parents’ old house continuing to brood.”
He saw her grimace. “Our age”. She shouldn’t have said that, and they both felt the awkward silence as the statement hung in the air. He forced himself to smile at her, remembering why he was there. His brother insisted it was the right thing for the Crown, to usher the girl into polite society. Sam insisted it was important for the Church and their investigation, to keep an eye on the girl. They hadn’t witnessed anything suspicious, but after Archtan Atoll and her parents’ involvement, he’d agreed they should watch her.
Breaking the moment, she looped her arm in his, pressing her hip against his side. He looked down at her and felt a genuine smile. There was no question she was a beautiful girl. A woman, he admitted, at eighteen winters.
Truth be told, he’d had far worse assignments.
Gathering himself, he knocked on the door. In heartbeats, a uniformed servant opened it and offered a quick bow.
“Duke Wellesley,” murmured the man, “and I’m afraid…”
“Lady Isisandra Dalyrimple,” introduced Oliver.
The man’s eyebrows rose and he stepped aside, gesturing them into a lavishly decorated foyer.
“Shall I announce you?” he inquired.
“Please,” replied Oliver.
They followed the man toward the sounds of bubbling conversation, light music, and the tinkling laughter of the young and unworried. The servant brought them to a long, open parlor and, over the din of the conversation, announced the duke’s arrival.
Immediately, a gaggle of young women broke off. Oliver steeled himself to dodge their advances, but instead of him, they clustered in front of Isisandra and began offering their condolences about her parents, asking how she found Westundon, if she had plans to return to Derbycross, and a brisk stream of unsolicited advice on how to navigate the currents of society in Enhover.
Oliver gritted his teeth and after squeezing her arm, left Isisandra for a moment to collect drinks for them both.
“The twins are going to murder you,” murmured a low voice behind him.
Turning, he grinned. “Countess Lannia Wellesley. I’m to dine with your father tomorrow, but I didn’t know you were in the city. Philip hasn’t said a word. How long are you here for? How long has it been?”
“I’m here for a few days, and you know it’s been far too long since you’ve bothered to check in on me,” remarked the willowy young woman. She reached around Oliver and collected her own fluted wine glass. “My father has business, and I wouldn’t let him leave Southundon without me. The theatre scene in the capital is truly dreadful this season.”
“Is it?” asked Oliver, looking to see if Isisandra was surviving amongst the sharks.
“It is,” confirmed his cousin. “I was hoping that my father would escort me out while we’re here, but he’s been up to his neck in meetings. I cannot imagine the ministry is in such need, but last night, the poor man was working until well after midnight.”
Oliver grunted.
“How is your brother?” asked Lannia.
“Philip is quite well,” replied Oliver. “He hasn’t voiced a word of complaint to me about the administration, so whatever William is up to, it hasn’t been a major concern for the Crown. Philip would have told me if it was. He’s certainly had plenty of other words for me lately.”
Lannia winked and nodded toward Isisandra. “Serious courtship or merely following orders? She’s a bit young, isn’t she?”
“She is, and you know me.”
“Never serious,” responded Lannia. She looped an arm around Oliver’s and suggested, “Why don’t you introduce me before those vultures scare her off to Derbycross?”
“I will,” agreed Oliver, “and after I do, perhaps you’d care to accompany her to the theatre? If you take her with you, I’ll get you seats in Philip’s box and a table at whatever restaurant you’d like to be seen in.”
“I’d rather go with you, but good seats are good seats,” declared Lannia airily. “Go on then. Let’s have an introduction.”
The Initiate III
“Lannia Wellesley,” said Isisandra. “She was rather kind. She is your cousin?”
“Yes, my uncle William’s daughter,” confirmed Oliver. “You’ve probably not met him. He’s the prime minister, the head of my father’s government operations, and he’s only stopping into Westundon to oversee the ministry’s staff here. You enjoy
ed Lannia? She was sincere about her invitation, and you cannot find a better guide to the intricacies of the theatre. I really think you should take her up on it. As you say, it will get you out of your rooms and into society.”
“Perhaps,” demurred Isisandra. She sat back in the carriage, studying him.
“It’s just a quarter turn of the clock to your house,” said the duke, seemingly at a loss for conversation.
“Fifteen minutes should be plenty of time,” she said. “I owe you a proper thanks, after all.”
He blinked at her and then gasped as she reached behind her back and tugged at the laces of her dress, quickly untying it and tugging it off, revealing nothing but skin underneath.
“I…”
“What?” she asked, cupping her breasts in delicate hands. “You don’t like girls?”
“I-I… No, I do,” stammered the duke. “It’s just… Isisandra, this is not necessary.”
“If you won’t claim your reward,” she pouted, “then I’ll just have to come and give it to you.”
She slipped off the bench and knelt in front of him.
“Please, I—”
“I’m not getting dressed until I’ve thanked you, Duke Wellesley,” she murmured, taking time to slowly lick her lips while looking up at him. “I’ve heard stories about you, you know, about what you like.” She rubbed her hands up his thighs, smiling as he squirmed under her touch. He gasped as she reached his manhood. “Oh, my. It seems like this part of you is ready.”
“Isisandra…”
She unbuckled his belt, not wanting to give him time to wiggle away from her. She had her orders, and Redmask was right. There were worse things he could ask her to do. There were far worse things one might do in pursuit of knowledge.
The Spectator I
