by A. C. Cobble
Lannia beamed down from the box, looking over the wigged, coiffed, gowned, and bejeweled crowd below them, the height of society in Westundon gathered in rows stretching back from the stage. The closer the seat, the more important the occupant. Of course, the true powers were scattered amongst the box seats across from her and behind her. She grinned. She, in the prime location, in Prince Philip’s own seats, reserved by Oliver for her and the Dalyrimple girl.
She smiled at Isisandra, and the girl returned it, a bit. Her lips curled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. No matter. The girl had caught Oliver’s interest and attended a party upon his arm, which meant she was worth bringing under the wing.
It was unlikely the slip of a thing could keep a man like Oliver locked down for long, but the relationship would do Isisandra good. Oliver was an entry into the swirling currents of high society. After stepping out with him, Isisandra could move onto another young man who would be more suitable for her, closer to her station, and actually looking to make a permanent match.
Oliver, with his penchant for adventure in and out of the bedroom, was interested in anything but a permanent match. He was a perfect gentleman who refused to abide by society’s expectations. It made him a poor choice of husband, but without a doubt, he was the most fun of King Edward’s brood.
His brothers were a bit insufferable, if she was honest, but at least Princess Lucinda had talked her husband Philip into purchasing the theatre tickets. The woman’s patronage had raised the level of theatre in Westundon over the last several years. It wasn’t uncommon that Lannia declared Westundon’s season superior to the capital’s, which was a shame, since her father was ensconced in Southundon in his role as prime minister.
If the most eligible bachelor in the city hadn’t been her cousin, she’d consider a permanent match for herself in Westundon, but alas, all she could do was enjoy her occasional visits.
Watching as the curtains drew back, the evidence was clear to her that a little patronage could go a long way, though she couldn’t convince her father William or uncle Edward of the fact, and they’d let Southundon’s theatres languish. Without their attendance, it lowered the society in the crowd, and others found different arts to support.
The first lines of the opening act burst from the mouth of a costumed actor, bouncing over the crowd below. Dazzling set pieces were lit by sparkling fae lights behind him, giving the stage an otherworldly aspect. Beautiful and brilliant. Yes, a little patronage could go a long way.
She reached over and placed a hand on Isisandra’s. The girl offered her a tentative smile, her eyelashes fluttering.
Lannia leaned close and whispered, “Tell me how it went with Oliver?”
The girl blushed, and she grinned, squeezing the hand tight before letting go. She had no interest in the particular details, but the girl’s flushed skin told her true enough. There were details. A young, wealthy girl, new to town and with an opportunity. She needed the strong, confident hand of a patron to show her the way.
“Hold onto him as long as you can, Isisandra, but don’t fret if he slips away,” she advised. “He’s a large step into proper society, and with the right guidance, you can use that step to go anywhere you wish.”
“And you’re to give me that guidance?” inquired Isisandra, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the orchestra starting up.
“If you want it,” agreed Lannia, leaning close to the girl. “Men have their social clubs, their societies, but us girls just have each other. We have to look out for our own sex if we want to maintain our status. That’s the mistake too many young girls make. They rely on a man to get them what they want. A man is all well and good, and I’m sure we both agree they serve their delightful purpose, but a strong woman makes her own way in the world… with or without a man.”
Isisandra finally offered her a true smile.
“You understand then. That is good,” continued Lannia. “With the right friends, there is no peak you cannot ascend.”
Still buzzing from the inspired performances, Lannia and Isisandra settled into the carriage — Prince Philip’s own — conveniently parked first in line when they exited. Knocking on the screen between them and the driver, Lannia called for the man to go.
“I was thinking on something during the show,” mentioned Isisandra.
“What was that?” asked Lannia.
“You mentioned clubs and secret societies,” answered the girl. “Do they not allow women to join?”
“I forget you have almost no experience with these things, not in Archtan Atoll,” murmured Lannia. “There are some clubs that allow women, but none of the good ones. My advice is to stay clear of the others. The societies, you know the ones I mean, those with the creepy masks and midnight meetings, they allow women but not in the upper echelon, not in the highest ranks where the reins of power are held. Women like you and me, they’d let us in right quick, but for one reason only.”
Isisandra raised an eyebrow.
“Sexual rites,” explained Lannia, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Most of those secret societies perform strange occult rituals, and if someone like you or me happens to be around, you’d better believe that it will involve us spreading our legs.”
“Oh, my,” said Isisandra. “I’d heard stories, but…”
Lannia grinned. “Mind you, it can be a bit of fun if that’s what you like. I spent a few years when I was your age passing through some of those circles, but it wasn’t long before I realized that I didn’t need to wear some ridiculous set of robes and perform a chant to get that. If you want fun, there are easier ways. Ask my cousin Oliver about it, and he’ll be happy to show you.”
Isisandra blushed, and Lannia laughed.
“He’s already shown you, then?” she guessed, confirming her earlier suspicion.
Isisandra kept blushing and looked down at her hands.
“Don’t worry, Isisandra. I won’t tell a soul,” she assured. “You want to have some fun? Then do it with a man like Oliver. You want to spread your legs for some other reason, to gain a little leverage or access a rich opportunity, do that with a man like Oliver, too. The mumbling and the chanting in those secret societies isn’t worth the hassle if you ask me. There are quicker, more pleasant paths to power.”
“I’m glad you warned me,” murmured Isisandra.
“They’ve already tried to bring you in?” questioned Lannia. When Isisandra didn’t respond, she grasped the young girl’s hand. “Stick with me, and I’ll steer you right. They never do what they say they will, never give you what they claim they can. If they made you a promise, I assure you it was a lie. My father the prime minister, Oliver, that’s where the true power lies.”
Isisandra grunted.
Taking it as an invitation to continue, Lannia added, “And the truth, in those societies, they’ll recite some intonation about gaining strength every new moon, but it’s the furthest thing from what you’ll find. Think about it. If they’re so powerful, why are they hidden behind the curtain at midnight? If you seek a comfortable match, if you seek to obtain your own power, do it in the light of day. The power in Enhover is not behind the throne, it’s on the throne.”
“Thank you for the warning,” replied Isisandra. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The Cartographer XIII
“Your brother told me you took out the Dalyrimple girl,” boomed William Wellesley. “Right nice of you introducing her to society. She’d been in Archtan Atoll, what, several years, isn’t it?”
“Five, I believe it was,” acknowledged Oliver.
“How did it go, then?” questioned the prime minister. “She get the famous Oliver Wellesley treatment?”
Oliver coughed, feeling a warm flush growing in his face.
The prime minister sat back, slapping his knee and laughing. “I talk to your brothers, you know. No secrets amongst the family and all of that. Ah, to be young, single, and a Wellesley.”
Oliver snorted. “You are a Wellesley.”
“I
am,” chuckled William. “It was more fun before I got married. Don’t let Philip talk you into it.”
Oliver ran a hand over his hair and declared, “I didn’t ask for this meeting to discuss my, ah, my evening with you.”
“Now, now,” said the prime minister, a grin splitting his face. “Just an old man having fun with his nephew. I’m not trying to pry into your personal affairs too deeply. I know you didn’t schedule this appointment only to talk about yourself. What is it you need, Oliver?”
“You heard about Countess Dalyrimple and the governor?”
“Of course,” said William, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “Not to bring up the subject again, but I know that’s why Philip asked you to spend time with the girl.”
“In addition to, ah, introducing her, Philip is concerned there is still no resolution on the matter of her parents’ death,” claimed Oliver. “He has tasked the inspectors with doing a bit more research, trying to figure out what exactly happened, and whether it could happen again. Unfortunately, we don’t seem to have anyone who has experience with these matters. Sorcery, you understand? We thought if we can find someone who’s seen it in person, someone who faced the Coldlands raiders perhaps, they could shed some light onto what exactly we saw in Archtan Atoll.”
“Sorcery is all just ritual these days, isn’t it?” questioned William. “Silly men and women in their secret societies wasting their evenings with all of that Darklands mumbo jumbo. From what the Church says, the connection with the spirits is gone from here. It’s not even possible anymore, was my understanding. I suppose that could be just in Enhover, though, and mayhap that is why you were able to see what you saw in Archtan Atoll?”
“Could be,” agreed Oliver. “Despite what the Church claims, though, Philip isn’t convinced it is impossible, and to be honest, neither am I. We saw evidence in Harwick. Someone made the attempt, William. You experienced the Coldlands raiders more personally than most, and you saw the outcome. Do you have no concern it may happen again?”
“I did see the Coldlands up close and personal,” confirmed William, unconsciously reaching up to grip and massage his shoulder where Oliver knew an old puckered scar hid beneath his shirt and jacket. “That was a long time ago, though. If sorcery was still possible in these lands, how come we’ve seen no evidence of anyone practicing it? I’ll never forget what I saw twenty years ago, Oliver, and if that kind of thing was happening in our cities and towns, we would have heard about it. We would know.”
“Are you sure?” asked Oliver.
“That kind of evil doesn’t exist in our world, not in Enhover, not anymore,” claimed William. “Your father and I stomped it out hard enough that it’s never coming back. Those of us who were there know that. The Church knows that. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Oliver.”
“What if we’re all wrong?” asked Oliver. “We cannot allow what I saw in Archtan Atoll to come to our shores. It was pure evil, Uncle. There was a circle with bodies flayed like… like animals. Their souls were trapped somehow within that circle.”
“Trapped? Are you sure?” questioned the prime minister.
“I am sure,” declared Oliver. “I felt it when we killed the pirates. It was as if a darkness reached up from the underworld and touched the place. It was cold and painful. If that’s not what the underworld feels like, I can’t imagine what does.”
“You felt it?” murmured William, his hands falling down to grip the sides of his chair. “That was not in the reports I read.”
Oliver shivered. “I felt it and it will stay with me. As far as the reports, they had to be truncated for the glae worm transmission. We couldn’t include everything we saw and felt — or suspected.”
“Suspected?” wondered William.
“A priestess was with me. One trained in… in this type of thing,” explained Oliver. “She believed these souls were trapped within the circle and used to power the ritual and perhaps as a bargaining chip with an underworld spirit. A powerful one, from what I understand. Ca-Mi-He, though the name means nothing to me.”
“Ca-Mi-He,” asked William, a look of deep concern on his face. “Was the practitioner able to contact the spirit?”
“Maybe,” said Oliver. “We believe an object, a dagger, may have been tainted and brought to Enhover by Countess Dalyrimple.”
“Was the dagger recovered?” wondered William, rubbing his chin.
“No,” replied Oliver. “There was an empty box found in the building with Countess Dalyrimple’s body, but nothing that… nothing that held the taint of the underworld. The trail goes cold in Harwick.”
“Interesting,” muttered William.
Oliver nodded. “Have you heard of Ca-Mi-He?”
“No, ah, no…” mumbled the prime minister, looking down at his half-eaten dinner. He did not move to touch his fork or knife.
“Did you hear of anything like that during the Coldlands War?” wondered the duke, watching his uncle’s eyes. “Or like the ritual I described? I’ve heard the stories, of course, about the terrible sorcery the Coldlands raiders harnessed, but there are no specifics. I opened Duvante’s history of the war last night for the first time since my tutors pressed it on me, but there are no details on those pages, either. It’s as if the entire confrontation is only described in vague, ephemeral language.”
William sat quietly.
“Uncle,” pressed Oliver, “you led a battalion into the Coldlands themselves. Surely you saw something that could help us understand what we face.”
“I did lead men into that evil place,” muttered the older man. “I didn’t… I didn’t see anything like what you describe, though.”
“What did you see?” asked Oliver. “Any evidence of how they bound the spirits, how they performed their magic?”
“We didn’t stop to take notes,” protested William, his eyes rising to meet Oliver’s. “We destroyed what we found and didn’t ask questions about it. Questions about this stuff are dangerous, Oliver. The less you know — the less everyone knows — the better. Knowledge is like a disease. It spreads from one host to another. This type of knowledge… it’s best to not contact it in the first place. Yes, we saw things in the Coldlands, but we didn’t study them. We burned them, Oliver. We burned everything. We burned it without looking because once that disease begins to spread…”
“We have to know what we’re fighting,” argued Oliver.
“I can’t help you,” muttered the prime minister.
“Just tell me something!” exclaimed Oliver.
William sat forward and looked directly into his nephew’s eyes. “There is one thing I can tell you. Leave this to the Church and the inspectors. Sorcery is a dark path to start upon, Oliver. That is why we destroyed what we found, why we didn’t ask questions about it. Once on that path, it is difficult to turn back. That is all I can say that will help you. Stop now while you can. Let the Church do its job. They have people trained for this sort of thing, or, at least, they used to.”
Oliver sighed. “I’d hoped you’d seen something. I’d hoped someone had.”
“There are few left from that time,” responded William, finally picking up his knife and fork again. “It was hard fighting and hard on the lads when they returned.”
“We’ve only found one other from that time,” remarked Oliver, sipping his glass of wine and peering over the rim at his uncle. “One other living, at least. If I’d known when I was in Harwick… but I didn’t. It seems man by man, nearly everyone in your old battalion has passed to the other side.”
“One other?” asked William, looking up.
“Lieutenant Standish Taft,” replied Oliver. “Retired now.”
“Taft!” barked William. “He’s dead.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”
“Of course I know him,” growled the prime minister, standing and beginning to pace across the room. “He was my second in the battalion. He was there when we… when we crossed the s
ea to the Coldlands. When we first landed on that rocky spirit-forsaken beach.”
“That’s what I was told,” responded Oliver. “It seems one of the inspectors served with him in the years after the war. He told me a bit about Standish Taft. He told me that he knew where the man was. Why did you think he was dead?”
The prime minister threw himself back into his chair. “Us old war dogs keep track of each other, Nephew. Going through an experience like that, it bonds men together like a second family. I-I’d heard from someone that Taft was dead. Can’t remember who said it, now, but I damn well remember hearing it. Can you tell me, if he lives, where is he?”
“Swinpool,” answered Oliver.
“What’s the old snake doing in Swinpool?” questioned William.
Oliver shrugged.
“Where is he in Swinpool?” pressed the prime minister. “I wouldn’t mind going to see him on my way back to Southundon.”
“Pretty far out of your way,” mentioned Oliver.
“War dogs stick together, pup,” chided William. “You have an address? It would put a smile on both our faces if I could surprise him.”
Oliver shook his head. “No address, just… a reference, I guess you could say. Heard he runs a little place down there for the fishermen. It seems he hasn’t wanted to be found. The inspector was nervous, actually, that if he showed up, the man would vanish. I volunteered to go do the interview myself as I don’t have much else to do until I leave for the Westlands. Heading down there tonight on the late rail, in fact. I have to move fast before Philip catches wind and tells me to leave it to the inspectors. You know how he is. He wants us Wellesleys focused on state business, and once I found who murdered the countess, it was no longer my concern. With any luck, I’ll find Standish Taft tomorrow. I’d love to give you a chance to surprise him, but this can’t wait. I’ve got to talk to him and find out what he knows.”
“The rail tonight?” asked William. “That’s sudden. If you think there’s something dangerous out there, you shouldn’t rush into it. Maybe if you wait, I can—”
