The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  Oliver muttered to himself, following the priestess down a plain, stone corridor, proceeding deeper into the belly of the Church than he had known existed. Apparently, there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of Church minions lurking beneath the floors of the sanctuary. He couldn’t fathom what they all did.

  He shifted his sling, adjusting the weight on his still-healing arm. He mumbled a curse under his breath for the half-trained physician in Swinpool who’d initially stitched and wrapped him and then another for the ham-fisted gargoyle who’d rewrapped it when they arrived back in Westundon. Shaking himself, he tried to regain focus and ignore the throbbing in his arm. The throb and the itch. It was good, they’d said. It showed it was healing. He snorted and glanced down a dark stairwell they were passing. It descended deep into the Church, and from the top, he could see no end.

  After a moment, Sam stopped and looked back at him. “Well?”

  Finally, with a stern glare to show his annoyance, he answered, “She was inexperienced.”

  “Inexperienced?”

  “She might have been a virgin,” he admitted.

  “Are you… You’re serious, aren’t you?” questioned Sam. “By the circle, I never would have thought. In Archtan Town, before her father… Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m not sure,” snapped Oliver. “But she was uncertain, and there was blood. Not a lot, but—”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Sam. “She was a virgin!”

  “Can we go on now and see your mentor?” requested Oliver. “Talking about this in a church, it isn’t right.”

  “I’m not the one sleeping with innocent virgins weeks after their last parent died while promising to show them a new country and introduce them to society.”

  “That is unfair,” complained Oliver. “I did not pursue this with the girl. She was the one who initiated it. She’s far from innocent if you ask me.”

  “She was a virgin, if I asked you, just not an innocent one?” Sam rolled her eyes and turned. “Let’s go find Thotham. If anyone can tell us what in the frozen hell happened back in Swinpool, it is him.”

  Oliver shuddered, thinking about the unfortunate Standish Taft and the other innocents who’d been caught up in the fight. He’d ordered burials for them all and dispersed healthy stipends to the survivors from the Crown’s treasury. The ministers had worried that such an act would cause rumors about what the duke had been doing in such a small tavern in Swinpool, but the condition of Taft’s body was enough to ensure years of speculation and gossip.

  He fought down a wave of nausea as he recalled the sound of the shovel scraping across the tavern floor, scooping up the remains of Standish Taft. Shaking himself, he forced his mind back into the present. They aimed to find Sam’s mentor Thotham and hoped the man could tell them what they’d seen in Swinpool. Sam claimed that if anyone would understand it, it would be Thotham.

  She led him through the hulking Church complex to a stone-enclosed yard decorated with planters filled with small trees. Then, to a dormitory with a long hall lined with narrow doors. After that, they visited a common room where cassocked priests were having their midday meal and then back into the sanctuary where they’d first come into the building. Next, Oliver saw a library, a wide-open room packed with desks where quiet scribes copied row after row of religious texts; a field covered by priests exercising and meditating; and a second, fancier library. Finally, Sam stopped an older priest in the hallway.

  “Thotham?” asked the man. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you speak of, girl. Which order did you say he belonged to?”

  She frowned back at the man, and Oliver shifted uncomfortably by her side. The priest stepped around them and started down the hallway. Sam caught two more elderly men, and both gave her the same answer and the same suspicious look.

  “Can we try his room?” asked Oliver.

  “I don’t know which one it is,” admitted Sam. “I-I don’t think he lives here anymore. He did years ago, but… We usually meet upstairs in the sanctuary, or he designates an area of the library for study or one of the empty courtyards for training.”

  Oliver glanced up and down the stone hallway. Priests were bustling about their daily activities, none of them paying a bit of attention to the two strangers in their midst.

  “Where does he live, then?”

  She shrugged.

  “Let’s go ask Bishop Yates,” suggested Oliver.

  “He’s a busy man,” murmured Sam. “I’ve seen him a few times, but my mentor was the one who did all of the talking. To be honest, I don’t think the bishop would even remember—”

  “He’ll see me,” declared Oliver. “We don’t have time to be wandering around this building all day. Let’s get an audience with the bishop, and he can tell us where your friend has gone.”

  “Mentor,” corrected Sam.

  “Whatever,” replied Oliver, and he started walking.

  Sam caught his sleeve and gestured the other way. “He always comes to see you, doesn’t he? The bishop’s offices are three floors up, in the north corner of the compound.”

  “Ladies first, then,” said Oliver, giving the girl a deep bow.

  “The bishop cannot see you,” remarked the slim man. His voice was as crisp as the starch on his beige robe. His hair was neatly coiffed, his mustache immaculately trimmed, and Oliver had never seen a clerk who took more pleasure in his duties. “He is only available by appointment, and you do not have one.”

  “I think the bishop will want to see us with or without an appointment,” growled Oliver, leaning forward and placing his knuckles on the man’s desk. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I know you’re not the cardinal,” responded the clerk, brushing his hands along the desk like the duke’s fists were crumbs left over from his lunch. He frowned when those fists did not move.

  “I am Duke Oliver Wellesley,” snapped Oliver. He stood, glaring at the clerk. “Let me in to see the bishop now, or I’m on my way to the ministry of finance to discuss the Crown’s allocation to the Church. After you explain to the bishop and the bursar that their budget is cut in half next year, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the rest of your life cleaning the toilets in this place.”

  The clerk pressed his lips tightly together.

  Oliver leaned forward and gathered a handful of the man’s cassock. “Do you understand me?”

  “I-I do, m’lord,” stammered the clerk, evidently deciding that his small pleasure at turning someone away wasn’t worth the wrath of the king’s son. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid, m’lord, that you still cannot see him.”

  Oliver turned his hand, gathering another twist of fabric and jerking the clerk forward.

  “He’s not here!” squeaked the man. “The bishop is not here.”

  “Where is he?” asked Oliver, letting his voice go quiet with menace.

  The clerk swallowed, the apple in his neck brushing against the duke’s fist. “He-he instructed me not to tell anyone.”

  “Do you really think making an enemy of me is a good idea or that the bishop really wants to hide his whereabouts from the Crown?”

  The little clerk was trembling now, his eyes darting as if he thought help would come running. None did. “I don’t know where he is, m’lord. Yesterday, he came out of his office and instructed me to keep everyone out, to tell them he was busy. He said he had to leave, but he didn’t tell me where he was going! I swear on the circle, m’lord. I don’t know.”

  “Who would know?” asked Oliver, not letting go of his iron grip.

  “I don’t know,” babbled the clerk. “I asked his valet last night. The man and I share a wine sometimes when our duties… He doesn’t know any more than I do, m’lord.”

  “How many days did the valet pack the bishop’s bag for?” questioned Sam.

  “He-he didn’t,” claimed the clerk. “He thought it strange, but… The bishop leaves alone sometimes, just for a few turns of the clock. He’s never been gone this long. M’lord, I did not know who you were
at first. I swear if I had known, I would have told you right away. The bishop is a private man, m’lord, but of course I would hide nothing from you.”

  Oliver and Sam shared a look, and he finally released the front of the clerk’s robes and stood.

  “Do you know a priest named Thotham?” asked Sam.

  The clerk shook his head.

  “He is tall, wiry. He has close-cropped white hair. He wears a standard priests’ robe and sometimes carries a spear, though I suppose he wouldn’t carry it into these offices. He’s old, older than the bishop, and has tan, weather-beaten skin. It’s the color of that satchel over there. He acts like he knows everything.”

  The clerk glanced at the satchel and then his eyes darted between Sam and Duke. “There is a man who fits that description that comes to see the bishop every few weeks, but I don’t know his name. It could be this Thotham.”

  “Where can we find him?” asked Oliver.

  The clerk shrugged.

  “Who can tell us which room is his?” questioned Sam.

  The clerk blinked. “He does not stay here, I don’t think. I-I was under the impression he was a leader at one of the monasteries along the coast, or maybe he hailed from Middlebury. He—”

  “We’ve heard enough,” growled Oliver, looking to Sam.

  She nodded, her lips twisted in frustration. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “I’ve never been in this place,” marveled Oliver.

  “I’d be surprised if you had been,” muttered Sam. “It’s quiet. Everyone here will know to leave us alone, and no one you know is going to walk in that door.”

  Late morning light streamed in a single open doorway, and otherwise, the place was unlit. Oliver could barely see the edges of the room in the gloom, but Sam was right. It was quiet, and no one he knew would ever step through that doorway.

  The barman arrived and raised an eyebrow at Sam.

  “Ale,” she said. “Your best.”

  “You want the best? You’ll have to pay for it,” he said. The barman scratched at his bearded chin. “I stock some pretty fine ale out of Rhensar for my personal consumption, and I’d be willing to pour a draught for you, Sam, but it’s quite expensive, and you’re quite poor.”

  Sam snorted and hooked a thumb at Oliver. “He’ll pay.”

  The barman eyed the duke then shuffled over to his taps.

  “A pitcher, Andrew,” called Sam.

  The man waved a hand at her without looking back and tugged on a lever, sending a stream of foaming, golden liquid into a large, earthenware jug.

  Oliver eyed the jug, noting it wasn’t a pitcher and wondering when it was last cleaned, but the ale looked like… ale, and the barman didn’t look like the type who wanted feedback.

  “So, what do we know?” asked Oliver after two mugs were filled, and the barman went back to the far corner, nursing a late-morning ale of his own. Oliver scratched at his arm, wondering if it was too soon to lose the sling. “We have a series of unexplained murders and we have a missing priest and a missing bishop.”

  “Let’s spell it all out,” suggested Sam.

  He nodded, holding up fingers as he counted, “Countess Dalyrimple, the apothecary Holmes, Inspector McCready, Merchant Robertson, Governor Dalyrimple, ah, Standish Taft of course. That’s-that’s what, six murders?”

  “Seven, with Captain Haines,” added Sam. “Though, should he count? We’re certain he was the one who killed the governor, right?”

  “He probably did,” agreed the duke.

  “So, does he count?” asked Sam after taking a sip of her ale. “Six or seven murders, and two missing churchmen. Perhaps a few more deaths we could include, such as the assassin-whaler and those corsairs…”

  “Can we agree there are several unexplained murders and leave it at that?” asked Duke. “Whatever the number, it’s a lot. We know sorcery is at the root of it all, but where does that lead us?”

  “Right. Sorcery is the root, but the root of what?” agreed Sam. She took a pull on her ale and smacked her lips. “What could someone possibly hope to achieve by killing these people?”

  “And where did your mentor and the bishop disappear to?” added the duke, hissing in frustration. “I suppose we should also ask if they disappeared together, or is it completely unrelated?”

  “It’s safe to assume that both Standish Taft and Captain Haines were murdered to keep them silent, agreed?” speculated Sam. “It’s a simple explanation, but simple usually means correct. In both cases, the timing supports it. Haines was imprisoned and presumably murdered to prevent him talking. Taft was killed moments after we arrived for I imagine the same reason.”

  “Makes sense,” allowed Oliver, trying the ale and nodding appreciatively toward the barman. “If that’s the case, someone knew our movements both in Archtan Atoll and in Swinpool. In Swinpool, they could have been following us. The coincidence is difficult to believe if they were not. But… who could have followed us all the way to Archtan Atoll?”

  “It’s also safe to guess that the Dalyrimples’ murders are related as well, though I’m unclear if they were killed because of this dagger the countess may have had, or… well, that makes no sense then for the governor, does it?” mused Sam, pinching her chin with two fingers. “The clerk claimed Bishop Yates is known to vanish, so I am not certain if that has anything to do with our investigation. But at the same time as my mentor? If Thotham left to follow a lead, it could be important. If-if it was related to the death of Standish Taft…”

  Oliver placed a hand on hers. “If the man taught you, then he can handle himself. Let’s not get worried until we know something is amiss.”

  She nodded and turned up her ale.

  “I’m more confused about all of this than when we first walked in here,” admitted Oliver.

  “You and me both,” confided Sam.

  They sat silent for a moment, nursing their ales, staring morosely at the twisting grains of wood along the top of the bar.

  “Isisandra Dalyrimple,” said Oliver, finally breaking the silence. “She’s the only lead we have. Maybe I should see if she’s available tonight and find out what else she can tell us. Her mother’s death was what kicked this off, at least as far as we know. Did she believe the story that her mother was afraid of the pirates? Did she notice either of her parents disappearing for periods of time when they could have been visiting the corsairs in Farawk? What connections did she see but not understand at the time?”

  “And someone hired Captain Haines to stop him talking, but who?” asked Sam.

  “The same person who snuffed out Standish Taft,” guessed Oliver.

  “Maybe. It could be the same mastermind or group,” remarked Sam. “It makes sense except…”

  “We have no idea who,” finished Oliver.

  “You’re right,” agreed Sam. “Isisandra Dalyrimple is the key. Whoever is behind this must have had contact with her parents, agreed? Whatever secrets are buried, they weren’t buried alone by those two. The circle in Farawk wasn’t fashioned by the countess alone. They have accomplices. Isisandra could have seen something or noticed someone who didn’t belong. As you say, the girl may have a lead even if she doesn’t know it.”

  “She’s been reluctant to talk,” murmured Oliver. “Perhaps it’s time to push harder.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to change the questioner,” argued Sam.

  Oliver frowned at her.

  “If you see her again, can you keep it in your trousers?”

  “Of course I can!” snapped Oliver. “That was a one-time thing.”

  “You said she was a virgin,” reminded Sam. “Do you think she’ll believe it was a one-time thing? Do you think she’ll be able to ignore that little tryst and suddenly open up and answer questions about her parents’ death? Come on, Duke. If anything, she’ll be more emotional and distraught. I know you didn’t mean it to turn out that way, but I can speak from experience. A young girl who just had her first sexual encounter is not going to be
focused on helping our investigation. Not around you.”

  Oliver frowned into his ale.

  “I can tell her you sent me, that you’d like me to deliver a message or perhaps that you’d like me to check over her lodging and ensure it’s safe. We can pretend you’re concerned about her safety.”

  “I am concerned about her safety,” declared Oliver.

  “Perfect, then,” replied Sam.

  Sighing, Oliver conceded, “You can take a shot, but go easy on her. If you do not learn anything, then I will see her again. Maybe we can use those emotions instead of making them a distraction. You’d be surprised at some of the pillow talk I’ve heard.”

  “No,” responded Sam. “I don’t think I would be. That’s fair, though. If she doesn’t talk to me, we’ll give you another chance. In the meantime, what will you do?”

  “I’ll approach it from a different angle,” said Oliver. “Isisandra is the key, but what about the lock? The countess wasn’t always the countess, and the governor wasn’t always the governor. I’m certain something they did led to them getting killed, but what and when? Whenever this journey started for them, I suspect it was here in Enhover. Maybe I can find some clue by looking into who they were.”

  Sam nodded. “Find out who they associated with when they were younger, and we might uncover another thread to follow. The countess came here for an important ritual. There had to be someone other than Merchant Robertson that she was in contact with.”

  Oliver poured them both another ale and added, “Sam, we should keep this quiet. My brother thinks this is in the hands of the inspectors now and we have unanswered questions about both the bishop’s and your mentor’s whereabouts. As far as everyone else is concerned, we’re done investigating. I’m busy preparing to depart for the Westlands, and you are busy… Ah, what do you do, actually, when you’re not around me?”