by A. C. Cobble
“I sit around dreamily wishing I was,” said Sam with a snort. She turned up her ale and then slammed it back down on the counter.
The Priestess X
“You said Oliver sent you?”
“He did,” confirmed Sam.
Her gaze drifted off the woman reclined on the chaise and she glanced around the room. It was lit by two dozen candles supported by silver-armed chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Half again as high as her head, the suspended lights gave the appearance of a sky filled with burning orange and yellow stars.
One wall of the room was filled with books, thick volumes bound in leather, embossed with silver and gold print. A veritable fortune worth of titles. A desk was bare except a stoppered ink jar and a pair of quills sticking from a white porcelain vase. A tray was covered in delicate crystal decanters of wine and spirits. Three huge windows were hidden behind lush purple curtains. Couches were covered in stuffed pillows, bracketed by low tables and the chaise that the girl was sprawled out on. It had the look of her father’s office taken over by her and now used for social engagements and after dinner drinks before taking someone off to bed. It wasn’t the room of a girl, only eighteen winters, who’d had her first sexual encounter days earlier.
“Is this your mother’s room?” asked Sam.
“My father’s old office,” remarked Isisandra, “though he rarely used it. We lived in Archtan Atoll the last four years, but when we returned on visits, he spent most of his time in Derbycross attending to affairs there. We would pass through Westundon on each visit, though, and he had to have somewhere to receive visitors. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t mean to offend,” mumbled Sam, walking through the room, letting her hand trail over the silk cushions piled on a long couch. “It feels feminine to me.”
Isisandra laughed. “I live here now. The pillows are mine.”
Sam nodded, looking at the floor-to-ceiling curtains blocking both the light and sound from the street outside.
“Why are you here?” asked the girl.
Sam turned to her, noting a long, exposed leg underneath a red, silk dressing gown. She wondered what else was beneath the gown.
“Duke Wellesley asked me to check and make sure you have all that you need. He wanted to be certain you’re well-provided and safe. I have some experience in security, and he asked me to look over your home, make sure all is in good order.”
“Such a gentleman, the duke,” murmured Isisandra. “I haven’t had word from him since we last saw each other. Am I to take this as a sign he’s still interested in me?”
“He sent me, didn’t he?” replied Sam.
Isisandra pursed her lips, bright red paint forming a tantalizing pout.
“I am certain he will be in touch with you soon,” added Sam. “In the meantime—”
“Security, you said?” interrupted Isisandra. “I thought you were a priestess.”
“I work for the Church,” explained Sam, not bothering to clarify further. She watched Isisandra re-cross her legs, the silk robe falling farther back on her thighs. Sam worked her tongue in her mouth, finding it suddenly dry.
She tore her eyes away from the girl’s leg and ignored the silver chain that traced her collarbone, dropping out of sight under the red silk. The girl’s pale skin was luminescent in the flickering light of the candles above them.
“I apologize,” said Isisandra. “When we were on the airship from Archtan Atoll, I paid you very little attention. I thought you were some plaything of Duke Wellesley’s, using the claim of priesthood as a convenient excuse to share his room, or perhaps you really were a priestess. Either way, I was not interested, which I suppose was the point. I was wrong, though, wasn’t I? You are something different. Not a priestess, I don’t think, but not his plaything either. I wonder… Have you slept with the man?”
Despite herself, Sam flushed. The girl was a decade and a half her junior, but something about her demeanor set Sam’s nerves a titter. The girl spoke with such… confidence. This was no trembling virgin, whatever Duke thought.
“No, I have not,” answered Sam.
She studied Isisandra’s face as the girl smiled back at her. She couldn’t decipher the look. They’d been keeping an eye on her, and Duke doing a bit more, but they’d uncovered nothing that led them to believe Isisandra was involved in her parents’ activities. Still, there was some mystery there, something they had not discovered. Isisandra had a secret.
“Would you pour me a drink?”
Sam glanced at the drinks cart and nodded. “What’s your preference?”
“Wine. Red.”
Sam selected a half-full decanter and bent to pick up two glasses from the bottom level of the cart. She glanced back, catching Isisandra looking at her. “Is this one all right?”
The girl nodded, and Sam filled the two glasses. When she brought one to Isisandra, she let her hips sway, the tight leather that encased her legs swishing as she walked. She stood an arms-length from the girl and handed her the wine. Isisandra took it and drank deeply.
Sam sipped her wine, looking down at the girl.
“Go ahead,” said Isisandra dryly. “Pour yourself some of my wine.”
“Duke Wellesley thought you were a virgin,” mentioned Sam.
Isisandra laughed, the sound tinkling like rain on a pond. “Did he?”
Sam walked away, studying the room again. “You were, in a way.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Isisandra.
“Did your parents know?”
“Know what?” asked the girl. “Whatever your relationship with the duke, you’re being rather forward. I am being nice because you are close to him, but do not think—”
“You prefer girls,” stated Sam, knowing as she said it, that it was no guess.
Isisandra sipped her wine and did not respond, confirming Sam’s intuition.
“So that is your secret,” surmised Sam. “What was it? Servants in the governor’s mansion, native women, maybe even female sailors who stopped over? Or perhaps it was all of them? Duke was right, you have no experience with men, but you’ve been with plenty of women, haven’t you?”
“That’s no business of yours!” barked Isisandra. “What, do you plan to blackmail me somehow? Tell the duke that—”
“You were willing enough with him,” interrupted Sam. “Why was that?”
Isisandra stood, her face stern, and stepped toward the desk, her father’s empty desk.
“You think he’ll make you a rich husband and behind his back you can get what you really want?” questioned Sam. “Maybe someday you would even tell him? You wouldn’t be the first noblewoman married for convenience, but that does not strike me as who you are. You want something grander than being on the arm of an important man, don’t you?”
“What do you want?” asked Isisandra, moving around behind the desk.
Sam watched the girl closely and then walked after her. She couldn’t stop herself. For weeks, they’d been speculating about what the girl had been hiding, if anything. Now, Sam knew. Isisandra had hidden her preferences from her parents, just as they’d hidden their activities from her. The House of Dalyrimple had been shrouded in secrets — none of them had really known each other. No one had ever truly known this girl, guessed Sam.
“I should call my men and have you dragged out of here,” declared Isisandra, glaring at Sam.
“Servants, natives,” responded Sam. “You’ve never been with anyone who wasn’t subservient to you, have you? They say what you want them to say, moan when you want them to, kiss where you want them to. You’ve never experienced what a real woman is like. One that knows what she wants or knows what you really want.”
Isisandra’s hand traced along the table, moving over the edge, to the knob of a desk drawer. She snapped, “I am tired of this game. Tell me what you want, priestess, or whatever you are.”
Sam darted around the table and caught the girl’s wrist as Isisandra was opening the drawer. She looked in
to the compartment and saw a sheathed dagger there. “What were you going to do, girl, threaten me with that? If you wanted me to leave, you’d simply call for your men like you said.”
Isisandra glared at Sam and struggled, trying to free her wrist. The priestess tightened her grip and smiled.
“What do you want?” snapped Isisandra. Her breathing was coming heavy, her face was flushed but not from fear.
“I’ll show you what I want,” said Sam. She put down her wine glass and yanked Isisandra close. She maintained her grip on the girl’s wrist and with her empty hand, she reached around and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it for a kiss.
The girl’s soft lips mashed against hers. Isisandra struggled for half a dozen heartbeats before her mouth opened. She returned the kiss fiercely, and when Sam pulled away, she could see hunger in the girl’s eyes.
“That’s what I thought,” said Sam. She’d found what she’d come to find, and now it was time to go. She turned and started toward the door.
“No, you don’t,” growled Isisandra. She grabbed Sam’s arm, spinning her.
Sam smirked at the girl and then let out a yelp as Isisandra’s hand flashed up and slapped her face, leaving a stinging welt.
Sam slapped back, knocking the girl’s head to the side, a glowing red mark where her palm had impacted the pale skin of Isisandra’s cheek.
They stood, breathing heavily, staring at each other.
“You are right,” said Isisandra finally. “I’ve never been with a woman who knows what she wants. Aside from a few servants, no one has ever known…”
Sam knew she should leave. She knew it was a terrible idea. Isisandra wasn’t what Sam had thought she was. She wasn’t some malevolent sorceress, but she was no blushing virgin eager for Duke’s protection, either. That was not what Isisandra wanted. Right now, Sam knew exactly what she wanted. She knew she should leave, but she didn’t.
Isisandra swung another slap at her face, and Sam caught the girl’s wrist.
“Nice try,” she muttered then dragged Isisandra to the chaise. She tore the girl’s robe off of her and threw her down on the cushioned furniture.
While Isisandra watched, Sam stripped her britches and boots off, leaving her shirt on.
“Kiss me,” demanded Isisandra, parting her legs, eyes fixed on Sam.
“No,” replied Sam, and she climbed on the chaise, straddling the girl’s face.
The Cartographer XV
His fist beat on the door again. He waited, annoyed.
“Maybe he saw it was you,” drawled Prince Philip.
Oliver glanced back at his older brother.
The prince stood halfway up the steps to the townhouse. His arms were crossed and a foot was tapping impatiently. Behind him, a dozen men wearing House Wellesley livery stood in the street, shifting just as restlessly. Each man had a halberd half again as tall as they were and on their belts were sturdy short swords. On the streets, they didn’t carry the cumbersome, apt-to-miss blunderbusses. The men weren’t used to having to wait, not when they were escorting the prince.
Two mechanical carriages sat puttering quietly behind the men, one well-appointed and plush, the other braced with platforms and brass bars where the men would hang on and follow the prince throughout this domain.
“We should have sent word,” grumbled Philip.
“And give him time to prepare?” asked Oliver. “The entire point of this was to surprise him.”
“Well, he’ll be surprised when he comes home and finds us camped out on his stoop,” complained the prince. He waved his arms, gesturing at the neighboring palaces that flanked the broad, tree-lined boulevard. “I’m going to be explaining what I was doing out here every day for weeks. How many peers do you think have spied us already, Oliver, just standing on Nathaniel’s doorstep?”
Oliver turned and pounded his fist on the door again, but like before, there was no response.
“No one is home. Let’s head back,” suggested Philip.
“Baron Child may not be home,” argued Oliver, “but his staff should be. There should be a dozen people working in a home this large, and at least a few of them have to be inside right now.”
“Perhaps they’re scared of the arms men.”
Oliver grunted and stepped back, looking up at the stone facade of Baron Nathaniel Child’s Westundon townhome. It was true. The baron could be out. He was a single man with high prospects. He could afford any of the entertainments in the city and would always have a woman wanting to drape herself on his arm. Oliver was in much the same circumstances and frequented the same venues. He knew the baron wasn’t out on such a cold, foggy evening. Nathaniel Child cared for his gold, not the baubles and entertainment he could buy with it. This late in the evening, the man would be home. His servants were certain to be.
“Look at the lights,” said Oliver.
Philip merely shrugged and glanced up and down the street, as if embarrassed to be caught standing before an unanswered door.
“There aren’t enough lights on for this time of evening,” continued Oliver. He pointed at one of the arms men. “You, come bash in this door with your halberd.”
“You’re going to break in his door?” cried Philip. “Why don’t we just come back in the morning? This is foolish, Oliver.”
“A-Ah…” stammered the arms man, his eyes darting between the duke and the prince.
“Go ahead and do it,” instructed Oliver, “or give it to me and I will.”
Philip snorted but didn’t move to intervene as the arms man clanked up the stairs. Taking that as a sign the breach was condoned, the man hefted his halberd and aimed the butt at the handle of the door. He smashed it against the wood, rattling the door in the frame, but it didn’t open. Oliver circled his finger, and the arms man struck again then several more times until the stout, wooden door burst open.
“You’re paying for that door, Oliver, and not out of the Crown’s accounts,” declared Philip as he strode the rest of the way up the stairs and into the foyer of Baron Child’s townhouse. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ask for a share of your Westlands stake as punishment for invading his home.”
“How did you… Never mind.”
Philip frowned over his shoulder then slowed his walk and quickly stopped. The house was dead silent. From his face, it was evident that even the prince was growing suspicious something was not right.
Oliver called up the rest of the arms men and instructed them to spread out through the house and search it. In less than a minute, a voice called out from the back. Oliver and his brother followed the sound to find one of their men standing in the kitchen, a grim look on his face and the bodies of two young scullions at his feet.
The sergeant of their guard appeared a moment later in the doorway. The man cleared his throat and said, “Upstairs, m’lords, there is… Oh.”
“Send a man to fetch the inspectors,” instructed Oliver. “Seal the building. No one else leaves or enters, and have your men search every yard of this place, touching nothing. We need to find out if the baron is… is here or somewhere else.”
Another guardsman burst in from the carriage yard behind the house. His face was flushed and he exclaimed, “I found a dead man out back! A big fellow. Looks like he went down fighting.”
“Jack, the baron’s body man?” questioned Oliver. “Bald, with a bushy mustache?”
The guard blinked at him, then his gaze fell to the bodies of the dead scullions on the floor, then to his sergeant. “I-I don’t know, m’lord. He… yes, he was a big man, just as you describe.”
“Frozen hell,” muttered Prince Philip, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Fourteen dead servants, his body man, and not a sign of the baron,” growled Prince Philip. “Where could the man be?”
“Dead,” replied Oliver.
His brother spun, an angry retort on his lips, but it faded. He knew as well as Oliver did.
“Philip, we have to consider that this may be rela
ted to the murders of the governor and the countess. I know there is no apparent connection yet, but so many peers dying or disappearing in unexplained circumstances cannot be coincidence.”
“You were meant to leave that investigation to the inspectors, Oliver,” chided Philip. “Is that why you dragged me out here to see Nathaniel?”
“No, of course not,” mumbled Oliver, rubbing his arm where he’d removed the sling earlier in the evening. The arm was still tender, but the strap had been chaffing his neck something awful. He glanced at his brother. “Since we’re here, and the man is missing… Why do you think I brought you to Nathaniel’s townhouse as part of the investigation?”
“Nathaniel Child courted Hathia. He meant to marry her, as I’m sure you discovered somehow,” responded Philip crisply, shaking his head at his younger brother. “I cannot believe you dragged me into this. He was quite broken up about it when she married Sebastian and she became a Dalyrimple, but that courtship was years ago.”
“Quite broken up,” responded Oliver. “A bit of bloodshed, wasn’t there?”
Philip grunted.
“I was told you had to intervene personally.”
“Nathaniel was upset,” said Philip with a sigh. “He challenged Sebastian and they foolishly had a duel. Sebastian won and was honorable enough to leave Baron Child whole. Nathaniel couldn’t let it drop, though, and attempted to pursue the matter further. Father asked me to step in before Nathaniel got himself killed. I did, and ensured the matter was finished. That was a long time ago, Oliver. How did you even learn of it?”
“I checked for official reports filed relating to the Dalyrimples,” said Oliver. “That one stood out.”
“So, what — you believe Nathaniel killed the Dalyrimples, his entire staff, and fled?”
“I don’t think Baron Child fled,” murmured Oliver. “I think he was killed, and somehow, it is related to the Dalyrimple murders. What can you tell me about his courtship with Hathia, what wasn’t in the official reports?”
