The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  Marcus’ mouth opened then closed then opened again. His eyes were wide, and his breath came in quick snorts from his nose.

  “You weren’t wasting my time, Marcus, were you?” she asked. “I can offer you what you were seeking and more. Surely you do not enjoy being a common laborer outside of these walls? The elderly matrons who brought you in here will never raise your station because then they will lose their power over you. I, though, need something from you. In exchange, I can offer you a night’s pleasure and so much more. If you seek to improve your station, then show me you can do what you say.”

  “No, I-I, ah…” he stammered. “Tonight, you said?”

  “Get me a book Marcus, and tonight, I will show you gratitude. I need to see you can uphold your end of the bargain, though, before I uphold mine.”

  “How do I know you’ll—”

  “Get the book, and I’ll get naked,” she purred. “You can give me the book after.”

  Marcus swallowed and glanced around the library, ensuring they were alone. “Meet me in the blue room.”

  “The red room,” she replied. “Red is more sensual, don’t you think?”

  He nodded and then dashed off, presumably heading to the flight of stairs at the back of the building, the one she was barred from climbing, and then to wherever the adept’s library was located. He was moving fast, and she hoped she had enough time.

  She closed the volume she’d been working on and placed it back on the shelves. She tucked away her notebook and walked into the hallway to the entrance where she found a bored-looking secretary.

  “Tell the elder to meet me in the red room, please.”

  The secretary studied her before responding, “You’re new, aren’t you? Initiates don’t command the elder. He commands you.”

  “Ask him to meet me, then, and I’m sure if it is not worth his time, he will administer whatever punishment he sees fit.”

  The woman scowled at her and advised, “That’s a bad idea. You have no idea—”

  Isisandra smirked. “Tell him. If it turns out badly for me, well, won’t you enjoy hearing about it?”

  She was waiting in the room when Marcus arrived. The space was small, intimate, designed for members of the Feet of Seheht to hold quiet private conversations. She’d lit a single candle, and its flickering flame barely illuminated the red silk that lined the walls of the space. Plush couches, thick rugs, and polished wooden tables were the only other furnishings.

  Spread out on one of the couches, she smiled when the boy slipped inside the door. “What did you get for me?”

  A grin on his face, Marcus produced a slim book covered in black leather. It was embossed with a silver star on the front. He looked her up and down, taking his time and making sure she noticed his lascivious gaze. He held up the book. “One of the chapter house’s prized possessions, the Book of Law. Only one other copy exists, I am told, in the private library of the elder. Not even the chapter house in Southundon has one of these books. How badly do you want to read it?”

  “So rare?” she asked. “The Book of Law, you said?”

  “Let me see what you’re offering. Then, it is yours,” replied Marcus. “You can take as long as you want to tease out its secrets.”

  She wanted to roll her eyes at the man, who she suspected to be no more than a blacksmith or farrier outside of the chapter house, but she needed him for a little bit longer. So instead, she stood and let her robes slip to the floor. She had nothing on underneath.

  The man’s eyes devoured her. She stood, one knee bent slightly, shoulders rolled back, and let him look. She knew that compared to the elder members of the Feet of Seheht, the ones he’d been brought in to please, she was a sumptuous feast to their stale bread and water. Compared to the ragged laborer girls he must be used to, she was delicate crystal to their battered tin. She was a dream for a man like Marcus. Not just her nubile body. Her gold, her land, her status. A man like him would do anything for her if she made a little effort to convince him it was all within reach.

  She walked up to him, putting one hand on his chest. Gripping his robe, she walked him to the couch she’d been sitting on and gently pushed him down. A big man like him, he could have easily resisted, but he didn’t. He didn’t resist at all. She smiled at him but not for him. Power, in all of its forms, was what she sought. She had a long road to walk from initiate to master. She knew her knowledge was far from complete, that she still had much to learn, but that did not mean she was weak. It didn’t mean she couldn’t manipulate a simple man like Marcus to do nearly anything for her.

  She let her breathing get heavy and she licked her lips. She instructed the man, “Pull down your trousers. You’ve seen me, and now I want to see you.”

  “This is about what I want,” he growled.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “I know what you want, what a man like you needs. Do not worry yourself. After I am done with you, you’ll never think of another woman again. Pull down your trousers, Marcus.”

  “Fair enough.” He laughed then opened his robes and began working his belt.

  While he fumbled, over-excited and clumsy, she turned to the corner of the room. A moment before, she’d heard a click and a soft scrape. Marcus, thoughts only for her, evidently hadn’t heard a thing.

  She turned back to him in time for him to pull his trousers down, exposing himself and showing he was eager to collect payment for the book.

  “You said the elder has the only other copy of the Book of Law?” she asked, taking a slow step closer to the adept.

  “Yes, it’s—”

  “That’s enough,” murmured a voice from the corner.

  “What! Who are— O-oh,” stammered Marcus, scrambling back on the couch, trying to cover himself up.

  Isisandra didn’t bother.

  “The volume from the adept library, is it?” asked the elder, stepping into the light of the single candle.

  “I can explain!” cried Marcus.

  “Can you?” wondered the old man. He moved beside Isisandra, looking down at the panicked man. He turned to her and asked, “Had I taken longer to arrive, what would you have done?”

  “I told you when we first met,” she replied, “that I seek knowledge. I would do much to get it.”

  The elder rubbed his chin with one hand while the other disappeared in the folds of his robe. “I see that. This book, it contains the knowledge you want?”

  “I don’t know what it contains,” she admitted. “I was not specific on which volume the boy should return with.”

  “Then why this?” asked the old man, his voice rasping like steel on leather, his free hand gesturing to encompass her body. “Some seekers do not obtain knowledge because they are unwilling to sacrifice. Others are willing to sacrifice everything but do not know their own value. They never achieve true wisdom because when the stakes grow high, they have nothing left to offer.”

  “I would not do this for the book alone, but if I am to sacrifice, I must know what for. I want to know how serious the Feet of Seheht is. How serious you are,” replied Isisandra. “I want to know if I am wasting my time, moving through your ranks, or if there is something of value worth pursuing in this society. Are you merely pretenders, elder?”

  Marcus, the stolen book placed strategically over his crotch, made an unlikely claim. “Elder, this is not what it looks like.”

  The elder chuckled then instructed, “Silence, boy.”

  “If your knowledge has value, then what lengths will you go to protect it when someone breaks the rules?” questioned Isisandra. “You threatened my parents, but they were already dead. What happens when a living member shares your secrets?”

  “Your parents were members in the Feet of Seheht. You’ve met Redmask,” responded the elder. “You must have some idea of what it means to join the master’s ranks in our organization, the wisdom and responsibility it brings. You, with your pedigree, should understand that.”

  “You met Redmask?” quaked Marcus.


  Both the elder and Isisandra ignored him.

  “I know my parents’ were masters in the Feet of Seheht, though they kept much of their learnings to themselves,” responded Isisandra. “They taught me enough that I know Redmask is not of this place. He is beyond it. He has true power. Do you as well?”

  “I will not deceive you,” murmured the elder. “Redmask is beyond us, now. He was once one of us, though. The path to that exalted position led through this building.”

  “Redmask was a member of the Feet of Seheht?” gasped Marcus. “I never knew that. Who—”

  The elder, moving with confident grace that hid incredible speed, lashed out with the hand that had been hidden inside of his robes. A blade, black obsidian glass, whipped across the neck of the seated man, a spray of blood following the motion.

  Marcus gasped then gurgled. Blood pumped from his neck as he struggled to breathe, and the air whistled through the gaping wound in his throat. Isisandra felt droplets of blood splatter on her bare skin, expelled from the man’s frantic attempts at breath. She and the elder watched patiently as Marcus died.

  “Are you satisfied, Initiate?” asked the elder.

  “I am satisfied you are willing to do much to protect your secrets and bring me into the fold,” she responded. “I am not satisfied at being an initiate. You know that my parents taught me much. I do not need to spend months pretending to learn the script of the Darklands or memorizing some foolish incantation that we both know is a farce. My proficiency is far beyond that of an initiate or even an adept in this society.”

  “An initiate, certainly,” agreed the elder. “An adept, yes, I think you are likely correct, but you are no master, girl. You have a long path to obtain that rank.”

  “What does it take, then, to advance?” She turned to face the elder, letting his rheumy eyes dance over her naked, blood-speckled body. Young or old, all men were the same, she thought. “I am willing to do anything.”

  The old man studied her and did not respond.

  “I need a mentor,” she claimed.

  He smiled. “I know you well enough to understand the mentor you want is Redmask, but he will not take you as an apprentice, no matter what you offer him.”

  “Why not?”

  “A true mentor has much to give to an apprentice, but for the arrangement to work, the apprentice must provide something back in return, something valuable,” answered the elder. “None of us truly on the path pursue it out of charity. We study, we experiment, we sacrifice — for power. For Redmask to take you as an apprentice, you must help him achieve more power. But, girl, you have nothing he desires. Nothing that will help him ascend to a rank above… above even my knowledge of what is possible.”

  “There was one thing he asked of me,” retorted Isisandra.

  “What?” queried the elder. “What did Redmask ask of you?”

  “That is something I would only share with my mentor,” responded Isisandra. “Hopefully, that would be someone who values a clue into Redmask’s activities and values what I can bring to the relationship.”

  The elder smiled and nodded. “You are cunning, girl. I will give you that. Few your age are as skilled as you at walking the knife’s edge. I warn you, though, it is a knife’s edge. Danger lies on either side of the blade, and even if you do not fall from your path, you will be hurt walking it. Is that really what you want?”

  “I will do anything,” she said. She shifted, drawing his attention back to her naked body. “My parents were killed because they sought knowledge, the same knowledge I seek. If they had reached the end of the path and gained true power, perhaps they would still live. Redmask found their betrayer and helped to bring him justice. Or… maybe he did not.”

  “A very dangerous path,” murmured the elder. “Very dangerous indeed.”

  “You must have known Redmask when he was a member of the Feet of Seheht,” replied Isisandra. “You knew him when he passed you in the ranks, when he exceeded your achievements in the society, but walking the path is a long race, is it not? It is not over until death.”

  The old man smiled at her. “Sometimes not even then. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To walk a dangerous path.”

  The Cartographer XVII

  “I’m glad you could make it,” said Philip. “I was worried you wouldn’t be here.”

  Oliver shrugged uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  Prince Philip snorted and leaned on the stone balustrade. He looked down at the milling peers on the dance floor below them, at the gentlemen with their heads covered in delicately powdered wigs, necks bound in silk ties, long tails on their coats and the ladies, their faces dusted with rouge, hair piled high, gowns cut low. They moved on a sea of bubbling conversation, snatching glasses of the finest sparkling wine from Finavia or the rich blood-red varietals from Ivalla off passing trays borne by a veritable army of servants. On the edges of the floor, tables were heaped with mounds of delicacies that the kitchen staff had been laboring over since before dawn — fresh shellfish hauled straight from the sea, steaming meat pies, herbed-lamb shanks, vegetables swimming in rich sauces, and piles of buttered rolls and loafs.

  Three dozen musicians stood on risers at the end of the hall, playing softly for now. As the evening wore on, their play would grow louder, and eventually, they’d transition into the soaring pieces that would stir the floor into sweeping waves of dancing bodies.

  Prince Philip’s Winter Gala was ostensibly thrown to raise money for the impoverished, but in practice, it was a way for the noble families to show off their wealth. Sparkling jewels adorned the women, the size and shine demonstrating their status, while the men discussed their land holdings, trade arrangements, seafaring vessels, and airships, for those few who had them. A trickle of that wealth did supposedly make it to the poor, but Oliver suspected his brother’s lavish spending on the party itself was a bigger boon than any act of charity made by the wolves swarming below them.

  Oliver covered a yawn with a fist, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He stopped when Philip saw him. He admitted, “I wouldn’t miss it unless I had something better to do.”

  “You’re incorrigible, brother,” said Philip with a sigh. “Someday, you will have to stop running from your responsibilities.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Only because I strong-armed Winchester into telling me where you were hiding,” grumbled Philip. “Why aren’t you in the palace?”

  “I own the house, you know,” reminded Oliver. “It is mine, and I bought it to live in. Is it so strange that I’m spending a few days there?”

  “It is strange,” replied Philip. “You’re never there because you enjoy the society of my palace. You do not enjoy peace and quiet, brother. Ah, speaking of, I see the Child twins down below. Is that why you’ve been in hiding? Do you need me to call for some men to escort you the rest of the evening? I heard they were both quite livid when they learned who your date was.”

  “I think I will be all right,” mumbled Oliver.

  “Are you sure?” jested Philip, his lips quivering with half-hearted efforts to hide a smile. “I can’t begin to fathom how you got both of those girls to fight so hard over you instead of with you, but it’s no secret that they do. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you finally decided to follow my advice and are escorting the Dalyrimple girl, but you may pay for—”

  “Did you ever find the whereabouts of Nathaniel Child?” interjected Oliver.

  His brother scowled, crossing his arms over his body and shaking his head. He glanced around the balcony, ensuring no one was within earshot. He shared, “Political or commercial assassination. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The baron was talking about coming into a great deal of wealth. If I can find out who was dealing with the man, then perhaps we’ll have a lead.”

  “Nothing so far?” inquired Oliver, wincing at his brother’s insistence
on following the money.

  “Nothing,” confirmed Philip. “No signed documents promising lucrative deals, no secreted stores of sterling, not even a prospect he’d mentioned to his friends. Just a promise that it was coming.”

  “Strange,” replied Oliver.

  Philip nodded toward the far end of the balcony where a pair of women were making their way closer, followed by half a dozen armed men.

  “Lucinda looks like she’s tired of entertaining without me.” Prince Philip studied the woman next to his wife. “Is that the Dalyrimple girl? I don’t think I’ve seen her since she returned from Archtan Atoll. My, she has grown up well.”

  “It is her,” agreed Oliver, standing and putting on a smile as Isisandra grew closer.

  “She is beautiful,” murmured Philip. “Why did you not want to—”

  “Beautiful on the outside and damaged on the inside, brother,” confided Oliver. “I will court her for a socially acceptable period of time and then find an excuse to break it off.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” warned Philip.

  “Trust me. She will not be sad at the ending,” responded Oliver. “Besides, I never leave them hurting.”

  “Tell that to the Child twins,” hissed Philip.

  “Despite the disapproval of their prince, they’d take me back in a heartbeat,” whispered Oliver, speaking quickly before the ladies drew within earshot. He offered a quick bow when they did get close. In a louder voice, he declared, “The sun and the moon, the two most breathtaking visions that I have yet to see in this ballroom. Ladies, you are simply stunning.”

  Lucinda gave an unprincess-like snort. “Save it for your date, Oliver.”

  He turned to smile at his date.

  Isisandra smirked at him. “I’ve been advised to ignore your honeyed words, m’lord. Princess Lucinda says it is your actions that will show the man you are.”

  “So they will,” agreed Oliver, offering his arm.

  Isisandra looped hers through it, mimicking the prince and princess beside them.