by A. C. Cobble
He snorted. “I pull the taps when they ask me. I toss out the drunks when I feel like it. Don’t think they hired me ‘cause I could pour a clean head, do ya?” He flexed an arm like he was applying for a job all over again.
“What does one have to do to get tossed out of this place?” she wondered, glancing at the raucous crowd behind her.
“They’ll get there,” he said with a laugh. “Your first time here? It’ll probably be your last.”
“First time in a couple of years,” she admitted. “I’m afraid I’ve moved on, but I came back to see some old friends.”
He nodded. “I just started six moons ago, but already I can tell ya friendships don’t last long in this place, girl. If you want my advice, you’re wasting your time.”
“Is Goldthwaite around?” asked Sam.
The barman eyed her but didn’t answer.
“How about Lagarde?”
“She went back to Finavia,” said the man, leaning on the bar and peering at her curiously.
“She’s alive, then?”
He frowned at her. “Of course she’s alive.”
“That’s good to hear,” muttered Sam. “Pass a word to Mistress Goldthwaite for me, will you?”
“You looking to get hired on, girl?” wondered the barman. “Something wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Sam, trying her ale and then glaring at the man. “Why?”
“If nothing is wrong with you, why do you want to work here?” he pressed. “A girl like you could earn pounds sterling in one of the nicer flesh shops. These girls make shillings and pence. Often as not, they’re paid in poppy.”
“Pence?” questioned Sam. “Surely…”
“Hand job,” replied the barman, making the motion with his fist.
“Oh…” mumbled Sam. “No, I’m not looking to get hired. Will you tell Goldthwaite that Sam is here?”
“Not looking to get hired?” pressed the barman, shaking his head like he was catching her in a lie. “You want to work here, you gotta try out. Wait a quarter turn, and I’ll have my break. I’ll give you a go, and if you’re good, the mistress will get my recommendation. You’re not diseased, are you? If you are, you may as well leave now. I won’t give it a go, and the mistress won’t take you on even if I swore on the Church’s shining golden circle that you were the best I’d ever had. You got to get that sorted, first, girl, if you’re sick.”
“I’m not diseased.”
“Quarter turn then,” said the barman, nodding confidently.
“She’s going to cut off your twig and berries and feed them to you, Rance,” claimed a honeyed voice.
“What?” barked the man, his eyes darting between a newcomer and Sam.
“The last person who tried to get her to lay on her back never spoke again,” claimed the woman, leaning beside Sam on the bar. “You ever wonder why Lagarde couldn’t talk? It’s cause of this girl.”
“Lagarde was a woman,” growled the barman.
“Aye,” agreed the newcomer, “and if Sam would do that to a woman, I’d hate to think of what she’ll do to you.”
The barman snarled, bowing up like a sail filled with a fresh wind. His muscles stood out in sharp relief underneath smooth skin, and his hands flexed, ready to grab her throat, she supposed. Sam wondered how she’d so quickly gotten off on the wrong foot, though, it always seemed to happen that way in the Lusty Barnacle.
“Stab his ball with one of your daggers,” suggested the fallen woman who was leaning on the bar beside her. The woman offered a grin, showing a flashing golden tooth beside two missing ones.
“What?” exclaimed Sam and Rance at the same time.
“He’s got two of ‘em, and a man only needs one,” continued the woman. “Stab one of his balls, and Goldthwaite’ll be down here in a flash.”
“I’ll man the bar, Rance,” interjected a sultry voice.
The three of them turned to see a middle-aged woman clad in diaphanous silks, the silhouette of her voluptuous body clearly visible beneath the thin material. She walked behind the bar with the confidence and grace of a woman who knew what everyone around her was thinking, and she liked it.
“Rance, go up and attend to Earl Resault,” instructed the mistress. “I’m afraid Daphanae isn’t what the man is looking for this evening.”
“I, ah…”
“Rance,” breathed Mistress Goldthwaite. “There’s no need to try and look tough in front of our guest Samantha. She knows what goes on in this place and knows that everyone working under my roof has their price. Go attend to Earl Resault. I expect him to leave fully satisfied, Rance. Fully satisfied.”
The barman, and evidently sometimes rent boy, stomped angrily toward the back stairwell.
“Earl Resault will pound that attitude out of him,” promised Mistress Goldthwaite before turning to Sam. “I believe, girl, that I told you if I ever saw you again, I’d have you killed.”
“That was years ago,” replied Sam. “A lot has changed since then.”
“Has it?” wondered the mistress, tilting her head and studying Sam. “Lagarde was never the same, you know? She never worked upstairs after that and recently went back to Finavia to be with her family. She was the best I’d ever hired behind the bar and second only to me on the mattress. Losing her cost me customers, Samantha, high-paying peers and merchants.”
“No one lays on their back forever, Goldthwaite,” said Sam. “Sooner or later, she was going to leave, whether or not I punched her in the neck.”
“In her day, Lagarde could do things with her mouth that was the stuff of dreams, her clients would tell me,” replied Goldthwaite. “They and I both could live with her never speaking again, but after you struck her, her throat was so swollen she could barely swallow a spoonful of soup, much less a—”
“She should have known better,” snapped Sam, glaring at the mistress. “You knew better, once.”
“Time heals all wounds, I suppose,” replied Goldthwaite airily, only a slightly higher pitch in her voice showing she understood the implicit threat in Sam’s remark. “I find now I only somewhat want to see you bleed.”
“None of your toughs can handle me,” said Sam, holding Mistress Goldthwaite’s gaze. “If you send them at me, you’ll only get them killed. Then, you really will have something to regret.”
The mistress laughed, a light tinkling sound of mirth that seemed precariously out of place in the rough tavern. Sam had forgotten just how quickly the slippery woman could shift.
The mistress grinned at her. “I forgot how much I loved your spirits-blessed confidence, Samantha. What is it you want?”
“I want to see your daughter,” replied Sam.
Goldthwaite scowled at her.
“I didn’t know where to look for her, so I came here.”
“You broke her heart,” said the mistress. “I won’t let you—”
“There are easier ways to get laid,” interrupted Sam. “I’m not looking for that. I’m— I need to get a tattoo. A new one.”
“She doesn’t do those anymore,” declared Goldthwaite. “It’s too dangerous, for one, and two, I won’t allow it.”
“It’s important,” pleaded Sam. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
“She doesn’t do that work anymore,” stated the mistress again.
“She remembers how to, doesn’t she?” asked Sam. “It is her decision, Goldthwaite. Not yours, not mine. Tell me where she is and let her decide.”
“What in the frozen hell are you two talking about?” asked the prostitute, leaning against the bar, her eyes darting between the two women like she was watching a championship match on the racquet courts.
“Go find yourself a man,” instructed Goldthwaite, not bothering to look at the prostitute. When the woman opened her mouth to protest, the mistress shot her a hard glare, and the fallen woman scampered off without further comment. Turning back to Sam, Goldthwaite offered, “Want a real drink?”
“Wh
y not?” drawled Sam. “I’m not going anywhere until we talk.”
“I will not tell you where my daughter is,” advised Goldthwaite. “You want a real drink and a talk, we can have it. We’ll remember the better times, and if we can’t think of any, we won’t speak at all. Then, when you’ve finished your drink, you’ll leave.”
“No, I won’t,” insisted Sam.
The mistress stared at her, her jaw bunched, her eyes hard with determination.
“You’re worried the Church will find her,” said Sam. “What if someone else did, someone worse?”
“Worse?” questioned Goldthwaite. “Who is worse than that murdering mentor of yours?”
“He’s dead,” said Sam. “Killed in battle with a pair of sorcerers.”
“There’s no proper sorcery in Enhover anymore. Everyone knows that,” snapped Goldthwaite. “You Church folk know it, too, but still you track down innocent men and women. Haul ‘em off or kill ‘em right there. How many guiltless lives has your Church ruined because you’ve been trained to do a task the world no longer needs?”
Sam held the older woman’s gaze. “Thotham is dead. I was there, Goldthwaite. Sorcery, true sorcery, is not gone from Enhover. I don’t care what Bishop Yates and his new Church say.”
“And what’s that got to do with my daughter?” snapped Goldthwaite. “They — you — will hunt her like a rabid dog.”
“If someone could kill Thotham, what do you think they would do to Kalbeth? She’s a target, Goldthwaite, for the Church and for anyone on the dark path. You know that is true.”
“You and that old man have brought nothing but trouble for us,” complained the mistress.
“He brought you her,” said Sam, gripping the edge of the bartop.
“Whatever you think is happening, Samantha, it has nothing to do with us,” stated the mistress. “I want nothing to do with you or anything you’re involved in.”
“Kalbeth wouldn’t agree,” stated Sam. She leaned forward. “Goldthwaite, I witnessed my mentor killed in a battle with horrors that not even he had ever imagined. I’ve seen the mutilated bodies of dozens who were sacrificed to the dark powers. Surely, you’ve read the papers. You know enough to understand what you’re seeing. The murders up in Harwick, the attack on Duke Wellesley in Swinpool, last night when Marquess Colston’s mansion was burned to the ground with a few dozen peers inside… Goldthwaite, I tell you this truly, it is all connected. You want to know what happened last night? Someone is cleaning house, killing anyone who could be a threat. Kalbeth does not walk the dark path. I know that and you know that, but do you think someone who is willing to burn down the mansion of a peer would care? Do you think they’ll take time to talk to the girl and understand her motivations are pure, as Thotham and I did?”
Goldthwaite snorted. “Took time to understand her motivations? The both of you used her, he for what she was capable of, and I seem to recall all you were interested in was getting between her legs. I never worried about her safety until you came back into her life.”
Sam smirked. “Getting between her legs. Aye, there’s some truth to that. You of all people understand.”
The mistress yanked a clear glass bottle of amber liquid off her shelf and produced two battered tin cups from beneath the bar. She filled the two cups to the rim and claimed, “Best pour I keep in the house.”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” assured Sam. “Others do.”
Not speaking, Goldthwaite snatched her drink and downed it in three gulps. Sam sipped at hers, waiting.
Finally, the mistress shook her head angrily. She snapped, “Four Sheets Inn. Up in the scrivener’s district. ‘Bout as far from here as I could bring myself to put her. Finish your drink, girl, and if I see you again, I may not be inclined to be so polite.”
Sam drank slowly, watching the mistress as she moved about the bar, refilling customers and sorting out the dirty cups and misplaced bottles the barman Rance had left behind. Sam took her time because Goldthwaite had spoken the truth. The liquor slid down her throat and warmed her gullet. It surely was the finest whiskey a place like this could get its hands on, but also, Sam waited to ensure the mistress wouldn’t rush out and put a price on her head. It had happened once before, and Goldthwaite needed a few moments to consider what she was going to do when Sam stepped out of the door.
Eventually, it seemed, she decided. Goldthwaite leaned close to Sam and said, “Go on, then. Tell her I said hullo.”
Nodding, Sam tossed back the rest of her drink and made her way through the crowd of fallen women and drunks.
Outside, mist lay over Westundon like a thick blanket. She was startled to feel damp flakes of snow falling against her skin. The city wasn’t used to snow. Westundon didn’t deal with it well. It’d be hell to get out of Enhover if the harbor showed any signs of freezing. A freeze would make the long journey to Ivalla that much longer.
Sighing, she started off toward the scrivener’s district. One thing at a time.
The Cartographer IV
“Alexander,” Oliver declared, “my twenty-percent share was based on the Company providing all of the transportation and manpower for the expedition. Now that my own assets are involved, I expect a larger percentage of the reward. You cannot ask for my resources without adequate compensation.”
Finance Director Alexander Pettigrew frowned, his fingers drumming restlessly on the finely carved desk. It was Director Randolph Raffles’ desk and had been a gift from the Company when he’d been named a director. The map carved into the surface was hopelessly inaccurate, Oliver knew, but no one had asked his opinion when it had been commissioned. Evidently, the price of that commission was sufficient that not even Raffles himself was interested in a recreation with a realistic depiction of the Company’s territory.
A curious relic and rarely seen since Raffles preferred to conduct his business at his club, but Director Pettigrew was a notorious teetotaler, and there was no sense dragging the man from Company House to the Oak & Ivy for a cup of tea.
“Oliver,” replied the Company’s finance director, “twenty percent is the richest share we’ve ever awarded an individual involved in any expedition. Surely, you don’t mean to—”
“The richest share, as it should be, no?” interrupted Oliver. “I paid my freight. I am the one who secured an escort from the royal marines. I am the one who convinced my father to extend our exclusive trading charter to the west. I am the one who will be leading this mission, and now, I’m the one who will be providing the assets and manpower. Why, tell the spirits, do you believe I should not be entitled to a larger share of this expedition? Would you rather continue without my involvement, without the royal marines and exclusive rights for the next fourteen years? You know as well as I that there are cabals merchants in Southundon prepared to officially organize and petition the Crown for a charter.”
“The prime minister has already granted our exclusive petition,” mumbled Pettigrew, his fingers tracing the rough outline of the Westlands carved into the surface of Raffles’ table.
The finance director found a small knob meant to represent the Company’s one colony on the far continent. Oliver watched the man’s finger trace the location. He didn’t bother to tell the finance director that in reality, the location of the compound was over one hundred leagues north of where the woodworker had fancifully placed it.
“William has granted the petition,” agreed Oliver, “but Baron Josiah Child is one of my father’s oldest friends. He’s been angling to expand his New Enhover Company’s trading footprint for years now. With a sad story about his missing brother and the Crown’s inability to solve the crime, how do you think the man’s chances fair at getting our charter revised to a joint expedition instead of exclusive rights?”
Director Pettigrew snorted. “I’m well aware of the Child family’s attempts to influence your own. Josiah, his brother if he ever resurfaces, and of course the twins. It’s common knowledge, Oliver, that it is not just King Edward who,
shall we say, is well acquainted with the Childs.”
Oliver grinned at the older man.
“Please explain,” continued Pettigrew, his voice rising in timbre and a finger raising to point skyward, “why would granting you a larger share of the expedition help with this influence problem?”
“Aria and Isabella Child both have a one percent share of the Company’s expedition to the Westlands,” explained Oliver. “If the charter remains exclusive, it is worth far more to them than if it is termed a joint expedition, even if their father is the one heading the competition. If the charter is opened to the New Enhover Company, it will be open to anyone, after all. There are dozens of other interested parties who’d leap at the chance to sponsor travel to the Westlands. With small effort, I believe I can convince Josiah to stay out of the Westlands trade and allow his daughters to collect income with no risk to the family holdings. It’s simple business. Why take the risk and step between the Company and the Crown if the Childs already stand to profit? When Josiah understands the girl’s shares are contingent on my continued approval, I believe he’ll withdraw his own petition quickly.”
Frowning, Director Pettigrew questioned, “You mean to bribe the Childs with Company shares? The board of directors will never allow Josiah Child a voting interest.”
“The shares have already been allocated,” remarked Oliver. “Both girls have subsidiary rights to my own shares. Five percent each. They stand to benefit financially, but I retain the voting block. Their stake will increase when mine does. The paperwork is filed at Company House in Southundon, Pettigrew. As my fortunes improve, so will theirs. The value of the charter staying exclusive will be apparent.”
Oliver held the finance director’s gaze, refusing to back down from his demand for additional compensation, hoping his eyes didn’t betray a flutter of uncertainty. It seemed everyone knew of Oliver’s tryst with the twins, and while the Child family collecting additional Company shares would bring a smile to the baron’s face, it was possible the man might decide an even larger allocation was in the offing if he could foist one of the twins on Oliver in a permanent match.
