by A. C. Cobble
“Pettigrew,” snapped Oliver, setting the paper back down on the desk, forcing his hands back so he didn’t crumple it.
Raffles’ eyebrows rose. “You think the finance director intentionally did not forward the information to you, m’lord?”
“What other explanation makes sense?”
Raffles nodded slowly, a finger tapping on his chin. “Yes, yes, that does make sense. The man was distraught about the recent confrontation. He lost a great deal of prestige having to grovel and ask for more shares on your behalf. Could this be his revenge?”
Oliver stabbed a finger onto the paper. “Let’s find out. Come with me, Director. We’re going to Southundon.”
“What?”
“I was just at the Cloud Serpent,” continued Oliver. “Captain Ainsley has it provisioned for a voyage to the Westlands. It will get us to the capital easy enough. If we leave now, we should be there by sunset. I mean to settle this with Pettigrew tonight.”
Swallowing, Director Raffles said, “I, ah…”
“You’re coming with me, Raffles,” instructed Oliver. “Send a man for whatever kit you need to spend a few days on the road. Meet me at the airship bridge in one turn of the clock.”
The Priestess V
Her boots hit the stone quay. She inhaled deeply, drawing in the salty aroma of the harbor, recently caught fish, and the comfortable scent of milled oak. Barrels were stacked row after row beside warehouses, filled to the brim with dark red wine, waiting to be loaded onto shipping vessels. Ivalla’s largest export, she’d been told, and certainly its most popular product back in Enhover.
“Out of the way!” cried a man laden with a flimsy wheelbarrow and a heavy stack of the iron-bound barrels.
She moved aside and watched as he trundled by her, leaning precariously to the side as he tried to peer around his barrels at what was ahead of him. Watching for the heavy carts, she made her way from the quay into the warren of stacked wine barrels, smaller casks of pressed olive oils, pallets piled with wheels of cheese, and racks hung with tubes of salted and cured meats.
Her stomach rumbled. She’d been told Ivalla offered more palatable fare than Enhover’s gravy-filled pies and mashed potatoes, and she was pleased to see it was true. At the least, it smelled a great deal more enticing than the bean stews they’d served every day on the voyage over.
On her back she wore a light rucksack filled with several days of clothing and with room for a few days of food. In her hands, she held the rune-carved spear that had once been her mentor’s, and on her hips hung her two kris daggers. Half a dozen more knives were secreted about her body. Down the front of her shirt, hanging in a pouch on a slender metal chain, was the bulk of the sterling she’d taken from Duke.
Borrowed, she’d claimed, but she had no intention of repaying the man. She be surprised if he noticed she didn’t return the coins, and if he did, she couldn’t imagine he’d ask for them back. It took a bit of the fun out of it, she thought. She’d have to get even more of the coins from him next time, see if that piqued his interest.
Hiding away the majority of her funds had been wise. Attempting to walk into a foreign nation so heavily armed was not as wise. A bored-looking guard stepped in front of her as she made her way up the wide boulevard that led from the harbor district into the city proper.
“Name and business?” he drawled. His voice was slick with the accent of Ivalla, but he spoke in the king’s tongue of Enhover. It had been impressed on his people twenty years prior when they’d become tributes of the island nation, and at least in the harbor thick with Enhoverian merchants, the Ivallans spoke it fluently.
“My name is Sam, and my business is my own,” she said.
The guard frowned at her.
“What?”
“Most people armed as heavily as you claim they’re investigating commercial opportunities or just stepping into the city to find lower prices than the harbor rates,” explained the guard. “Why aren’t you giving an easy excuse, girl?”
She blinked at him.
“First time here?” he questioned.
“It is,” she admitted.
“Well,” he said, tucking his thumbs behind his belt, “I recommend you try to appear a bit less suspicious. A pretty thing like you, traveling alone, heavily armed, it don’t look right. If the guards like me don’t harass you, the thieves and rogues will. Valerno is a safe town, but… Just try to be a bit more inconspicuous, will you? Maybe find some traveling companions or carry your arms less openly?”
“Traveling alone, I might need the weapons,” she said.
The guard rolled his eyes and waved her on, muttering something under his breath about those who won’t help themselves.
She continued into the town. The streets were cobblestone, worn nearly smooth by long years of foot and wagon traffic. The buildings were made from thick, wooden beams interspaced with painted stucco walls. Charming, she thought, compared to Enhover’s dreary stone facades. The people were dressed simply but clean, showing a comfortable lifestyle that wasn’t as fashionable as those who strolled Westundon’s broad avenues. King Edward collected his tribute, but he was savvy enough not to bleed the populace dry, she guessed. That’s the way Duke would do it, and he’d learned it from somewhere.
As she climbed the shallow incline that led from the harbor through the city, she saw there were none of the block-long mansions of the merchant princes like she would see in Westundon, and as she passed the seat of the local government, she thought it could fit quite easily into any one of Prince Philip’s multiple carriage courts.
All in all, it was a pleasant place.
She found a square lined with vendors’ booths and spent half an hour browsing the goods, picking up food and a few other items she thought might be useful on her journey. She purchased a scarf which she draped over her head and a pair of locally made gloves as well, hoping the items would help her blend in. The guard had meant his advice to be friendly, and she thought it best she heed it.
It was one hundred and fifty leagues from Valerno to Romalla, the capital city of Ivalla and home of the Church, and Ivalla had none of the railways that she’d grown used to in Enhover. In Ivalla, it would all be on foot, unless she could catch a ride on a wagon.
And that was exactly what she’d been advised to do. Once Goldthwaite had learned Sam was departing Enhover, she’d grown rather friendly and had insisted on Sam meeting some of her girls who were from Ivalla. Much of their experience was far different from what Sam hoped to find, but they did offer one valuable piece of advice. For a woman alone on the road, it was far safer to attach oneself to a merchant convoy. It should be easy enough, they crawled like caterpillars in spring along the highways. The way Goldthwaite’s girls had suggested gaining passage was not something Sam was interested in doing, but she hoped with a small demonstration of her skill, she’d be taken on as a guard.
With supplies in her pack, she made her way to the edge of town near the broad river that flowed out from the center of the continent. Past the outskirts of the city, traffic from the main road, the river, and the sea all collected. Traders negotiated and passed goods on to the next legs of the journey. She’d been told it was a bit like the trading floors in Westundon, except in Ivalla, it was all open air, and there were no cohorts making markets and managing the activity.
Instead, she found a huge, open field dotted with foldable tables, small booths, and merchants scrambling between them. The noise and frenzy of the place was overwhelming. She didn’t hear the man shouting at her until he roughly grabbed her arm.
With the hand that gripped her spear, she twisted and smacked the man’s arm away. Her other hand whipped across her hip and rose with one of her sinuous kris daggers in her grip. She placed the point under the man’s throat and growled, “Don’t touch me.”
“Then don’t enter the market armed like that,” snapped the man, his eyes angry, his nerves only betrayed when he swallowed uncomfortably.
She reali
zed the man was not an attacker, but a guard, stationed outside of the field to keep order. Half a dozen of his fellows were edging closer, clearly not happy about one of their brethren with a dagger against his neck, but level-headed enough to know that in such circumstances, rapid action was not always the best course.
In a flash, she sheathed her dagger and stepped back. “I apologize. It’s my first time here at the market. I wasn’t aware I couldn’t enter armed, and I did not see you were an official. Can you tell me where I can find a position as a guard on the merchant convoys?”
The man blinked at her. “A guard?”
She nodded.
“A woman guard?”
She frowned. “The merchants won’t hire a woman as a guard?”
“Well, no…” mumbled the soldier.
“I’ll hire you,” offered a high-pitched voice.
She turned and saw a portly man with silver-gray hair swept straight back. He was covered in a dizzying array of bright silks and had a wide mustache, curled and oiled so that the twisting tips reached past his ears. A jeweled stud was pierced through one nostril and his fingers were bedecked with sparkling gold and silver rings, most of them fixed with even bigger, brighter jewels.
“I’m carting perfumes to Romalla,” declared the man. “I can always use a talented armsman to keep me entertained and safe.”
“She’s a woman,” mentioned the soldier Sam had nearly stabbed.
“Yes, I can see that,” purred the merchant, winking at Sam. “I misspoke. An armswoman who looks as though she can handle herself.”
“Pay?” asked Sam.
“Six silver continentals and food and shelter while we travel.”
Sam glanced at the guard to see if the man showed any reaction to the merchant’s offer. She had no idea what a fair rate for guard duty was, and it seemed the soldier had no care.
“It’s a competitive salary,” assured the merchant. “Besides, the man was right. Most merchants will not hire a woman. At least, not to be a guard.”
“A guard and that is all,” stated Sam.
“A deal then?” asked the man, nodding acknowledgement, proffering one of his bejeweled hands to shake.
Sam took it.
“Come along then. We have much to do.”
“Ivar val Drongko,” the merchant declared when they’d made it to his tent. “I deal in perfumes for discerning men and women. I collect the finest scents from every corner of the United Territories, and then in Romalla, I sell my wares.”
Half a league north of the market, the merchant’s campsite was set beside the road under the broad branches of a grove of olive trees. Outside of the tent, a boy of twelve winters sat on the grass. Ivar flipped him several copper coins, and the boy scampered off without word.
“Hopefully, he did not steal too much,” muttered the merchant.
She saw the man had a donkey tied behind his tent, a simple cart, and no other guards. Raising an eyebrow at the colorfully attired man, she mentioned, “I was told the roads were safest in large companies, groups great enough to scare away the bandits.”
“Indeed,” said Ivar, not turning to look at her as he rooted through the boxes stacked beside his tent.
She frowned at his back. “Your name, val Drongko, is that Ivallan?”
“Northwestern Rhensar,” the man claimed.
She watched as he mumbled to himself and checked his goods, presumably making sure the boy who’d been watching the tent truly had only stolen a few small items.
“My name is Sam,” she offered.
Ivar turned to blink at her. “Is that— Is that a woman’s name in Enhover?”
“Not typically, no,” she admitted. “How did you know I was from Enhover?”
“Where else would you be from?” he replied. “You stand out like a lion at the spring festival.”
“A lion?”
“A big, dangerous cat,” explained the merchant, finally assuring himself not too much was missing and standing to face her. “That’s what you remind me of.”
“Like a grimalkin?” she asked.
“Like a grimalkin,” confirmed Ivar, “though those are native to the Darklands. Lions roam in what you’d call the Southlands. A lion, that’s what I saw when you assaulted that hapless soldier. Just the woman, or man had you been one, that I need to escort me to Romalla.”
“You believe it will be dangerous?” she wondered.
“Not if you keep me safe,” he declared jovially. He waved his hands to encompass his campsite. “We’ll spend the night here. Then, on the morrow, we start north.”
“I’ll be ready,” she said.
Ivar tossed her a small glass bottle. Surprised, she snatched it out of the air.
“Good reflexes,” he complimented. “Now, dab a bit of that on your neck. I can guess you disembarked from a ship just this morning, because you smell like the backside of my donkey.”
The Cartographer VII
“I’ve been concerned about the Company,” remarked King Edward Wellesley.
Oliver frowned at his father. “That’s not what I meant.”
Settling his fists on his hips, the king asked his son, “What is it you meant? Keeping you in the dark, not sharing information, those are the first steps toward sedition.”
“The Company is not trying to overthrow the Crown,” protested Oliver.
“What are they trying to do, then?” wondered the king.
For a moment, Oliver was silent, watching his father pace back and forth across the small dining room. The king moved in a graceful, predatory manner. Confident and quick, he hadn’t lost a step in his later years. In fact, the man looked as lean and healthy as he had twenty years ago. Oliver wasn’t sure what his father did to get his exercise, but there was no question it was keeping the man in shape. Briefly, the son wondered whether the father was seeing a mistress or two, but such a thing would have been nearly impossible to hide, and Oliver hadn’t heard a rumor. He’d have to ask his brother John about it. John knew their father better than anyone, and if some woman was sneaking in and out of the old man’s chambers, John would be aware of it.
“Well?” asked the king, stopping and staring at his youngest son.
“I don’t know,” admitted Oliver. “It’s difficult to believe they did not send me information on the find accidentally. I’m the largest shareholder in Imbon, after the Company’s own stake, and of course I’m the one who actually discovered the site.”
“Star-iron, was it?”
Oliver shook his head. “Star-iron was what I thought it was. It turns out it is a trove of cultural artifacts. Evidently, no one’s been able to decipher them yet, but it appears to be ancient writings from the natives. Their history and mythology.”
“Histories and mythology, eh?” questioned his father. “Imbon was an undeveloped island nation when you first saw it. What history did they have before we colonized them?”
“There were people there before us,” reminded Oliver. “These tablets are apparently covered with symbols and odd script. What else would it be?”
“Strange to make such an effort to hide them, then,” remarked the king. He tugged at his salt-and-pepper goatee before instructing, “Bring these artifacts to me. Perhaps I can determine the nature of them.”
“Bring them to you?” questioned Oliver. His father merely stood and held his gaze. Sighing, and not wanting to enter into a battle of wills with the old man, Oliver conceded, “When I get my hands on them, I’ll ensure you get the first look, though I don’t see why we wouldn’t go straight to the royal museum with it.”
“Those old scholars are drier than the bones they study,” snorted the king. “After the items are recovered, what do you intend to do about the Company?”
“What do you intend?” countered Oliver.
“It depends on what my youngest son is able to achieve,” said King Edward. “If it was solely up to me, I’d act aggressively, either through increasing taxes on Company imports or on the
ir member’s assets. If that did not suffice, I would move directly against the most prominent individuals on the Company’s board to send a message. There are many options when one controls the ministry and the rolls of the peerage. The Congress of Lords of course would be overjoyed to slap down any merchants who have risen above their station. The trick is only targeting those who are not already peers with a seat in the congress.” Tilting his head and studying his son, the king remarked, “It begs the question, do you want it to be solely my discretion? You’re my son and a member of the Company. You may have your own agenda with the directors, and I don’t want to interfere with your business, son, just theirs and just enough to ensure they learn the lesson.”
“You will leave me freedom to act and you will not intervene in the Company’s existing charters?” questioned Oliver. “You will disregard this situation with Imbon and the demands that arrived from Cardinal Langdon?”
“I care as much about the cardinal’s opinion as I do the woman’s who fetches me tea each morning,” responded his father. “The cardinal is merely a convenient excuse to send a message, but there is a kernel of truth in what he claimed. Earl Sebastian Dalyrimple and his wife were engaged in sorcery. Their daughter and Marquess Colston were the first known practitioners of the dark art in Enhover since we pushed the Coldlands raiders back into their frozen forest. You know as well as I do, Oliver, that we must not allow sorcery a foothold on our shores. What happened before is too terrible to repeat. From where I stand, it appears a Company governor was practicing the dark art in a Company colony, and then his wife brought the terrible business back to us. If you and the Company’s board of directors cannot address this matter, then I won’t be in position to ignore the latest rumblings. I will not stand for sorcery in Enhover, Oliver. I will not.”
Oliver nodded. “I understand. Let me deal with the situation, Father. I’m the one who dealt with the threat in Derbycross, and I will deal with anything else.”
