by A. C. Cobble
“Yes, you did deal with it before,” admitted the king. “You killed the sorcerers that you knew of, but are you confident you got them all? The Dalyrimples may have passed their knowledge though the generations, but Marquess Colston learned it somewhere. Who did he learn from? Is anyone else at the Company involved?”
“Do you have anything to drink?” muttered Oliver.
“The cupboard over there,” said the king.
Oliver felt his father’s eyes on him as he poured them both a stiff drink. When he turned and handed a crystal glass to his father, the old man held his gaze.
“Philip asked me to drop all inquiry into sorcery,” said Oliver. “He thinks it’s best left to the inspectors and the Church.”
“Ah, of course. I forgot that you always do as your older brother asks,” chided his father.
Oliver fidgeted.
“You don’t follow orders well, son,” added the king.
Shrugging, uncomfortable in front of his king and father, Oliver had no reply.
A moment passed, and the king smiled. “You haven’t let it drop, have you?”
“Why do you say that?” asked Oliver, sipping the gin in his glass, tasting the subtle hint of juniper and blackberry beneath the burn of the alcohol.
“You rarely do as we expect you to,” remarked the older man, “but you’ve never been one to lie. Despite what Philip has requested, you are pursuing new leads, aren’t you?”
“There isn’t much left to pursue,” admitted Oliver.
“You have a plan, though?”
Oliver found himself pacing, mimicking his father’s motion earlier, and forced himself to still.
“You’re keeping it secret. That is good,” said the king. “It is a dangerous game you play, son. Sorcerers operate from within the shadows. They have powers I don’t think you can yet imagine. They’ll kill you if they feel you’re on their scent. Son of the king is no protection against men and women like that. They have no allegiance to the Crown, no loyalty to the Company or the Church. They seek only power at the expense of anyone who stands in the way of their dark path.”
“You think I should stop and let the inspectors and the Church handle it?”
“No,” replied the king, shaking his head. “If you think there are leads worth pursuing, then you should do so, but I advise you to be careful. I cannot protect you from sorcery, my boy.”
“But Philip will—”
“You are not Philip, a fact which I think everyone is grateful for, including him,” interjected King Edward. “If there are any more sorcerers operating in Enhover, I believe Philip really would think it is the Church’s duty to deal with them. He’d step aside, letting those feckless incompetents flail around the problem, as if they do anything other than declaim from the pulpit and fritter away the Crown’s sterling. The Church did not throw the Coldlands’ sorcerers back. We did, the Wellesleys! If the dark art is being practiced in Enhover again, then we cannot wait for the Church to deal with it.”
“Can you… help?” asked Oliver.
The king shook his head slowly. “Everything I do is observed carefully. Everything I say is noted by spies both foreign and domestic. I have resources, but if I apply them, then your opponents will know. They know us, but we do not know them. That’s a dangerous position to be in. When the time is right, perhaps I can assist openly, but do you feel you’re ready to move? Surely we would not be having this discussion if you already know your target?”
“No,” admitted Oliver. “I don’t know who the enemy is, but I know they’re out there.”
His father sipped his drink, thinking. “What is it you do, then?”
“There is a woman, a priestess. She assisted me against the Dalyrimples,” said Oliver. “She has been specially trained by the Church, but her mentor was killed in Derbycross, so she is the only one of her kind left in Enhover. She’s left for Ivalla to meet the Church’s Council of Seven. We believe she’ll find people experienced at this sort of thing. The Knives of the Council, they are called.”
“I know about the Council of Seven,” said the king. “The Knives of the Council have been largely absent in Enhover, but perhaps it is time for them to return. Unfortunately, I’m afraid your priestess may find the Council is greatly diminished in recent years.”
“Diminished?”
The king shrugged. “Let her see what she sees, find what assistance she can. What do you mean to do while she is away?”
“I mean to live life as I normally would and not raise suspicion,” answered Oliver. “I will observe, look for clues, but we agreed I was too visible. As you said, the actions of our family are closely observed. It would be too obvious if I was publicly making an inquiry.”
“A wise course,” confirmed the king. “You should be circumspect in your investigation, but you should not stop it. While the priestess is gone, I suggest you consider why there are few Knives left in Enhover. Sorcery is alleged to be impossible here, but you’ve seen the lie in that myth. Who spread the lie? Who stands to gain by focusing the Knives’ attention elsewhere? Who in Enhover has the power to manipulate Church policy?”
“Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that it would behoove you to understand who benefits from the type of conspiracy you are investigating,” advised the king. “Who has the motive and ability to pull it off, and what would they gain? Evidence and proof are the fodder of our court system. Motivation and capability are what the Crown must consider in statecraft. Find out who, Oliver, has the motivation and capability to undermine our empire. That is the person you must investigate.”
Frowning, Oliver’s mind swirled. Was his father implying the Church was involved in sorcery? Thotham and Sam certainly had made steps on the dark path, but they’d been dedicated to eliminating the dark art. If they had the knowledge, then perhaps someone else did as well?
“What else can you tell me, Father?”
“I cannot tell you anything, I can only offer questions,” replied the king, “questions I would be asking if I’d set about your task.”
“I’ve much to think about, then.”
“Agreed, but as a sorcerer operates in the shadow, so should you. Your plan of continuing to live normally is a good one, and you came to Southundon for a reason, yes?”
“To sort out the Company’s board and figure what is happening in Imbon.”
“Then you should do it,” stated the king. “Confront the Company’s board of directors, get what is your due from them, and always suspect that those in power are playing a deeper game than you can see. We Wellesleys are overconfident, sometimes, because we are born on the throne. But because we are born with it does not mean we will die with it. There are those in this empire who seek to unseat us, and our role is to always be a step ahead of them. Always be aware, son, of who is conspiring against you. All empires fall, Oliver, they crumble from within. The scholars wonder when, we must wonder who.”
Oliver nodded.
“Go kick the hornet’s nest,” instructed King Edward. “Those overly pompous merchants deserve a stern reminder of who wears the crown, and don’t forget to send me whatever artifacts you recover from Imbon. I’m curious what the island people have to hide.”
The men sat around the eerily quiet room like gargoyles perched atop a cemetery wall. Their chairs rose in tiers that bracketed opposite sides of the room. The famed director’s table was placed at the head of the space, the two massive double doors that allowed entry at the foot. Every man in the room was a director, and they all wielded the power that came with the title, but it was the five men at the head table who ruled the Company, the most successful commercial enterprise in the history of the world. All five of their sour faces looked like they’d just bitten into a lime.
There were no windows, which apparently had been a decision meant protect the privacy of the Company’s dealings, but to Oliver, it felt foolish. Couldn’t they put a bank of windows high up? No one would be able to see in, but it
would allow a little sun to shine on the Company’s proceedings.
A man at the center of the table cleared his throat, and Oliver decided it was time to begin.
“President Goldwater,” boomed Oliver, putting more air into his words than was necessary in the quiet room. “Thank you for assembling the directors on such short notice. Earlier, while waiting for a quorum to arrive, I stopped by the clerks’ offices and reviewed the paperwork there. The dispatch from Imbon had specific instructions about which Company officers should receive an update, and my name was not included.”
“Yes,” murmured the Company’s president. His voice was velvet soft, like the inside of his mouth had been coated with the same powder he’d applied to his stark white wig. “The supervisor informed me. He was quite upset at the interruption, you know. His office has a strict procedure for conducting business and they appreciate requests in writing, I’m told.”
“I don’t much care what the man appreciates,” remarked Oliver coldly. He was standing in the center of the room, the five senior directors seated at the table facing him, two dozen others on the thickly padded benches that rose on either side of him. Nearly thirty men in total, almost all of the active Company directors and a few inactive ones that Oliver suspected had only come to witness the show.
“We rely on our clerks, Oliver,” chided President Alvin Goldwater. “Without them—”
“I’m properly addressed as Duke Wellesley, Alvin,” snapped Oliver, interrupting the older man. “If you intend to sit there and lecture me about proper procedure when speaking to a clerk, then I expect you to do it with full respect for Crown authority, something that seems to be lacking around here recently.”
Goldwater shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not what—”
“Clarify, then. Are you concerned with propriety, or are you not?” cried Oliver, interrupting the man again.
“Of course I am, ah, Duke Wellesley. It was merely a slip of the tongue.”
“A similar slip to the one where I was not informed of the details of the find in Imbon?” demanded Oliver.
“M’lord,” protested Goldwater. “A simple clerical error.”
“Was it?” questioned Oliver. “Which clerk, Alvin, made the error? I’d be pleased to know what the punishment is for such a mistake.”
“Well, I don’t think this is at all necessary,” complained Goldwater. “We are all human, Oliver, and we all make mistakes. If we do not allow some leeway, we’ll frighten the rank and file members into inaction. Surely you understand that?”
“Did you mean to say ‘Duke Wellesley’, Alvin?”
Director Goldwater winced.
“By the Company’s bylaws,” said Oliver, glad Raffles had taken time to show him those bylaws on the flight down, “all shareholders in an expedition are required to be updated about material changes to the value of their investment. I was not informed, which is a violation of our longest-held policies. As the man who discovered the site, I’m entitled to additional shares of the specific find, which have not been offered since I was not even aware until yesterday. That is two direct violations of the Company’s bylaws, and if I’m not mistaken, it constitutes a serious breach of our operating practices. I’m fully entitled to an independent investigation of these violations.”
“I, ah…”
“Director Pettigrew,” said Oliver, turning to the finance director who was seated left of President Goldwater. “You are most familiar with Company policy. Who would conduct such an investigation into impropriety by Company officers?”
Pettigrew sat, pale, sweating, and silent.
Goldwater turned to his finance director. “I won’t pretend I know every word of what’s in that musty old document, but you do, Pettigrew. Tell us, who conducts an investigation?”
“The investigators would be assigned by the Crown, I believe,” murmured Pettigrew, his eyes fixed on his hands clutched on the table in front of him.
“The Crown.” Sighing, Goldwater looked back to Oliver. “What is it you want?”
“One,” answered Oliver, ticking off items on his fingers, “I want our agents to follow procedure. They should have informed me, and I expect that they will in the future so we do not need to revisit this matter. Two, I want whoever was responsible for this list of names to account for why I was not included. I will be honest, Alvin. It strikes me that it had to be intentional. And third, I want details of what was found and I want to be given an opportunity to stake my claim.”
“You, ah… D-Did you not inform Governor Towerson you were content with your standard share as an Imbon stakeholder?” stammered Director Pettigrew.
“Our bylaws require these decisions to be written and signed, and that discussion was informal,” challenged Oliver. “Not to mention, it was based on a stockpile of star-iron, and at least so far, I’m not even sure what it is we’ve found. There’s no way I can comment on what allocation I believe is fair until I know what prize we’re splitting.”
Pettigrew’s pale face grew red.
“Perhaps our director of finance can comment on how the information was spread about this find?” questioned Goldwater, eyeing Pettigrew.
“What? I… no, ah…”
The man’s babbling started a murmur of surprise amongst the watching ranks in the risers. Every man in the room was a battle-tested merchant, trained and experienced at reading an adversary. These men were sharks, and as one, they smelled blood in the water. Oliver glared at the finance director as Pettigrew fumbled for an explanation.
“I wasn’t sure,” said Goldwater, glancing back at Oliver, “but the correspondence clerks do fall under the purview of our finance director. Duke Wellesley, this is a serious and unfortunate breach, but I believe it was conducted solely by one actor.”
Oliver crossed his arms over his chest.
Pettigrew groaned.
“I call for a motion to replace the finance director due to failure to follow Company bylaws,” shouted a voice from the side.
Oliver turned and saw Randolph Raffles there, nodding at him. Several voices seconded with their support.
“Motion to replace the finance director by voice vote?” said Goldwater, glancing to the senior directors at the table around him.
None raised an objection. Pettigrew wouldn’t even look up to meet his eyes.
“We’ll vote then,” announced Goldwater.
All of the present directors voted in favor and none in rejection.
“Please move from the director’s table,” Goldwater requested of Pettigrew.
Shame-faced, the man stood and shuffled past Oliver to the giant double doors at the opposite end of the hall.
“I will release the supervisor of the clerks from service as well,” remarked Goldwater. “As to the nature of the artifacts found, frankly, I do not know. I’ll send someone for a copy of Towerson’s report, but there was little detail. I think the governor had become quite excited about the prospect of star-iron. Old junk may have been the phrase he used. If you want these items, Duke Wellesley, I suspect no one will object.”
“When can the artifacts be brought to the capital?” questioned Oliver. “My father has a keen interest in them. Given the recent tension between the Company and Crown and given the lack of apparent commercial value, I advise we turn these objects over as soon as we can.”
Another of the men at the table, the director of shipping, cleared his throat. “With the troubles in Arctan Atoll, we have no airships scheduled to depart for Imbon. We could send a message on the sea, and I’m certain Towerson would quickly pack and ship the items, but…”
“But that could be two months,” observed Oliver. He frowned and then offered, “I will go retrieve the artifacts myself.”
Goldwater raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll take the Cloud Serpent,” said Oliver. “My crew is new and many of them are untested. A trip over familiar seas will give them a bit of seasoning before we embark to the Westlands, and while we are discussing that, Al
vin, I expect a thirty-percent share.”
“I know Pettigrew intended to raise this matter, but a stake that large in such a unique and sizable opportunity is rather unusual,” complained the director. “Now that he’s removed, I think some time to consider—”
“Every man in this room knew the topic would be up for discussion,” interjected Oliver. “Are you asking for time to assess the merits of my proposal or time to weasel out of providing fair consideration? Don’t forget, Alvin, without my direct involvement, the Company wouldn’t have an exclusive charter. We wouldn’t have an escort of the royal marines, and we wouldn’t even have an airship to make the journey. The truth of the matter is, without my involvement, there is no expedition to the Westlands, and I should warn you, the longer I’m asked to keep my airship in reserve, the larger the share I believe I’m entitled to.”
President Goldwater worked his jaw, at a loss for words.
“I call for a motion to grant the duke the requested thirty-percent share,” called Raffles from the gallery again.
Goldwater looked as if he meant to protest, but following a wave of seconds, he allowed the vote. Again, it was unanimous. Evidently, no one wanted to anger a son of the king after it was so recently shown the Company had been acting against its own bylaws and against the Crown’s interest.
When the vote was settled, Oliver suggested, “With such tumultuous times, I believe we should not go long without a finance director, Goldwater. I nominate Randolph Raffles to the position.”
“That’s not…” mumbled Goldwater. He trailed off, shaking his head. “Next meeting, the Company’s board will return to proper etiquette and procedure.”
“Fine by me,” assured Oliver. “A return to procedure at the next meeting.”
“Very well, then,” said President Goldwater. “We all know he’s been campaigning for it. Shall we vote on Randolph Raffles’ appointment to finance director?”
The Priestess VI
Ivar val Drongko was loquacious, flamboyant, funny, and he smelled delightful. He passed their days on the road regaling her with tales that she strongly suspected contained more fiction than fact, but they were entertaining. He’d started by spending the evenings imperiously directing her to care for his donkey, to unpack his tent, and to fix his supper. After the first few nights, they’d settled into a tentative truce, where Sam agreed to set up the tent if val Drongko dealt with the donkey and the food. Luckily, the man was fastidiously clean and washed thoroughly between the two activities.
