The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  “Hold on,” protested the man to the bishop’s right. “I’m not ready to declare this a true—”

  “It does not matter,” assured Constance, turning to the man and holding up a hand to stop him. “I was merely trying to make the point that if it was true, the threat is already over. True or untrue, it does not matter except for what we want to acknowledge in the record books. For our purposes, what we must decide on today, the course is already set because it does not matter. Maybe the prophecy was merely a vivid dream that Thotham had, or it was something more and has already transpired. In both cases, sorcery is dead again in Enhover. Samantha, by order of the Council, I ask that you remain here until the shadow passes from your soul. I can feel it upon you, some residual stench of the battle in Derbycross, I imagine. When it passes, you will be reassigned.”

  Sam shook her head, but she found herself speechless. The Council, the group she’d sought for guidance and assistance, was turning everything on its head. Not only were they not helping her, they were instructing her to… No. She would not do it. She would not let go of the trail she and Duke had found.

  “Do not argue, girl,” advised Constance.

  “I’m not a girl,” declared Sam.

  “Come with me, then, Knife of the Council.”

  The Cartographer IX

  Through the acrid haze of gunpowder, he saw splinters of bamboo and thatch flying as flashes of dark green skin crashed through the village below.

  “Fire again!” he called.

  “I’m trying, m’lord!” snapped a cannoneer.

  The man was working frantically with the team to reposition the cumbersome weapon, but down in the village, the giant lizards moved with strength, grace, and speed. Unlike their smaller brethren who spent much of the day lounging on sun-baked rocks and branches, the giant lizards crawled closer with lithe determination, snaking between structures or smashing through the wreckage.

  Down the wall, the blast of cannon erupted in violent staccato bursts. Evidently, the crews needed no instruction that they should turn the mouths of their giant brass firearms toward the approaching ship-sized lizards. Swarming at the base of the wall were hundreds of natives. Only a few were armed with modern weapons, but the rest would quickly overwhelm the defenders if they made it inside. With only moments until the lizards reached the walls, they wouldn’t have long to wait.

  On the scaffolding above the gate, royal marines were aiming down and firing furiously, each discharge of their blunderbusses scattering tiny shot amongst the attackers, but for every attacker who went down screaming in pain, two more emerged from the village to join the assault. Superior weapons against superior numbers. The royal marines had faced such circumstances before, and it was a core part of their training, but Oliver doubted they’d ever been coached to stand against a monstrous lizard that could swallow them whole.

  “We should retreat, m’lord,” suggested one of the cannon crew.

  Under his breath, Oliver hissed, “To where?”

  “What, m’lord?”

  “We hold position,” ordered Oliver loudly.

  Suddenly, from above them, a salvo erupted. The men on the wall raised a cheer. The Cloud Serpent had entered the fray.

  A full fusillade exploded from the starboard of the hanging airship, rocking it in place. A shrill voice screamed, and Oliver looked to see a woman dangling fifty yards above, being hauled up toward the deck of the airship. Captain Ainsley was still loading evacuees, but she was not one to turn from a fight. From above, he heard frantic commands as the arms master cajoled the shipboard cannoneers to reload faster and roll the weapons back out the portals for another volley.

  Turning to see what the airship had accomplished, Oliver saw one of the three giant lizards limping, a bloody trough burrowed in its hind leg where a cannon ball had grazed it. There was another gaping wound in its front shoulder that pumped buckets of bright red blood. The things could be injured, and it looked as if one of the three may fall from the fight. It was a start.

  “Center mass!” cried Oliver.

  The cannon crew cursed and complained, and Oliver admitted to himself it wasn’t as if they weren’t trying, but the Cloud Serpent had to take time to reload, and those cannon crews had the added difficulty that the airship would be moved from the force of the discharges. They couldn’t merely adjust their aim from the previous volley, they’d have to start all over again. The men on the walls in their stationary positions had to make each blast count.

  Then, a hand, browned from the tropical sun, slapped down on the wall in front of Oliver. Someone was climbing up the bamboo structure.

  “‘Ware the walls!” he shouted, drawing his broadsword and leaping forward to slash down and remove the offending fingers from the edge of the Company’s compound.

  He heard a startled, pained shout from the other side of the wall, and the hand disappeared, only a bloody smear showing it’d been there. A moment later, an angry face appeared, and Oliver shoved the tip of his steel broadsword between bright white teeth, following a pink tongue down the open throat. Crimson blood gurgled up around his blade, and the dead man fell silently away.

  Down the wall from him, Oliver heard the clamor of hand-to-hand combat and the discharge of small arms as the royal marines tried to maintain their hold on the walls. On the artillery platform, Oliver shouted for the cannoneers to continue firing while he protected their perch.

  “We have to retreat m’lord!” yelled one of the men.

  Snarling, Oliver lashed and jabbed with his broadsword, defending as half-a-dozen men clung to the sides of the wall, trying to scramble over. If they made it atop, Oliver knew he’d be quickly outnumbered and overwhelmed. And if the cannoneers stopped firing, they’d be just as quickly overrun by the menacing lizards.

  Taking another man in the eye, Oliver staggered back, catching his breath and glancing around wildly at their surroundings.

  A shadow fell across him, followed by a wash of heat, like he’d stepped into a steam bath. It felt comfortable, safe even, until he looked up and saw the giant, green-skinned lizard towering above, feet splayed with giant claws, a narrow tongue flicking out, tasting the air.

  Screaming in panic, the cannoneers fled, jumping off the back of the platform into the courtyard of the compound. The huge lizard reared above them, snapping its jaws at the Cloud Serpent, although it was still dozens of yards below the floating airship.

  Oliver scrambled to the cannon, snatching up the taper and wondering if the men had finished loading the shot. With no time to look, he set the sizzling stick against the wick and offered a hope to the spirits.

  The brass cannon thundered as powder exploded and a heavy iron ball was flung from the mouth. Acrid smoke billowed over Oliver, and the cannon crashed against its wooden frame.

  The giant lizard’s angry cry turned into one of shock and pain. Oliver gaped in surprise as he saw blood pour from a grisly hole torn in the creature’s stomach. The cannon had been loaded, and the lizard was so close that even he couldn’t miss. The lizard started to topple forward, right onto cannon platform.

  “Frozen hell,” he muttered.

  The Priestess VIII

  “Raymond au Clair,” murmured the jauntily dressed man.

  He had one leg draped over the arm of the stuffed chair he lounged in. In his hands, he toyed with a gleaming dirk. His vest was fine purple velvet adorned with golden buttons. A tightly woven, snow-white linen shirt was underneath it, and his trousers were snug, more like leggings. They did little to hide his well-formed calf as he aimlessly kicked his leg. Instead of boots, he wore slippers. The man made no move to rise after introducing himself, and he offered a rakish smile as she looked at him.

  “Bridget Cancio,” remarked the woman who stood at the edge of the room. She was slicing thin pieces off a long, red sausage. “Salami? Cheese? Stick them both between a slice of this bread and it is quite good.”

  “Wine,” replied Sam.

  Winking at her,
Bridget nodded to an earthenware jug sitting at the edge of the table.

  “Constance tells me you are to work with us,” drawled Raymond.

  Sam grunted, pouring a healthy cup of wine and then shuffling over to accept a slice of sausage from Bridget.

  “I met your mentor once,” continued the rake, either ignoring that she hadn’t responded to him or not caring. “He was a competent Knife, if a bit misguided. You know, aside from Thotham, we haven’t had a regular presence in Enhover for years.”

  “Do you find a lot of sorcerers here in the United Territories?” asked Sam, looking over her shoulder at him before popping the chunk of the meat into her mouth.

  She blinked. The sausage was salty and fatty. Its sharp flavor seemed to meld with the cheese as she bit off a piece of that as well. Her mouth was full of the savory flavors when she took a sip of the wine. The rich, red liquid rinsed away the strong flavors of the food, and she had to stop herself from licking her lips. Ship and road rations it was not.

  “We’ve found a few sorcerers, aye,” said Raymond, still carelessly kicking his leg and fiddling with his dagger. He looked at the blade and then back to Sam.

  “She’s not interested in you,” advised Bridget, leaning back against the stone wall of the room, folding together a bit of sausage, cheese, and bread, and then taking a bite.

  “No?” asked Raymond, his gaze lazily shifting between the two women.

  “No,” confirmed Sam.

  “That’s a shame. It really is,” declared Raymond, his jaunty pose unchanging, but his smile faltering. “You’re missing out.”

  “If you used your dick as well as your dirk, perhaps she would be,” cackled Bridget. “Instead, she’ll just have to settle for your insufferable leering and pandering.”

  “You didn’t mind last time we were in bed together,” claimed Raymond, rolling his head to glance at his partner.

  “That was two years ago,” she reminded, “and I was so drunk the only thing I recall is waking up next to you.”

  “That’s not what you said back then,” he replied, “and if it was nothing, why do you keep bringing it up?”

  “You brought it up,” she reminded. “You bring it up constantly. If it’d been any good, I’d do it again. It wasn’t.”

  “So you do remember. Give me another try then, darling?” cooed Raymond.

  Bridget glanced at Sam. “Are the men in Enhover so difficult?”

  Sam nodded. “Most of them.”

  Raymond twisted the dirk in his hands, showing his white teeth in a big grin. “Attitude is earned.”

  “Not by you. Not in the bedroom, at least,” muttered Bridget under her breath.

  Ignoring her, Raymond continued, “A wolf can be none other than a wolf. Why bother to fight it? I’m a wolf, but so are you two. It’s in our blood. We are wolves that hunt the deadliest game. Sometimes in the streets, sometimes between the sheets, eh? They should make that into a sign and put it above the entrance to our apartments.”

  “That would last until the first time Constance strolled by,” mentioned Bridget.

  “Dangerous game, men and women,” said Sam.

  “Indeed,” replied Raymond. “We hunt the most dangerous game alive. Sorcerers, practitioners of the dark art, the masters of the spirits of the underworld. We track them down, and we eradicate them.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Sam took another bite of the sausage. “It’s what I do as well, you know.”

  “Is it?” questioned Raymond.

  She frowned at him.

  “The stench of the underworld is all over you,” he said, his foot and hands suddenly stilling. “I can feel the spirits clinging to you. You breached the shroud. That is illegal by Church law. Bishop Constance sensed it as well. Why do you think she sent you to us?”

  Sam’s blood ran cold. Her eyes darted between the two Knives.

  “If we meant to kill you, we would have done so already,” said Bridget, still leaning against the wall, but her body was tense, and it didn’t take years of training to see she was ready to spring into action. “We all know that in our line of work, rules are inconvenient. There are things we do which we wish we did not have to do to complete our tasks. Raymond and I have both done things we are not proud of, but things we felt were necessary. We did it for good reason. We did it to stop the spread of sorcery, no matter the cost. Can you say the same, Sam?”

  Sam scowled. “I’ve faced sorcery before. I thought you would have heard.”

  “I’m well aware of what happened in Harwick, Archtan Atoll, and Derbycross,” murmured Bridget. “I know what you did there, and I know what you left behind. Take Harwick. You found a nest of sorcery in that cold little village in the north of Enhover. You even killed a man, but you didn’t stomp out the nest, did you? In Archtan Atoll, you dealt with the witch, but what about those who had dealt with her? What about those who’d felt the taint of the underworld and kept coming back to the woman?”

  “I don’t understand,” responded Sam.

  “We’ve had to go clean up your messes,” explained Raymond. “We went to Harwick. We were the ones who put down the other members of the Mouth of Set. We traveled to Archtan Atoll, a brutal slog without the ease of your airships, believe me, and we had to find and exterminate the swamp witch’s contagion. It’s all we’ve been doing these last months, following you around and cleaning up what you’ve left behind.” Still seated, Raymond held up his dirk and pointed it at her. “I’ve killed dozens you left alive, dozens touched by the foul shadow of sorcery that you did nothing about.”

  “I killed the sorcerers,” declared Sam, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Our job is to ensure the taint is gone, completely gone. It’s the only way we can guarantee sorcery will never rise again,” said Bridget, her tone patronizing. “You only did half your job, Sam. It’s time you showed us you can do the rest.”

  “What do you mean?” cried Sam. “I’ve faced sorcery like nothing you’ve ever—”

  “Ivar val Drongko,” interjected Raymond.

  “Ivar?” wondered Sam.

  “You’ve asked for help from the Council and its Knives,” said Bridget, finally standing off the wall and stepping toward Sam. “It’s time you proved you deserve it. It’s time you show you’re willing to do what it takes to end sorcery in this world.”

  “B-But he said…” stammered Sam. “He said that he’s worked with Knives before, that there was an arrangement.”

  “Are you willing to do what it takes to end sorcery?” questioned Bridget. She glanced at Raymond’s dirk then back to Sam. “Because if not, if a willingness to do anything does not explain the spirits we feel clinging to you, what are we to think?”

  “I’ve proven myself,” said Sam, standing tall, glaring at the pair of them.

  Her hands twitched and she strained to keep them from her daggers. She was confident she could move first if it came to it, but against two opponents who must have had similar training to her own, in the heart of the Church, she had no chance. As confident as she was in her own skills, she’d be a fool to not admit the odds if there was a fight.

  Again, she stated, “I’ve proven myself.”

  “Not to us, you haven’t,” declared Raymond.

  Suddenly, he stood, his languorous mask falling away.

  She saw him as the threat he was. This man was a lothario and a rake, but first and foremost, he was a killer.

  “Ivar val Drongko has crafted potions, infusing them with ingredients that are illegal under Church law,” stated Bridget. “He’s called upon the spirits for some of his preparations. He’s aided those we believe to be practicing sorcerers. By our law, the sentence is death. Take us to him, Sam, and show us you can enforce the law.”

  “I’m sorry about Raymond,” remarked the woman. She was seated across from Sam, her lips red from the wine, but otherwise, she looked as severe and sharp as the weapons Sam suspected were secreted about her body.

  “He’s a bit o
f an ass, but aren’t they all?” replied Sam.

  Bridget grinned at her.

  Sam sipped her wine and glanced around the quiet tavern. It was a place the other woman had suggested. Late in the evening, it was filled with young couples and small groups of men. There were a few pairs of women as well, just like them.

  Sam turned back to Bridget. “He plays the bad guy, and you’re the one to make nice?”

  “Something like that,” acknowledged Bridget.

  “Is it usual for women to be out alone in Ivalla?” wondered Sam. “Back in Enhover, I find I’m the only woman in the pub this late at night.”

  “Alone?” questioned Bridget.

  Sam nodded.

  “You have your pick, then.” Bridget laughed.

  “I have my pick, but it’s not the selection I prefer to choose from,” remarked Sam dryly.

  “Ah.” The other woman sipped her wine. “It’s not usual in Ivalla, either. This tavern is different, though. It draws a more agreeable crowd.”

  “Interesting,” said Sam, glancing at a pair of women who were leaning close together in the corner.

  “You understand why we’re asking you to do this with val Drongko?” queried Bridget. “We are not cruel people, Sam, but we enforce the law when it’s needed.”

  “And this is needed?”

  “It is,” claimed Bridget. “What we do requires incredible skill. Sometimes, achieving that skill requires putting a foot on the dark path. I can sense it around you, so this is no surprise to you. It is the terrible bargain we must make. We have to immerse ourselves in the very evil we seek to eliminate. Periodically, we have to prove we haven’t become that evil.”

  “By killing someone?” Sam smirked.

  “In this case,” answered Bridget, bobbing her head to concede the contradiction. “Sometimes, death is the only way to stay connected with life.”