by A. C. Cobble
Raffles smiled at his reflection in the looking glass. Bishop Yates and the Church’s Knives would arrive soon. If the spirits deigned to share any fortune, within a day or two, Oliver Wellesley would be dead.
“My brother?” asked Prince Philip. “No, he’s not back that I— Let’s save the time, Raffles. Tell me what you know. Why do you think he’s back in Westundon?”
“The Cloud Serpent is docked at the airship bridges, m’lord,” said Director Raffles. “I thought Oliver would come straight here.”
Standing up and striding to the double-height glass doors that led to his patio, Prince Philip charged outside, not bothering with his coat in the bitter-cold winter weather. Raffles, following him, looked out over the rooftops with the prince to the airship bridges in the distance. There, half a league from the palace, they could see two airships on dock. One, flying the Crown’s colors, had been stationed in Westundon since the incident with the Cloud Wolf. The other was Oliver’s.
“What in the frozen hell is he up to?” barked Prince Philip.
“I was wondering the same, m’lord,” replied Raffles.
They stood there for a long moment, their breath billowing in the chill air until the prince hugged himself tight and turned from the airships. “He’ll be by soon enough. He wouldn’t come back to Westundon without seeing me.”
“Will you send the marines after him, m’lord?” wondered the director.
“Why?” asked Philip as they strode back inside, a quizzical look on his face.
“Well, he opened fire with cannon on a friendly airship, m’lord,” Raffles answered. “He-he fired cannon within the city limits. There’s no telling how many people could have been killed if that airship had been occupied. It’d be murder, m’lord… I don’t want to… I’m not saying…”
“No one was on the other airship, Randolph,” reminded Prince Philip. “No one was killed or even hurt, so I caution you about using the word murder when it pertains to the actions of a royal. I don’t know why Oliver did what he did, but he deserves the benefit of the doubt. He’ll have a chance to explain himself, and if it seems a crime was committed, well, we shall deal with it then. As it stands, all we know is he destroyed Company property. A serious concern but one I’m sure we both understand he has ample resources to make restitution for. If it turns out he cannot explain his actions, Randolph, I’ll ensure he pays for a new airship or hands over the one he has docked out there. It’s a twin to the one that was destroyed?”
“It… Ah, yes, m’lord,” mumbled Raffles.
“I know you are as concerned about him as I, Director,” continued the prince, “but we must be careful about how we speak of the matter. Oliver, though he rarely acknowledges it, is a royal. How you handle your commercial affairs with him is up to you and the Company, but when it comes to the business of the Crown, I will treat him with the respect he is due. If you and he cannot work out this commercial issue, perhaps I will intercede, but do not overstep your role and begin to think Company matters and Crown matters are the same, particularly when a man of the royal line is involved.”
“Understood, m’lord,” said Raffles, offering a shallow bow, seething inside.
If Bishop Yates and his Knives did not arrive soon, Raffles decided he would not wait. He would kill Oliver Wellesley himself, and then the prince. The ritual was nigh, and his time of groveling for the Wellesleys was at an end.
“Go on now,” suggested Philip. “I have much to do. When Oliver stops in, I will send a runner to Company House. If he appears there first, do the same courtesy, will you?”
“Of course, m’lord.”
The Cartographer XIX
The door opened behind him, and he glanced back to see Sam returning.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Yes, I think so,” he answered.
She set down the heavy pitcher she was carrying and two mugs, quickly filling them both with ale.
“You have lip paint on your neck,” he mentioned.
Scowling, she rubbed at her neck and then checked her fingers. “There’s nothing… Spirits forsake it.”
“No one goes for a full turn of the clock to buy a pitcher of ale,” he commented. “I know you well enough by now. You wouldn’t wait in a line that long.”
“I needed to…” she trailed off, gave up explaining herself, and instead asked, “What did you find?”
Sipping his ale, he nodded out the window where they could see the ornate facade of Company House.
“It was definitely in there,” he said. “The furcula held steady, pointing right at it, but half a turn ago, it started to move. A man I’ve worked with before, Quimby, departed and the furcula followed after him.”
“We should—” began Sam, but she stopped at Oliver’s raised hand.
“A moment later, Director Randolph Raffles appeared and leapt into a mechanical carriage,” he continued. “I’d bet my estate he was headed toward the palace.”
“That makes some sense,” replied Sam. “We did destroy his airship after all. By now, he’s likely received a report that you returned. Anyone in the city paying attention is going to see the Cloud Serpent docked at the bridge.”
Oliver nodded. “Quimby is a minor factor with the Company and an even more minor peer. He’s never done well with the Company, always finding some way to stumble into trouble. He hasn’t been able to expand on the land holding his parents bought some years back, and it’s not substantial enough he can rest his heels and take his leisure as a country gentleman. His would be a falling house if it had ever achieved a height to fall from. I don’t care what the furcula is telling us, I cannot fathom that man is the sorcerer we seek. He’s too young, for one, and someone with that sort of power would surely not debase themselves trading with disgruntled shepherds for their spring wool. He’s not the one. He was, though, carrying a large box beneath his arm. A Company factor carrying a package, it appeared rather unusual to me. Could the taint be on something inside of a box?”
“It could be,” confirmed Sam. “I don’t know exactly how this wish— this furcula works, but it’s feasible the taint of the underworld could be transferred to someone or something. Are you thinking… You’re thinking Raffles, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” replied Oliver. “I’ve known the man for years and I wouldn’t have thought he’d be capable. I’ve been thinking about it since I saw him, though. What makes more sense, a sorcerer toiling in obscurity handling entry-level work on behalf of the Company, or a sorcerer with a senior position, living in luxury?”
Sam grunted.
“The director is old enough,” mused Oliver, continuing between sips of his ale. “He was a factor on the Company airships that supplied my uncle’s war against the Coldlands, so we know he had some involvement with the place. He’s not a peer, but his rise within the Company has been meteoric. Just a few short years ago, he was given a seat at the director’s table and named the representative in Westundon. Through my own nomination, he was granted the position of finance director. In short time, he’ll become one of the wealthiest men in Enhover.”
“The power we seek is not concerned with commercial rewards,” argued Sam.
“I don’t care how powerful you are. You always want more sterling,” challenged Oliver. “Believe me. For a man like him, whether or not he’s a sorcerer, it’s not about what he can purchase with that hoard of silver, it’s a way of keeping score. It’s how he knows he’s better than everyone else. You can’t tell me sorcerers have no interest in that, can you?”
Frowning, Sam looked out the window of the boarding house they’d secured a room in and peered at the frescos lining the top third of Company House.
“The furcula led us here,” said Oliver. “I don’t know of anyone else in that building who would be a more likely suspect than Randolph Raffles. I’ve spent countless turns of the clock talking with the man, and I never detected a hint of evil, but he meets all of the criteria. I think we have to investigate him fur
ther.”
“You’re right. He meets the criteria, and he’s worth our investigation,” agreed the priestess. “I worry we’re being tricked into believing it is him, though.”
“A trick?” questioned Oliver.
“We have to consider the possibility that the old man in the woods lied to us,” replied Sam.
Oliver nodded, frowning. “We can follow the furcula’s lead later, whether it leads to Quimby or another. I think for now we should stick with Raffles. Maybe the old man lied. Maybe he didn’t. The director is as likely as anyone else we could investigate. I’ve been inside his office on several occasions and I’ve never noticed anything that hints of a sorcerous lair. His home is quite large, though, and there is ample space to hide whatever activities a sorcerer engages in.”
“Breaking into a Company director’s home. I like—” began Sam, grinning. Then, she stopped and blinked. “Duke, do you remember when we realized Isisandra Dalyrimple was a sorceress? We rushed to the palace to find her. We didn’t catch her, but we were directed down to the carriage yard where those three footmen attacked us. Someone had placed those men there as a trap for us, in that specific spot.”
“We were directed by Randolph Raffles,” said Oliver, pounding a fist into his hand. “I never… I never made the connection. If he wanted to kill us, he had so many other opportunities. Why take a risk like that in the palace?”
“What if he didn’t want to kill us?” wondered Sam. “He could have been delaying us instead, giving Isisandra time to escape. Duke, what if he knew we’d go after her, but it was Isisandra and Colston he hoped would fall in the encounter? It’s brilliant when you think about it. We tracked them down and killed them, ensuring they’d tell no one about what they knew. If we hadn’t found the Book of Law, if you hadn’t infiltrated the Feet of Seheht’s meeting because of it, the trail may have ended in Derbycross. What else would we have investigated after Isisandra died? Frozen hell, Duke, he’s been playing us this entire time.”
Grimacing, Oliver nodded. “You could be right. It’s not enough to convict the man, but the coincidences are piling up. Somehow, he’s involved in all of this. We’ve got to find out how.”
“Director Raffles could have been the man who sacrificed Northundon,” said Sam. “This is not a tribunal, Duke. We don’t need to convict him in front of a magistrate. I agree we should investigate further to be sure, but let’s keep in mind—”
“Raffles was a young man twenty years ago,” interrupted Oliver, shaking his head. “Could he have done such an incredible feat of sorcery alone? And, Sam, if he could, why hasn’t he risen further than he already has? If the man is capable of something like that, what else could he accomplish? I think he could very well be involved, but I don’t think he could have done it alone. We need to learn more before we… before we do what you’re wanting to do.”
It was Sam’s turn to frown, and she glanced back out at Company House. “The furcula…”
“Quimby isn’t our target,” insisted Oliver. “He’s younger than I am. He couldn’t have been more than ten winters when Northundon fell. If someone in that building is our target, it makes sense it would be Director Raffles. I’ve known the man most of my life, and I don’t want to believe it, but it does fit. My question, do you think he could have done it alone?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still staring outside at the building. “Maybe not. The old man speculated there could be a cabal. That could be the truth. It makes sense. We should search the director’s house, see what we can find there.”
“Raffles knows we’re here in Westundon,” responded Oliver. “Whoever our opponent is, they sent wolfmalkin and shades after us, but only because they knew where we were. I think we slipped them when we landed and snuck in with the cargo. So what does Raffles do, knowing we are in Westundon but he cannot find us? He might confer with a compatriot or panic and tip his hand another way. Let’s follow him, track his movements, see who he talks to, see what he does that is out of the ordinary. If Raffles is the sorcerer, we’ll learn it from his actions. If not, then we’ll think about breaking into his home.”
“If he’s the sorcerer and we act too late…” warned Sam.
“If he’s not and we kill him, we’ll have no way of knowing until it’s too late,” challenged Oliver.
Sam crossed her arms, evidently uninterested in arguing the last point.
“If he went to the palace, I can’t track him in there. It’s well-patrolled, and everyone would recognize me,” said Oliver. “We can pick him up outside the south carriage court, though. Hopefully, if he’s meeting with a fellow conspirator, it isn’t in the palace.”
“Everywhere we go people will know you,” suggested Sam. She reached out and touched his hair. “I have an idea.”
He sneezed, the motion causing the wig on his head to explode with another cloud of the awful powder that had made him sneeze in the first place. Eyes closed, mouth shut, nose pinched, he waited for the powder to dissipate in the gentle breeze.
Cold, annoyed at the foppish headwear, and uncomfortable on the hard wooden bench, he shifted, regretting the disguise and worrying they’d already missed Director Raffles. It’d been close to four hours since he’d spotted the man leaving Company House, and they had no assurance he was even inside the palace, though Sam had reported seeing one of the Company’s mechanical carriages idling in the courtyard.
Oliver sighed.
Sitting atop an illegally commandeered carriage, a curled and powdered wig atop his head, rogue reddening his cheeks as if the cold wouldn’t have done that soon enough, and a black suit of driver’s guild livery. He couldn’t decide if he was more worried he’d be found and arrested for carriage theft, or recognized and laughed out of Westundon by a gang of snickering peers.
But it was an effective disguise, he had to admit, as passersby streamed around his carriage in a constant flow. Parked a block outside of the palace, near the ballet, and two blocks from Congress House, his was one of many of the contraptions awaiting their cargo. No one looked at carriage drivers, and no one would expect Duke Oliver Wellesley to be so attired. And the moment Raffles’ carriage rolled past him, he’d be in position to follow it with the means to do so.
Suddenly, Sam appeared on the walk beside the avenue.
“Someone’s getting in the carriage,” she said. “It could be him. They’re wigged and portly.”
“Could be him,” agreed Oliver.
Sam, in the guise of a homemaker, wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and hissed, “It’s freezing out here.”
He stared down at her, looking at the warm, wool wrap she was clutching.
The foot traffic around them ebbed, and Sam slipped inside the carriage.
Oliver waited, watching the entrance to the palace’s carriage court. He lowered his head as a black Company rig crunched over the gravel of the court and then rumbled down the cobblestone street. With a kick to the brakes and a tug on the gear lever, their carriage lurched into motion. Manipulating the steering T and the gear lever, Oliver ungracefully maneuvered the carriage into the throng of traffic.
Ahead of them, the Company carriage bounced along the predictable path that Oliver himself had taken hundreds of times between the palace and Company House. He let his vehicle fall back, allowing four more of the popping and creaking contraptions to move in between himself and what he hoped was Raffles.
Oliver was so focused on not crashing into the vehicle in front of him, he missed the Company carriage turning. It wasn’t until he was passing the quieter street their quarry turned onto that he saw his error. Cursing, he stood and peered in the direction the Company vehicle had gone before it vanished around the corner of a building.
Frand Street.
He sat down, smiling. Frand Street. He knew where the director was going. The Oak & Ivy sat on Frand Street, and after four hours in the palace, it was exactly where Raffles would go.
Oliver shifted gears, twisted the steer
ing T, and ignored the shouted complaints that followed him as he cut across traffic and took the next turn. He drove the puttering vehicle four more blocks and then stopped it, throwing on the brakes and wincing at the squeal of metal on metal as the momentum of the carriage was painfully arrested by pads pressing against the axles.
The door to the passenger compartment slammed open, and Sam leaned out. “Frozen hell, he turned down that other street. You lost him!”
Oliver hopped down from the driver’s bench and shook his head. “He’s going to his club. I’m sure of it. I took this route so he’d have no chance of seeing us.”
“Did you?” asked Sam suspiciously.
She stepped out of the carriage onto the stone street, still with the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but underneath, he could see she’d changed into her leather trousers and vest. Her daggers stuck out oddly beneath the wool of the shawl, but it was possible someone might see them and not know what they were. It’d taken all of his persuasion to convince her that on the reconnaissance mission, she had to leave Thotham’s spear behind.
She tossed him his sword belt, and he quickly buckled it on. He reached up to tug his wig off, but she caught his wrist.
“You’re too well known, Duke,” she hissed. “Keep it on.”
Frowning, he pointedly eyed her changed attire. She winked and offered him a saucy roll of her hips, then started off in the wrong direction.
“This way,” he whispered, pointing toward an alley between the buildings.
“You’ve tried that…” she began but trailed off and hurried after him as he walked into the shadowed passageway.
“It’s not always a trick,” he said, stepping cautiously over debris littering the narrow alley.
Sam followed close behind. When they reached the end of the alley, he leaned out to peer down Frand Street. She caught the collar of his driver’s suit and yanked him back into the alley.
“What was— Oh,” he said, watching another carriage roll by in front of them.
