The Cartographer Complete Series

by A. C. Cobble

  Philip grunted. “When my brother surfaces, I will ask him. Until then, how is it that he has suspicions and our military and ministers do not? Despite my reservations about whatever it is he’s up to, I cannot ignore the simple fact that last time, Oliver was right. And I agree. I do not have the evidence, but that is not my responsibility to the Crown, is it? That is why we have Brach and William. They should be pursuing this. They should have the evidence, and if they do not, I want to know why. Is it simple laziness, incompetence, or something else?”

  “Something else?” asked his wife.

  “Admiral Brach would like to see the royal marines rise in prominence,” declared Philip. “He views their contribution to the empire as on par with, well, I suspect he views it as bounds ahead of any other organization. He’s smart enough to understand his airships and swords are paid for by taxes on the Company’s exploits, so he avoids angering them. He knows the Church’s soft whispers fall on my father’s deaf ears, so he doesn’t bother with them. That leaves my uncle’s ministry. Admiral Brach is trying to achieve equal footing for the military and the ministry. He and William have been squabbling about it for years now. My father seems uninterested. I worry it is on my shoulders to ensure those men’s conflict doesn’t rip Enhover apart. Take the Dalyrimple affair. Did the Crown miss a clue because Brach and William won’t speak to each other? Does that explain why Oliver was able to ferret out leads that no one else suspected?”

  “Do not be hard on yourself,” pleaded Lucinda. “You couldn’t have known. And besides, while Oliver prevented some amount of murder and chaos, Enhover was never truly under threat. Not by the Dalyrimples, not by anyone since the Coldlands, and we know how effectively your family dealt with that. The empire is strong, Philip. It is not falling apart, not tonight, at least. Come to bed, my love.”

  Standing and stretching his aching back, Philip looked at his wife. A true beauty, just as she had been over a decade before when he’d first seduced her. Or perhaps she had seduced him, he admitted. He smiled. Either way, she’d become his — his motivation and his reason. She was a good wife, a good mother, and she would make an excellent queen, but she was too trusting.

  The empire was only as strong as the hands that held it together, and he was becoming worried those hands were not as sturdy as he’d once thought. Not tonight, she was right about that, but she was wrong that there was no threat to Enhover. There was. Not from outside but from within. If the organizations that supported Enhover could not be trusted, it would fall. His tutors had been too embarrassed to say it to the young prince, but it was one lesson his father had emphasized. All empires fall, they crumble from within.

  Lucinda scooted over on the bed, welcoming him to join her, offering her comfort.

  “Not tonight, my love, but I will come to bed,” he told her. “You’re right, there is nothing I can do that will make any difference this evening, but we must worry. We must always worry. All empires fall, my sweet. Decay is inevitable. Empires fall because they rot from within. Not tonight, but some day. Enhover will collapse in on itself. That is what keeps me awake.”

  “Some day, of course. But with you on the throne, Enhover will not fall,” she assured him.

  He smiled at her but did not reply.

  The Cartographer XXI

  He sloshed through foul smelling, knee-high water. It stunk of refuse from the kitchens, refuse from… He chose not to think about where else. He’d been assured that the narrow waterway ran below the palace’s kitchens and carried waste away from only there. The palace’s water closets supposedly had separate sewers. Grimacing, he wondered why that would be, and whether Sam and the contacts she’d met with in the Four Sheets had lied to him.

  She wouldn’t, would she?

  “Frozen hell, that spirit-forsaken woman lied to me,” he growled, his voice echoing down the stone tunnel in front of him, the sound joining the gurgle of water as the stream bubbled merrily along the narrow channel, carrying a palace’s worth of waste around and between his knees.

  Grunting, he tugged on the rope tied around his chest, hauling the heavy, canvas-wrapped package along behind him. Floating clumsily in the foul water, it bumped and caught on every protrusion and corner of the tunnel, but it was better than trying to carry the monstrous package on his back.

  Several hundred more yards if his estimate was right. Forcing his thoughts down, ignoring what he was wading through, he pressed on until finally, he saw a shaft of light ahead and redoubled his efforts, yanking the obstinate package behind him, swishing through waist-deep waste. When he walked below the opening, hauling the package closer, he saw a face peering down at him.

  “Winchester,” he said.

  “M’lord,” acknowledged the valet.

  “Drop in and give me a hand?” he asked.

  “I think, ah, I think I’ll have better leverage from up here, m’lord.”

  He glared at the man, dressed in his spotless Wellesley House livery. Winchester, a man who claimed he’d give his life for his liege, evidently had his limits.

  “Very well, Winchester,” he said. “Drop me something to climb up. I’m ready to get out of here.”

  The valet disappeared for a moment and then returned with a high-backed chair. “If you lean this against the wall, m’lord, I believe you’ll be able to climb it like a ladder.”

  Filling the air with curses nearly as vile as the muck he was climbing out of, Oliver managed to maneuver the heavy package and himself up through the grate that Winchester had opened. He found himself in a dark room that had only one exit. The stone floor was slick with slime from years of kitchen waste being dragged and kicked down into the hole to the sewers. Oliver held up a hand, looking in the light at the grimy brown and green smears on his palm. For a moment, he was certain he would be sick.

  “We’re down a hall from the bakery, m’lord,” said Winchester. “In three turns of the clock, this area will be thick with staff up early and baking the day’s bread. Now, it’s deserted. I advise you to change, m’lord. I’ll carry the package upstairs and… and prepare it as you instructed. I took the liberty of collecting some of your brother’s garments from the laundry. I used his clothing in case anyone was watching my activities, m’lord. I gathered them from a rather lonely seamstress I’ve become acquainted with. If anyone was following me, they’ll think I’m ensconced in her chambers, doing—”

  “Understood, Winchester. I don’t need the details,” said Oliver, nodding his appreciation to the valet. For a moment, he was glad he hadn’t made the man climb down into the sewers with him, but he was sure that feeling would fade.

  “I also suggest some water and some soap, m’lord,” advised Winchester, keeping his distance from Oliver. “I placed some in the washroom off the bakery along with the clothes. I recommend tossing this set back down into the sewer. Otherwise, he’ll smell you half a hallway off.”

  “He’s coming, then?” asked Oliver.

  “He should be here in two turns of the clock, m’lord.”

  Shaking his head and stripping out of his befouled clothing, Oliver resolved to give the valet a raise, assuming he survived long enough to do so.

  He sipped from the goblet, swishing the wine in his mouth before swallowing. The light of the fire reflected on the cut crystal of the glass, making shards of red and orange, but the wine itself was nearly black. It was the best wine he’d had in what seemed ages, the best wine to be found in Westundon, perhaps all of Enhover, he imagined. His family enjoyed the finer things, and they had access to a nearly limitless supply of sterling with which to purchase it.

  His brother Philip only occasionally enjoyed wine, but when he did, it would be the best available. That was Oliver’s life, or had been. He wondered if it would be so again. Once Director Raffles, Bishop Yates, and their unknown counterpart were dealt with, what would happen? How would he explain to his brothers and their father what he had done?

  Crown, Company, and Church. Or perhaps Crown, Church, an
d Company, depending on which family member you asked. Crown, though, was always first, and it was synonymous with the Wellesley name. That mentality had been embedded in his thinking since birth, and while he had rebelled against the notion as a younger man, he kept coming back to it. Whether it was appearing at official functions beside his father, helping his brother host his galas, or meekly heading off to a tiny whaling village to assist in an investigation he didn’t understand, he always kept coming back. It was in his blood. Would his family understand what he was doing now, how this was for them and the Crown?

  Sipping his brother’s wine, he thought they would. They’d all lost much in Northundon. They would thirst for vengeance just as strongly as he did. Sometimes, it made sense to him. Service to the Crown and his own personal objectives could be one and the same.

  A door slammed shut, and he set down the wine glass, hurrying to the side of the room, out of the light of the fire. He gripped the basket-hilt of his broadsword and then released it, flexing his hands and glancing at the double-height door to his brother’s patio.

  Do it quickly, Sam had instructed him. That was sensible. They had some idea of what this man was capable of, if not the full scope. No sense giving him the opportunity to react. Quick and lethal. It was eminently sensible. But instead of drawing the blade, he unbuckled his belt and set the broadsword in the corner. He crouched and waited until the door opened.

  “M’lord?” called a voice.

  He coughed and rattled, “Come in.”

  “Oliver,” said Director Randolph Raffles with a snort.

  Steps and then door swung shut.

  Standing behind it, Oliver launched himself at the back of the older man. Fingers curled like talons, he reached for the director’s neck, intending to throttle him, choke any sorcerous utterances from his throat. He would throw Raffles down onto the carpeted floor and fall on him, raining blow after blow. He thought of his mother, and he thought of his fists pounding that soft, pampered flesh of her betrayer. He would beat the man into submission, and then he would question him. He would hear it from the director’s own mouth.

  Director Raffles spun, a forearm brushing aside Oliver’s extended hand, his other arm sweeping up and pounding Oliver in the side of the head with pointed elbow. The director punched him in the gut, clutched Oliver behind the neck, and brought the duke’s face down to meet a knee that shot up, catching Oliver in the chin and stunning him.

  Oliver blinked, stumbling, trying to maintain consciousness and stand upright. Raffles threw another blow, this one a haymaker that connected on the side of Oliver’s head, toppling him to the carpet. Unable to process what was going on, Oliver rolled away, his arms up trying to protect his face.

  “What was your plan, Oliver?” asked Raffles, his tone seeming as if he was honestly curious. “You thought I’d have no suspicion this was a trap and that I wouldn’t be prepared for your treachery? We spoke face-to-face in the club, boy. For the last half turn of the clock, I’ve had spirits watching you, flitting in and out of this room. I’d sent them to lurk outside in the halls, and they’ve been tracking you as soon as you came near. I know you’re in here alone. I know you spent the entire time walking over to the cupboard and refilling glasses of your brother’s wine. I knew the second you stood and went to hide behind the door, and the spirits told me when you unfastened your sword belt. Do you have so little respect for me that you thought this foolish plan might work, that you could surprise and strangle me?”

  On the carpet, looking up at the director, Oliver breathed for a moment, letting the flashing colors fade from his vision, hoping the ringing in his head would stop long enough he could stand and face his enemy. Shades, lurking outside in the halls, tracking him from the moment he’d gotten close to the office. Shaking his head, he rolled onto his side.

  “As soon as I saw you in the Oak & Ivy, I knew you’d come after me,” continued Raffles. “I knew you’d do it yourself. It’s your way, isn’t it, Oliver?”

  Struggling onto his knees, then his feet, Oliver admitted, “You’re right. How, ah, how did you do that?”

  Raffles smirked, holding up his forearms toward Oliver. “You don’t believe the old boxing lessons at university kept me this sharp? I bound the spirits of two pit fighters. What remains of their strength is mine. What remains of their knowledge is mine. It’s a simple binding, Oliver, a sliver of what I’m capable of. Evidently, it’s all I need to deal with you.”

  Oliver, standing now on the carpet, wobbling slightly, glared at the director.

  “Was that it?” wondered Raffles after a moment. “Please tell me you didn’t expect to take down a sorcerer of my caliber with your fists alone? I thought better of you, Oliver.”

  “A sorcerer, you admit it,” growled Oliver.

  The director blinked at him. “You already know, so why not admit it? It is what I am. There was a period I thought you might join me on this path. You worked with that sorcerer Thotham, and he and his apprentice shared what little knowledge they had with you. I thought your curiosity might be piqued, that you had potential to become one of us. You always had potential, boy. Everyone saw it. It’s too bad it will end this way.”

  Oliver launched himself at Raffles, coming low, trying to drive his head into the man’s gut before Raffles could get his arms up to protect himself.

  The director sidestepped, and when Oliver’s shoulder slammed into Raffles, the director wrapped an arm around Oliver’s neck and pounded a fist into Oliver’s ribcage. Oliver jerked, trying to pull away, but the man’s hold on his neck was too tight. Half-a-dozen quick punches fell on protesting ribs then a hammer blow to the kidney.

  Oliver collapsed onto his knees, struggling for air with Raffles’ arm still wrapped tightly around his throat, holding him in a headlock.

  “This is foolish,” complained Raffles, pounding a knee into Oliver’s defenseless torso. “I have spilled my share of blood, but I will not enjoy beating you to death. This is not my style. Tell me what I want to know, and I will make it quick. It’s a true trait of mine, Oliver, I am nothing if not efficient. This is a waste of both of our time. Tell me where the girl is and who else knows.”

  The director squeezed hard on Oliver’s neck and then shoved him away.

  Oliver staggered back and stood, pain radiating down his side. He probed where Raffles had punched and kneed him, and while his side throbbed in agony, it wasn’t the sharp pain of a broken rib. He could still fight. His neck felt bruised, and he coughed roughly, but he could draw ragged gasps of air. Grimacing, he danced forward, fists raised.

  He slipped a jab he’d anticipated would be coming. It was the type of blow he’d seen from Baron Child’s body man, the old pit fighter Jack.

  Raffles’ knuckles breezed by a hand in front of his face, and Oliver hooked a right into the director’s body and then struck with his own jab at the older man’s face, finding the soft flesh of the director’s cheek. Oliver swung an uppercut, trying to finish the old man, but Raffles stepped back and then lunged forward as Oliver’s swing missed.

  Raffles laid three blows in quick succession to Oliver’s face, the first a jab splitting the skin of his cheek, a hook that caught him above the ear, and another from the opposite side that crushed his lip. Gasping, Oliver blinked, trying to get his bearings, and then another barrage of fists fell on him. He collapsed, unable to get his hands up in time, the director pounding his head like a baker kneading a loaf of dough.

  Oliver fell to the plush carpet, his head throbbing, warm blood leaking from half-a-dozen cuts. He could already feel his skin starting to swell where the older man had battered him. A copper taste filled his mouth and he spit, his tongue stinging where one of Raffles’ blows had clacked his jaw shut on it.

  The director had stepped back and was peering at his knuckles. Flecks of blood covered both of them. “I think some of this is mine,” mused the old merchant. “Is that common in fisticuffs to split your own skin on the face of the other man? I confess I’
m always more interested in the gambling that occurs at the pit fights rather than the damage the men do to each other. I’ve spilled as much blood as anyone, but I take no particular pleasure in causing or witnessing pain. Funny how one views the world, isn’t it? I have done awful things, Oliver, but I do not think I am an unnecessarily cruel man. Do not make me do this.”

  He took a few steps closer then suddenly lashed out, kicking Oliver squarely in the gut.

  Oliver reeled back and flopped onto his back, rolling over, struggling and failing to stand. Gasping for breath, fighting the urge to be sick, face pressed against the floor, Oliver looked up at the director. Well-fed with the body of a wealthy merchant who had little reason to leave his counting rooms, Director Randolph Raffles had never seemed an intimidating presence, but now, from that angle, Oliver suppressed a shudder of revulsion.

  The man had the same doughy body that he’d always had, and he had the same mildly interested expression he wore anytime he was in the presence of royalty. Randolph Raffles’ face was a mask, and it betrayed nothing of what it hid. Oliver wondered if there was anything beneath the mask. Raffles was driven by greed and a thirst for power. The old merchant had never bothered to hide it. Oliver had always known it about him. Everyone had. It was why he’d succeeded with the Company. Randolph Raffles would do anything to win, and he had. Oliver, the board of directors, they just hadn’t known what was possible. They hadn’t known the director’s dark path even existed.