by A. C. Cobble
“I don’t recognize him,” called Oliver. When Ainsley didn’t respond, he added, “Don’t worry, Captain. Those aren’t Sam’s boots. These legs are not hers.”
Oliver proceeded farther into the room, stepping carefully to avoid where the floor was buckled and broken. He couldn’t fathom what had happened, what would have caused such destruction, and he grew even more concerned when he saw what used to be the back wall. He recalled peering out the wide windows when visiting the bishop, but now, the entire section of glass and stone was simply missing. The force it would have taken to blow out the stone wall…
“Spirits,” whispered Ainsley, finally returned from spewing her breakfast all over the hallway. “What in this world could have done that?”
“Nothing from this world,” remarked Oliver.
He saw the simple cotton of a priest’s robe and hurried across the shattered floor to find Bishop Yates lying on his stomach. A deep puncture pierced his back and his robes were covered in dried blood. His face, tilted to the side when he fell, showed a look of startled confusion.
“Sam,” he said, pointing to the wound in the man’s back. “This had to be Sam. She killed him.”
“The bishop is dead. The guards downstairs are dead. Whoever belonged to those legs is certainly dead, but where is she?” questioned Ainsley, nervous fingers playing with the triggers of her pistols. “If she killed the man, why did she not come to the meeting point?”
Oliver looked around. He walked to the back of the room and peered down into the courtyard. He cried out. Sam was there, lying dead still, a bloody gash on the side of her head obvious even from four floors up.
Oliver spun. He and Ainsley raced to the stairs and plummeted down, both of them nearly crashing as they whipped around the marble and carpet stairwell. In a frantic rush, they burst into the courtyard. Like the room above, it had been destroyed beyond belief with broken stone, smashed masonry, and what Oliver shuddered to think might be giant footprints.
Sam lay in the middle of it, motionless.
Oliver rushed to her side, kicking away the broken pieces of Thotham’s spear and kneeling next to her. He put a hand on her neck and felt she was cold to the touch, but not as cold as the ambient air, he thought. Bending down, he listened for her breath and felt the faint brush of it against his cheek. She was alive, barely.
“W-What should we do?” stammered Ainsley.
He gently slid his arms beneath Sam’s prone body and carefully lifted her.
“Go to the Four Sheets Inn and ask the barman for Kalbeth,” he instructed. “Don’t take no for an answer. Use those pistols if you have to. Tell her what happened to Sam. She’ll know what to bring. Find us in Philip’s quarters. I’m taking her to his physician.”
“M’lord,” protested Ainsley, “when Philip sees you, it’s not his quarters you’ll be going to, it will be his gaol. You are his brother, and despite everything, I know he cares for you, but it’s going to take more than a night to wiggle your way out of this one. You can’t go back there, m’lord, not yet.”
Oliver started back into the bishop’s mansion. Over his shoulder, he called, “Captain, my brother has the best physicians in Westundon, so I’m going to the palace. Bring Kalbeth there, make sure she gets inside. My brother won’t stop you from helping Sam, no matter how livid he is at me. With any luck, Philip hasn’t been able to piece together what happened yet. When you’ve collected Kalbeth, send your crew underground. Do whatever you need to so that no one can find them. Winchester knows not to speak to my brother, and I hope you do as well. As long as we keep your crew quiet, my brother may not be able to prove our involvement. Philip is nothing if not a stickler for the law. As long as he can’t find evidence, we could be in the clear, no matter his suspicions. If he can prove it, I’ll get out when I get out.”
Ignoring his captain’s muttering, he strode quickly through the bishop’s mansion then out onto the street where they had a mechanical carriage waiting.
Calling to the driver who was sitting atop the bench of the puttering contraption, Oliver yelled, “The palace. An extra handful of sterling if you get us there in less than a quarter turn of the clock.”
The man leapt down to help get Sam’s limp body inside, and before the door shut behind them, he’d climbed back onto the driver’s bench and kicked off the brakes. They lurched into motion, Sam’s head lolling lifelessly. Dried blood covered her from scalp to navel.
Oliver bent over her as they rumbled through the streets, offering a hope to every spirit he could think to name. When he got to Thotham, he glanced at Sam’s face. Thotham. He whispered the name over and over again as they rolled, hoping the spirit of her mentor could hear him, hoping he could do something.
The Prince III
“Frozen hell,” growled the prince, walking through the charred remains of what used to be his study. “It looks like an explosive device went off in here. Maybe several of them. Look at that, Shackles. The stone by the doorway is just gone!”
“Yes, m’lord,” agreed the chief of staff. “It does appear a series of explosions happened in here late last night. The munitions experts surmised four distinct origins, meaning four bombs. They went off with equivalent force to some of the smaller explosives that are carried on airships. This is the type of device the Company kits, m’lord, when they are sailing fully armed. That coincides with reports of a darkened airship that was seen by hundreds of witnesses sailing low above the city shortly after the blast.”
“Well, the airship couldn’t have lobbed the devices inside my office door, Shackles!” snarled the prince. “How did they get in here? Was it an assassination attempt?”
“I, ah, I think not, m’lord,” murmured Shackles, looking away from his prince.
“Bishop Yates killed in such… such unusual circumstances,” continued Prince Philip, kicking a blackened leg of what used to be a chair out of his path. “Evidently, Director Raffles has gone missing as well. We are the three most prominent men in Westundon, Shackles. It doesn’t seem like anything other than an assassination attempt to me. The United Territories, some faction that survives in the Coldlands? Perhaps even an enemy from farther abroad? The Southlands has never been a truly settled place, though, why they’d want anything to do with me I cannot tell you.”
“I could make an argument that there’s a fourth man who is just as prominent in Westundon,” mentioned Chief of Staff Herbert Shackles. “Your brother, m’lord.”
“You think he’s a target as well?” questioned Philip. “He just arrived back in Westundon a few days ago, and I haven’t… Oh. Oh, I see.”
“Not a target, m’lord,” confirmed Shackles, his gaze locked on his feet.
“I-I don’t—” stammered Philip. “He’s a royal. Do you have any proof, man?”
“I have no proof,” replied Shackles, glancing up to meet the stare of his prince. “If the reports of an airship are accurate, then it’s no great leap, m’lord. I’m certain the official logs will show that the Cloud Serpent was tied to the bridge last night, and I doubt we’ll find anyone to say otherwise. It was a dark night, so none of the witnesses can identify which ship it was. There was the royal marine gunship and a Company vessel that were moving about last night, but neither reported seeing other traffic. The guards working the bridge seem to be missing. None of the palace staff reported seeing anything unusual until the explosion. All of Yates’ household staff is dead, and evidently, his neighbors are in the south right now so no one heard anything. The Company still seems unsure what happened to the director, but I’ve confirmed he did not return to his home yesterday evening. There is no proof of the kind you could show a magistrate, and I imagine there never will be unless someone talks. Oliver’s strange priestess, his airship captain…”
“The priestess and the airship captain,” grumbled Philip, pacing across the fire-charred stone floor. “They won’t talk. I’m sure he’s seen to that. What about the crew of the Cloud Serpent? I suppose you’ve rounded t
hem up?”
“The crew is occupied elsewhere, I was told,” said Shackles. “Word is that Oliver gave them a rather large bonus, and they’re in the midst of spending it in every back-alley ale sink and flesh market in this city. I couldn’t find a one of them. I did corner the officers though, Captain Ainsley and her first mate, a man named Pettybone. They claimed to have gotten blind drunk and had a tumble. Said they couldn’t recall a minute of time between sunset and sunrise.”
“Do you believe them?” wondered Philip.
“The first mate is fifteen years her senior, m’lord,” answered Shackles. “She’s a fine-looking woman with a choice position as the first female airship captain in history. He looks like a toad, and I suspect he may have head lice. Stranger matches have been made, but…”
“They’re lying for Oliver,” growled Philip, glancing around his ruined study and sighing. “Do you really believe my brother is somehow responsible for all of this, Shackles? An airship was reported flying above the city, but as you mentioned, there were other airships moving about. It’s possible none of those vessels were involved in this attack. I can’t imagine the reason Oliver would have to do something like this. Even for him, this is a lot…”
“I know, m’lord,” responded the chief of staff slowly. “Your brother is a rogue of the first order, but he’s loyal to the organizations that he serves. He’s unquestionably personally loyal to you, m’lord. Whatever he’s up to, it wasn’t aimed at hurting you. I can’t fathom any reason he, or anyone else for that matter, would want to set off explosives in your study.”
“But you still think he was involved?”
“Who else?” asked Shackles, “But if he was, he couldn’t have acted alone. The airship captain, his priestess, they must be guilty as well. The priestess had a terrible injury and just woke up in the infirmary this morning. Oliver told me she’d gotten it while engaged in rough bedroom play. I wouldn’t put that past him, but she’s a priestess, not a tavern wench. Oliver hasn’t been by to see her since she awoke. Whatever the true cause of her injury and whatever lies she’d tell to protect him, it’s likely she and your brother have not had a chance to coordinate their stories.”
“In the infirmary, you said?” asked Philip. “You think I should question her, see if her story matches what my brother told us?”
“In the infirmary,” confirmed Shackles. “I wanted to talk to you before you went to her, m’lord, to make sure you were prepared to ask the right questions.”
Philip grunted. “I’m prepared, Shackles. Now, I am prepared.”
He pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the small space it cordoned off. There was a bed, a table, and a chair. The only other feature was the woman in the bed, looking at him suspiciously.
“It’s good to see you awake,” he began, taking a seat in the chair. “I’m told the physicians weren’t sure you’d recover.”
“They told me that as well,” said the woman slowly.
“Water? Anything I can get you?” he asked her. He continued without waiting for a response, “You know who I am, of course? My apologies for taking a seat without asking. It’s not proper, but you’re a friend of Oliver’s. I imagine there is much that is not proper which you are accustomed to.”
“No, ah, Prince Philip, I am quite comfortable,” she murmured. “And the seat is yours, after all. I thank you. Your physicians have been taking excellent care of me.”
“They are the best,” he said.
He crossed his legs, studying the young woman. She was dressed in loose-fitting clothing unlike anything he’d seen her wear and unlike anything the physicians would have provided. Perhaps from her friend who had come barging through the palace halls and then disappeared just as quickly once the physicians started asking questions? The odd woman had been flagged to the guards, but she vanished before anyone could apprehend her.
He studied the priestess, wondering what she was hiding. Her face was bruised, vivid purple, just starting to fade yellow-brown at the fringes. The top of her head was wrapped in thick bandages, but he could see jet-black hair peeking out beneath. She was trim and athletic, as he remembered her, and he had no trouble seeing why his brother enjoyed her company. She had a darker mien, though, and the way she looked at him caused him to shift in his seat. This was no wilting flower that needed the like of the Wellesley brothers to protect her. She forged her own path, and he had no doubt that was the way she preferred it.
“Can I help you with something, Prince Philip?” she asked.
“Tell me,” he asked, “how were you injured?”
“I…” She touched the bandages on her head, her sleeve falling back to reveal a thick band of black tattoos trailing from her wrist up her arm. “I don’t recall. I’m afraid with the head injury it’s all very fuzzy.”
“My brother has not been to see you yet?” inquired Philip.
“Ah, not that I recall,” she murmured.
“Does that sting?” wondered the prince. “That he’s made time for other pursuits instead of coming to see you?”
“He is a busy man,” she said. “Duke is all right, then?”
“Duke? Ah, yes. Why would Oliver not be all right?” asked Philip.
She shrugged.
“Let us skip the wrangling. Tell me what happened last night,” requested Philip. “My study is destroyed, the staff in the palace is frightened half to death, Bishop Yates is dead, his guards are dead, and an important member of the Company is missing. I am certain my brother was involved, and I know you are in league with him. Make it easy on yourself, will you? Talk to me, and I can ensure the ramifications for what happened fall where they should. What, ah, what was your name?”
“Sam,” she supplied.
“Sam, of course,” he grumbled. Sam. Why wouldn’t his brother be running around with a beautiful woman named Sam? “Sam, I can be a very generous man, and it would be worth a great deal for me to understand what transpired in my city — in my own study! Do you think you can help with that? Do you want to find out how generous I can be?”
“Oh, I am sure you are quite generous, Prince Philip,” responded Sam. “If I may, a suggestion, why not ask your brother what occurred? Surely, if you think he was involved in… you said a death? Surely, he could explain the circumstances.”
“Surely,” said Philip, leaning back in the chair and re-crossing his legs. “Do you know what my brother said about your injury? He claimed you had gotten hurt during rough bedroom play.”
Sam laughed and then quickly groaned, a hand shooting up to grip her head. “Sorry, m’lord. Some lingering effects…”
“Rough bedroom play. Is that how your injury occurred?” he pressed her.
“If Duke says it is, then I suppose it must be so,” she replied, still holding her head. “My memory, you understand.”
Prince Philip sighed. “I confess this is improper and beneath me, but I must press you. You are not aware of where my brother is right now, so I will tell you. I am sorry if this gives you some distress. At this very moment, instead of sitting by your side, my brother is lounging in the arms of one of Baron Child’s twins. I couldn’t tell you which one, but I can tell you it could be either of them. A beautiful baroness, with land and title, opportunities beyond imagining for a mere priestess… does that make you jealous, Sam?”
“Yes, it does,” she said, letting her hands rest in her lap and nodding very slowly. Philip let out a sigh and sat forward, but before he could put a wedge into the opening she’d left, she added, “Those twins are quite lovely. What I wouldn’t do to put myself in Duke’s trousers right now, though, I suppose he’s not likely wearing them, is he? Probably not wearing much at all. Given time with Isabella or Aria, I certainly wouldn’t be wearing any more than I had to.”
“What!” cried the prince. “I—”
“I prefer women,” explained Sam.
Philip’s jaw dropped open. He shook himself and then slowly closed his mouth. He didn’t know what to say.
“Does that bother you, m’lord?”
“No, I-I assumed that you and Oliver…” He drew a deep breath and let it out. Sam folded her hands on the bedsheet, waiting. “If you prefer women, then this rough play did not involve my brother?”
“Oh, it very well could have,” responded Sam. “Is that what he said? I prefer women, but I’ve found a properly trained man can do the job in a pinch. It’s a big world, m’lord, and I was raised to try anything at least once before you declare you don’t like it. Why limit oneself? Don’t you agree?”
“I can see this isn’t going anywhere,” said Philip, rubbing his face in his hands. When he looked back at her, he shook his head. “I will never understand that man’s way with women.”
“Neither will I,” admitted Sam, smiling pleasantly.
The prince stood, straightening this jacket, frowning at the woman. “I will let my brother know you’re awake. Whichever Child twin has taken over nursing him, I imagine they’ve barely let him come up for air, much less to check on the news around the city.”
“Thank you, Prince Philip,” replied Sam. “And, m’lord, he is a good man, your brother.”
“I’ll never understand it…” said Philip, turning to go.
“Tell him the clock is ticking, m’lord,” called the priestess as he pushed through the curtains.
He turned to look back at her, frowning. She met his gaze, stern-faced, entirely serious. Any doubt he’d had about whether his brother had been involved in the events of the other night vanished, but new ones crept in. This woman, this priestess, wasn’t protecting Oliver because he’d engaged in some sort of wild drunken escapade that resulted in the prince’s study exploding. She was protecting him because she felt they still had work to do.
