by A. C. Cobble
In Lilibet’s old chambers, the world passed by unnoticed.
Sam finally left the comfort of the silk sheets and found a candle beside the bed. She struck a striker and flicked a spark at the wick. The candle caught, and the low light bled out across the room. She lit a few more candles, shook awake the fae in her solitary globe, and then prodded at the embers in the fire with an iron poker. She put two more logs on, and they caught quickly from the heat of the coals. The growing flame bathed her bare skin in warmth.
She looked down at her naked body, turning her wrists to study the tattoos there, following the lines of black ink up her arms, across her collarbone, and coming to a stop in the center of her chest. Tilting her head down, she couldn’t quite see where the two bands of tattoos met. She couldn’t see the markings on her back either, but she could feel them. It made no sense, but all the same, she thought she could. The ink had been injected months ago, and the small wounds were long since healed. Still, the designs felt clear and distinct on her skin, like snakes writhing sinuously across her shoulder blades.
She turned to study the room, feeling the fire warm her backside as she did. A massive, comfortable bed. Embroidered, stuffed chairs with small tables beside them. A huge table set against one wall with a series of parchment-stuffed cubbies looming over it. A black slate board that took up the entirety of the far wall. Sticks of white chalk sat in front of it, but the board had been blank when she’d first seen the room, and she’d left it that way.
Had the king wiped the board decades ago when his wife had gone missing? Had Lilibet herself hidden whatever patterns she’d been practicing on that black surface?
Whatever had happened, it’d been years before, Sam was certain of that. When King Edward had showed her into the subterranean chamber, the floor and furniture had been thick with dust. He’d suggested she tidy it up before starting her study, but after seeing her expression, he’d dispatched a servant to handle the cleaning. Sam had let the woman inside and then ignored her until the woman finished, and when Sam attempted to thank her, Sam realized the woman was deaf mute. She’d commented on it to Edward, and the king had told her the woman was illiterate as well. He used her to tidy his own chamber. She was a servant accustomed to traipsing through the most sacred places of the empire, but without the means to tell anyone about it.
But even the servant did not have a key to Lilibet’s old room. Only Sam and the king.
Shaking her head, Sam walked to the table, glancing over the papers she’d scattered there the night before. Thin, elegant handwriting covered the documents in neat rows. Lilibet’s assured script, she’d learned. These papers contained no secrets of the occult, except for one. Lilibet Wellesley had been studying the dark path. That, in addition to whatever else Sam may find in the hidden chamber, was a deadly secret. The Queen of Enhover had been a practicing sorceress. Documents written in her own hand proved it. It was the kind of secret that could bring down an empire.
Why had King Edward shared this place with Sam? Why had he not destroyed everything inside decades ago?
Frowning, Sam looked to the clock above the fireplace mantle. Mid-morning. In a few hours, she was to meet Duke. It was time to get to work. They had sorcerers to hunt.
But before she began her morning ablutions, she pushed aside some of the loose papers to reveal a pair of gleaming, gold-engraved push daggers. Katars, they were called, though she had little familiarity with the weapons. The king had told her they were common in the Darklands when he’d shown them to her. Lilibet’s own weapons, it seemed, though Edward had no answer when Sam asked why they’d been left in Southundon. The short blades were inscribed similar to her kris daggers, delicate etchings arranged in careful patterns. In the center of each steel blade, inlaid in gold, was Ca-Mi-He’s symbol. Had Lilibet herself commissioned the etching, or had she found the weapons already inscribed? Were they blessed by the great spirit, or had its symbol been placed there for some other reason? Sam did not know, and the king claimed ignorance.
She could read enough of the patterns to know, though, the weapons would banish a spirit as easily as they would pass through a puddle of water. They would do a decent job on flesh as well. Their edges gleamed as if someone had sharpened them the day before.
Sam shivered for a moment, forcing away the obvious similarity to her own weapons. King Edward had claimed that Sam, more than anyone, would understand Lilibet’s choice to follow the dark path. Two floors beneath the earth, sleeping in Lilibet’s old bed, Sam felt like she’d come home.
She trotted up the stone stairwell and out onto the city streets of Southundon. The underground rail had brought her within three blocks of Bartholomew Surrey’s townhouse, and as she walked along the streets, dodging through the teeming crowd, she decided the bustling city was nearly as claustrophobia-inducing as the narrow tunnels the rail passed through.
Buildings rose sharply around her, and the sky was clouded with smoke from the rail and the factories clustered in ranks outside of the city. Tightly bundled citizens covered every cobblestone near the entrance to the underground.
When she finally broke free from the throng and entered the calmer streets lined by homes of wealthy peers and merchants, she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d never thought the day would come when she felt relaxed in such a posh setting, but she’d never thought she’d spend so much time shoving her way through the citizens of Southundon, either.
The capital of Enhover’s empire had the wealth and population that came with the title, but it didn’t have any more space than its quieter sister in the west. All four provincial capitals had been established before the nation was united under the Wellesley’s banner, and it seemed that since that time, they’d only been built higher, not wider.
In Southundon, people and buildings were stacked atop each other like worms trying to crawl out of a bucket. They wriggled and squirmed, constantly battling to be on top only to be forced back down as another climbed atop them.
Walking quickly, Sam found the townhouse of the late Bartholomew Surrey and paused in front of it, a scowl on her face.
Flanking the front door, a pair of city watchmen stood guard. The door was wide open, and she could see a legion of inspectors bustling about inside. Two mechanical carriages, embossed with the sigil of the ministry, sat puttering out front.
If Bartholomew Surrey had any friends associated with his dark craft, they would certainly know the man was being investigated now.
Grumbling under her breath, Sam ascended the marble stairs and presented herself to the watchmen at the top.
“Investigation underway, miss, move on,” advised one of the men, speaking through a prodigious mustache that made her wonder how the man managed to ingest food without a mouthful of hairs coming along for the journey.
“Shouldn’t you ask me why I’m here?” she responded.
“You’re not an inspector, and they’re the only ones allowed inside,” remarked the other guard, leaning forward to leer at her.
“What if I am Bartholomew Surrey’s secret lover or his partner in a criminal enterprise? Don’t you think the men inside would like to hear from me?”
Both of the men stared at her in surprise.
Finally, the mustached one asked, “Are you?”
“Sorry. That information is only for the inspectors,” she lilted, sharing a conspiratorial wink.
“I—”
“Sam, the priestess?” called an inspector from inside the townhouse.
She nodded.
“Duke Wellesley is upstairs in the marquess’ study. He said to send you right in.”
“My thanks, Inspector,” said Sam. Then she flounced inside, batting her eyelashes at the watchmen and blowing the mustached one a kiss.
“You’re the strangest priestesses I’ve ever laid eyes on,” said the inspector quietly, shaking his head as he led her to the stairwell.
“You have no idea, sir,” she replied. “No idea.”
The inspector t
ook her straight to Bartholomew’s study and left her there without further comment.
Duke was inside, standing behind the man’s desk and leafing through the papers there. He told her, “The basement has been cleaned out, both the room Lannia was killed in and the antechamber.”
“Cleaned out by whom?” she wondered.
“Inspector Moncrief,” he replied once Sam’s escort had descended back down the stairs. “Evidently, the man did not just pull a random assignment the night of the murder. He’s part of a task force that my father implemented some years ago. They hunt sorcerers, though Moncrief confided they’ve never actually found one. Still, they have some familiarity with the material and have been trained to handle it carefully. Mostly trained to not look at it, I suppose.”
“Your father confiscated everything that was below?” asked Sam slowly.
“Well, it couldn’t be left for anyone to find, could it?” questioned Duke, looking up from his papers. “You’d already looked over the items. I’m sure if you ask for further examination, my father will make the cache available to you.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I’m sure he will.”
She wondered just what Duke knew of his father’s interest in sorcery and if he knew how much of it was being shared with her. Certainly, Duke did not know that King Edward maintained Lilibet’s old lair at the bottom of the king’s tower. If Duke knew that, he would be beating down the steel gate to get inside, to understand his mother better and what had happened to her. There was nowhere he would find more clues, but Sam didn’t think the answers would give him any peace.
She asked him, “Did you find anything here?”
“Maybe,” he said. “It seems the marquess was a bit less careful than my uncle. This parchment has a list of names. Several of them have been recently identified as missing, and I assume they were the bodies found below.”
“And the others?”
“I thought we’d go have a chat with them,” he said. He gestured around the room. “We’ll finish tossing Surrey’s study and then go call upon the other names. Perhaps this list is planning for a benign social engagement. Perhaps it’s about a business venture. Perhaps it is more.”
Sam nodded, glancing at the list. “Who shall we visit first?”
“Two of them will be together this evening,” responded the peer.
Sam frowned.
“We’re going to crash their party,” explained Duke.
The Cartographer VI
Oliver drew a deep breath and then adjusted his neckerchief, pulling it snug around his collar and tucking down in front. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket and shifted, muttering at the thick starch on his shirt.
Sam, sitting across from him, merely shook her head. She was dressed as she always was — tight leather trousers, a simple shirt, and a buttoned, tailored vest. She’d arrived in the carriage court with a thick woolen cloak, but she’d discarded it so she could be ready for action. Then, Sam had made some rather rude comments about his attire.
“This is how peers dress for a dinner party?” she’d asked him. “I was afraid you’d gone a bit daft.”
“I don’t want to give us away until the last moment,” he’d claimed.
Rolling her eyes, Sam had not made further comment, but she’d made plenty of looks.
“You’re sure this Inspector Moncrief can be trusted?” Sam asked him.
Oliver shrugged. “He’s trusted by my father. I see no reason we should treat him differently.”
“He failed to spot your uncle,” mentioned Sam. “For a man assigned to a special task force looking for sorcerers and reporting directly to William Wellesley, that seems a rather large oversight, does it not?”
“No one suspected my uncle,” reminded Oliver. “Not even us.”
Sam grumbled to herself and settled back in the carriage. They were quiet until a sharp rap sounded on the wall of the vehicle from the driver’s seat outside. Sam stood, crouching to avoid the ceiling of the carriage, and offered a curt nod to Oliver.
“Good luck,” she whispered.
“Spirits bless you,” he replied as she opened the door and leapt out of the moving carriage into the dark night.
With the blast of cool air from outside, he tugged on his neckerchief again and then patted his sides, feeling beneath his long coat and dress coat where he’d secreted two gold-engraved katars. The short push daggers, with their H-shaped hilts, had been provided by Sam earlier that evening. They were formal-looking weapons, as if for display rather than use, but as he’d hefted the blades, he decided their sharp steel edges would get the job done, even if the gold filigree on the handles and the intricate designs on the blade made him feel a complete fool. Those designs, Sam had assured him, had the power to banish a lesser shade much the way her kris daggers did.
Eminently more practical than his broadsword, given their quarry. Not to mention, walking into the dinner party with the long blade of a broadsword swinging from his hip was crass, and this evening, he had a part to play.
The carriage slowed to a gentle stop, the brakes squealing in protest as they rubbed against the axles, and the door was opened by a uniformed footman, one of Inspector Moncrief’s men. The man should have waited until the contraption rocked to a complete stop, but Oliver shrugged and disembarked, nodding at the man. Two dozen more of the elite inspectors were scattered around the block wearing a variety of disguises, watching and waiting.
Sam would scuttle around to the back alley where the carriages were parked while their owners frolicked. She’d search the ones they suspected. Then she’d slip inside and begin to reconnoiter the house.
All they had was a list of names. One was a minor peer, one was a common, and after a frustrating attempt at research, one appeared to be a pseudonym. There was nothing to tie these people to sorcery except their tenuous association with Bartholomew Surrey and his missing companions. There could be plenty of innocent reasons one’s name might be on a list, so he and Sam would find what they could find, and if they proved any association with Surrey or sorcery, they would call Moncrief and his men to take the suspects into custody.
For once, Oliver had insisted they capture the suspected sorcerers and question them. Sam, always ready to draw her blades, had dropped her objections when he’d explained that questioning the suspected parties would be, by far, the most efficient way to determine if they had any other colleagues in the wind. If they killed them, they would never know, and both he and the priestess were tired of flailing about with no leads.
Leaving the carriage to the inspectors, Oliver ascended the wide stone stairs to the brightly lit front door of the townhouse. Inside, an attendant had evidently been watching for the arrival of the carriage, and the door was swept open before Oliver was three steps from it.
“Duke Oliver Wellesley?” asked the attendant, though there was little question in his voice.
Oliver nodded. “Care to announce me?”
The attendant performed his duties, and a titter of conversation rose as the gowned and suited peers turned to welcome the duke. A shiver of minor lordlings and ladies offered shallow bows and curtsies. He smiled broadly, forcing his lips open, and offered greetings to all, though he could not have named a single one of them. Finally, his host made his way through the herd and proffered his hand.
Oliver took it. “Avery Thornbush, it’s been… years, no?”
“Years, m’lord,” agreed the gaily dressed man. He wore a bright blue suit with a startling orange neckerchief. He had tall, gleaming black leather boots and a powdered wig that was pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck.
Oliver frowned for a brief moment, fighting the urge to run his hand back over his own hair, to feel the leather knot that held it back. Was Baron Thornbush aping his style in jest, or had Oliver inadvertently set off a trend amongst the young, stylish set of peers in Southundon? He shuddered at the thought.
“Something wrong, m’lord?” inquired Baron Thornbush.
“No, not at all,” assured Oliver, “and please, call me Oliver. M’lord makes me think I’m standing in my father’s throne room. I was merely trying to recall the occasion we last met.”
“Ah,” said the baron, touching a finger to his chin. “One of Lannia’s legendary fetes after the final curtain of the theatre season?”
“Of course,” said Oliver with a pained smile.
The baron either didn’t notice the effect that Lannia’s name had on Oliver, or he chose to ignore it. He gestured Oliver deeper into the room, through the thin line of minor peers, toward the center of the space where the more august party guests had gathered. The names poured over Oliver like a pitcher of water over a rock. He heard them, but he didn’t absorb any information about the introductions until Baron Thornbush got to Janson Cabineau.
“Cabineau?” asked Oliver.
“I hail from Finavia, m’lord,” said the man with a slight bend at his waist.
He gave Oliver an oily smile and drew himself up, preening like a peacock at the royal zoo. His suit was even more garish than Thornbush’s, and he’d adorned it with a silver lapel pin sparkling with diamond studs. Three interlocking triangles, a valknut, Oliver thought.
“An unusual item of jewelry,” remarked Oliver, staring at the man’s pin. Cabineau was a name on the list, but surely he wouldn’t be so obvious. “I don’t believe I’ve seen anything like it.”
“A bit of a personal sigil, m’lord,” explained Cabineau, showing a dazzling array of bright white teeth. “I’m afraid I’ve no claim to title, just what sharp dealing and a bold approach to opportunity have brought me. I’ve purchased land in Finavia, though, near where I was born. To commemorate the occasion, I had an artist render this design, and a jeweler set it with all of the sparkling stones I could afford at the time. It’s a statement, m’lord, though it may appear meagre by your own standards. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve come and how far I intend to go.”
