by A. C. Cobble
“Ho the Cloud Serpent,” yelled Sam. “Duke Wellesley is coming aboard. Prepare to sail. It’s time to go!”
“You did well, Oliver,” assured the king.
Oliver shook his head as he stalked back and forth in his father’s study.
“We lost the colony of Imbon but due to natural circumstances,” his father continued. “There is nothing Crown, Company, or Church can do about that. We lost… we lost Lilibet through internal machinations in the Darklands. Whatever she was involved in, it seems it had nothing to do with Enhover, yes? She abandoned us, her family! She was already gone, Oliver. There was nothing you could have done about that, either. She made her decision twenty years ago. We survived that, and we’ll survive this. Given those awful outcomes — which you could do nothing about — you still managed to salvage a stolen airship. You handled the loss of Imbon as adroitly as could be expected, and we know more of the Darklands than we ever have before. We’ll leave that possibility for another day, but gaining knowledge of our enemies is never an empty pursuit.”
“A failure, whether or not I could have prevented it, is still a failure,” declared Oliver.
“What happened, happened long ago,” replied the king. “Your care for your mother is touching, a noble sentiment, but it is time to move on.”
Oliver reached a hand toward his hair then stopped himself and forced his hand back by his side.
“The Crown needs you,” continued the king. “Your brothers are solid, dependable men. They’ve a talent for what they do, but they never would have discovered the hidden trove in Imbon. They never would have chased the Franklin’s Luck all the way to the Darklands, through the storm wall even, and then located the capital of that lost nation. Your brothers never would have done as you, and we need that! Enhover needs that! Your brothers and I need that in our family, Oliver. Twenty years ago, your mother made her choice. Now, it’s your time to choose.”
“You want me to be prime minister,” stated Oliver.
“I do,” confirmed the king.
“Running the ministry, the bureaucrats,” retorted Oliver. “The way you talk, that seems the province of my brothers. The ministry is made of solid, dependable men, is it not?”
The king laughed. “It is, which is why they need a dynamic leader to stir them to action. We suffered a great loss with William, even though it’s not publicly known just how far and dark his fall was. His sudden death, the recent calamities with sorcery returning to our nation… we need a strong hand guiding the functions of our government. We need you.”
“I’m no leader, Father,” claimed Oliver. “I’m as like to be caught in an ale sink or crawling out of a young woman’s window as I am behind a desk.”
“You led an airship crew into the Darklands and back,” remarked the king. “No one has done that for a generation. Your crew followed you there, Oliver. You are their leader, a good one, from what I understand.”
“I offered them a rich bribe,” argued Oliver. “Twenty years pay. For sailors, that sum will change their lives. Men would do much for an opportunity like that.”
“Changing their lives is only valuable to them if they live long enough to enjoy it,” said his father. “I’m told you also offered them a chance to leave their contracts early. Given their newfound wealth, how many of your sailors took the offer of an early retirement?”
Oliver crossed his arms over his chest and looked away.
“Those men and women are loyal to you,” said the king. “They sailed with you to Northundon, the Coldlands, and Imbon. They chased the Franklin’s Luck across unknown waters. They trusted you to guide them through that storm, and they were behind you in a battle with dragons of all things! You earned their loyalty, son, and they showed it by accompanying you to the most dangerous places in this world. And they’re still with you! That is the sort of inspiration Enhover needs to get us through this troubled time. That is why we need you!”
“Father…”
“Lilibet abandoned the Crown and her family,” barked the king. “Will you follow her path or mine?”
“That is unfair, Father,” complained Oliver.
King Edward leaned back in his seat. “It’s a dirty trick to get you to accept, but it’s not unfair. You’re a Wellesley, and we have a weight we must carry.”
“And what of sorcery, Father?” challenged Oliver. “Shall we abandon the investigation into the dark practice?”
“As prime minister, the inspectors are your purview,” reminded the king. “You may do with them as you see fit. I hope you’ll see fit to keep our shores clear of this darkness. You, more than anyone, has seen what terrible harvest such activities will reap. Who better than you to lead the inspectorate?”
Oliver grunted. It wasn’t the first time the old man had strong-armed an unwilling individual into serving the Crown. King Edward had prepared for this, and he’d pinned his son exactly where he wanted him. Aside from outright flight, Oliver wasn’t sure there was a way out.
Trying to think and buy himself time, he looked around his father’s study, at the piles of parchments, books, and scribblings, the mess of a man who spent his days reviewing proposals and complaints, studying history, and drafting solutions. His father had once been a sportsman, Oliver knew, but it’d been decades since the old man had been riding, much less participated in a hunt.
Edward had been a respectable fencer as well, and he and William were said to have spent a week each summer on slender ketches exploring the quiet areas of Enhover’s coast when they were young. His father had a taste for adventure once, but now, he cared only for the management of the empire. The loss of Northundon and the campaign in the Coldlands had changed the old man. Now, his sole concern was the empire and his family. One and the same. The Crown. Being a Wellesley came with great privilege and great cost.
His mother had ignored that. Could Oliver fault her if he did the same?
He turned to his father. “I’ll accept.”
“You made the right choice,” said Prince Philip. He raised his glass. “To our little brother becoming a man.”
Oliver snorted but raised his glass as well.
“Better you than I,” said John, clinking his goblet against Oliver’s. “I wouldn’t last a month listening to the droll reports from those dreadful under-ministers.”
“Thanks,” muttered Oliver.
“You’ll do well, little brother,” said Franklin, his face gaunt, his frame smaller than Oliver recalled. “It is good to see the position pass to someone we can trust. After William’s unfortunate demise, I wasn’t sure who Father would select. You, well, we had our worries about you in the past, did we not? But today, we are proud of you, Oliver.”
Franklin seemed to have aged five years over the last one, bowed under the demands of the eastern province and his penitent wife. They’d all changed, Oliver supposed. Perhaps him more than anyone, though he didn’t feel different. He was the same man he had been racing carriages through Finavia’s midnight streets, the same man who’d had a regular drink order and girl to accompany it in several of the Southlands’ finest gambling halls and brothels. He was the same man who’d boarded the rail to Harwick for an investigation. The same man who’d flown an airship south to face his treacherous uncle and then his mother. He was the same man, just in a different suit.
He tugged at the garment. A royal blue dinner jacket that was embellished with gold buttons and trim. Underneath it, he wore black trousers and a crisp, starched white shirt that felt more brittle than his wine glass. There’d been a gold neckerchief laid out for him as well, but he’d quickly tossed it into the fireplace. Winchester, his valet, had merely shaken his head when he’d spied the gleaming threads at the edge of the embers on the hearth. The two of them were going to have to get used to the formality of the palace’s tailors or train the uptight wretches to take a breath from time to time.
The tailors, the servants who tended to his room, the sycophants clustered around his father’s throne,
and every man and woman who worked in the halls of the ministry. Not a one of them had let down their guard for a moment. They had not even dared to crack a smile since he’d been announced as the next prime minister. Men and women he once could have trusted to share a jest and a laugh had the mien of weather-worn stone now.
“Why so glum?” asked John, putting a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I was jesting about how long I could last in the ministry. I’d make it two months, at least.”
Shaking his head at John, Phillip assured Oliver, “You’ll be fine, little brother. There’s very little to it, really. The King and the Congress of Lords establish the laws, and your only task is to uphold them. The Company and the military handle international affairs, of course, so I imagine tending to domestic matters will be quite simple.”
Attempting a weak smile, Oliver could only nod. Very little to it, simply following the rules, running an empire. Perfect.
“Are you four done in here?” asked their father from the doorway to the room they’d hidden away in.
“Just fortifying Oliver for his first official duties, Father,” said John, raising a glass.
“Ah,” said the king. He made as to step into the room, but his chief of staff, Edgar Shackles, caught his sleeve.
“The royal family is to be seen,” chided Shackles. “Isn’t that what you always tell me, m’lord?”
“I tell you that to push my sons out the door,” retorted the king. Sighing, he turned to them and waved them out. “Come on, then. If I must go, then you must as well. Our kingdom awaits.”
Like scolded children, the four brothers quaffed their drinks, sat down the glasses, and shuffled dutifully out the door into the hallway.
At the end of it, the sounds of music and gaiety bounced merrily down the corridor. The Spring Ball, the first public event since Oliver had been appointed prime minister. It had turned into a celebration for his promotion as well as the change in weather.
He was dreading the smiling faces, the eager hands outstretched to take his, the whispers in his ear hoping for favors, for special treatment, for attention. He was part of the ministry now, the engine of Enhover’s government. As a royal, he had been above the fray of conniving and rung climbing, but as a minister, he was fair game. He was the one they were all going to swarm around.
Edward Shackles fell in beside him as they marched toward the party. Leaning toward Oliver, he said quietly, “Baron Josiah Child left me the kindest letter today on his personal stationary, an invitation to join him for dinner. A baron inviting me to dinner? Such an honor.”
Oliver rubbed his bare chin. “Yes?”
“If Baron Child wants something, he asks your father,” said Shackles, “unless, of course, he thinks your father will say no. Then a man like him might befriend me and hope I could use my influence to get him what he wants.”
“And what does Josiah Child want?” asked Oliver, wincing as he anticipated the answer.
“Both of the twins are here in Southundon,” said Shackles. “You know why.”
“He wants me to court one of the girls, then?”
Shackles smiled. “You’re a settled man now, no longer an adventurer sailing over the far horizon. You’ve still got a treasure trove of Company stock, and as prime minister, you’re in position to grow that into a legendary fortune. Every man in the room with an eligible daughter would be happy for you to court her.”
“To be here this evening, the baron must have bought tickets for the rail the moment the announcement was made,” complained Oliver. “Bringing them here on such short notice, he’s treating his daughters like courses at a feast! Do you care for the pork or the fowl, m’lord?”
“You’ve sampled both, have you not?” questioned Shackles. “Apologies for my direct question, but are they not both tasty dishes?”
Oliver grunted.
“Before you become outraged at the way the man positions his daughters, you might think of how you’ve positioned them,” remarked Shackles dryly. He placed a hand on Oliver’s arm. “Not all of the tasks of the prime minister are unpleasant ones. This is a choice with no wrong answer. If you make such a fuss about spending time with those women, I cannot wait to see you meet with Salke in the sewage administration or Davidson in accountancy.”
Sighing, Oliver looked at the entrance to the ballroom ahead of them.
“Your father trusts my advice, and I hope you do as well,” continued Shackles. “A son of the king — the prime minister — is a man who ought to choose what he wants and lets the others fight over his leavings. It gets you what you want, for one, but also sets a precedent. The lords in the congress, the ministers, the merchants, they should expect you to take what you desire, and only then can they come scuttling out to pick over the rest. Do not allow some bold young man with a title and promise in the Company choose for you, m’lord. Pick one of the girls yourself. Either one will have you.”
They walked on, and just before the doorway to the grand ballroom, Oliver admitted, “You make a clearer point than my family has done.”
“Baron Josiah Child is no innocent lamb amongst the wolves,” said Shackles. “He’ll make a good grandfather to your children, but as his son-in-law, never turn your back on him.”
With that, Shackles stepped away.
Oliver drew a deep breath and followed his father and his older brothers into the ballroom.
“I saw a lively looking pub across the street,” Isabella said before her full lips closed around the heavy, silver spoon. When she brought it back out, it gleamed in the candlelight, each drop of soup sucked away. “My sister said you took her to a place like that once.”
Oliver shifted on the padded chair and coughed uncomfortably.
“It sounded fun,” Isabella purred, leaning close across the cloth-covered tabletop. “Surely just because you’ve been named prime minister you don’t intend to stop having fun.”
He sat down his spoon and picked up his wine. “A different kind of fun, perhaps.”
“Already prepared to settle down into your role, are you?” she asked with a laugh. “Oliver Wellesley, tamed by the ministry.”
“Tamed… I suppose that’s as good a term as any,” he muttered, glancing around the room.
It was filled with suited and wigged patrons, all speaking quietly over sumptuously prepared dishes, cradling wines that cost several months of a laborer’s wage. The staff was immaculately coifed, the place settings gleamed, and the tablecloths were spotless. It was a place to be seen. Dining with Isabella at such a place was as good as a formal announcement of their courtship. Tamed. Indeed.
“My father long lost hope I’d ever be tamed,” remarked the baroness, taking another spoonful of soup.
“I cannot imagine a man who could tame you, Isabella,” replied Oliver.
“And no woman could tame you,” claimed Isabella. “No amount of ministers, either. I’m sure it feels like an endless wave of stuffed jackets and feckless demands, but in time, you’ll mold the organization to you. They’ll figure out you’re a different man than your uncle, the Shackles, or anyone else they’ve served under. I daresay, the functionaries will appreciate the fresh air once they realize they’re allowed to breath it.”
Oliver smiled. “No need to flatter me, baroness.”
“I mean it honestly,” she said. “You’ve an adventurous side, which is why I’ve enjoyed our time together. You’ve a serious side as well, which is why I’d like to keep enjoying time together long into the future, if I had my choice.”
Oliver remained silent. He didn’t quite know what to say.
“You should know my intentions,” continued Isabella. “You are an honorable man and would not take advantage of a young woman like me, would you? I’ll stand beside you as long as you allow me, but I’m no longer the girl who is free to frolic as she pleases. I’m a woman now, and I must think of my future.”
He forced a smile onto his lips and glanced at the near empty carafe of wine at the side of the table
. “Shall we have another bottle, then, and talk of the future?”
“Yes,” she replied, her smile growing. “Perhaps the pub is more appropriate for a younger, wilder pair than us. We can still have fun, though, can we not? I know you were not vying for the position, but prime minister, Southundon… it does not have to be all bad, does it?”
Grinning, he nodded. “You are right, it does not have to be all bad. Baroness, I thank you for reminding me of that.”
“Please, call me Isabella,” she said. “I no longer want to be a baroness.”
“Of course,” he replied. “Let’s have that bottle of wine, shall we? Then perhaps I can give you a tour of my new rooms in the palace? No one will miss you, will they? Your father, Aria?”
“They know where I planned to be.”
The Priestess XI
Her fingers pressed against her eyes and she tried to rub away the fatigue. Hours, days? She didn’t know how long she’d been sequestered in the cramped, dark room at the bottom of the king’s tower. She’d been poring over Lilibet’s effects, trying to determine the reason for the woman’s flight, what goal the queen had been trying to achieve. Standing and stretching, wincing at the crack of her joints and the protest of her muscles, Sam looked around the room.
The bed was rumpled and unmade. She slept there in fits and starts, never more than an hour or two and only when her eyelids had grown so heavy she could no longer continue. There were dirty plates left on several surfaces where she’d brought food from the kitchens and never returned with the cutlery. Empty bottles of wine and pitchers flecked with dry ale foam were scattered like bodies fallen upon the battlefield. Half her candles had burned down, which wasn’t helping the strain on her eyes.
