by A. C. Cobble
“Calm down, girl,” whispered a comforting voice. “The stitches are still fresh, and if you go on like that, you’ll rip them open again.”
Sam stilled, eyeing the dark shape. Goldthwaite? It didn’t sound like her.
“Mistress will have me flayed if you end up bleeding out,” complained the voice, which definitely did not belong to Goldthwaite. “Told me to keep you company. Told me ‘cause she trusts me to care for you. All of my customers leave happy after all.”
“Every customer leaves every flophouse happy,” cried a woman from the other side of the bed. “You ain’t doing anything that everyone else in this building doesn’t do every night.”
Sam turned, seeing another dark shape looming closer out of the shadows. Two of Goldthwaite’s girls, she realized. Fallen women.
“Everything I do?” snarled the first woman. “If you did everything I do, why they lined up outside of my door every night and you’re always down on the floor trolling for drunks?”
“Half the time, the drunks can’t get it up, but they pay just the same,” guffawed the second woman. “I get paid the same for half the work. Besides, they ain’t lined up outside your door ‘cause you got some special talent. They lined up ‘cause they’ll give you a few copper shillings, and you’ll let ‘em do anything. If the mistress knew you was offerin’ the full menu without making the customers pay the full bill, she’d toss you out on the streets!”
“You tell her that, and I’ll strangle you with your own hair!” snarled the first woman.
Sam, slowly recovering her senses, realized she was lying directly in the middle of an impending whore fight.
“Go ahead and try it, you two copper—”
“Can someone fetch me some water,” rasped Sam. “I’d really appreciate it, and I’d like to talk to the mistress when I can.”
Snorting, the second woman removed her hands from Sam’s shoulders and stomped to the side of the room where she splashed water into a filthy-looking earthenware cup.
The first woman said, “The mistress isn’t on her feet yet, girl. Took a lot out of her, doing what she did.”
Sam blinked. “Out of her? I’m the one who… What do you know of what she did?”
“We know Goldthwaite’s secret, girl,” said the second woman, returning with the cup. “She’s a seer. She, well, I don’t know all of the details, but I know she musta communed with the spirits on your behalf. It pains her to do so, you know? Takes a lot of strength from her. She’ll get right, though. She always does.”
“Aye. The beggar took the brunt of it,” agreed the first woman.
“The beggar?” asked Sam.
Both women stared down at her.
“The old man,” realized Sam.
“Cost him his life,” said the first fallen woman, “if you can call what he was living a life. Hope it was worth it, girl, whatever it was the mistress did.”
The women moved away, and Sam laid back, the cup of water untouched. The beggar, the old man, he was dead?
Two days later, as best Sam could judge in the dimly lit room, Goldthwaite finally came shuffling in. The mistress — the seer, Sam supposed she should think of her — looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Her eyes had the haunted look of one who has seen too much and knows she will do so again.
“Well, you lived,” offered Goldthwaite.
“The old man did not?” Sam questioned.
Goldthwaite shook her head. “I was worried he wouldn’t. He was old, and the feedback from what the blade did when it pierced your flesh would have been extraordinary. The heart of a man that age isn’t as strong as ours.”
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t get sassy with me, girl,” growled the mistress. “I’ll show you the back of my hand just as quickly as I would one of my girls. You’ll find I’m young enough for that.”
Nobly, Sam remained quiet.
“We severed the connection,” continued Goldthwaite. “The taint of the great spirit may waft around you for a bit, detectable by anyone attuned, but it has no hold upon your soul any longer. Shortly, even the aura will fade to nothing. I would avoid any encounter with Ca-Mi-He, of course. Even though you are no longer bound together, it’s possible the great spirit could remember you.”
Sam nodded. She hadn’t planned on contacting Ca-Mi-He, regardless of a previous affiliation. “Who was he?”
“The beggar?” asked Mistress Goldthwaite. “He was someone I once knew, but now, he is no one.”
“Everyone is someone,” retorted Sam.
“He is no one.” Goldthwaite gestured to the blankets near Sam’s waist. “You ought to be able to travel within a few days. The girls did their best to patch you up, but I recommend you stop by the royal physician to be certain there is no infection or missed stitches.”
“I owe you,” said Sam.
“You do,” agreed Goldthwaite, her braids bouncing around her face as she nodded.
Frowning, Sam asked her, “What do you want?”
“I want you to stay away from Kalbeth,” replied the seer. “The great spirit wasn’t the only shadow trailing in your wake. Your soul is steeped in darkness, Samantha. It runs through you like a river. I can see it growing, and you’re drawing it to you, filling your soul with the cold of the underworld. I’d tell you to shed the darkness, to embrace the light and the current of life, but your mentor has told you that before. I won’t waste my breath. Instead, all I ask is that you stay away from my daughter.”
“Who are you to judge?” cracked Sam. “You and Kalbeth both dabble in the underworld.”
“I am a mother,” responded Goldthwaite. “I am a mother looking out for her daughter. If you have any care for her, Samantha, stay away. Do not take her down this dark path that you walk.”
“I’m not walking the dark path,” insisted Samantha.
Goldthwaite clutched her hands together in front of her and said, “Two days, and you should be able to travel. I’ve a business to run, and I expect you to be out of this room at that time, unless you’ve a mind to take on customers.”
“Don’t ask me to—”
“Swim the current of life?” interjected Goldthwaite.
Sam gaped at the mistress.
“It’s no different than what you do for free, is it?” continued Goldthwaite. “I chose to get something out of it for myself, to make something and leave a legacy for my daughter. You should think about that, what legacy you’ll leave behind.”
“I—”
Goldthwaite shook her head. “You and your mentor, always chasing shadows. You might as well be chasing your tails. Years ago, I thought that you might be the one for Kalbeth, her anchor in life, her way of staying free of the pull of the shroud. You could have been, as your mentor and I were for each other, but you would rather be chasing those shadows, never slowing long enough to understand what it is you seek. At the cost of a man’s life, we peeled the one shadow from your wake, but there are others. It’s best if you leave, girl, and forget about Kalbeth. If you need me, you know where to find me, but send a messenger. I want nothing to do with the Church or the Crown.”
Sam, speechless, watched as the mistress turned and exited the room.
The Cartographer XV
“The men?” he asked Captain Ainsley, who stood on the other side of his desk looking around his new offices curiously.
“They’re content,” she replied. “Word got out about your generous bonus, so the pleasure houses laid out the carpets for them. Women, drink, smoke, everything a black-hearted sailor could desire.”
Oliver grunted.
“Don’t worry, m’lord,” she said. “I’ll let them have their fun for a day or two and then dry them out. I was thinking about doing some training expeditions to break in the new hires next week. A little fresh air on their faces will sort them.”
“And no one has left my service?” he asked.
“You’re paying them twice the going rate for crew, now,” she reminded. “Th
ey’ve been lined up the airship bridge trying to hire on.”
Oliver smirked. “I thought it was adventure that drew the lads and lasses to the open skies.”
“Aye, it is,” agreed Ainsley, stooping to pull a small statue from a box on the floor. “Is this solid gold?”
“Probably,” said Oliver. “This was William’s office. I haven’t had time to toss out his effects yet.”
“A bit morbid, isn’t it, taking over the place?” questioned the captain, weighing the statue in her hands.
“It was easier than explaining to every man and woman in the ministry why I would want new offices,” responded Oliver. “If it’s adventure that calls our crew to the skies, why are they staying? They know we aren’t making for the Westlands now, right? Domestic flights, perhaps a few excursions to the United Territories, but nothing farther. My scope has no room for international diplomacy, and I’m afraid there’s going to be very little in the way of excitement.”
“With you, m’lord, I doubt that,” remarked Ainsley, looking at him like she was scolding a naughty cat. “But, as it turns out, while a thirst for adventure may drive a man to raise a sail and seek the horizon, sterling silver is all that it takes to keep him on our crew.”
Oliver snorted.
“You mind if I take this?” asked Ainsley, holding up the golden statue.
“Take it?” barked Oliver.
“You’re just going to throw it out, aren’t you?” challenged the captain. “I’ll get it out of your way. One less thing to look at from your uncle.”
“It’s solid gold, Captain,” he said. “That statue is worth a year of your pay.”
“Rather ugly at that price,” she complained.
“Put the statue down, Captain Ainsley,” said Oliver. “It will go into the king’s treasury along with the rest of William’s valuables, but if you want a chance to earn some sterling, I’ll fund an expedition and give you, ah, a quarter share. Crew’s bonuses to come from your bit. Make your training exercise a trip to Ivalla. It’s offseason for the vineyards there. This time of year, the undercapitalized vintners start having financial troubles. Spend a little time in the wine sinks, find out who’s struggling, who’s offering barrels on the cheap, and then offer to buy up a portion of that estate’s stores. Rent a warehouse and fill it up. We wait a year and then sell the stock for three to four times what you paid. If you can be patient, that will earn yourself and I both a tidy profit. It’s a good chance to let the men show what they’re capable of before it matters.”
“Aye, that’s what I thought,” said Ainsley. “When it matters. What are you thinking, m’lord? Another foray down to the Darklands? There have been rumors the king…”
He frowned. “It’s just a saying, Captain. I’m the prime minister now, a proper, settled gentleman. Isn’t that what they’re saying in the city?”
Ainsley winked. “If you say so, m’lord. Let me know if anything comes up the next few days. Otherwise, I’ll take your advice, sail the Cloud Serpent over to Ivalla, and buy us some wine. Good practice, ey?”
He rolled his eyes and waved for his captain to be dismissed.
The moment she left, a thin-faced man poked his head in. “The baroness inquired about supper this evening, m’lord, and perhaps a night at the theatre?”
“Supper, yes,” he said, looking grim-faced at the stack of parchment on his desk. “Bah, we need to be seen in public. The theatre as well. Arrange a mechanical carriage for us this evening, will you, Herb— Shackles?”
“It’s Herman, m’lord,” said his assistant with a grin. “I know you’re used to speaking to my brother, Herbert. A curse on my father for naming us near the same.”
“You look just like your brother,” remarked Oliver.
“Only a year apart, m’lord,” said the man. He winked. “Must have been a quiet year in the empire for my father to be spending so much time with my mother.”
Oliver smiled at his new chief of staff. “Indeed.”
“I’ll send a response to the baroness, m’lord,” said the man. “I’ll arrange the carriage and tickets as well. Best seats available, of course?”
“Yes, something in one of the better boxes. Thank you,” agreed Oliver.
Herman Shackles glanced over his shoulder and said, “President Goldwater has just arrived, m’lord. Shall I send him in?”
“Please,” said Oliver, rubbing his face with both hands.
The white-haired President of the Company strolled into the room, an amused grin on his lips. “Duke Wellesley, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so glum. Is service in the ministry that bad already?”
Oliver snorted. “What can I do for you, Goldwater?”
Alvin Goldwater shook his head and took a seat across from Oliver’s desk. “Nothing at the moment. The Company incurs favor whenever we can, and we hold our chips until we need to use them. I came to give you an update on some of our affairs and offer a bit of friendly advice.”
“An update on Company affairs?” asked Oliver.
“While you’re no longer a managing partner, you do have a substantial ownership in several of our expeditions. Imbon, as you know better than I, is a total loss. The Southlands are productive still, and we’ve never had better luck in the atoll than we did this last year. Recently, we have the other chartered companies to contend with in the Vendatts and the United Territories. They’ve grown rather aggressive, so we’re opening inquiries into, ah, lesser markets. We want to force these upstarts out of business. The directors have found that with Imbon gone, we have more ships than we do profitable trade routes.”
“Hams. Salted ones,” said Oliver with a wave of his hand. “There was a man importing hams from Finavia to Enhover. I’m told he’d nearly cornered the market and was making a rather tidy profit. Janson Cabineau. He’s dead now. It won’t replace Imbon, but it will keep a few of our freighters busy.”
“I thank you, m’lord,” murmured Goldwater. “I wouldn’t have thought the President of the Company and the Prime Minister of the Empire would ever have need to discuss importing hams, but it’s where we are. The Company is on firm footing, but we took a grave loss in Imbon. Ah, on that subject, have you heard anything about your father requesting compensation for the damage the royal marines suffered? Several hundred men and, worse, an airship… Thank the spirits you recovered the other. Admiral Brach evidently brought up fair consideration to a Company man at a social engagement. No formal request, you understand, but I’ve no doubt he’ll be bringing it to the king.”
“You don’t need anything, ey?” Oliver laughed. “Don’t worry, Goldwater. If it comes up, I’ll knock it down. The Crown took the risk sending our marines, and we’ll bear the cost of that decision. Coming back to partners and demanding payment is not the way the Crown will conduct her business. We’ll stick with the terms as they were initially agreed.”
President Goldwater smiled. “Already filling William’s shoes. I don’t doubt you’ll do a far better job than he. He had a firm hand, and he represented the Crown’s interests loyally, but he was not bold. Not like you. It was always your father who pushed Enhover ahead. When Philip sits the throne, it will be you who keeps us growing. Your father startles me sometimes. He seems such a bookish sort, but he is wise, and his strategy of expansion has paid incredible dividends. Perhaps there’s something to all of that study he does.”
“No need for the flattery,” remarked Oliver.
Goldwater winked. “I wanted to soften you up for the next discussion, the Westlands.”
“You want to lower my share?” queried Oliver.
“Not yet,” replied Goldwater, shifting in his chair. “We raised it, you recall, in consideration of your leadership, your airship, and your work with the Crown. If, ah, if you mean to continue service as prime minister…”
“I’ll take a five percent share,” said Oliver. “I’m no longer in position to serve as the cartographer and leader on the expedition, but I can still manage the politi
cal side of things. I believe the Company ought to handle the financing and the material needs as I’m no longer directly involved, but if additional financial backing is required, we can discuss along the usual terms.”
The Company president nodded, pinching his chin, appearing to do a quick calculation. “That is fair.”
“Do you have another selected to lead the voyage?” wondered Oliver.
“Not yet,” admitted Goldwater. “I wanted to establish a gentleman’s agreement with you, m’lord, before we began organizing the logistics, and to be honest, that might take some time. We may be speaking further about resources. At the moment, our sights are on the tropics and re-establishing our presence in those seas. Only then will we gaze westward again. When we do, you’ll be amongst the first to know. Thank you for agreeing to the change, m’lord. With more shares available, we can attract the right sort when it’s time to launch.”
“Understood,” said Oliver.
“One other thing,” said Goldwater. “What I hope is a happy piece of advice. William and his predecessor were both members of the Hunt Club. A comfortable place to get a drink, yes, but even better, it is a place you can find Enhover’s dignitaries but not its functionaries.” Goldwater leaned forward and tapped his finger on the sheaf of papers sitting on Oliver’s desk. “When you need a break from this, or you need to conduct some business outside the watching eyes of the denizens of the ministry, come by the club. As prime minister and a duke, I’m certain the membership will vote your way in a heartbeat, and if they don’t, I’ll make sure that they do.”
“I appreciate that, President Goldwater,” acknowledged Oliver.
“Alvin,” replied the Company’s president. Then he stood, nodded, and left.
Oliver was standing to pour himself a drink when Herman Shackles poked his head back into the room. “Bishop Constance, m’lord. She’s here from Ivalla. She’s—”
“I know who she is,” he muttered, sitting back down. “Send her in.”
The Priestess XII
