Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1)

by Jon Messenger

  With the ice cleared, they were ushered into a building at the end of the flat rooftop. Stepping inside was like entering a sauna. The heat practically struck Simon physically, making him stagger. After exposure to the harsh wind outside, entering the building was a welcome relief.

  A sword-bearing guard stood at a table straight ahead and motioned for the two men to approach. As they reached his table, he gestured for them to place their bags on the table.

  “Paperwork please, gentlemen,” the guard said.

  Simon reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. As he unfurled the paper, the guard could see the ribbon and wax seal at the bottom. He didn’t need to read the page. Pressed into the center of the deep red wax was the royal seal.

  The guard immediately grew flustered, and he bowed his head respectfully. “Forgive me, Inquisitor.”

  “There’s nothing to be forgiven,” Simon said, clearly enjoying this aspect of his station as Royal Inquisitor. “You were merely doing your job. Now, I believe you were expecting us?”

  “Of course, sir,” the guard said. He spun on his heels and motioned excitedly toward another guard near the far door. “You have an escort awaiting you in the lower tunnels, Inquisitor. The governor is expecting you for dinner this evening.”

  The other guard approached, equally flustered. Simon gestured for Luthor to follow the arriving guard, and they approached the stairwell that would lead into the tunnels that ran beneath the city.

  The guard led the two men into a wooden elevator. When they were both safely inside, he pulled an extendable metal cage across the door and latched it into place. Reaching out, he pulled a lever that stood beside the door. Near its base, large, metal gears turned against one another as the elevator’s brake was released. It vibrated, and then shook roughly, as the gears above it began turning. They slowly descended toward the subterranean tunnels. Simon occupied himself by watching the hammered copper wall of the elevator shaft slowly glide past.

  “What about our other bags?” Luthor asked after he grew sufficiently bored with their descent.

  The guard looked to the shorter man. “A porter has already procured your bags. They will be waiting for you when you arrive at the governor’s estate.”

  Simon knew the answer to Luthor’s question before he had asked it but knew that the apothecary was likely just passing the time. Their trip on the zeppelin had been long from the capital, and the dreadfully slow elevator ride wasn’t the enthusiastic adventure he hoped it would be.

  He looked around, admiring the craftsmanship that went into the car itself. Small reliefs had been expertly carved into the wood, leaving intricate patterns throughout each of the three main sides of the elevator car. The electric light hanging above them was encased in frosted glass, diffusing the harsh light. In another setting, the ride would have been a remarkable display, as Simon was sure the governor had intended it to be. Unfortunately, the capital was full of technological wonders, the least of which seemed to be the pulley-operated elevator.

  The guard looked at the Royal Inquisitor, and Simon offered a smile he hoped expressed that he was pleased. The truth was that he would have much preferred taking the stairs down the four or five flights. In the time they had ridden the elevator, he could have been in the tunnels and halfway to the governor’s estate. Sadly, he realized, pomp and circumstance often took priority over practicality.

  After seemingly an eternity, the moving wall in front of them gave way and exposed the worked stone of the underground passageway. The elevator came to rest on the hard ground with a jarring stop and the guard unlatched the metal door, sliding it aside. Simon nodded to the man before stepping out of the car.

  The reception beyond the door was more than Simon would have preferred. A precession of gubernatorial guards stood at attention on either side of the tunnel, their livery emblazoned with the governor’s crest. A bespectacled man stood in the middle of the passageway, calmly adjusting the cufflinks that protruded from the ends of his charcoal-colored suit. He wore a bowler cap, tilted low in the front so that the brim nearly touched the frame of his glasses. Seeing Simon and Luthor, the man approached and extended his hand.

  As Simon shook the man’s hand, the governor’s liaison introduced himself. “It’s an honor to have you visiting our humble town, gentlemen. My name is Patrick Mulvane, advisor to the governor. He apologizes for not being able to meet you in person but his responsibilities often keep him indisposed.”

  “Inquisitor Whitlock,” Simon said, making introductions. “This is my assistant, Luthor Strong.”

  Patrick arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Just the two of you, then? I was told a team of Royal Inquisitors would be responding to our request.”

  Simon placed his hands on his hips, feeling slighted at the insinuation that he and Luthor alone would be inadequate. “Mr. Strong and I are a team. The Inquisitors, too, are often so busy as to be indisposed when help is requested. Be glad that you received a response at all.”

  Patrick noticed the acidic tone and realized he had overstepped his bounds. “My apologies, sir. Perhaps it would be best if I led you to the estate.”

  “Perhaps that would be for the best.”

  Patrick led the way. As Simon and Luthor fell into step behind the man, the guards turned and followed, flanking the small group. Simon glanced at the heavily dressed guards with passing interest. The men kept their gazed locked straight before them, not bothering with a glance toward the two visiting dignitaries. Sabers bounced against their hips as they walked. Each of the guards held a flintlock rifle, the barrels of which rested against the men’s shoulders, allowing for a regular arm swing while they walked.

  Despite the swaying weapons, Simon nodded approvingly as he read the thin, metal plates affixed to the barrels of the rifles.

  “What do you see?” Luthor asked, knowing the Inquisitors propensity for noticing minute details.

  “They’re carrying Renault flintlock rifles,” Simon replied. “They’re an exquisite brand. The boring in the barrel is practically unmatched for ball-firing rifles.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, sir,” Luthor remarked, “but they have a price that matches their craftsmanship. Unless I’m mistaken, of course.”

  Simon shook his head. “You’re not mistaken. Clearly, the governor spares no expense when it comes to his employees. It already tells me much about the man we are to meet.”

  The tunnel from the elevator merged into a wider passage. Like the one they had just left, the tunnel was smooth, polished stone, with lacquered wood support struts set intermittently throughout the corridor. Naked bulbs dangled from wires overhead and exposed copper cables ran across the ceiling, providing power to the long string of lights. Between the bulbs were oil-burning fires that provided pools of warmth to the cold, stone passageway. Simon alternated shivering from the chill and feeling bothered by the intense heat as they passed underneath the heat lamps.

  Unlike the street above, the tunnels were alive with people and foot traffic. Wagons bounced merrily along the cobbled corridor floor and more people flooded from merging side passages.

  “These tunnels are remarkable,” Luthor said as he examined the craftsmanship of the smooth, chiseled walls.

  Patrick glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “These tunnels were once a cave system that existed before the city was built. They extend beneath the entire city and beyond. Once they were discovered, they were smoothed and reinforced. Now they serve as a refuge for the citizens during particularly severe winter storms, when even our walls can’t hold back the winter winds and massive snowdrifts.”

  “Remarkable,” Luthor muttered again.

  Simon looked over to his friend, who seemed enthralled with the architecture. “I wish I knew how long it would take before we can delve fully into our work.”

  Luthor looked over, and his eyes came back into focus. He coughed faintly to clear his throat. “We’ll be required to have dinner with the governor at a minim
um, as decorum dictates. Beyond that, I believe we’ll be at his mercy.”

  “Forgive my prying,” Patrick interjected, “but the governor does indeed have a dinner planned for you both. He’s invited a number of local dignitaries to help welcome you to our land and to show his appreciation.”

  Simon reached up and ran his hand along his thin moustache. “Will Gideon Dosett be one of those dignitaries?”

  “I should assume so,” the advisor replied. “Mr. Dosett is one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Haversham.”

  “Where would I call on Mr. Dosett if I wished to speak to him during my investigation? Does he live near the governor’s estate?”

  If Haversham were anything like the capital, then every noble would have their residence near the ranking royal as they jockeyed for political favor.

  “You wouldn’t have to go far at all,” Patrick explained. “Mr. Dosett was actually recently granted quarters within the estate.”

  Simon frowned and exchanged glances with Luthor. Though Haversham’s governor was only a far distant cousin of the king, he was still a royal. Opening his home to a businessman, even one clearly as influential as Dosett, was unusual.

  Simon noticed many of the pedestrians in the tunnel moved hastily out of the way at the sight of the governor’s advisor and guards. They eyed Simon warily from their places as he passed, as though untrusting.

  The din of conversation grew as it echoed along the stone walls. Their tunnel suddenly opened into a massive, rounded hub, where a half dozen other tunnels converged into an underground marketplace. Vendor stalls were erected around the walls of the room, and merchants hawked their wares to the people who passed by.

  Looking up, he could see the ceiling arched overhead as though forming a natural dome. Sunlight spilled from the top, which was open to the air above. A soft, white snow fell through the gap, collecting in a pile that was illuminated by the shaft of light from the surface. The snow melted quickly near the mounted heaters, and its water collected in vats submerged into the floors nearby.

  Patrick led them across the room to a staircase carved into the stone. It was a much narrower passage, requiring the guards to follow single file behind the group. The stairwell twisted as it rose, and Simon could feel the cool breeze blowing through the passage. Though he had felt uncomfortable under the intense heat of the overhead lamps in the tunnel, he immediately longed for their warmth as the wind blew over him. Patrick seemed unfazed by the biting chill as he led the way. Soon, natural sunlight filtered over the rocks, illuminating the passage ahead.

  The stairs ended at an open doorway, its glass doors propped open, that led out onto a wide, cobblestone street in the city. Though it seemed that the majority were wandering through the tunnels below, Simon found the surface streets equally busy as people moved from store to store, purchasing provisions.

  People walked with a stoop, huddled in their thick jackets and fur-lined boots. Their carried groceries were tucked under their arms as they hurried home before their fresh-baked bread froze in the arctic air. Simon could feel the breeze blowing across him. It cut through his jacket and straight to his bones. He knew that the wind beyond the city wall was much worse as it howled down from the mountains and across the plains. He was glad that the majority of the wind was kept at bay by the walls, but he and Luthor were from a much more temperate region of the continent. He was woefully unprepared for the cold this far north.

  “The wind can be difficult to adjust to,” Patrick said, noting Simon’s discomfort. “You do eventually grow accustomed to it.”

  Simon looked over to Luthor and wasn’t surprised to see the man shivering uncontrollably. “You have a keen mind, Luthor, but you lack the constitution for winter.”

  Luthor frowned as he looked at his friend. “With all due respect, sir, this is why I’ve repeatedly insisted that we investigate reports only from the southern coast.”

  Simon laughed as he followed Patrick onto the street. Their walk was blissfully short. At the end of the lane, the road ended at a wrought-iron gate. It was already open, offering a view of the palatial estate that sat in the middle of the city. Turrets rose from the corners of the three-story building. Balconies protruded from most of the open windows, culminating with a giant terrace that covered much of the third floor, where the building itself was recessed. Stone gargoyles sat perched at any exposed corners, adding to the opulence of the manor house.

  Though Simon was loathed to admit it, he was impressed. He had assumed that the governor had been assigned to this distant outpost because he was of low standing, despite the royal blood in his veins. He would have expected to see a more subdued home, one fitting the governor’s station. The home before him rivaled many of the mansions owned by royals in line for the throne.

  Valets opened the doors to the mansion as they approached, and the glittering chandelier that hung in the vaulted foyer entranced Simon. Light filtered through the thousands of crystals, casting dancing droplets of light that sparkled on the floor.

  A footman approached and took Patrick’s jacket before extending his arm for Simon and Luthor’s as well. The men removed their thick jackets and draped them over the man’s arm before he retreated into a nearby parlor.

  A line of maids and footmen stood at rapt attention before the stairwell that curved gently to the second floor. Patrick paused before the butler, a stout man who looked to be in his mid-forties.

  “Mr. Archibald,” the advisor said. “Is everything in order?”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler responded with a polite nod of his head.

  “Excellent. Let me introduce you to the Royal Inquisitor and his assistant. They will be our guests until such a time as their investigation into this dreadful werewolf business is completed.”

  That was the first time Simon had heard anyone else mention the beasts. He gauged the reaction of the staff and was surprised to see many of them involuntarily cringe in fear. He frowned at the obvious superstitious lot and felt more justified that his investigation would debunk yet another legend of yore.

  “Very good, sir,” the butler replied.

  Patrick returned to the two men who stood just inside the doorway with their shoes dripping melting snow onto the hardwood floor.

  “The governor will see you for dinner promptly at seven,” he told them. “If you have any needs or wants, please let Mr. Archibald know. He and his staff are among the best you will find.”

  “Thank you for your generosity,” Simon said.

  With a bow, Patrick turned and disappeared into an adjoining room.

  The butler introduced Simon and Luthor to the wait staff that would take them to their rooms. The footmen offered to carry their few remaining bags but Luthor adamantly refused, clinging tightly to his doctor’s case.

  They were led up the stairwell and onto the second floor. The walls were flourished with flowered wallpaper. Simon could smell potpourri seeping from underneath the closed doors that they passed, adding to the illusion of springtime in the land of perpetual winter.

  When they reached the end of the hall, Simon’s guide led him to the left while Luthor went to the right.

  “See you at dinner then?” Simon asked as the footman unlocked and opened the door to his room.

  “I’ll knock on your door shortly before seven, if that’s all right,” Luthor replied.

  Simon nodded and the two men parted, entering their respective suites. As part of his station as an Inquisitor, Simon had grown accustomed to being housed in large rooms. The size of the suite in which he found himself took his breath away. The door opened onto a living room, beyond which double glass doors led to one of the many balconies around the building. His bedroom and washroom were separated, with doorways leading to each on his right.

  “I hope everything is in acceptable order for you, sir,” the footman said.

  “Everything is… remarkable.”

  “Very good, sir. Is there anything else you require?”

 
Simon shook his head. He fetched a silver coin from his coat pocket and handed it to the man. The footman backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Walking into the room, Simon glanced into the bedroom and was pleased to see his leather bag already resting on a chest at the foot of his bed. He walked past the leather couch and pulled open the double doors. Stepping out onto the balcony, he admired the view. The squat buildings of the city were sprawled before him, their rooftops glistening as the sunlight reflected off the snow. It was a magical view, ruined only by another strong breeze that washed over him. Without his thick jacket, he felt his muscles seize in revolt. Simon hurried back inside, shutting the doors before he rushed over to the burning fireplace.

  As his body warmed again, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Knowing he only had an hour before Luthor would call on him, he walked into the bedroom and began preparing for dinner.

  Simon looked in the mirror. He tilted his head from side to side, examining his coifed hair, held in place by an obscene amount of hair grease. He pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it along the side of his head, smoothing out a stray strand of hair.

  He had changed into a more formal suit for the dinner, leaving behind his pistol but retaining his pocket watch. He pulled the silver piece from his vest pocket and checked the time, frowning when he saw that it was nearly seven already. He tucked it away and walked to his suite’s front door. As he pulled it open, he startled Luthor as the diminutive man exited his own room.

  Luthor had tried his best to tame his wild mane of curly hair, but to no avail. Large curls stood out defiantly from where he had tried to smooth them against his head, and they draped over the upper half of his trimmed muttonchops.

  “I thought you were going to knock on my door well in advance of our dinner reservation?” Simon chided.