by A. C. Cobble
“I told you when we first met,” she replied, “that I seek knowledge. I would do much to get it.”
The elder rubbed his chin with one hand while the other disappeared in the folds of his robe. “I see that. This book, it contains the knowledge you want?”
“I don’t know what it contains,” she admitted. “I was not specific on which volume the boy should return with.”
“Then why this?” asked the old man, his voice rasping like steel on leather, his free hand gesturing to encompass her body. “Some seekers do not obtain knowledge because they are unwilling to sacrifice. Others are willing to sacrifice everything but do not know their own value. They never achieve true wisdom because when the stakes grow high, they have nothing left to offer.”
“I would not do this for the book alone, but if I am to sacrifice, I must know what for. I want to know how serious the Feet of Seheht is. How serious you are,” replied Isisandra. “I want to know if I am wasting my time, moving through your ranks, or if there is something of value worth pursuing in this society. Are you merely pretenders, elder?”
Marcus, the stolen book placed strategically over his crotch, made an unlikely claim. “Elder, this is not what it looks like.”
The elder chuckled then instructed, “Silence, boy.”
“If your knowledge has value, then what lengths will you go to protect it when someone breaks the rules?” questioned Isisandra. “You threatened my parents, but they were already dead. What happens when a living member shares your secrets?”
“Your parents were members in the Feet of Seheht. You’ve met Redmask,” responded the elder. “You must have some idea of what it means to join the master’s ranks in our organization, the wisdom and responsibility it brings. You, with your pedigree, should understand that.”
“You met Redmask?” quaked Marcus.
Both the elder and Isisandra ignored him.
“I know my parents’ were masters in the Feet of Seheht, though they kept much of their learnings to themselves,” responded Isisandra. “They taught me enough that I know Redmask is not of this place. He is beyond it. He has true power. Do you as well?”
“I will not deceive you,” murmured the elder. “Redmask is beyond us, now. He was once one of us, though. The path to that exalted position led through this building.”
“Redmask was a member of the Feet of Seheht?” gasped Marcus. “I never knew that. Who—”
The elder, moving with confident grace that hid incredible speed, lashed out with the hand that had been hidden inside of his robes. A blade, black obsidian glass, whipped across the neck of the seated man, a spray of blood following the motion.
Marcus gasped then gurgled. Blood pumped from his neck as he struggled to breathe, and the air whistled through the gaping wound in his throat. Isisandra felt droplets of blood splatter on her bare skin, expelled from the man’s frantic attempts at breath. She and the elder watched patiently as Marcus died.
“Are you satisfied, Initiate?” asked the elder.
“I am satisfied you are willing to do much to protect your secrets and bring me into the fold,” she responded. “I am not satisfied at being an initiate. You know that my parents taught me much. I do not need to spend months pretending to learn the script of the Darklands or memorizing some foolish incantation that we both know is a farce. My proficiency is far beyond that of an initiate or even an adept in this society.”
“An initiate, certainly,” agreed the elder. “An adept, yes, I think you are likely correct, but you are no master, girl. You have a long path to obtain that rank.”
“What does it take, then, to advance?” She turned to face the elder, letting his rheumy eyes dance over her naked, blood-speckled body. Young or old, all men were the same, she thought. “I am willing to do anything.”
The old man studied her and did not respond.
“I need a mentor,” she claimed.
He smiled. “I know you well enough to understand the mentor you want is Redmask, but he will not take you as an apprentice, no matter what you offer him.”
“Why not?”
“A true mentor has much to give to an apprentice, but for the arrangement to work, the apprentice must provide something back in return, something valuable,” answered the elder. “None of us truly on the path pursue it out of charity. We study, we experiment, we sacrifice — for power. For Redmask to take you as an apprentice, you must help him achieve more power. But, girl, you have nothing he desires. Nothing that will help him ascend to a rank above… above even my knowledge of what is possible.”
“There was one thing he asked of me,” retorted Isisandra.
“What?” queried the elder. “What did Redmask ask of you?”
“That is something I would only share with my mentor,” responded Isisandra. “Hopefully, that would be someone who values a clue into Redmask’s activities and values what I can bring to the relationship.”
The elder smiled and nodded. “You are cunning, girl. I will give you that. Few your age are as skilled as you at walking the knife’s edge. I warn you, though, it is a knife’s edge. Danger lies on either side of the blade, and even if you do not fall from your path, you will be hurt walking it. Is that really what you want?”
“I will do anything,” she said. She shifted, drawing his attention back to her naked body. “My parents were killed because they sought knowledge, the same knowledge I seek. If they had reached the end of the path and gained true power, perhaps they would still live. Redmask found their betrayer and helped to bring him justice. Or… maybe he did not.”
“A very dangerous path,” murmured the elder. “Very dangerous indeed.”
“You must have known Redmask when he was a member of the Feet of Seheht,” replied Isisandra. “You knew him when he passed you in the ranks, when he exceeded your achievements in the society, but walking the path is a long race, is it not? It is not over until death.”
The old man smiled at her. “Sometimes not even then. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To walk a dangerous path.”
The Cartographer XVII
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Philip. “I was worried you wouldn’t be here.”
Oliver shrugged uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Prince Philip snorted and leaned on the stone balustrade. He looked down at the milling peers on the dance floor below them, at the gentlemen with their heads covered in delicately powdered wigs, necks bound in silk ties, long tails on their coats and the ladies, their faces dusted with rouge, hair piled high, gowns cut low. They moved on a sea of bubbling conversation, snatching glasses of the finest sparkling wine from Finavia or the rich blood-red varietals from Ivalla off passing trays borne by a veritable army of servants. On the edges of the floor, tables were heaped with mounds of delicacies that the kitchen staff had been laboring over since before dawn — fresh shellfish hauled straight from the sea, steaming meat pies, herbed-lamb shanks, vegetables swimming in rich sauces, and piles of buttered rolls and loafs.
Three dozen musicians stood on risers at the end of the hall, playing softly for now. As the evening wore on, their play would grow louder, and eventually, they’d transition into the soaring pieces that would stir the floor into sweeping waves of dancing bodies.
Prince Philip’s Winter Gala was ostensibly thrown to raise money for the impoverished, but in practice, it was a way for the noble families to show off their wealth. Sparkling jewels adorned the women, the size and shine demonstrating their status, while the men discussed their land holdings, trade arrangements, seafaring vessels, and airships, for those few who had them. A trickle of that wealth did supposedly make it to the poor, but Oliver suspected his brother’s lavish spending on the party itself was a bigger boon than any act of charity made by the wolves swarming below them.
Oliver covered a yawn with a first, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He stopped when Philip saw him. He adm
itted, “I wouldn’t miss it unless I had something better to do.”
“You’re incorrigible, brother,” said Philip with a sigh. “Someday, you will have to stop running from your responsibilities.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Only because I strong-armed Winchester into telling me where you were hiding,” grumbled Philip. “Why aren’t you in the palace?”
“I own the house, you know,” reminded Oliver. “It is mine, and I bought it to live in. Is it so strange that I’m spending a few days there?”
“It is strange,” replied Philip. “You’re never there because you enjoy the society of my palace. You do not enjoy peace and quiet, brother. Ah, speaking of, I see the Child twins down below. Is that why you’ve been in hiding? Do you need me to call for some men to escort you the rest of the evening? I heard they were both quite livid when they learned who your date was.”
“I think I will be all right,” mumbled Oliver.
“Are you sure?” jested Philip, his lips quivering with half-hearted efforts to hide a smile. “I can’t begin to fathom how you got both of those girls to fight so hard over you instead of with you, but it’s no secret that they do. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you finally decided to follow my advice and are escorting the Dalyrimple girl, but you may pay for—”
“Did you ever find the whereabouts of Nathaniel Child?” interjected Oliver.
His brother scowled, crossing his arms over his body and shaking his head. He glanced around the balcony, ensuring no one was within earshot. He shared, “Political or commercial assassination. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The baron was talking about coming into a great deal of wealth. If I can find out who was dealing with the man, then perhaps we’ll have a lead.”
“Nothing so far?” inquired Oliver, wincing at his brother’s insistence on following the money.
“Nothing,” confirmed Philip. “No signed documents promising lucrative deals, no secreted stores of sterling, not even a prospect he’d mentioned to his friends. Just a promise that it was coming.”
“Strange,” replied Oliver.
Philip nodded toward the far end of the balcony where a pair of women were making their way closer, followed by half a dozen armed men.
“Lucinda looks like she’s tired of entertaining without me.” Prince Philip studied the woman next to his wife. “Is that the Dalyrimple girl? I don’t think I’ve seen her since she returned from Archtan Atoll. My, she has grown up well.”
“It is her,” agreed Oliver, standing and putting on a smile as Isisandra grew closer.
“She is beautiful,” murmured Philip. “Why did you not want to—”
“Beautiful on the outside and damaged on the inside, brother,” confided Oliver. “I will court her for a socially acceptable period of time and then find an excuse to break it off.”
“Don’t hurt her,” warned Philip.
“Trust me. She will not be sad at the ending,” responded Oliver. “Besides, I never leave them hurting.”
“Tell that to the Child twins,” hissed Philip.
“Despite the disapproval of their prince, they’d take me back in a heartbeat,” whispered Oliver, speaking quickly before the ladies drew within earshot. He offered a quick bow when they did get close. In a louder voice, he declared, “The sun and the moon, the two most breathtaking visions that I have yet to see in this ballroom. Ladies, you are simply stunning.”
Lucinda gave an unprincess-like snort. “Save it for your date, Oliver.”
He turned to smile at his date.
Isisandra smirked at him. “I’ve been advised to ignore your honeyed words, m’lord. Princess Lucinda says it is your actions that will show the man you are.”
“So they will,” agreed Oliver, offering his arm.
Isisandra looped hers through it, mimicking the prince and princess beside them.
“Is it that time? Shall we dance?” asked Philip.
“We shall,” declared Lucinda, and the beautiful blond noblewoman led the procession toward the stairs, taking her husband along with her, smiling and waving at individuals in the crowd below.
It was officially called Prince Philip’s Winter Gala, but everyone knew his effervescent wife was the one behind it, and as faces turned to watch her descend the wide flight of red-carpeted marble stairs, Oliver mused that his description wasn’t as far off as she thought. She was the sun, shinning down on the throng below.
He turned and whispered to Isisandra, “My apologies, m’lady, but do you dance? In Archtan Atoll, I cannot imagine there were many events.”
“There were not, m’lord,” replied Isisandra, “but my parents brought in tutors for me from time to time, and a dance master was one of them. I believe I will be able to hold my own, even in such august company as this.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Aria and Isabella Child stood side by side. Oliver studiously avoided looking at them, but Isisandra pulled him close and stared directly at both girls.
As they passed, she said, “Perhaps later tonight, Duke Wellesley, you can tell me if my… dance… is up to the standards of this court. If not, then I’m willing to practice with you until it is.”
Walking quickly, refusing to look at the twin baronesses, Oliver fought back a groan.
Ahead of them, Prince Philip turned a moment before plunging into the swirling peers that covered the dance floor. As he was slipping into the crowd, he called, “I almost forgot, brother, my secretary has a package of documents for you. They were sent by the Company’s shipping offices in Southundon, and I was supposed to hand them to you. I’ve neglected to do that, so will you pick them up? The poor fellow is driving himself mad worrying he’ll be blamed if anything inside is time sensitive.”
“Of course,” said Oliver.
Then, he and Isisandra followed his brother onto the dance floor, and he swept her up into a stately embrace.
In the center of the floor, Princess Lucinda gestured to the orchestra, and they kicked off the first of the evening’s waltzes.
Dawn broke, and from his bedchamber, he heard the clatter of breakfast arriving. He uttered a quiet groan and cursed Winchester, the man’s parents, his progeny if they existed, and anyone who’d ever spoken a kind word to the noisy valet. After so many years in his service, why the man thought that, following a ball, dawn was an appropriate time for breaking fast, Oliver did not understand.
A soft voice cleared its throat.
“M’lord,” called Winchester, his voice pitched so it sounded like he was trying to be quiet, but he wasn’t.
“It’s too early, Winchester,” rasped Oliver.
“Your guests instructed me to wake you, m’lord. I brought coffee.”
“Pour it,” muttered Oliver, rolling over and letting his arm flop across the bed. He frowned, his eyes following the length of it to the empty pillow beside him.
“An unsuccessful evening, m’lord?” queried Winchester, returning with two steaming cups in his hands. “After the Winter Gala, I expected to find—”
“A girl in the bed?” interrupted Oliver.
“If you say so, m’lord,” demurred the valet.
Oliver snorted. “We’ve known each other longer than that, Winchester.”
“An unsuccessful evening, then, was it, m’lord?”
Winchester set one of the cups down and backed away. Oliver swore he saw a sly smirk on the man’s face, but when he looked harder, it was gone.
“Not that it is any of your business, Winchester, but no, it was not unsuccessful,” he stated, reaching for the coffee. “Isisandra Dalyrimple is different, though. She doesn’t… She doesn’t linger.”
“I see,” responded Winchester. The man stood in the doorway. Before slipping away, he said, “Your breakfast is ready, and Master Thotham and Madam, ah, Sam, asked to see you when you are available.”
“They’re priests, Winchester,” grumbled Oliver, kicking his sheets back and letting his feet thump to the floor. “They sho
uld be addressed as such.”
“You do not need to instruct me on protocol, m’lord,” claimed Winchester. “I thought that we were being circumspect with their presence. The staff is used to any manner of odd guests, and there is little which would cause gossip, except perhaps a priest. No one would ever think a real member of the Church would be staying in your home.”
“Sorry, Winchester,” muttered Oliver. “I, just… No one can know…”
“M’lord,” said the servant, “over the years, I have become perhaps more familiar in tone with you than is appropriate for one of my station, and I confess I take some secret pleasure in watching how you live your life. But you have my loyalty, m’lord. Never doubt that. I’ve taken pains with the staff to ensure no one knows the true identity of Master Thotham and Madam Sam. The staff believes them to be experienced navigators, preparing to accompany you on your journey to the Westlands. They do not know their names or their true professions. If you recall, m’lord, before your journey to the Southlands, you did have some experienced expeditioners stay with you. I felt the cover was logical and consistent. Please let me know if this is contrary to your wishes.”
“No, no,” said Oliver, standing and sipping at the scalding hot coffee. “I’m, well, Winchester, I’m hung over. I’m sorry if I offended you. Your loyalty is much appreciated, even if I don’t say it.”
“You didn’t offend me, m’lord, and I had already surmised that perhaps you were dealing with a bit of a headache,” replied Winchester dryly, a small grin curling the corner of his lips. “Shall I write the lady a note, then?”
“Sure,” said Oliver, “though I doubt she will read it. And, Winchester, send a man to my brother’s secretary. Evidently, there’s a packet for me that is driving the poor man to distraction. It seems he’s had the packet in his possession since I was in Archtan Atoll, and my brother keeps forgetting to hand it to me. The secretary is worried he’ll be blamed.”
