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  “How so?” inquired Raffles, nodding at the attendant as he dropped off two more crystal glasses of sherry. After the uniformed man departed, he added, “Is it usual for your subordinates to ignore your instructions?”

  “The knives don’t report directly to me,” muttered Yates. “Trust me. This is better. The girl’s knowledge of these matters is limited and she has no direct experience. Had she and Oliver been quicker, they could have found someone to question. As is, no one living shares any connection to… to anything else. But now that we have proof of sorcery from his own apprentice, I will ask Thotham to go to Harwick and destroy the rest of the nest. He won’t refuse this time because it’s exactly what his council would demand of him and he knows it. Within a few days, every member of the Mouth of Set in Harwick will be dead.”

  “And if this Thotham is as good as you say, do you think the trail will end there?” questioned the director. “It was stupid, Bishop, letting these offshoots share a name with your society here in Westundon. It ties right back to you.”

  “The trail will end in Harwick,” declared the bishop. He snatched up the new glass of sherry and before Raffles could comment, he added, “I’ve made certain. That fool Gallen doesn’t realize it, but he’s making sure all signs suggest there was no involvement from outside of the village. He doesn’t realize who he is working for, and when Thotham kills him, there will be no thread to follow.”

  Director Raffles nodded and took another draw on his pipe, looking over the room. In another quarter hour, the trading floors would close, the mercantile houses would shut their doors for the day, and half the plush, wing-backed chairs would be filled with wigged and suited gentlemen smoking pipes, having quiet discussions, and attempting to yank on the strings that made the empire dance.

  Raffles had been one of them, once, those eager old men trying to carve out their hunk of wealth and power. He’d moved past it, though. As a director for the Company, his income trebled that of his closest competitor. His ties to the Crown were both extensive and personal. He’d achieved what the other members of Oak & Ivy still strived for, and he’d be damned if the spirit-forsaken bishop was going to ruin it for him.

  “Handle your people, Bishop Yates,” instructed Raffles. “Handle them better than you have so far.”

  Yates snorted and rolled his eyes. “You’re one to speak, Director.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” demanded Raffles.

  “Duke Oliver Wellesley,” responded Yates. “He’s one of yours, yes? A dedicated employee of the Company?”

  “And a dedicated member of the Church, too,” answered Raffles sardonically. “On the Company’s charter, I’m his senior, but you know as well as I do that’s not the way it works. I don’t control the man any more than you and your cardinal, or any more than his brother or his father, for that matter. He does what he wants to do, as he’s done since he was fourteen winters.”

  The two men eyed each other before finally, Yates declared, “I can control my people, Randolph, but Duke Wellesley is a problem.”

  “The boy has a mind of his own,” agreed Director Raffles, scratching at his mutton chop beard. “If he grows interested in this investigation, there’s not much we can do to stop him from pursuing it. He’ll delay or cancel the expedition to the Westlands and follow whatever lead he thinks he has uncovered. I’m afraid any intervention would only make him more curious.”

  “What if we use that?” suggested Bishop Yates. “Governor Dalyrimple deserves a personal response to this tragedy, don’t you think? We could ask Oliver to deliver the news.”

  “He’s set to depart for the Westlands in a week,” reminded Raffles. “A mysterious murder may catch his interest, but I don’t think he’ll have much enthusiasm for diverting to the tropics and informing a man his wife died.”

  “Unless the thread of investigation leads that way,” suggested Yates. “If we find he’s interested in pursuing the matter, we can make his interests and ours align. We can leave some clues for him to follow. We need to get the duke out of Enhover long enough that Thotham can clean up matters in Harwick. It’s best if Oliver doesn’t hear what will happen there.”

  “What if he finds something in Archtan Atoll?” wondered Raffles. “Don’t you think it best to just let Oliver continue to the Westlands? He’ll be out of the way there as well.”

  “Finds what?” questioned Bishop Yates. “Do you know something I do not about what the governor and his wife have been up to there?”

  “Company business, that is all I know,” remarked Director Raffles. He fixed the bishop with his stare. “I did not even know the countess was in Enhover.”

  Bishop Yates grimaced.

  “Why was she here, Gabriel?”

  Yates sipped his sherry, not meeting the director’s gaze.

  “Don’t take me for a fool,” he growled. “You knew she was meeting with your minions in the Mouth of Set. You arranged her death. What was she doing?”

  “She arrived with an artifact,” admitted the bishop, “one that she brought from Archtan Atoll. It was blessed by…” The bishop leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Ca-Mi-He.”

  Raffles blinked at him, stunned.

  “I’ve secured the object, but I don’t know how she obtained it,” admitted the bishop. “My presumption was that nothing was discussed within your organization.”

  “No, of course not,” muttered Raffles, struggling to comprehend what the churchman was telling him. “I’ve heard nothing.”

  “The governor will be suspicious of any representative from the Church that arrives in his colony,” suggested Yates. “We could send a new factor as a spy, but there’s no one in the Company who outranks him and could do what is necessary, except…”

  “Except Oliver,” muttered Director Raffles. He glared at the Bishop. “You should have told me.”

  The bishop shrugged. “You know now.”

  “We are supposed to be partners in this,” complained the director.

  “We are partners, Randolph,” responded the bishop. “I am fully committed to the partnership, but like you, that does not mean I no longer pursue interests on the side. Be honest, if one of my flock approached your organization with an item like this, what would you do? Run and tell me immediately, or look into it? I admit perhaps it was a mistake to not bring you in earlier, but I am now. If you want a share of this, then help me.”

  “I will, but I cannot convince Oliver to travel to Archtan Atoll on my word alone,” responded Raffles, his pipe hanging forgotten in his hand. “And, Gabriel, I expect to see this artifact, soon.”

  “William and Philip,” suggested the bishop, his jowls wobbling as he bobbed his head. “We can ask the prime minister to discuss the matter with the prince. Have William convince Philip that the Crown has an urgent interest in discovering the responsible party behind the murder of a peer. From what has already been shared, it appears all clues lead to the atoll already, and we may just need to give a gentle push.”

  “If Philip is convinced then he’ll demand his younger brother go,” replied Raffles, cursing when he saw his pipe had burned out. He set it down and picked up his sherry. “Are we sure about this? If we set Oliver on the path, we have no control of what he uncovers…”

  “The Dalyrimples were up to something that neither you nor I was aware of. So, there is a risk that Oliver could find something we’d rather leave buried,” mused Bishop Yates, twisting his sherry glass between his fingers. “But we have to get the man out of Enhover until Harwick is cleansed, and whether or not it is painful, we need to find out what was going on in Archtan Atoll. We’ve gotten too far to be surprised, Randolph. If not Oliver, then who has the authority to investigate the governor?”

  “Very well then,” remarked Director Raffles. “You will contact this priest of yours tonight about Harwick? If so, I’ll head to the glae worm station and dash off a message to William. With his help, we’ll bring Philip on board, and by tomorrow, Duke Oliver Welles
ley will be dispatched to Archtan Atoll.”

  Bishop Yates nodded and stood, surveying the room.

  They were still mostly alone in the posh quarters of the smoking room, but other members were beginning to trickle in the as the sun set over the city of Westundon. Several of them nodded at the bishop, and the portly churchman waved in acknowledgement.

  “See you in the sanctuary on Newday, Yates.”

  The bishop grunted and departed without further comment.

  Drinking deeply of his sherry, Director Randolph Raffles settled back in his chair, unable to relax. He was familiar with the Church’s knives, the men and women who tracked and hunted sorcerers throughout Enhover and the United Territories. They were skilled, but any blade so honed had a chance of turning in the hand. If any vestige of Yates’ influence in Harwick remained, the man Thotham might find it.

  And Oliver, venturing into the unknown in Archtan Atoll. What if he found… Raffles shuddered. The risk was high, but Yates was right, who else was there? If the governor was walking the dark path, they had to know and stop him. Grimacing, Raffles collected his pipe and tapped out the ash. He stood, tucking away his smoking implements.

  Bustling over to clear the glasses and dispose of the ash pile, the attendant murmured, “Dinner service is set in the sea room, sir.”

  “Cancel it,” growled Raffles. “I have work to do tonight, and I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

  The Cartographer IV

  His booted feet clomped down the hallway and he briefly wondered why there were no carpets in his brother’s ministry wing. In the prince’s personal quarters, lush fibers absorbed the sound of even the most determined stride, but in the administrative area, where the government of Westundon Province was run, each footstep could be heard a hundred yards away.

  Clerks and functionaries darted about, all veering out of Oliver’s way, offering quick bows or scurrying from sight without acknowledging him. He had no official role in the bureaucracy of his father’s and brother’s government, but he still retained the title of duke. The ministry served at the pleasure of his family, and while he rarely bothered to get involved, there were plenty of stories of his siblings swooping in and tossing out or demoting both junior and senior ministers on a whim. Serving Enhover and the royal line came with its privileges and its risks.

  The sound of his boots announcing his approach, he turned a corner and slowed as he drew near to his brother’s offices. Outside of the closed door, two guards stood tall, halberds held slanted across their bodies, prepared to drop in front of any interloper, while daggers and compact blunderbusses hung from their belts.

  Oliver grinned at the thought of the men trying to use the cumbersome firearms in an emergency. The hand-cannons were just as likely to explode in the face of the user as they were to wound an enemy, but he supposed regardless, the thunderous explosion as they discharged would alert the rest of the guards that there was a problem.

  “M’lord,” called one of the men before offering a short bow, “your brother is waiting.”

  “I’m sure he is,” remarked the duke, striding without pause through the door the second guard swung open.

  Westundon’s Chief Minister, Herbert Shackles, was waiting in the anteroom, poring over documents, a quill poised in one hand and stained with bright red ink. The man spent more time correcting reports and chastising underlyings than he did anything else, but Oliver knew it saved his brother Philip from paying a bit of attention to the administrative details of running the province. Philip thought of himself as a leader, not a clerk. All well and good, as long as the actual clerks did their job.

  The duke had to cough loudly to draw the attention of Shackles, and the man looked up with a start.

  “Ah, Oliver, you’re back.”

  “We accomplished what we set out to do,” he replied. “I have business to conduct, and there was no reason to linger in Harwick.”

  “The Westlands, right?” asked the chief minister, rising to his feet. “The papers have been full of speculation about the expedition. Exciting times, Oliver, very exciting. Speaking of which, Director Raffles is in with your brother.”

  The duke frowned.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Shackles, sensing Oliver’s hesitation.

  “Is Raffles here on another matter or here to see me?”

  Westundon’s chief minister shrugged. “You know that answer better than I. For the director to make his way to the palace from Company House, there must be a compelling reason.”

  Grimacing, Oliver followed Shackles through another door, past a brace of secretary’s desks, and into his brother’s sanctum.

  “Oliver!” cried Philip, setting down a cup of tea and rising.

  After a moment, Director Raffles rose as well.

  “Come, sit by the fire. It’s quite cold out today, isn’t it? Have a spot of tea to warm you up,” suggested Philip. “Tell us about what you and Bishop Yates’ emissary learned.”

  “I already related everything I thought was important by the glae worm transmission,” said Oliver, sitting in the third chair his brother had arranged in front of a small crackling fire. “We found a man named Robertson who we believe helped conduct the ritual that resulted in Countess Hathia Dalyrimple’s death. It is my thought that she was a willing participant in the operation. This man Robertson appears to have killed his own wife as well. We couldn’t question him, though, because he was killed by an assassin, a man formerly in his employ, who also attacked us and a local inspector. The inspector did not survive, but we fought off the assassin. I think it likely the assassin was hired by someone outside of Harwick.”

  “Do you know who?” wondered the prince.

  “No, and I’m afraid the trail is quite cold in that regard,” admitted Oliver. “It’s likely that another player involved in sorcery dispatched the countess and Robertson because they were rivals. We did uncover a secret society known in Harwick as the Mouth of Set, though aside from possibly Robertson himself, none of the members appear competent enough to be involved in any sort of nefarious plot.”

  Philip nodded, sipping his tea, absorbing every word.

  Oliver continued, “While I don’t believe they were involved in this matter, I recommended a talented inspector should be dispatched from Eastundon to determine if this society was involved in any other crime. Additionally, there is a lead pointing to Southundon where we believe the countess utilized a glae worm station, but I suspect that well will come up dry. I’ve requested some documentation from Company House in Southundon to see if we can determine when Countess Dalyrimple arrived, but beyond that, I’m afraid the rest of the mystery lies in Archtan Atoll. Perhaps there someone could find how the countess got involved in sorcery and why she traveled to Enhover. There is at least one man who may be able to answer to that, the governor himself. Unless we’ve already heard from him?”

  Director Raffles shook his head. “Not a word. The last dispatch from Governor Dalyrimple was the official quarterly update. It’s quite possible the countess was still on island when he sent it, but it’s also quite possible she had already left. Regardless, there is no mention of a problem with her in the report. While you were in Harwick, I inquired around and none of Dalyrimple’s close associates have had any personal communication with him in some time. All is well, we believe, as our airships continue to arrive with no reports of trouble, but…”

  Oliver frowned. “Have any docked in the last few days? Surely they would have left after the countess.”

  “There’s been no word of her,” responded the director. “None of the captains I tracked down recalled her at any social events on the atoll, but they did not recall any concern about her missing, either. She’s known to be reclusive.”

  Sitting back in his chair, the duke sipped at his tea, confused.

  “The mystery deepens, doesn’t it?” quipped the prince. “As far as the Crown is concerned, the killer of the countess has been dealt with. There are some outstanding
questions, but justice has been served.”

  “What about Inspector McCready’s killer?” queried Oliver.

  “You and the priestess killed him, no?” asked Philip.

  “I don’t think he was acting alone,” mentioned the duke. “Someone hired the man.”

  “As you requested, we’ll dispatch more inspectors to the hamlet and they’ll get to the bottom of it,” replied Philip. “With the noblewoman’s murder solved, I’m comfortable leaving that in other hands.”

  Oliver grunted.

  Director Randolph added, “And as far as the Company is concerned, we have a line of inquiry we need to pursue with a key employee. If the governor is aware his wife has gone missing, why has he not raised the alarm? Why is he evidently unconcerned?”

  “Perhaps he knew she was traveling to Enhover and hence has no reason to suspect anything is amiss?” speculated Oliver.

  “I checked and confirmed it with your uncle William,” replied Raffles. “She had no social engagements planned in Southundon where you say she sent the messages and perhaps disembarked from an airship. Her staff at Dalyrimple Manor in Derbycross did not expect her… I understand you’ve made inquiries as to the shipping manifests, but until they are compiled, we will have to leave that for the moment. Unless there is evidence in the shipping manifests, the glae worm transmissions are the only trace she even stopped in the city.”

  “It concerns me there has been no word from the governor, Director,” mentioned the prince. “Too much is unknown. The health of the Company is important to the Crown. If you need our assistance, you need only ask.”

  “I appreciate that,” replied Raffles, bowing in his seat.

  “There’s also the matter of the Church’s continued inquiry,” continued Philip. “Bishop Yates is still unsatisfied. He tells me it is uncertain there was any outcome, but the materials and practice involved in Hathia Dalyrimple’s murder appear authentic. Gentlemen, someone attempted sorcery in Harwick. Both the Crown and Church have outlawed such practices, and rightfully, the bishop is distraught about it.”