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THE CARTOGRAPHER
Complete Series
AC COBBLE
QUILL text copyright © 2019 AC Cobble
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 9781947683167
ASIN: B07QK7LJR9
STEEL text copyright © 2019 AC Cobble
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 9781947683198
ASIN: B07QK7LJR9
SPIRIT text copyright © 2020 AC Cobble
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 9781947683235
ASIN: B085F2JFZH

Cobble Publishing LLC

Sugar Land, TX
 CON T E N TS

Keep in Touch and Extra Content

Quill
The Inspector I
The Cartographer I
The Priestess I
The Cartographer II
The Priestess II
The Inspector II
The Priestess III
The Cartographer III
The Director I
The Cartographer IV
The Priestess IV
The Cartographer V
The Priestess V
The Cartographer VI
The Priestess VI
The Cartographer VII
The Priestess VII
The Cartographer VIII
The Priestess VIII
The Cartographer IX
The Initiate I
The Cartographer X
The Captain I
The Priestess IX
The Cartographer XI
The Initiate II
The Cartographer XII
The Initiate III
The Spectator I
The Cartographer XIII
The Initiate IV
The Cartographer XIV
The Priestess X
 The Cartographer XV
The Priestess XI
The Cartographer XVI
The Priestess XII
The Initiate V
The Cartographer XVII
The Prophet I
The Priestess XIII
The Initiate VI
The Cartographer XVIII
The Director II
The Priestess XIV
The Cartographer XIX
The Priestess XV
The Cartographer XX
The Priestess XVI
The Cartographer XXI
The Priestess XVII
The Cartographer XXII

Steel
The Cartographer I
The Priestess I
The Cartographer II
The Prince I
The Cartographer III
The Priestess II
The Cartographer IV
The Priestess III
The Captain I
The Cartographer V
The Priestess IV
The Cartographer VI
The Priestess V
The Cartographer VII
The Priestess VI
The Cartographer VIII
The Priestess VII
The Cartographer IX
The Priestess VIII
The Cartographer X
The Priestess IX
The Captain II
The Director I
The Cartographer XI
The Spectator I
The Priestess X
The Cartographer XII
The Priestess XI
The Cartographer XIII
The Priestess XII
The Cartographer XIV
The Priestess XIII
The Cartographer XV
The Priestess XIV
The Cartographer XVI
The Director II
The Captain III
The Priestess XV
The Cartographer XVII
The Priestess XVI
The Director III
The Cartographer XVIII
The Priestess XVII
The Director IV
The Cartographer XIX
The Director V
The Cartographer XX
The Priestess XVIII
The Prince II
The Cartographer XXI
The Priestess XIX
The Knife I
The Priestess XX
The Cartographer XXII
The Prince III
The Cartographer XXIII
The Priestess XXI
The Soldier I
The Cartographer XXIV
The Priestess XXII
The Cartographer XXV
The Priestess XXIII
The Cartographer XXVI
The Priestess XXIV
The Cartographer XXVII
 The Priestess XXV
The Cartographer XXVIII

Spirit
The Spectator I
The Cartographer I
The Priestess I
The Cartographer II
The Priestess II
The Cartographer III
The Scholar I
The Cartographer IV
The Priestess III
The Cartographer V
The Priestess IV
The Cartographer VI
The Priestess V
The Cartographer VII
The Captain I
The Cartographer VIII
The Priestess VI
The Commander I
The Cartographer IX
The Priestess VII
The Cartographer X
The Captain II
The Cartographer XI
The Priestess VIII
The Cartographer XII
The Priestess IX
The Cartographer XIII
The Priestess X
The Cartographer XIV
The Priestess XI
The Cartographer XV
The Priestess XII
The Cartographer XVI
The Priestess XIII
The Cartographer XVII
The Priestess XIV
The Cartographer XVIII
The Priestess XV
The Cartographer XIX
 The Priestess XVI
The Cartographer XX
The Priestess XVII
The Cartographer XXI
The Priestess XVIII
The Cartographer XXII
The Priestess XIX
The Cartographer XXIII
The Captain III
The Cartographer XXIV
The Priestess XX
The Cartographer XXV
The Priestess XXI
The Cartographer XXVI
The Priestess XXII
The Captain IV
The Cartographer XXVII

Thanks for reading!

Glossary
 KEEP IN TOUCH AND EXTRA CONTENT

Thank you for checking out the book! You can find larger versions of
the maps, series artwork, my newsletter, my blog, and information
about my other books at accobble.com. I save the best stuff for
Patreon, so if you’re a big fan, that’s where to go for exclusive,
behind-the-scenes updates!
After reading the Cartographer, be sure to keep an eye out for
my next series, The King’s Ranger which debuts September 1st!

Happy reading!
AC
 THE INSPECTOR I

A heavy thumping woke him , followed a moment later by a sharp

metallic clanging. His jaw cracked and he let his head fall to the side.
He groaned and snuck a fist from under the sheets to rub the sleep
from his eyes. He glanced at the curtain-covered window and saw it
let in only a faint glimmer of light. It was night still, late at night.
Muttering, he struggled out from under the heavy blankets and
winced as his feet landed on the cold stone floor.
“Damnit, McCready,” mumbled a voice beside him. “Didn’t you tell
them bastards to stop using the knocker after sunset?”
The metallic clanging continued. He cursed to himself as he
shuffled his feet along the floor, trying to find his trousers in the dark
room.
“They keep hittin’ that knocker, McCready, and you’re gonna be
sleeping at the station,” warned his wife.
He sighed and looked back at her. The light bleeding through the
window curtain illuminated the silhouette of her bare shoulder. She
was still naked underneath the blankets. He smiled, remembering a
different kind of ruckus that had been going on earlier in the night,
but the knocker kept clanging, drawing his mind back to other
matters.
Finally, he located his woolen trousers and tugged them on. He
found his shirt as well and pulled it over his head. He could finish
dressing after he answered the door and quieted the night
watchman’s racket.
“I love you, hun,” he whispered, stooping to kiss his wife’s
tousled hair.
“Tell them bastards people are sleeping,” she said, not turning to
meet his kiss.
Grimacing, Inspector Patrick McCready hurried out of his
bedchamber, only years of practice at waking in the middle of the
night saving his toes from crunching against the wooden frame of
the doorjamb. As he moved through his narrow house, he grabbed
his boots and pulled on his overcoat, his hat, and his gloves. A heavy
truncheon was last, and he was still gripping it when he yanked
open his front door.
Standing outside, face half-lit by the lamp at the end of the
street, was a clean-shaven man wearing a thick, dark wool overcoat
that hung down to his knees. A hat was perched on his head,
pushed back, allowing McCready to see him. Or perhaps it was late,
and the fellow was being sloppy.
The man eyed McCready’s truncheon and backed up, hands held
in front of him, showing his palms to the inspector. “Whoa there,
Pat, whoa there. They told me ya was on call tonight.”
Inspector McCready hung the truncheon on his belt and opened
his mouth to apologize, but then he saw the curtain across the street
twitch, and he knew the hateful widow who lived there would fill his
wife’s head all day with complaints.
“You’re not supposed to use the damn knocker after dark, Jonas,”
complained McCready. “It wakes the whole damn neighborhood.
Damn, man, I know I’ve said it before.”
“Sorry, sir,” acknowledged the night watchmen, giving the
inspector an apologetic nod.
“Well, I’m up now. What do we have?”
T hick , tacky blood puddled around the corpse . T he familiar copper
scent of the sanguine fluid permeated the air. It appeared liters of
the stuff had drained from the mutilated woman, leaving her skin
milk-white. She was young, perhaps, or maybe a bit older and well
taken care of.
The inspector knelt and he let his gaze drift slowly over the body,
from toes to head, forcing himself to take his time, to not rush the
observation.
Most obviously, she was naked. Her bare legs were spread wide,
but the pale skin was unbruised. No sign of forced assault there. Her
torso was unmarred as well, and he saw her stomach was flat. He
suspected it would stay that way even if she was upright. Her
breasts sagged with the force of gravity, though, and he amended
his earlier assumption. Middle-aged, he decided, though it would
take further study to be certain. He drew a deep breath and forced
himself to look further, to her face, or where it had been.
Stark white bone, bright red muscle, and pits where her eyes
once sat. The grisly hollows in her face stared back at him. From the
bottom of her jaw to her hairline, the skin had been carefully peeled
from her face. Blood surrounded the woman, but the bone of her
skull was clean, as if someone had wiped it away or carefully dabbed
up the liquid with a towel.
She was alive when it happened, judging by the volume of blood
that was spilled on the floor. Her heart had pumped the blood out
while someone was doing this to her. If she’d been dead, McCready
would have expected to see a fraction of the stuff. He looked at her
hands, at her manicured fingernails, and saw no sign of struggle. No
defensive cuts or scratches, not even a broken nail. She wasn’t just
a well-kept woman, he realized by looking at those hands. This was
a woman who could afford pampering, one who didn’t work and
likely never had.
“Not good, is it, Inspector?” queried the night watchman.
“No, Jonas,” responded McCready, looking over his shoulder at
the man. “It is not good.”
Jonas knuckled his bushy mustaches, his eyes darting quickly
from the woman, her missing face, the apparatus in the room, and
then back to her.
“Why don’t you check around outside, see if you can spot any
clues?” suggested McCready. “Look for footprints or carriage tracks,
perhaps. Whoever did this arrived some way or another.”
The night watchman ducked out the door, and McCready turned
back to the gruesome scene in front of him. A dead, faceless woman
sprawled immodestly on the stone floor of an apothecary. This crime
— this murder, he amended — had taken time.
McCready shuffled around to the other side of the woman and
bent closer to the body, taking care to avoid dipping the hem of his
overcoat in the blood spread around the corpse.
He paused. The blood had pooled in razor-straight lines that
ended in black lumps of wax. In the low light of the room, it wasn’t
obvious, but as he looked more carefully, he saw the blood couldn’t
have followed a cleaner edge if it had been drawn along a
carpenter’s plumb line. He frowned, a finger hovering half a yard in
the air, tracing the lines and the pattern they made. He sat back on
his haunches and took a moment to think.
Shivering, he stood and looked around the room, already
knowing he’d need more light and more men. Before they arrived,
though, he needed to walk through the rest of the building and take
inventory of the room. He needed to sketch the scene and
understand it before the clumsy boots of more watchmen damaged
whatever evidence had been left.
McCready pulled out a notebook from his overcoat. Its cover was
worn, saltwater-stained leather. Half the pages inside were filled with
his cramped notes, and he’d replaced those pages a dozen times
over the years. Complaints against rival whaling captains, minor
assaults in the tavern, a few domestic incidents — that was the bulk
of it. Nothing like this. No, nothing like this.
He flipped through the pages until he got a blank one and then
he turned, pondering the scene. He grimaced. “Jonas, get back in
here! Stand in the corner and don’t touch anything!”
T he sun was coming up , bathing the top of the sea and bottom of the
clouds in iridescent shades of yellow and orange. The light sparkled
on the water, a million jewels scattered at the feet of humble
Harwick. Riches fit for a queen, but Harwick was undeserving of
such grandeur.
The little hamlet was comprised of squat buildings of thick
granite topped with moss-covered wooden shingles. The low granite
and mossy humps crept up from the small harbor toward towering
cliffs that protected and stifled the place. The buildings were like
embarrassed relatives, knocking at the door of the holiday feast with
only half a loaf and a bottle that could have been described as
vinegar just as easily as wine. That was Harwick.
It sat on the fringe of Enhover, just like one of those
embarrassed relatives. Invited to be a part of the family but placed
in the corner of the room, far from the table. Harwick was a small,
dreary place, nowhere near the king’s seat of power in Southundon
or even the provincial capital in Eastundon. It was a miserable place
to reside for an ambitious professional, unless such professional
happened to be a whaler.
Harwick suited Inspector Patrick McCready just fine, though. With
a military background, he’d quickly made inspector in the quiet
village, partially due to lack of sober competition. The assumption
around town was that he’d be promoted to senior inspector just as
soon as the current one managed to squirm his way out of the
village and into some nobleman’s good graces. Pat McCready was in
no hurry, but for most in town, his supervisor, Senior Inspector Joff
Gallen, couldn’t be gone soon enough.
“You observed the body?” drawled the senior inspector, spitting a
viscous stream of brown liquid against the gray granite wall of the
apothecary.
McCready tore his eyes from the sparkling waters of the sea and
nodded to his supervisor. “I did.”
“And?”
“And we’ve got a problem,” remarked McCready.
Senior Inspector Gallen’s eyebrows peaked and his fists found
resting spots on his hips, “Frozen hell, Pat. I assigned you this case
because—”
McCready held up a hand. “You should follow me inside.”
He led the senior inspector into the apothecary and stepped out
of the way so the man could see the mutilated woman.
“A prostitute, most likely,” muttered Gallen, his eyes darting
around the room, finding the stairwell in the back, viewing the scene
but not seeing it. “Some out-of-town grifter could have found her
down by the docks.”
“I don’t think so,” remarked McCready. He drew a deep breath
and exhaled slowly. “I believe this was a ritual killing. Dark magic,
sir.”
Senior Inspector Gallen gaped at him. “Dark magic? You mean
sorcery? Have you gone mad, Pat? It’s been nigh on twenty years
since anyone… since anyone did that sort of thing. The king stamped
it out when he pushed the raiders back from Northundon and
marched on the Coldlands. Not even the Church talks about that…
that stuff, anymore. Why would you even consider such a thing!”
McCready met his supervisor’s gaze patiently, waiting for the man
to calm down.
“Who have you told about this, Pat?” questioned Senior Inspector
Gallen. “If word gets out in town, you know how the rumors fly
around this place. Or worse, can you even imagine the circus if the
papers down in Eastundon got wind of it? Pat, you’re the best man
I’ve got, but we’ve got to be sensible here. Sorcery is history, you
know it.”
The inspector ignored his superior’s remonstration. Gallen hadn’t
been involved in the Coldlands War like Pat McCready had. History
was something written down in books. It wasn’t something you’d
seen. It wasn’t something you touched and that you still dreamt
about. Night terrors, his wife called them, his imagination getting the
best of him. She hadn’t seen what he’d seen either. She didn’t know
that the world contained worse than his imagination ever would. His
body trembled, and he forced himself to still. Instead of thinking, he
began to talk.
“Here, sir, beneath the woman’s arms, legs, and head, are
triangles drawn in a dark chalk or ash,” explained McCready. “Look.
You can see where the blood stopped a finger-width from the lines.
This floor is sloped, sir. Like most of the buildings in this district, it’s
built to allow water to drain down toward the harbor. See the way
the blood is pooled? That is not natural. Can you see? And then
there is the obvious mutilation of the woman’s face. It was done
carefully, sir, with a razor-sharp blade. There are no hesitation marks
and no signs of struggle. Just clean wounds. It wasn’t the first time
for whoever did this. The woman herself, ah, I’ll need the physician
to confirm, but I believe she was engaged sexually prior to her
death. It does not appear it was forced.”
“A prostitute like I thought!” snapped Gallen. “We’ve seen it
before. Some sailor who’s been at sea too long, gets odd ideas.
You’ve caught as many of the bastards as I have, Pat.”
“Behind you, sir,” continued McCready.
Gallen frowned at his inspector and then turned.
With the light of the newly risen sun spilling across Harwick, the
windows of the apothecary let in a glow that illuminated dancing
motes of dust. In the sparkling morning light, the two men could see
strange symbols drawn onto the window. A bird, an eye, and a skull
along with several geometric shapes. In the center of the
configuration, a five-pointed star was drawn within a circle.
“A common symbol of the occult,” grumbled Senior Inspector
Gallen, turning from the window. “Any thug knows how to draw a
pentagram. It was likely done by the killer to throw us off the scent.”
“There and there as well,” advised McCready, turning to point at
the back walls of the room.
“Well—”
“Sir,” interrupted McCready, “this building is fashioned as a
wedge, three-sides. There can’t be more than half a dozen buildings
in Harwick with similar dimensions. I’m sure you know the triangle is
rumored to be a powerful sorcerous binding symbol. A trinity, as it’s
called.”
“Coincidence,” responded Gallen, the certainty faded from his
voice.
“Look beneath her body, sir,” suggested McCready.
 The senior inspector hesitated then inhaled sharply when he
finally looked. The chalk below the woman was fashioned into
another pentagram, this one perfectly filled with her blood.
Gallen swallowed uncomfortably. “What if you’re right, McCready?
If there’s some… some sorcerer running around Harwick, what does
it mean? Will there be more murders, do you think?”
“I don’t believe so, sir,” replied McCready.
“Why not?” wondered the senior inspector.
“I believe whoever did this is already gone,” claimed McCready.
His supervisor crossed his arms over his chest, waiting on an
explanation.
“Upstairs, in the proprietor’s quarters,” said McCready, leading
the senior inspector through a curtained alcove in the back of the
room and then up a creaking set of stairs.
At the top, they found the apothecary. The man was sitting at a
small table he evidently used for measuring and mixing his potions
and tinctures. The tools of his trade were there — a handful of
sealed jars, a small bowl, a pestle, measuring spoons, and an herb
knife that was stuck to the hilt in the man’s chest.
The apothecary’s eyes and mouth were open wide, as if he’d
been in the midst of asking his assailant whether he’d like a pinch of
fennel in his preparation. There was no fear on the man’s face, only
shock.
“Edwin Holmes… Well, that’s one possible suspect accounted for,”
remarked Senior Inspector Gallen darkly, rubbing a hand vigorously
over his face. “The same killer, you think, or was Holmes involved in
the scene below? And what about this makes you think the killer has
fled? I wonder if perhaps a rival struck and staged the scene?”
McCready studied his supervisor, wondering what the man was
getting at. There were only two apothecaries in Harwick, and Gallen
was a frequent client and sometimes friend of both. With his peculiar
interests and midnight practices, he’d know more about the
apothecaries and their rivalries than anyone.
“You know them both better than I do,” mentioned McCready.
“You think Fielding killed Holmes? Would that have happened before
or after the woman below?”
 Senior Inspector Gallen shrugged uncomfortably. “That man
Fielding has always struck me as strange. The symbols downstairs…
We should keep him in mind, that is all. I’m-I’m not thinking right,
Pat.”
“He’s an apothecary. They’re all strange,” declared McCready. He
glanced at the body of Edwin Holmes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“It could be a common thief,” offered Gallen, pointing to the side
of the room, turning from the body of his friend. “Look at that.”
A wardrobe was hanging open, out of sorts with the neatness
that pervaded the rest of the building. A polished teak box was open
on the floor next to it.
“Velvet lining,” murmured Senior Inspector Gallen, walking over
to peer down into the box. “Could be his silver was in here or some
valuable family heirloom. I’m comfortable reporting this as a robbery
that ended in bloodshed. Pat, what do you think? Continue to
investigate as you see fit, I trust your judgement, but I don’t want
any wild theories making it into the public, you understand? We
need to manage what information goes to Eastundon on this one. A
robbery fits.”
“I understand your concern, sir. I do believe you are right and
some items were taken,” allowed McCready. “I think that box held a
knife. Look closely. You can see the impression in the velvet. You
know Holmes better than I, sir. Do you recognize that box? Did the
man own a knife or a dagger fine enough to be kept in a box such
as this? I wonder if it was his or if it was brought here.”
“Brought here?” wondered Gallen, looking up at McCready. “Why
would a thief bring an empty box?”
“I don’t believe a robbery explains all of these circumstances,”
replied the inspector. “Look over here.”
McCready showed his supervisor a cabinet across the room
where several drawers had been slid open. Gaps showed in the jars
and containers where items appeared to be missing. On a shelf
below the apothecary’s supplies was a fine silk dress, neatly folded,
two delicate slippers, undergarments, and a pile of sparkling jewelry
beside the dress. The jewelry was silver, studded with rubies. It was
the attire of a wealthy merchant’s wife or even a member of the
peerage, a noblewoman’s baubles.
McCready gently separated the pile of items so Gallen could see.
“This dress is tailored. I’m not familiar with the mark, but it’s fine
work. Maybe even from Southundon? Any quality tailor should be
able to identify the stitching or at least the region it came from.
Then, we can try to trace it to a client. The slippers, just as fine.
Look at the bottoms. There is no wear on them. The woman arrived
by carriage, I suspect. This jewelry must be worth several years of
my salary, if not considerably more. If the killer had been acting for
economic reasons, if this was a simple robbery, then certainly they
would have taken it.”
“You think the killer left Harwick, Pat?” croaked Gallen, his
forehead creased with furrows. “Why?”
McCready turned and eyed his supervisor, noting the man’s gaze
was fixed on the jewelry. Even Gallen wouldn’t be willing to write it
off as a simple robbery and bury the case with such wealth lying in
the open. Whoever the woman was, she was no prostitute. Someone
was going to miss her.
“If it’s not something darker like I mentioned below, then another
theory is that this could have been a paid assassination. I don’t
know of any paid assassins lurking amongst our citizens, or any…
any people associated with dark magic, for that matter. It could be
either one, I suppose, and I’ll leave it up to you how you think it’s
best to report to Eastundon. Whichever it is, though, my assumption
holds. I believe it’s likely the killer left by sea or on the rail early this
morning.”
Senior Inspector Gallen did not respond. His eyes were locked on
the pile of silver and rubies. His breathing was quick, and McCready
noted the man’s fists were clenched at his side.
McCready glanced back at the jewelry. “What is it, sir?”
Gallen shook himself and then stepped forward. With his pointer
finger, he pushed one item out from the sparkling pile.
“A necklace, sir?” queried McCready. “Do you recognize it?”
“A pair of ewes,” whispered Gallen. “This is the symbol for House
Dalyrimple.”
 “Dalyrimple,” murmured McCready. “The name sounds familiar. Is
that the family down in Derbycross?”
Gallen swallowed. “It is.”
“Derbycross,” said McCready, slapping his notebook against his
open palm, lost in thought. “Sheep down there, which I suppose
explains the family crest? Baron Daly… no, Earl, is it?”
“Earl Dalyrimple,” confirmed Gallen, “though he spends little time
in Derbycross now. Sebastian Dalyrimple is the governor of the
Company’s Archtan Atoll colony.”
“Archtan Atoll?” asked McCready. “Why, that’s the most—”
“McCready,” instructed Senior Inspector Gallen, “if I recall
correctly, the earl’s wife, Countess Hathia Dalyrimple, is about forty
winters. Jet-black hair, beautiful both in body and… and in face.”
“S-Sir—” stammered McCready, his throat dry, his heart pounding
in his chest.
“We need confirmation, Pat,” said Gallen, his eyes closed. “Get us
confirmation the woman below is who I think she is. Then, we must
send a transmission on the glae worm filament to Eastundon. Today,
Pat. We must send the transmission today. Preserve what evidence
you can. Draw pictures of what you cannot preserve. Log everything.
I mean everything. This investigation will be out of our hands now,
but that doesn’t mean we won’t pay for every tiny little screw up.”
 THE CARTOGRAPHER I

“M’ lord ,” called a voice, soft and apologetic. “M’lord.”

He yawned, his jaw cracking, a dull throb of pain greeting him as
he swam to wakefulness. He slipped his hands from underneath the
silk blankets and pressed them against the sides of his head,
pushing his palms against his temples, temporarily squeezing the
headache into submission. He worked his mouth, trying to get
moisture into it, but his lips, tongue, and cheeks remained
stubbornly dry.
Hoarsely, his head still tightly gripped between his hands, he
called out, “Coffee. Coffee and water.”
The tentative voice which had been calling for him quieted, and
he barely heard the patter of departing feet over the pounding of
the blood in his head. Winchester, his valet, had been with him for
years. The little fellow was frustratingly timid and rarely got drunk —
even when it was suggested to him — but he had learned his
master’s needs well.
Moments later, the sound of soft steps on thick carpet returned,
and the rich scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room. Winchester
likely had the stuff on boil, knowing Oliver would wake craving the
perk of the brewed beans.
Light bloomed behind his eye lids, and he blinked, sitting up and
glancing around the room. His valet had lit a lamp, illuminating the
room and the black windows.
 “What hour is it?” he asked, confused.
“Early, m’lord. Still several turns of the clock until dawn.”
“Then why—”
“Winchester,” murmured a honeyed voice, still buried within the
silk sheets. “A plate of fruit and some pastries?”
“Of course, ah, Baroness…”
A blond head emerged from underneath the blankets. Tussled
curls followed by blue eyes, red lips, a delicate, smooth-skinned
neck, and bare shoulders.
“It’s Aria, Winchester.”
“Yes, m’lady,” offered the valet, proffering a quick bow before
spinning on one heel and darting out of the room.
“Isabella, I don’t know why you toy with the poor man so.”
“Oliver,” purred the blond, shifting underneath the sheets and
crawling onto him, her warm, soft breasts pressing against his arm.
“It’s me, Aria.”
He snorted and flicked back the sheets, grinning at the yelp of
surprise as cool air rushed over the girl’s naked body. He smiled, his
gaze roving over the unmarred pale skin of her back, her rounded
buttocks, and her long legs stretching down the length of his bed.
“Baroness Isabella Child,” he murmured. “Surely the most
beautiful sight in this city or any city.”
“My hair is a mess,” complained the baroness, pushing a bouncy
curl from her face, rising onto her elbow so her pert breast hung in
front of his face. “And how do you know I’m not Aria, you scamp?”
“Your twin has a small strawberry colored birthmark right around
here,” he said, grabbing a handful of the girl’s firm bottom. “All
unblemished skin from what I can see.”
“Maybe you should look closer,” suggested the blonde, inching
closer to him so the length of her body warmed his side.
“Winchester will be back in a moment,” complained Oliver.
“If we’re engaged, he’ll leave my fruit in the sitting room. He
knows better than to bother us when we’re busy,” said the baroness,
running a hand down his chest, trailing her fingers over his
shoulders, his ribs, across his abdomen, down toward—
 “M’lord,” called Winchester, his voice cracking with
embarrassment.
The baroness sat up, glaring at the valet. “Winchester, as you can
see, we’re about to be rather busy.”
Oliver glared at the man.
Winchester, his face beet red, coughed into his hand then finally
looked Oliver in the eye. “M’lord, your brother is requesting a
meeting urgently.”
“Urgent? That was the exact word?” asked Oliver, his voice tight,
one hand clenching the sheets beside him, the other fluttering
uncertainly. He was unsure if he should wave off Winchester, make a
rude gesture at the valet, or feel the delightful curves next to him.
“We can be quick,” murmured the baroness, her hand warm on
his bare skin.
“Urgent,” mumbled Winchester. “The message specifically
instructed me to wake you for an urgent meeting. I am sorry,
m’lord.”
Closing his eyes, feeling himself respond to Isabella’s demanding
touch, Oliver groaned. “Later, Baroness. Later this afternoon or this
evening, I promise.”
He opened his eyes and saw a pout form on the girl’s face. She
didn’t seem interested in waiting.
Winchester coughed again.
“I’ll go, man, just-just give me a moment.”
“You, ah, I must remind you, m’lord. You have a prior
appointment this evening.”
“An appointment!” said the baroness, rising onto her knees,
hovering over him. He guessed she meant to look angry, but that
wasn’t what he was thinking about.
“I have to go,” he groaned, silently cursing his brother. He
brushed her hand away and struggled out of the bed. A moment
longer, and he was certain he wouldn’t be urgently responding to his
brother’s request, no matter how many times Winchester discreetly
coughed.
“What appointment do I have, Winchester?” he asked, snatching
up a pair of dark wool trousers the valet had laid out. Turning to
Isabella, he claimed, “I’ll cancel it.”
“A-Ah…” stammered Winchester.
Crossing her arms beneath her bare breasts, Baroness Isabella
Child sat on her knees, her naked body on display for both Oliver
and his valet.
“It’s-It’s a private dinner with Baroness Aria Child, m’lord.”

P ausing outside of his brother ’ s study , D uke O liver W ellesley

adjusted his trousers again, cursing Winchester for selecting such a
tight pair. Fashion was fine as long as it was practical. Didn’t the
man know… Oliver drew a deep breath and released it, admitting to
himself Winchester probably had not anticipated the scenario they
found themselves in a quarter hour ago. Still, his frustration needed
an outlet, and that was what one employed a valet for. Tucking
himself away as best he was able, he knocked on the door.
“Come,” called a voice from the other side.
Oliver opened the door and stepped in, quickly fighting to keep a
grimace from his face. His brother was seated behind his desk, as
usual, and across from him sat two serious-looking men. Lamps
framed a window that was just beginning to show the hesitant glow
of the sunrise. His brother waking him early was one thing, but the
other two…
“Oliver, I hope you don’t mind. This meeting will include Director
Randolph Raffles and Bishop Gabriel Yates,” declared Prince Philip
Wellesley.
“Of course,” replied Oliver, moving to shake the two men’s hands,
wondering about what sort of meeting was necessary to call at such
an awful hour.
The two gentlemen eyed each other, as if deciding which should
vacate one of the chairs in front of Philip’s desk to make room for
Oliver.
“Please, stay seated,” offered Oliver, avoiding the awkwardness of
the two trying to figure out who was more important. He moved to
lean against a hutch beside his brother’s desk, briefly wondering
how well he’d hid the softening evidence of his morning’s frustration,
but quickly losing the thought when his brother began speaking.
“Oliver,” stated Prince Philip, “there’s been a murder.”
He blinked at his brother. “Who?”
“Countess Hathia Dalyrimple.”
“She’s in Archtan Atoll, isn’t she, with the governor?” Oliver
turned to Director Raffles, raising an eyebrow.
“As far as I knew, she was,” answered the man, a hand reaching
up to absentmindedly scratch his bristly, mutton chop beard.
“Evidently, that wasn’t the case.”
The director turned to Prince Philip, and the prince inclined his
head.
Director Raffles explained, “Your brother passed on a report from
the hamlet of Harwick. The inspectors there claim that they found
the body of Countess Hathia Dalyrimple in… in rather unusual
circumstances. She was murdered, that much is clear from the
report, but the nature of the crime as they have described it is rather
bizarre. The inspectors have requested additional assistance in
investigating the matter. It’s obvious to me they aim to wash their
hands of the incident.”
“Can you blame them?” asked Prince Philip. “A member of the
peerage killed in such an unfortunate way. If I was a village
inspector, I would want nothing to do with this.”
“It is their job,” chided Raffles. “They should be doing it.”
Prince Philip smirked. “I am confident the inspectors are putting
all of their efforts into solving this crime. They know the
consequences if they do not.”
Oliver cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his brother. “I
know the governor from my time mapping the Vendatt Islands. We
used Archtan Atoll as a base of operation, but I do not know him
well. While I feel terrible for his loss, I’m confused. What does this
have to do with any of us? Harwick is in Eastundon Province, and
I’m certain our brother Franklin will hurry to apply all of his
resources to the matter. The governor and his family should get
justice, but I don’t see what we can do to facilitate that from here.”
 “You’re right, brother,” acknowledged Philip. “There is little we
can do about it here.”
Oliver frowned.
“When the reports of Countess Dalyrimple’s murder first arrived,
our uncle William suggested you travel to Harwick to assist in the
investigation. He thought you might be uniquely suited to find out
what happened to Countess Dalyrimple. I agree with his advice.”
Oliver blinked at his brother. “I-I know nothing of investigating a
crime — a murder even! Besides, you know I’m scheduled to embark
on an expedition next week. Director Raffles, you’re aware of the
mission to the Westlands, of course.”
“Of course, but your brother has insisted on your involvement
with this matter,” remarked the director. “And we want to do right by
the governor as well. The Company is here for the Crown, and we’re
here for our own. The governor of our most important colony lost his
wife, a peer! The Company is content to delay the expedition until
this matter is resolved.”
“But the cost of delay,” argued Oliver. “We’ll have an airship on
dock in five days with two score men scheduled to depart. It will
cost a fortune to keep the vessel tethered down. I don’t know if I
can reach Harwick, conduct even a cursory investigation, and return
in that time.”
“Prime Minister William has agreed that the Crown will
compensate the Company for any cost of delay,” confided Director
Raffles. “I’m as eager as you to further our footprint in the
Westlands, but Countess Dalyrimple must come first.”
The duke ran his hand over his hair, checking that the ponytail in
the back was securely tied. He frowned at the director.
“He is your brother,” remarked Raffles, shrugging and nodding
toward Prince Philip. “We’re all subject to his rule.”
Prince Philip leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk.
“What do you say, brother?”
Oliver dropped his hand from his hair and crossed his arms. “Do I
have a choice?”
“For Crown and Company,” replied Philip.
Oliver sighed.
 Prince Philip continued, “Bishop Yates was informed of this
matter as well due to the unusual circumstances of the murder. He’s
agreed to assist in the investigation. His people have already
arranged passage for you and a companion on this afternoon’s
northbound rail. The Church has priests skilled in these… terrible
matters. You should reach Harwick by nightfall tomorrow.”
“Have it all sketched out, do we?” grumbled Oliver.
“Crown and Company, brother,” replied the Prince. “Were you
going to say no?”
“The Westlands aren’t going anywhere,” added Director Raffles.
“There’s sterling to be made, but the Company looks after its own.
We’d do the same for any of our partners that lost a loved one in
such unusual circumstances.”
Frowning, Oliver glanced between his brother and the director.
Finally, he turned to the bishop. “Unusual circumstances?”
Bishop Gabriel Yates shifted in his seat, his hands resting atop his
prodigious stomach. “Unusual is an apt description. Dark magic,
perhaps. That is what the inspectors put into the report, at least. I
cannot imagine there is true sorcery being conducted in Enhover. I
can’t imagine it is even possible, but because it is written in the
official report, it is the Church’s position that this must be dealt with
quickly and by someone in authority.”
Oliver grunted. “There hasn’t been sorcery in Enhover since…
since father forced the Coldlands raiders back across the sea. As you
say, I’ve always been told it’s impossible to call upon the underworld
spirits in Enhover. In university, the professors taught that the
connection with the spirits had been lost, that technology had
supplanted mysticism.”
He glanced between the men in the room, but both his brother
and the director simply looked to the bishop.
“I believe that calling upon either life or death spirits is now
impossible. That much of what you learned is true,” answered Yates.
“According to the report we received from the inspectors, though, it
seems they do not agree. And I must admit, if the description they
included is accurate, it has the characteristics of a dark ritual. In
truth, the mere idea that someone would attempt sorcery here is
almost as dangerous as someone actually doing it. I am comfortably
certain no connection was made with an underworld spirit, but it is
possible someone tried, which as you know has been outlawed by
the Church. We cannot sit on our hands and hope this resolves itself.
The people should understand the Crown and Church are here to
protect them from both mundane and supernatural threats. Even
though we don’t believe the threat is real, we should show the
people we are acting in their interests.”
“You see, brother?” asked Prince Philip. “This is a sensitive
matter, and I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”
“Crown and Company.” Oliver sighed.
“And Church,” added the bishop.
A wry twist curled Duke Wellesley’s lips. “Crown, Company, and
Church.”
The bishop nodded, satisfied. “The afternoon northbound rail,
three on the clock, your companion will be there waiting.”
“My companion?”
 THE PRIESTESS I

T he man grunted and rolled over, dragging a fistful of covers with

him.
She laid still a moment, hugging her arms tightly in the sudden
cold, glaring at his broad back and tussled hair. Muttering to herself,
she rolled out of the bed and stood. She guessed it was a few hours
after midnight, still a few hours until dawn, but she was awake, and
there was no point in hanging around while the oaf slept.
She tugged on her snug leather trousers, her tunic, and a tight
vest. She strapped on her belt and felt the familiar weight of her two
kris daggers resting against her hips. She removed a dagger from
underneath the pillow and slipped it into the sheath at the small of
her back, hidden underneath the vest. She pulled on her knee-high
boots and checked that both thin-bladed poignards tucked inside of
them were secure. Then, she walked out the door.
The man lived in a narrow row house, halfway between the
harbor and the prince’s palace at the top of the hill. Average
accommodations in Westundon. Nothing that would bring girls
panting to the man’s doorstep, but nothing to drive them away
either. It was close to where she was going next, which she found
appealing.
She walked four blocks, the orange glow of the lamps at the
street corners shining like beacons through the soupy fog that rose
off the sea. The moon was only a hazy, silver glow, obscured by the
fog, but she saw that her estimate was right. It looked to be four
hours past midnight.
In the residential quarter, most people were in bed, and it wasn’t
until she approached the Befuddled Sage that other sounds
breached the heavy fog. Two lamps on the outside of the pub
marked the open doorway, though they did nothing to cut through
the gloom and illuminate the wooden sign hanging above it. She
ducked inside the dim room, a cloud of smoke from half a dozen
pipes and short cigars replacing the fog.
“Sam,” called the barman, nodding in greeting. He scratched his
short, salt-and-pepper beard then nodded toward the corner of the
room with an eyebrow raised. “The usual?”
She followed the barman’s gaze and hesitated, considering
turning around and walking back out the open door. Eventually, she
shrugged and moved to the bar. “The usual, Andrew.”
“Samantha!” exclaimed a man, scooting out of his corner booth
and nearly knocking over a chair as he hurried to meet her.
“Walpole,” she acknowledged, settling onto a stool and leaning
her elbows on the bar counter.
The barman was retrieving a cloudy, green glass bottle from a
slender cupboard along with a jar of sugar and a spoon. He sat the
implements on the bar and then added a pitcher of water and a
short glass to the array.
“What is that?” Walpole asked the barman, taking a seat beside
her. Andrew ignored the man, turning and fussing with the
arrangement of bottles stacked next to his taps. Frowning, Walpole
turned to Sam. “He’s not very polite, is he?”
“No, he’s not,” she replied. Glancing at her new companion out of
the corner of her eye, she finally explained, “This is a liquor made
from wormwood, among other things. Care to try it?”
“I’m drinking sherry,” murmured Walpole.
“A proper man’s drink, that,” she replied.
“It suits me,” he remarked. “I-I’ve been looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Where… I’m glad I found you,” he mumbled. “Bryce told me you
came here sometimes. I’ve come the last three nights hoping to find
you.”
She snorted, briefly considering storming back to the row house
she’d just left. “Bryce told you that, did he? Well, I suppose since I’m
here, I cannot very well argue. I do come here from time to time.”
“He said you’d come here sometimes when you were in a
talkative mood.”
“Talk, is that what you’re wanting?” she asked, arching an
eyebrow at the man.
“I-I…” stammered Walpole, glancing around at the few scattered
patrons in the pub. He rubbed his hands together, looking on the bar
for his drink, but it was back at his table. “After last time, I
wondered if maybe…”
It was still some time until dawn. Why not? She stood and
instructed him, “Come with me.”
Without waiting for the man, she walked toward the back door of
the pub. Walpole glanced at the barman, but Andrew kept his eyes
down, his hands busy rinsing out glasses, cleaning them enough that
no one would complain then stacking them on a shelf below the bar.
Swallowing, Walpole followed Sam out the back door and peered
around in the fog, lost.
“Over here,” she hissed, and led him into an alley that ran behind
the Befuddled Sage and the adjacent buildings. She peeled her
leather trousers down to her knees and then hopped up onto a
barrel that rested against the back of the tavern.
“Ah…”
“We both know you didn’t want to talk,” reminded Sam. “Get to
it.”
Walpole, like the good bureaucrat that he was, knelt and began
to work. She looped her legs around his shoulders, using the leather
around her knees to pull him closer. With an eager tongue, sensual
lips, and those thick stubby fingers she remembered from before, he
began caressing her in steady, workman-like fashion. She tried to
ignore the cool puddle of moisture that she’d sat in on top of the
barrel and leaned back, letting the man do what he did best.
She hadn’t been in the mood for the man’s ministrations, but as
she recalled, he had a single-minded determination. Like a dog
gnawing on a soup bone, he wouldn’t give up until he was finished,
and in time, he did.
Her body tensed and her thighs clamped tight around his head.
She bit her lip and moaned as a wave of shuddering ecstasy
cascaded through her body. She held him there, gripped between
her legs, until the trembling stopped, and she could relax her
muscles enough to let the poor man go.
Walpole staggered back, wiping his mouth and touching his ear
tentatively where she must have crushed it tight with her thighs. He
stood still, watching her.
Taking a moment to catch her breath, she finally slid off the
barrel and pulled up her trousers, grateful to feel the leather cover
her damp bottom from the cool air.
“Thanks, Walpole,” she said and turned to go back in the pub.
“Wait!” he called.
She looked over her shoulder at him. His eyes were downcast like
a little boy who was waiting on a cookie. He shifted and adjusted his
belt. She’d come to the Befuddled Sage to drink, and she was ready
to get to it, but she supposed the man had done the work and
earned his turn.
“Take it out, then.”
Walpole looked up, a smile playing on his lips. He began
unfastening his belt, fingers clumsy with excitement.
She stepped forward, helping to shove his pants down, and she
took him in her hand.
He gasped and instantly responded to her touch. She began to
stroke, twisting and pumping.
He leaned his hips forward. “Are you… are you going to, ah—”
“No,” she replied and gripped harder.
Emboldened, Walpole claimed, “Bryce told me…”
“Bryce should keep his damn mouth shut,” she hissed, pulling
hard and eliciting a squeak from the man. “I was drunk that night,
and it was the only time he ever got anything but this.”
“I’m sorry,” muttered the man, trying to relax, evidently not
wanting to lose the little bit of attention he was getting.
 Walpole wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t a bad one, either.
Sighing, she used her free hand to open her vest and unlace her
tunic before leaning toward him. “You can look, and touch, a little.”

T hree minutes later , they re - entered the pub . S am led the way .
Walpole staggered in after her, a silly grin plastered on his face.
She frowned and almost stopped walking when she saw the man
sitting at the bar next to where she’d been. Close-cropped white hair
with a beard to match. He wore loose, undyed robes and was
unarmed. He was pouring himself a drink from her bottle. She knew
from experience his robes were a fine cut, but in the dim smoky air
of the pub, he looked as if he could have strolled in from the
beggar’s stairs near the Church. Walpole certainly thought so.
“Hey, now!” exclaimed the bureaucrat. He charged past Sam,
prepared to defend his paramour against the theft of her drink. He
cut his eyes to the barman. “You let rabble like this in here? That’s
Samantha’s drink, man!”
The barman glanced up at Walpole and then returned to stacking
glasses without offering a response.
“It’s all right,” said Sam, placing a hand on Walpole’s arm. “I
know him.”
The low-level minister’s eyes dropped to her hand and he smiled.
Cringing, she removed it from his shoulder.
“Do you want me to—”
“No, Walpole, I need to talk to him. Actually talk. Go back to your
table and your friends.”
“I-I’d like to pay for your drink, if that’s—”
“I’m not a prostitute,” snapped Sam. “Go back to your table,
Walpole. Maybe you’ll find me again someday. And tell that bastard
Bryce to keep his mouth shut if he ever wants a chance of me
opening mine again.”
Walpole scurried to the corner, his eyes darting back over his
shoulder, smiling at her as he slid in next to his friends. She watched
as they huddled close, excitedly quizzing the young minister about
what he’d just done.
Shaking her head, she forced the boys from her mind and took a
stool next to the old man. “Pour me one?”
“You shouldn’t drink too much of this,” advised the man. “It can
be dangerous.”
She didn’t reply.
“She doesn’t drink too much of it, does she?” the old man asked,
turning to the barman.
Andrew shrugged. “Depends on how much you think is too
much.”
Grumbling under his breath at that, the old man refilled the glass
with the cloudy, green liquor, scooped a small pile of sugar with the
spoon, and then slowly began dribbling cold water from the pitcher
onto the sugar, letting the solution drip down into the liquor.
She sat silently, watching him prepare her drink.
“Drinking isn’t the only thing you can do too much of,” murmured
the old man, his eyes fixed on the ingredients in front of him.
She snorted. “In years past you encouraged me to embrace life.”
“And you did,” he said, “in a way. The currents of this world run
deep. There is a difference between living along the surface and
living fully.”
“And you are the judge on who is living a full enough life?” she
retorted.
He shrugged. “I am your mentor. Who else would be the judge?”
“You are either alive or you are dead,” she insisted. “I am alive.”
“You are making the motions, but you are not immersed in the
full current of life,” he replied, hooking a thumb toward the corner of
the room. “Even dozens of encounters like that will form only a weak
web to the spirits. For you to fulfill your destiny, you need a stronger
tether, you need—"
“Spare me. I know the speech about your prophecy as well as
you do, and I know you didn’t come here to give me that lecture
tonight. So, why are you here?” she asked as the old man poured.
“It’s not like you to be out so late, or to be concerned about how I’m
making connections to the spirits.”
 “You have a job,” he replied, finishing his preparations and sliding
the drink toward her.
“I don’t recall wanting one,” she said, not yet touching the glass.
“You have one whether you want it or not.”
She frowned before reaching for the glass and taking a tentative
sip. “Why?”
“North of here, over on the east coast in the hamlet of Harwick,
there was a murder,” explained the old man. “A countess was killed.”
Sam waited. She knew there’d be more.
“She was lying in the middle of a pentagram, according to the
inspector’s report,” added the old man. “Her face was flayed. She
was naked and had been sexually active. No one wants to believe it
is what it clearly is, but to their credit, they’ve requested assistance
with the investigation. After all, the victim is a countess, though I
suspect fear of rumors is what truly motivated them.”
Sam turned up her glass and drained the rest of it in one
swallow.
“I cannot go, so you will go in my place,” continued the old man.
“You’ll be traveling with a companion who is representing the prince.
Ostensibly, you’ll be assisting him and his investigation, but I’m
expecting you to follow whatever leads you find regardless of what
he wants to do. You have tickets on the northbound rail this
afternoon. All the nobleman will know is that the Church sent you,
and you should keep it that way. Bishop Yates knows I am sending
my apprentice. He knows your name and little else. You
understand?”
“Not really,” she responded, twisting her glass on the counter. “I’ll
need to gather some things.”
“Yes, I expected you would,” replied the man. “That’s why I
didn’t wait until morning. I did wait until…”
She winced.
“You have responsibilities, Samantha,” chided the old man. “You
should be more intentional about what you do.”
“True sorcery hasn’t been practiced in Enhover since… well, since
your time,” she complained. “We are wasting our effort and our
presence in this place. We should go to… to the United Territories, or
down south.”
“You are wasting your time in this place,” corrected the man
sharply, his finger tapping near the bottle of liquor and cutting his
eyes to the back corner of the room. “Just because we have not
witnessed it does not mean no one is doing it. The spirits of the
underworld have not vanished, Samantha. Despite what the Church
says, the possibility of contacting them has not been severed. You
know that as well as I. Technology has replaced or harnessed many
of the wonders of the living world, but it has not replaced death, and
it never will.”
While her mentor gave her the description of her companion and
further instructions, she opened a pouch on her belt and was
dipping her fingers in to pinch out a few shillings when Andrew
returned and collected the cloudy green bottle.
He stoppered it and shook his head. “It’s on the house.”
“For you, then,” she said and set the coins on the bar.
“In my day, a drink was only a couple of pence,” remarked the
old man.
“In your day, you drank rotgut juniper liquor that was just as
likely distilled in a chamber pot as it was in the proper apparatus,”
retorted Samantha. “You can still get bottom shelf gin for a few
pence, but I don’t know why you would want to.”
“Fair enough,” said the old man, rising off his stool. “Fair
enough.”
“Good luck out there, Sam,” offered the barman, placing the
wormwood liquor back in the cupboard. “It’s a dark one this
morning.”
“And it’s getting darker,” she replied.
She turned, leaving her mentor behind with the barman. She
stepped out the open door to where the rising sun was struggling to
banish the night’s cold fog.
 THE CARTOGRAPHER II

T he massive , steel snake perched atop the rail, prepared to lurch into
motion the moment the signal was given. A plume of red-flecked
silver-gray smoke rose from the lead locomotive and brakemen
scrambled about, preparing the train for departure.
Duke Oliver Wellesley threw open the door of the carriage
moments before the footman could reach it. The man stood by
pouting as the duke tossed a well-worn canvas rucksack onto the
cobblestones and then leapt out after it.
“What is travel like on one of those things?” inquired his brother,
Prince Philip Wellesley. The prince was leaning his head out of the
carriage, looking curiously up and down the length of the train.
“You’ve ridden the rails, haven’t you?” responded Oliver, picking
up his rucksack and sliding a basket-hilted broadsword in between
the straps.
“When we were younger, I did,” replied the older brother. “It’s
been years, though. I always travel by airship now when I leave
Westundon, not that I leave very often these days. Last time on the
rail, I believe it must have been before we began mixing red
saltpetre with charcoal for the fuel? It was a slow way to travel back
then, and Father hadn’t invested in the new lines. Is it smooth now,
the ride?”
“Far smoother than that carriage of yours, brother.”
 “I hope the entire errand is just as smooth, then,” offered the
prince before withdrawing back inside the carriage.
“Sam is the name of your companion,” called Bishop Yates from
within the confines of the carriage. “One of our best, I am told.”
“Got it,” said Oliver, waving the bishop off as the man called more
reminders and instructions.
The old rooster was too used to preaching and listening to his
own voice. You couldn’t tell him that, of course, or then you’d really
be in for a lecture. You couldn’t tell his superior, the cardinal, either,
simply because you couldn’t find him. The cardinal had been off in
the United Territories for over a year, leaving his bishops to their
own devices. Each Newday was a painful reminder that no one was
properly supervising the whole affair. A brutal test of endurance,
listening to the man declaim from the pulpit, but he supported the
Wellesley’s publicly and often, and that’s all it took to keep the
prince and their father, King Edward Wellesley, happy. If the two of
them were happy, then Oliver supposed the cardinal would be happy
as well, had he been around.
Checking that his satchel with his notebooks and quills was
secure, Oliver collected the rucksack and broadsword and slung
them over his shoulder, wincing as the scabbard of the broadsword
banged against his back. His father would be scandalized to see him
traveling so light, carrying his own bags, but the prince chalked it up
to the charm of a little brother who had no official responsibilities.
That suited Oliver just fine. It was why he made his life in
Westundon instead of Enhover’s capital. Oliver felt comfortable in
the west, away from their father’s busy court in Southundon or the
stifling formality of their brother Franklin’s court in Eastundon.
Despite what his eldest brother thought, though, he still had
responsibilities. Crown, Company — and he reminded himself — the
Church. As King Edward Wellesley’s youngest son, he had
responsibilities he couldn’t escape, even if they didn’t involve ruling
the provinces like his older brothers.
Forcing down his frustration that his expedition to the Westlands
may be delayed, Oliver clambered aboard the lead railcar, trying to
get excited about the journey to Harwick. Trying and failing. Harwick
would have been his to rule, once, back when there had been a city
and province of Northundon.

“D uke W ellesley ?” asked a voice .

He turned and peered down the narrow corridor of the railcar. A
girl, no, a woman, was leaning out of one of the private rooms. She
was beautiful. The perfect distraction during a long trip on the rail.
Putting on his most rakish smile, he leaned against the wall of the
corridor that ran down the center of the car. “Guilty as charged. Do
you recognize me from some boring official event, or perhaps we
met at one of my brother’s galas?”
“Your brother?” asked the woman, frowning. “No, no, you match
a description given to me by my mentor. You are Duke Wellesley,
correct?”
“Yes…”
“I’m Sam,” she said, stepping out into the hallway. “I’m meant to
accompany you on this… this investigation. Evidently, the bishop felt
the Church should be represented. I’m sorry if I seem a bit daft. It
was a long night last night.”
He blinked at her, his gaze roving from her long leather-wrapped
legs, up to a narrow waist, her medium sized breasts, shoulder-
length black hair, and finally to her pretty lips that were twisted into
a scowl at his examination.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she suggested.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” admitted Oliver, taking a step closer.
“When Bishop Yates said he had someone in mind to accompany
me, well, he’s a churchman, isn’t he? I thought he meant an
investigator of some type, a stuffy old priest who’d seen this type of
thing before. I didn’t even know the Church had priests like you.
Priestesses, I guess. They certainly don’t trot you out in the
sanctuary on Newdays, do they?”
The girl’s scowl deepened.
 “You are beautiful,” offered Oliver. “Surely, the most glorious sight
in all of Westundon.”
The car lurched as the locomotive kicked into gear. Oliver
stumbled, catching himself with one hand, but the girl remained in
the center of the aisle, barely noticing the jolt.
“Do you use that line on all of the girls?” she asked.
“No. Who told you—”
“I’m not here to sleep with you, Duke. I’m here to assist with
your investigation,” she advised, speaking slowly like she was
informing a child of the rules to a new game. “I’m not trained as an
inspector, but the Church felt I do have some skills I could lend you.
Understand up front, none of those skills will involve the bedroom,
which is unfortunate for you as I’m quite talented there.”
He ran his hand over his hair, checking the knot at the back of his
head, struggling to think of something to say to that.
The girl didn’t wait for a response. She turned and ducked back
into the compartment she’d emerged from. On her hip, he couldn’t
miss the wavy blade of a kris dagger. Its sinuous curves
complemented the girl’s, but he suspected the edge wouldn’t feel
nearly as sharp.
The train picked up speed as it sailed along the rail, the only
detectable motion a slight swaying when it rounded a bend.
Shaking his head, Oliver strode to the compartment and glanced
inside. The girl had taken a seat and was sipping at a steaming cup
of coffee.
“A long night last night,” she said, “followed by a busy day.”
“You told me,” he muttered, taking a seat on a plush, padded
bench opposite of her. “It was a long one for me as well.”
“There is plenty for both of us, Duke,” she said, gesturing to a
silver pot and an empty cup that a steward must have delivered
while she was waiting for him.
He poured himself a coffee and met her eyes. “I must apologize
for getting off on the wrong foot. I’m a little hungover, to be honest,
and when I saw you, I was a bit confused. From the name I
thought… well, I was surprised.”
“Sam,” said the girl.
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“Yes; two seasons ago. I can get a new one for three dollars.”
“Not like that.”
“Well, maybe not, but good enough.”
“I’ll let you have it for a dollar and a half,” went on Jack. “That’s
cheap enough.”
“Give you a dollar,” replied Tom quickly, who knew how to bargain.
“All right,” and Jack sighed a little. He had hoped to get enough to
put aside some cash for future emergencies.
Tom passed over the dollar. Then he tried on the glove. It certainly
was a good one.
“Come on in and I’ll treat you to a soda,” he proposed generously, for
he decided that he had obtained a bargain, and could afford to treat.
“Going to the show?” asked Tom, as the two came out of the drug
store.
“Sure. That’s what I sold the glove for.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t your dad send you any money?”
“Yes, he left some for me, but it’s like pulling teeth to get it from old
Klopper. He wouldn’t give me even fifty cents to-night, and he sent
me to my room. But I sneaked out, and I’m going to have some fun.”
“That’s the way to talk! He’s a regular hard-shell, ain’t he?”
“I should say yes! But come on, or maybe we won’t get a good seat.”
“Oh, I got my ticket,” replied Tom. “Besides, I want to take this glove
home. I’ll see you there.”
Jack hastened to the town auditorium, where, occasionally, traveling
theatrical shows played a one-night stand. There was quite a throng
in front of the box office, and Jack was afraid he would not get a
seat, but he managed to secure one well down in front.
The auditorium began to fill up rapidly. Jack saw many of his chums,
and nodded to them. Then he began to study the program. An
announcement on it caught his eye. It was to the effect that during
the entertainment a chance would be given to any amateur
performers in the audience to come upon the stage, and show what
they could do in the way of singing, dancing or in other lines of public
entertaining. Prizes would be given for the best act, it was stated;
five dollars for the first, three for the second, and one for the third.
“Say,” Jack whispered to Tom, who came in just then, “going to try
for any of those prizes?”
“Naw,” replied Tom, vigorously chewing gum. “I can’t do nothin’.
Some of the fellows are, though. Arthur Little is going to recite, and
Sam Parsons is going to do some contortions. Why, do you want to
try?”
“I’d like to.”
“What can you do?”
“My clown act,” replied Tom. “I’ve got some new dancing steps, and
maybe I could win a prize.”
“Sure you could,” replied Tom generously. “Go ahead. I’ll clap real
loud for you.”
“Guess I will,” said Jack, breathing a little faster under the exciting
thought of appearing on a real stage. He had often taken the part of
a clown in shows the boys arranged among themselves, but this
would be different.
“Ah, there goes the curtain!” exclaimed Tom, as the orchestra
finished playing the introduction, and there was a murmur all over
the auditorium, as the first number of the vaudeville performance
started.
 CHAPTER III
JACK IS PUNISHED

The show was a fairly good one, and Jack and the other boys, as
well as older persons in the audience, enjoyed the various numbers,
from the singing and dancing, to a one-act sketch.
More than one was anxious, however, for the time to come when the
amateurs would be given a chance. At length the manager came
before the curtain, and announced that those who wished might try
their talents on the audience.
Several of the boys began to call for this or that chum, whom they
knew could do some specialty.
“Give us that whistling stunt, Jimmy!” was one cry.
“Hey, Sim; here’s a chance to show how far you can jump!” cried
another.
“Speak about the boy on the burning deck!” suggested a third.
“Now we must have quietness,” declared the manager. “Those who
wish to perform may come up here, give me their names, and I will
announce them in turn.”
Several lads started for the stage, Jack included. His chums called
good-naturedly after him as he walked up the aisle.
“I might as well have all the fun I can to-night,” thought our hero.
“When Professor Klopper finds out what I’ve done, if he hasn’t
already, he’ll be as mad as two hornets.”
The boys, and one or two girls, who had stage aspirations, crowded
around the manager, eager to give in their names.
“Now, one at a time, please,” advised the theatrical man. “You’ll each
be given a chance. I may add,” he went on, turning to the audience,
“that the prizes will be awarded by a popular vote, as manifested by
applause. The performer getting the most applause will be
considered to have won the five dollars, and so with the other two
prizes.”
The amateurs began. Some of them did very well, while others only
made laughing stocks of themselves. One of the girls did remarkably
well in reciting a scene from Shakespeare.
At last it came Jack’s turn. He was a little nervous as he faced the
footlights, and saw such a large crowd before him. A thousand eyes
seemed focused on him. But he calmed himself with the thought that
it was no worse than doing as he had often done when taking part in
shows that he and his chums arranged.
While waiting for his turn Jack had made an appeal to the property
man of the auditorium, whom he knew quite well. The man, on
Jack’s request, had provided the lad with some white and red face
paint, and Jack had hurriedly made up as much like a clown as
possible, using one of the dressing-rooms back of the stage for this
purpose. So, when it came his turn to go out, his appearance was
greeted with a burst of applause. He was the first amateur to “make-
up.”
Jack was, naturally, a rather droll lad, and he was quite nimble on his
feet. He had once been much impressed by what a clown did in a
small circus, and he had practiced on variations of that entertainer’s
act, until he had a rather queer mixture of songs, jokes, nimble
dancing and acrobatic steps.
This he now essayed, with such good effect that he soon had the
audience laughing, and, once that is accomplished, the rest is
comparatively easy for this class of work on the stage.
Jack did his best. He went through a lot of queer evolutions, leaped
and danced as if his feet were on springs, and ended with an odd
little verse and a backward summersault, which brought him
considerable applause.
“Jack’ll get first prize,” remarked Tom Berwick to his chums, when
they had done applauding their friend.
But he did not. The performer after him, a young lady, who had
undoubted talent, by her manner of singing comic songs, to the
accompaniment of the orchestra, was adjudged to have won first
prize. Jack got second, and he was almost as well pleased, for the
young lady, Miss Mab Fordworth, was quite a friend of his.
“Well,” thought Jack, as the manager handed him the three dollars,
“here is where I have spending money for a week, anyhow. I won’t
have to see the boys turning up their noses because I don’t treat.”
The amateur efforts closed the performance, and, after Jack had
washed off the white and red paint, he joined his chums.
“Say, Jack,” remarked Tom, “I didn’t know you could do as well as
that.”
“I didn’t, either,” replied Jack. “It was easy after I got my wind. But I
was a bit frightened at first.”
“I’d like to be on the stage,” observed Tom, with something of a sigh.
“But I can’t do anything except catch balls. I don’t s’pose that would
take; would it?”
“It might,” replied Jack good-naturedly.
“Well, come on, let’s get some sodas,” proposed Tom. “It was hot in
there. I’ll stand treat.”
“Seems to me you’re always standing treat,” spoke Jack, quickly. “I
guess it’s my turn, fellows.”
“Jack’s spending some of his prize money,” remarked Charlie
Andrews.
“It’s the first I have had to spend in quite a while,” was his answer.
“Old Klopper holds me down as close as if he was a miser. I’ll be
glad when my dad comes back.”
“Where is he now?” asked Tom.
“Somewhere in China. We can’t find out exactly. I’m getting a bit
worried.”
“Oh, I guess he’s all right,” observed Charlie. “But if you’re going to
stand treat, come on; I’m dry.”
The boys were soon enjoying the sodas, and Jack was glad that he
had the chance to play host, for it galled him to have to accept the
hospitality of his chums, and not do his share. Now, thanks to his
abilities as a clown, he was able to repay the favors.
“Well, I suppose I might as well go in the front door as to crawl in the
window,” thought Jack, as he neared the professor’s house. “He
knows I’m out, for that old maid told him, and he’ll be waiting for me.
I’m in for a lecture, and the sooner it’s over the better. Oh, dear, but I
wish dad and mom were home!”
“Well, young man, give an account of yourself,” said the professor
sharply, when Jack came in. Mr. Klopper could never forget that he
had been a teacher, and a severe one at that. His manner always
savored of the classroom, especially when about to administer a
rebuke.
“I went to the show,” said Jack shortly. “I told you I was going.”
“In other words you defied and disobeyed me.”
“I felt that I had a right to go. I’m not a baby.”
“That is no excuse. I shall report your conduct to your parents. Now
another matter. Where did you get the money to go with?”
“I—I got it.”
“Evidently; but I asked you where. The idea of wasting fifty cents for
a silly show! Did you stop to realize that fifty cents would pay the
interest on ten dollars for a year, at five per cent?”
“I didn’t stop to figure it out, professor.”
“Of course not. Nor did you stop to think that for fifty cents you might
have bought some useful book. And you did not stop to consider that
you were disobeying me. I shall attend to your case. Do you still
refuse to tell me where you got that money?”
“I—I’d rather not.”
“Very well, I shall make some inquiries. You may retire now. I never
make up my mind when I am the least bit angry, and I find myself
somewhat displeased with you at this moment.”
“Displeased” was a mild way of putting it, Jack thought.
“I shall see you in the morning,” went on the professor. “It is
Saturday, and there is no school. Remain in your room until I come
up. I wish to have a serious talk with you.”
Jack had no relish for this. It would not be the first time the professor
had had a “serious talk” with him, for, of late, the old teacher was
getting more and more strict in his treatment of the boy. Jack was
sure his father would not approve of the professor’s method. But Mr.
Allen was far away, and his son was not likely to see him for some
time.
But, in spite of what he knew was in store for him the next morning,
Jack slept well, for he was a healthy youth.
“I suppose he’ll punish me in some way,” he said, as he arose, “but
he won’t dare do very much, though he’s been pretty stiff of late.”
The professor was “pretty stiff” when he came to Jack’s room to
remonstrate with his ward on what he had done. Jack never
remembered such a lecture as he got that day. Then the former
college instructor ended up with:
“And, as a punishment, you will keep to your room to-day and to-
morrow. I forbid you to stir from it, and if I find you trying to sneak
out, as you did last night, I shall take stringent measures to prevent
you.”
The professor was a powerful man, and there was more than one
story of the corporal punishment he had inflicted on rebellious
students.
“But, professor,” said Jack. “I was going to have a practice game of
baseball with the boys to-day. The season opens next week, and I’m
playing in a new position. I’ll have to practice!”
“You will remain in your room all of to-day and to-morrow,” was all
the reply the professor made, as he strode from Jack’s apartment.
 CHAPTER IV
DISQUIETING NEWS

“Well, if this ain’t the meanest thing he’s done to me yet!” exclaimed
Jack, as the door closed on the retreating form of his crusty
guardian. “This is the limit! The boys expect me to the ball game,
and I can’t get there. That means they’ll put somebody else in my
place, and maybe I’ll have to be a substitute for the rest of the
season. I’ve a good notion——”
But so many daring thoughts came into Jack’s mind that he did not
know which one to give utterance to first.
“I’ll not stand it,” he declared. “He hasn’t any right to punish me like
this, for what I did. He had no right to keep me in. I’ll get out the
same way I did before.”
Jack looked from the window of his room. Below it, seated on a
bench, in the shade of a tree, was the professor, reading a large
book.
“That way’s blocked,” remarked the boy. “He’ll stay there all day,
working out problems about how much a dollar will amount to if put
out at interest for a thousand years, or else figuring how long it will
take a man to get to Mars if he traveled at the rate of a thousand
miles a minute, though what in the world good such knowledge is I
can’t see.
“But I can’t get out while he’s on guard, for he wouldn’t hesitate to
wallop me. And when he comes in to breakfast his sister will relieve
him. I am certainly up against it!
“Hold on, though! Maybe he forgot to bolt the door!”
It was a vain hope. Though Jack had not heard him do it, the
professor had softly slid the bolt across as he went out of the boy’s
room, and our hero was practically a prisoner in his own apartment.
And this on a beautiful Saturday, when there was no school and
when the first practice baseball game of the season was to be
played. Is it any wonder that Jack was indignant?
“It’s about time they brought me something to eat,” he thought, as he
heard a clock somewhere in the house strike nine. “I’m getting
hungry.”
He had little fear on the score that the professor would starve him,
for the old college instructor was not quite as mean as that, and, in a
short time, Miss Klopper appeared with a tray containing Jack’s
breakfast.
“I should think you would be ashamed of yourself,” she said. “The
idea of repaying my brother’s kindness by such acts! You are a
wicked boy!”
Jack wondered where any special kindness on the part of the
professor came in, but he did not say anything to the old maid whose
temper was even more sour than her brother’s. Since his parents
had left him with the professor, Jack had never been treated with real
kindness. Perhaps Mr. Klopper did not intend to be mean, but he
was such a deep student that all who did not devote most of their
time to study and research earned his profound contempt. While
Jack was a good boy, and a fairly good student, he liked sports and
fun, and these the professor detested. So, when he found that his
ward did not intend to apply himself closely to his books, Professor
Klopper began “putting the screws on,” as Jack termed it.
Matters had gone from bad to worse, until the boy was now in a
really desperate state. His naturally good temper had been spoiled
by a series of petty fault-findings, and he had been so hedged about
by the professor and his sister that he was ripe for almost anything.
All that day he remained in his room, becoming more and more
angry at his imprisonment as the hours passed.
“The boys are on the diamond now,” he said, as he heard a clock
strike three. “They’re practicing, and soon the game will start. Gee,
but I wish I was there! But it’s no use.”
Another try at the door, and a look out of his window convinced him
of this. The professor was still on guard, reading his big book.
Toward dusk the professor went in, as he could see no longer. But,
by that time Jack had lost all desire to escape. He resolved to go to
bed, to make the time pass more quickly, though he knew he had
another day of imprisonment before him. Sunday was the occasion
for long rambles in the woods and fields with his chums, but he knew
he would have to forego that pleasure now. He almost hoped it
would rain.
As he was undressing there came a hurried knock on his door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My brother wants to see you at once, in his study,” said Miss
Klopper.
“Oh, dear,” thought Jack. “Here’s for another lecture.”
There was no choice but to obey, however, for Mr. Allen in his last
injunction to his son, had urged him to give every heed to his
guardian’s requests.
He found the professor in his study, with open books piled all about
on a table before which he sat. In his hand Mr. Klopper held a white
slip of paper.
“Jack,” he said, more kindly than he had spoken since the trouble
between them, “I have here a telegram concerning your father and
mother.”
“Is it—is it bad news?” asked the boy quickly, for something in the
professor’s tone and manner indicated it.
“Well, I—er—I’m sorry to say it is not good news. It is rather
disquieting. You remember I told you I cabled to the United States
Consul in Hong Kong concerning your parents, when several days
went by without either of us hearing from them.”
“What does he say?”
“His cablegram states that your parents went on an excursion
outside of Hong Kong about two weeks ago, and no word has been
received from them since.”
“Are they—are they killed?”
“No; I do not think so. The consul adds that as there have been
disturbances in China, it is very likely that Mr. and Mrs. Allen,
together with some other Americans, have been detained in a
friendly province, until the trouble is over. I thought you had better
know this.”
“Do you suppose there is any danger?”
“I do not think so. There is no use worrying, though I was a little
anxious when I had no word from them. We will hope for the best. I
will cable the consul to send me word as soon as he has any
additional news.”
“Poor mother!” said Jack. “She’s nervous, and if she gets frightened
it may have a bad effect on her heart.”
“Um,” remarked the professor. He had little sympathy for ailing
women. “In view of this news I have decided to mitigate your
punishment,” he added to Jack. “You may consider yourself at liberty
to-morrow, though I shall expect you to spend at least three hours in
reading some good and helpful book. I will pick one out for you. It is
well to train our minds to deep reading, for there is so much of the
frivolous in life now-a-days, that the young are very likely to form
improper thinking habits. I would recommend that you spend an hour
before you retire to-night, in improving yourself in Latin. Your
conjugation of verbs was very weak the last time I examined you.”
“I—I don’t think I could study to-night,” said Jack, who felt quite
miserable with his enforced detention in the house, and the
unpleasant news concerning his parents. “I’d be thinking so much
about my father and mother that I couldn’t keep my attention on the
verbs,” he said.
“That indicates a weak intellect,” returned the professor. “You should
labor to overcome it. However, perhaps it would be useless to have
you do any Latin to-night. But I must insist on you improving in your
studies. Your last report from the academy was very poor.”
Jack did not answer. With a heavy heart he went to his room, where
he sat for some time in the dark, thinking of his parents in far-off
China.
“I wish I could go and find them,” he said. “Maybe they need help. I
wonder if the professor’d let me go?”
But, even as that idea came to him, he knew it would be useless to
propose it to Mr. Klopper.
“He’s got enough of money that dad left for my keep, to pay my
passage,” the boy mused on. “But if I asked for some for a
steamship ticket he’d begin to figure what the interest on it for a
hundred years would be, and then he’d lecture me about being a
spendthrift. No, I’ll have to let it go, though I do wish I could make a
trip abroad. If I could only earn money enough, some way, I’d go to
China and find dad and mom.”
But even disquieting and sad thoughts can not long keep awake a
healthy lad, and soon Jack was slumbering. He was up early the
next morning, and, as usual, accompanied the professor to church.
The best part of the afternoon he was forced to spend in reading a
book on what boys ought to do, written by an old man who, if ever he
was a healthy, sport-loving lad, must have been one so many years
ago that he forgot that he ever liked to have fun once in a while.
Jack was glad when night came, so he could go to bed again.
“To-morrow I’ll see the boys,” he thought to himself. “They’ll want to
know why I didn’t come to play ball, and I’ll have to tell them the real
reason. I’m getting so I hate Professor Klopper!”
If Jack had known what was to happen the next day, he probably
would not have slept so soundly.
 CHAPTER V
A SERIOUS ACCUSATION

“Hey, Jack, where were you Saturday?” asked Tom Berwick, as our
hero came into the school yard Monday morning. “We had a dandy
game,” he went on. “Your catching glove is nifty!”
“Yes, Fred Walton played short,” added Sam Morton. “We waited as
long as we could for you. What was the matter?”
“The professor made me stay home because I skipped out the night
before to go to the show.”
“Say, he’s a mean old codger,” was Tom’s opinion, which was
echoed by several other lads.
“Is Fred going to play shortstop regularly?” asked Jack, of Tom
Berwick, who was captain of the Academy nine.
“I don’t know. He wants to, but I’d like to have you play there, Jack.
Still, if you can’t come Saturdays——”
“Oh, I’ll come next Saturday all right. Can’t we have a little practice
this afternoon?”
“Sure. You can play then, if you want to. Fred has to go away, he
said.”
The boys had a lively impromptu contest on the diamond when
school closed that afternoon, and Jack proved himself an efficient
player at shortstop. It was getting dusk when he reached the
professor’s house, and the doughty old college instructor was
waiting for him.
“Did I not tell you to come home early, in order that I might test you in
algebra?” he asked Jack.
“Yes, sir. But I forgot about it,” which was the truth for, in the
excitement over the game, Jack had no mind for anything but
baseball.
“Where were you?” went on Mr. Klopper.
“Playing ball.”
“Playing ball! An idle, frivolous amusement. It tends to no good, and
does positive harm. I have no sympathy with that game. It gives no
time for reflection. I once watched a game at the college where I
used to teach. I saw several men standing at quite some distance
from the bare spot where one man was throwing a ball at another,
with a stick in his hand.”
“That was the diamond,” volunteered Jack, hoping the professor
might get interested in hearing about the game, and so forego the
lecture that was in prospect.
“Ah, a very inappropriate name. Such an utterly valueless game
should not be designated by any such expensive stone as a
diamond. But what I was going to say was that I saw some of the
players standing quite some distance from the bare spot——”
“They were in the outfield, professor. Right field, left field and centre.”
“One moment; I care nothing about the names of the contestants. I
was about to remark that those distant players seemed to have little
to do with the game. They might, most profitably have had a book
with them, to study while they were standing there, but they did not.
Instead they remained idle—wasting their time.”
“But they might have had to catch a ball any moment.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the professor. “It is an idle frivolous
amusement, and I regret very much that you wasted your valuable
time over it. After supper I want to hear you read some Virgil, and
also do some problems in geometry. I was instructed by your father
to see that your education was not neglected, and I must do my duty,
no matter how disagreeable it is.”
Jack sighed. He had studied hard in class that day, and now to be
made to put in the evening over his books he thought was very
unfair.
But there was no escape from the professor, and the boy had to put
in two hours at his Latin and mathematics, which studies, though
they undoubtedly did him good, were very distasteful to him.
“You are making scarcely any progress,” said the professor, when
Jack had failed to properly answer several of his questions. “I want
you to come home early from school to-morrow afternoon, and I will
give you my undivided attention until bedtime. I am determined that
you shall learn.”
Jack said nothing, but he did not think it would be wise to go off
playing ball the next afternoon, though the boys urged him strongly.
“Why don’t you write and tell your dad how mean old Klopper is
treating you?” suggested Tom, when Jack explained the reason for
going straight home from his classes.
“I would if I knew how to reach him. But I don’t know where he is,”
and Jack sighed, for he was becoming more and more alarmed at
the long delay in hearing from his father.
But Jack was destined to do no studying that afternoon under the
watchful eye of Professor Klopper. He had no sooner entered the
house than he was made aware that something unusual had
happened.
“My brother is waiting for you in the library,” said Miss Klopper, and
Jack noticed that she was excited over something.
“Maybe it’s bad news about the folks,” the boy thought, but when he
saw that the professor had no cablegram, he decided it could not be
that.
“Jack,” began the aged teacher, “I have a very serious matter to
speak about.”
“I wonder what’s coming now?” thought the boy.
“Do you recall the night you disobeyed me, and, sneaking out of your
window like a thief, you went to a—er—a theatrical performance
without my permission?” asked the professor.
“Yes, sir,” replied Jack, wondering if his guardian thought he was
likely to forget it so soon.
“Do you also recollect me asking you where you got the money
wherewith to go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I now, once more, demand that you tell me where you obtained it,
and, let me warn you that it is serious. I insist that you answer me.
Where did you get that money?”
“I—I don’t want to tell you, Professor Klopper.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No, sir,” came the indignant answer, for there were few things of
which Jack Allen was afraid.
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
“Because I don’t think you have a right to know everything that I do. I
am not a baby. I assure you I got that money in a perfectly legitimate
way.”
“Oh, you did?” sneered the professor. “We shall see about that.
Come in,” he called, and, to Jack’s surprise the door opened and
Miss Klopper entered the library.
“I believe you have something to say on a subject that interests all
present,” went on the professor, in icy tones.
“She knows nothing of where I got the money,” said Jack.
“We shall see,” remarked Mr. Klopper. “You may tell what you know,”
he added to his sister.
“I saw Jack just as he got down out of his window,” Miss Klopper
stated, as if she was reciting a lesson. “He had a bundle with him. I
asked what it was and he would not tell me.”
“Is that correct?” inquired the former teacher.
“Yes, sir,” replied Jack, wondering how the professor could be
interested in his catching glove, which was what the bundle had
contained.
“What was in that package?” went on the professor.
“I—I don’t care to tell, sir.”
“I insist that you shall. Once again, I warn you that it is a very serious
matter.”
Jack could not quite understand why, so he kept silent.
“Well, are you going to tell me?”
“No, sir.”
Jack had no particular reason for not telling, but he had made up his
mind that the professor had no right to know, and he was not going
to give in to him.
“This is your last chance,” warned his guardian. “Are you going to tell
me?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I will tell you what was in that package. It was my gold loving
cup, that the teachers of Underhill College presented to me on the
occasion of my retirement from the faculty of that institution!”
“Your loving cup?” repeated Jack in amazement, for that cup was
one of the professor’s choicest possessions, and quite valuable.
“Yes, my loving cup. You had it in that bundle, and you took it out to
pawn it, in order to get money to go to that show.”
“That’s not true!” cried Jack indignantly. “All I had in that bundle was
my catching glove, which I sold to Tom Berwick.”
“I don’t believe you,” said the professor stiffly. “I say you stole my
loving cup and pawned it. The cup is gone from its accustomed
place on my dresser. I did not miss it until this afternoon, and, when I
asked my sister about it, she said she had not seen it. Then she
recalled your sneaking away from the house with a bundle, and I at
once knew what had become of it.”
 “I say you took my cup!”
Page 41
“You couldn’t know, for there is absolutely no truth in this
accusation,” replied Jack hotly.
“Do you mean to say that I am telling an untruth?” asked the
professor sharply. “I say that you took my cup.”
“And I say that I didn’t! I never touched your cup! If it’s gone some
one else took it!”
Jack spoke in loud and excited tones.
“Don’t you dare contradict me, young man!” thundered the former
teacher. “I will not permit it. I say you took that cup! I know you did!”
“I didn’t!” cried Jack.
The professor was so angry that he took a step toward the lad. He
raised his hand, probably unconsciously, as though to deal Jack a
box on the ear, for this was the old teacher’s favorite method of
correcting a refractory student.
Jack, with the instinct of a lad who will assume a defensive attitude
on the first sign of an attack, doubled up his fists.
“What! You dare attempt to strike me?” cried the professor. “You
dare?”
“I’m not going to have you hit me,” murmured Jack. “You are making
an unjust charge. I never took that cup. I can prove what I had in that
package by Tom Berwick.”
“I do not believe you,” went on the professor. “I know you pawned
that cup to get spending money, because I refused to give you any to
waste. I will give you a chance to confess, and tell me where you
disposed of it, before I take harsh measures.”
Jack started. What did the professor mean by harsh measures?
“I can’t confess what I did not do,” he said, more quietly. “I never took
the loving cup.”
“And I say you did!” cried the old teacher, seeming to lose control of
himself. “I say you stole it, and I’ll have you arrested, you young
rascal! Go to your room at once, and remain there until I get an
officer. We’ll see then whether you’ll confess or not. I’ll call in a
policeman at once. See that he does not leave the house,” he added
to his sister, as he hurried from the room.
Jack started from the library.
“Where are you going?” asked Miss Klopper, placing herself in his
path. She was a large woman, and strong.
“I am going to my room,” replied Jack, sore at heart and very
miserable over the unjust accusation.