The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (15 page)

“The chancellor will see you now,” Mister Wriggleton said as he stood patiently in the hallway outside their hotel rooms.

The sun had set some time ago, and the flickering light from their respective fireplaces silhouetted Simon, Luthor, and Mattie.

“Chancellor Whitten is truly sorry for his late return,” Tom continued with a disarming smile. “The political responsibilities for someone defying the crown is… well, as I’m sure you can assume, it’s fairly astronomical.”

Simon offered a weary smile in response. The hour was late and between the long train ride and the humidity within Whitten Hall, he felt drained. “Please lead the way, Mister Wriggleton. I don’t believe either myself or either of my companions wish to keep the chancellor any longer than absolutely necessary tonight.”

Tom nodded and stepped aside, allowing the trio access to the hallway. They walked down the stairs together, their guide in the front. The tavern below was far livelier than when they had arrived. Nearly all the tables were full with people laughing amongst themselves, their drinks all but untouched amidst the endless streams of conversation. Eyes turned inquisitively toward Simon and his friends as they reached the bottom of the stairs, but Tom seemed oblivious to the accumulated glances as he led them toward the front door.

Simon glanced to his right and acknowledged the pensive scowl from the bartender. Most of the townsfolk had seemed polite, despite their conflict with the crown and its representatives. Only the bartender seemed standoffish, which made Simon trust him far more than anyone else.

As they left the bar, the cool evening air struck them. The heat of the midday had faded, although the humidity remained. Simon could feel the beads of sweat soaking into the stiff collar of his dress shirt. The top hat, canted slightly atop his head, served little purpose in the dark night, save to capture the dampness that saturated his coifed hair.

Only a lonely pair of oil lanterns burned along the street. Despite the gloom, the outpost was alive with activity. The town that had appeared a ghost town upon their arrival was burgeoning with life. The storefronts had seemed desolate and isolated as the train had pulled into the station but, to Simon’s surprise, remained open even at this late hour, allowing the businesses to flourish under the new patronage.

“There seem to be an abnormally large number of people in the town now,” Luthor remarked, echoing Simon’s thoughts.

Tom nodded as they walked toward the edge of Whitten Hall proper. “Chancellor Whitten travels with a large entourage. The town itself may be safe, but the surrounding countryside isn’t by far. Bandits and highwaymen stalk the roads; if you travel off the major roads, as the chancellor does, then you have to fear the ravines and canyons that scar the land. You’re just as likely to fall into a fissure as have your horse turn a hoof or throw a shoe.”

“Wouldn’t you be afraid of the crown retaliating while you’re away?” Mattie asked. “It seems that you’ve taken nearly every able-bodied man out of the town to travel with the chancellor.”

Tom glanced at Mattie as though he disapproved of her interjection into the conversation. Though he replied to her question, he directed his answer to Simon. “They take a risk by leaving the town mostly undefended as they travel but, to be honest, their presence in the town would hardly make a difference should royal soldiers arrive. We’re poorly equipped to fight the crown face to face. The simple truth is that the chancellor has become a hero to the townsfolk. Even if Whitten Hall falls under crown jurisdiction once more, his safety is paramount to the town’s independence.”

Simon and Tom continued their conversation as they passed beyond the last of the dilapidated structures lining the town’s sole thoroughfare. As the trail meandered into the dark woods beyond, Luthor fell in stride with Mattie, a few feet behind the two conversing men.

Even in the gloom, Luthor could see her visible scowl. It didn’t take Simon’s impressive detective skills to deduce the problem.

“It was a good question, and very apropos,” Luthor offered as the group suddenly stopped.

Tom struck his steel knife against a shard of flint, causing sparks to illuminate the inky blackness of the road beneath the wood’s dense canopy. After a few practiced strikes, the wick of a lantern hanging from a hook beside the road caught fire, pushing back the gloom.

Their guide lifted the lantern from its hook and bore it before him as they continued on their way.

After a few steps, Mattie huffed angrily. “That man is a right bastard, is what he is.”

Luthor suppressed a chuckle, knowing his mirth would only fuel her fire. “It’s not that he’s a terrible man, quite possibly just the opposite. It’s merely a different culture. In Haversham, you were encouraged to speak your mind. Your chieftain was even a female. In the rest of the kingdom, however, things aren’t nearly as progressive.”

“It’s not being progressive to let a woman ask a question with the expectation you actually answer her. Not doing so makes you a right—”

“—bastard,” Luthor finished. “You’re right, of course. I can’t rightfully defend a culture that doesn’t let a woman speak her mind, especially when that woman is capable of removing a man’s face with a single swipe.”

Mattie smiled. “It does give me a sociological advantage, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll certainly be choosing my words carefully if I ever have to correct you.”

She smiled and nudged him playfully with her elbow. “Damn right you will.”

As they turned a corner on the winding road, they could see lantern lights filtering through the trees. A two-story manor house was set off the road a short distance, with a packed-dirt road leading to the columned entryway. Lanterns were hung from the house’s exterior, both flanking the front doorway and lining the balconies on the second floor. It gave the building a haunted exterior, one that seemed ill lit and uninviting.

Tom turned onto the drive and led them toward the manor. Though the entryway itself was unmanned, Simon could see the shadows of rifled men standing guard on the balconies, perched in the shadows behind the hooded lanterns.

“This is the chancellor’s home?” Simon asked as his eyes quickly scanned the building’s exterior. Trees crowded the edges of the property but had been trimmed back from the house proper. Ivy crept up the side of the building, reaching nearly to the pinnacle of the tall brick chimney mounted to the home’s left side.

“This is his family’s home,” Tom explained. “It’s been here nearly as long as the mining community, built by the founding Whitten during the times of the iron rush. It’s in a state of disrepair, having suffered lengthy vacancies as generations of Whitten’s moved away to find their wealth beyond the trappings of managing an iron mine but, inevitably, one always returns. The current chancellor has only been back a few years and repairs have been slowed, what with the recent political designs.”

Simon arched an eyebrow toward the man as they approached the lit doorway. “You’ve expressed quite some ingenuity in the number of ways you’ve managed to avoid saying that Whitten Hall is in revolt.”

Tom frowned but quickly regained his composure. “One man’s revolutionary is another man’s criminal.”

The door opened before him, forcing Simon to drop his voice to a whisper so as not to be heard by their host. “Too bad for Whitten Hall that those who see you as criminals have so many guns at their disposal.”

The man who stepped from the manor’s open door looked far younger than Simon would have expected. His skin was smooth, lacking the traditional lines of wear seen on those who spent so much of their time in the sun. The chancellor, for that was who Simon assumed him to be, was immaculately dressed, clearly attired specifically to impress his guests.

The chancellor marched confidently into the darkness of night to meet Simon as the Inquisitor approached.

“You must be Inquisitor Whitlock,” the chancellor said, a broad smile spreading across his face. Even in the darkness, Simon could see the sincerity behind his obvious pleasure. “My name is Martelus Whitten, as I’m sure someone of your renown has already deduced.”

“I would hardly call myself renowned, Chancellor, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

The chancellor’s smile lingered for a moment longer before he shook his head, as though awakening from a stupor. He stepped aside and gestured for Simon and the others to enter.

The interior of the house clearly lacked electricity. Candles burned in recessed sconces along the walls. An elaborate chandelier of candles, which dangled precariously overhead, brilliantly lighted the foyer. Despite Tom’s admonition that the manor required upkeep, the interior was surprisingly well kept. The smell of wallpaper glue permeated the room, exuded from the recently refurbished walls. Plush, cushioned chairs adorning the sitting room to the right of the foyer, albeit antique, were well maintained and clean.

“Forgive me, sir,” Tom said, breaking the still hush that had settled over the group, “but there is a mountain of paperwork that requires my attention.”

The chancellor patted Tom firmly on the back before leading him to the door. “Of course, old friend. Get some rest tonight and I’ll see you before we leave tomorrow morning.”

Tom left, closing the door behind him. The chancellor turned back toward the trio. “Please, follow me. I wish I could offer you more comfortable surroundings, as I’m sure you’re accustomed, but my home doubles as my office, unfortunately. We lack the trappings of affluence, in such a small mining community. We simply make do with what we have at our disposal.”

Simon glanced toward Mattie. “You’d be surprised the austere living conditions in which an Inquisitor often finds himself, Chancellor.”

The chancellor shook his head. “Please call me Martelus. We can dispense with the formalities, if it pleases you. I find titles often get in the way of two men truly expressing what’s on their minds.”

“Very well,” Simon nodded as Martelus led them into a study.

Bookcases flanked a roaring fireplace, their shelves laden with assorted manuscripts and rolled maps. At quick glance, Simon saw an assorted collection of archaic and modern books on mining operations, intermixed without rhyme or reason with classical literature.

The study lacked a large, oaked desk as had seemed to become the norm amidst people of power. In lieu of the desk, two long couches sat perpendicular to the fireplace with a plush single chair at the head of the formation.

“Sit, please.”

Simon and Luthor sat on the couch across from the chancellor while Mattie quietly took the lone chair facing the fireplace.

“I would offer you a drink,” Martelus began, “but I fear drinking so late would impede the rest of your investigation.”

“You’re a wise man,” Simon replied, “though I’m not sure ‘investigation’ is quite the correct term. We were sent on quite a less auspicious task, one I might add that has already concluded.”

Martelus arched an eyebrow. “Truly? On what mission were you sent, if I might inquire?”

Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We were sent to investigate the matter of attacks occurring on the train.”

The chancellor swallowed hard and looked away from the Inquisitor, clearly embarrassed.

“I see that you’re intimately familiar with the issue at hand,” Simon surmised.

Martelus turned back toward the group, a sad frown replacing the previously jovial smile. “I’m ashamed that I do.”

Simon leaned back in the couch and nodded toward the chancellor. “Please do explain everything. I will fill in the blanks with what I know as well.”

The chancellor cleared his throat. “We quite honestly meant no harm or even disrespect. You’re more than familiar with our current situation and the strain between Whitten Hall and Callifax?”

Simon nodded his concurrence.

“Then you’re also aware that it’s only a matter of time until the crown sends its soldiers to reinstate the flow of iron to the capital. You’re not the first royal representative to travel to Whitten Hall. We’ve had a plethora of tax collectors, constables, and even a handful of bounty hunters, all coming to either coerce or threaten our town, should we not comply with the crown’s demands. To be honest, I feared you were yet another and it set me a bit on edge. A Royal Inquisitor is quite a bit more threatening than a simple tax collector.”

Simon smiled at the compliment. “I can assure you that we’re not here to take any political or legal action against your town. I merely want to know about the episodes on the train, if we could return to that issue.”