The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (16 page)

“Of course,” the chancellor replied, his smile slowly returning. He ran a nervous hand through his lush, brown hair. “With so many representatives from the crown arriving as quickly as the trains pulled into the station, I spent nearly as much time entertaining unwelcomed guests as I did tending to my responsibilities as chancellor. To that end, one of the men in town, and forgive me but I cannot recall who, had the idea to stop visitors before they ever arrived.”

“To that end, you staged vampire attacks on the train.”

“I’m, again, ashamed to admit that we did. We meant no disrespect, as I mentioned before. In fact, no one was permanently harmed during our escapades. The ‘vampire’ attacks, if you will, were merely meant to scare away the passengers on board. You see, most royal representatives lack the intestinal fortitude once they perceive their lives are at risk, present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Simon replied.

“Begging your pardon,” Luthor interrupted, “but someone was harmed on this last train ride.”

“Who was harmed?” the chancellor quickly asked.

“Your vampire,” Simon replied flatly.

Martelus appeared crestfallen at the news. He lowered his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Wallace was a good boy; I knew his family well. Would it be a correct assumption that you had something to do with his untimely death?”

“You would be right in that assumption,” Simon replied, though his words lacked any haughty underpinnings. “I regret that your man had to die, but staging vampire attacks on a train with an armed Inquisitor was a fatal mistake.”

“I don’t blame you, sir,” Martelus replied. “Our staged attacks had worked so many times previously; I think we merely became overconfident that they would continue to keep the crown at bay.”

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “In that regard, your attacks most certainly did keep the tax collectors at bay. Despite your political… difficulties, my mission has nothing to do with your mine and your production, or lack thereof, of iron.”

“I wondered as much. It seemed excessive to include a Royal Inquisitor in what is, at its core, a labor dispute.”

Luthor cleared his throat. “Forgive my interruption, Chancellor, but would it be too forward of me to ask about your labor dispute?”

“Not at all, Mister… Strong, is it?”

“Indeed it is, sir. At its crux, why have you ceased iron shipments to the capital?”

Martelus smiled knowingly, as though he had answered a similar question hundreds of times previously. “You misunderstand our dilemma. We didn’t cease shipping iron to Callifax. We ceased mining iron all together.”

“I don’t think I understand,” the apothecary replied.

Martelus held out his hands, palms upward, as he continued. “You, like many who have come to Whitten Hall, assume that we’re hoarding the iron ore that rightfully belongs to the crown. The simple truth is that we have no interest in the ore. What concerns us is a pay that more properly equates to the labor and dangers we assume working in the mines.”

He raised his left hand as he continued. “On average, we mine nearly a quarter tonne of iron every day. Consider that every weapon in their arsenal, every vehicle on the road, every cannon guarding the king’s parapets, is forged from the very iron and smelted steel that we provide, you can imagine our frustrations when our back-breaking labor is used to fill already fat coffers, every day that we are in operation.”

He lowered his left and raised his right hand. “For our troubles, we’re paid a mere pittance. The daily wages for the miners in Whitten Hall is barely five copper pieces. At the current exchange of one hundred copper coins per one gold coin, our nearly one hundred miners are paid five gold coins in total for a quarter tonne of iron they provide to the crown. Compound that for each day of the year, and you can see the incredible boon we provide the crown, but the utter lack of appropriate compensation.”

“Then all of this is merely to increase your wages?” Simon asked.

The chancellor sighed but nodded. “It may seem trivial to someone used to the affluence of the capital city, but to those of us on the outskirts of the kingdom’s benevolence, a few extra copper coins per day could make the difference between life and death, especially during the harsh winters when food is a premium and carries a premium’s cost.”

“I understand far more than you could imagine,” Mattie said. To her surprise, the chancellor turned toward her and nodded appreciatively.

Simon glanced toward the entryway, as though seeing something beyond the thick wood of the closed door. “Our initial report stated that one hundred and fifty people lived in Whitten Hall.”

Martelus smiled. “Yet you passed through our small town and noticed not nearly as many as that are still present?”

“You are a perceptive man,” Simon replied.

“Not perceptive, but rather familiar with the questions asked by visitors. At the height of our mining operations, it’s true that one hundred and fifty men, women, and children lived in Whitten Hall. When the decision was made to withhold iron shipments, however, we held a town hall meeting and offered those who did not support our plan a chance to leave town. Many did leave, though quite a few remained.”

Simon uncrossed his arms. “Forgive my line of questioning. I didn’t mean to impugn your motives.”

“No offense was taken. As I explained before, we have no nefarious plans other than to contest the pittance earned for our skilled labor.”

Simon glanced toward Luthor and Mattie but saw no further questions.

“This isn’t the first time an element of the kingdom has chosen to stand against the crown,” Martelus quickly added. “Were you here during the tradesmen uprising after the formation of the Rift?”

Simon frowned deeply and his eyes darkened.

“I see that you were,” the chancellor continued, the fire dissipating in his voice. “Forgive me, I meant nothing by the comparison.”

“It’s I who should apologize,” Simon replied. “Some wounds just seem fresher than others. I believe I understand your position well enough.”

Content, he stood. Martelus quickly followed suit and extended his hand. As Simon shook, however, Luthor cleared his throat once more.

“You said that the mines are no longer in operation?” Luthor asked.

Martelus nodded slowly. “We have no reason to keep them open as we have no desire for the iron. The crown frowns upon requesting an increase in wages, but it’s not treason. Stealing iron that belongs to the crown, however, is, and is far more an open invitation for an invasion by royal guardsmen.”

“Would it be too much trouble, then, for us to see the mine?” the apothecary asked.

Simon glanced at him with a mixture of irritation and genuine curiosity, having known Luthor long enough to know that the apothecary rarely acted without good reason.

Martelus shrugged. “The hour is late, but I suppose I could take you. I warn you, though, there’s little to see.”

“Thank you, Chancellor,” Luthor replied. “We’d be honored if you could grant us this request.”

“Allow me to gather my things,” Martelus said, “and we’ll be on our way.”

As the chancellor walked away, Simon arched his eyebrow toward the apothecary.

Martelus led them from the manor. As soon as they emerged into the night air, they were flanked by guards carrying the same hooded lanterns that until recently hung on either side of the entryway.

At the end of the drive, they turned away from Whitten Hall and continued deeper into the darkness of the canopied woods. The chancellor spoke rarely, usually jovially, as they walked, but Simon heard little of the conversation, aside from his polite responses. He stole glances toward Luthor and sought an opportunity to speak in private.

The group approached a covered bridge spanning a wide but shallow river. As they stepped within, Simon dropped back a step until he was beside the apothecary.

“Would you care to explain why we’re traipsing through the woods instead of enjoying a drink in the tavern?” the Inquisitor asked.

“Would you be referring to your flagon of scotch?” Luthor chided.

Simon frowned and glanced around, ensuring their low conversation wasn’t overheard. “You know what I mean.”

Luthor shook his head. “Something doesn’t feel quite right about this scenario, sir.”

“Do you have any empirical evidence or is this merely, as you stated, a feeling?”

Luthor frowned at the obvious derision. “No, I have no evidence. I have a habit of listening to my gut and right now it’s telling me something’s amiss.”

“Mine’s telling me I’m hungry,” Simon teased.

“I’m serious, sir.”

“As am I, Luthor.”

“Don’t you ever act simply on a feeling in your gut?”

“Basing my investigations on feelings that could just as easily be explained away as indigestion is absolute rubbish, Luthor. There’s a reason the world of science is so universally accepted. We base our findings on fact and experimentation, not some sixth-sense nonsense.”

“I don’t have indigestion,” Luthor muttered.

“You’re jumping at shadows that just don’t exist, Luthor. There’s no conspiracy here to be uncovered.”

Luthor turned sharply toward his traveling companion but continued walking across the wooden bridge. “You don’t think his answers seemed a little too rehearsed?”

“They are rehearsed, since he’s had to answer the same questions dozens of times for dozens of different people.”

Luthor sighed. “He had an answer for every question, the perfect answer, I might add. That’s a clear sign of someone who has fabricated a story.”

“It’s equally a sign of someone telling the truth, someone who’s been forced to tell the same truth repeatedly.”

“That’s the same argument used for people who tell a lie so many times that they start to believe the lie as truth.”

“Or it’s merely the truth.”

The clicking of soled shoes on the wooden beams filled the silence between them. The end of the covered bridge approached, and the gloom of the woods seemed far lighter than the inky blackness within the bridge.

Simon bit his lip as he considered his next words. “Since when did you become the skeptic and I the trusting mediator? I don’t care for this new disposition.”

Luthor smiled. “I’m not a skeptic, sir, but merely a cautious sort. Perhaps Mister Gideon Dosett set me on edge and made me far less trusting of politicians and businessmen. After all, Gideon was hardly a good man.”

“He was a businessman,” Simon replied, “and a fairly successful one at that. Honestly, even if he weren’t a spawn of the Abyss, I still wouldn’t have called him a good man.”

They both laughed softly, drawing inquisitive stares from the chancellor and his guards. Simon merely shook his head, informing them that there was nothing of which to be concerned.

“What, pray tell, do you hope to find at the mine?” Simon asked as they emerged from the covered bridge.

Martelus glanced over his shoulder curiously, as though expecting the Inquisitor to rejoin him at the front of the group.

“I have trouble trusting a man who sits upon one of the richest iron veins in the kingdom, but expresses no interest in the wealth. I just want to be sure that the mine is, in fact, no longer in use.”

“Then you will be satisfied?” Simon asked. “Afterward, you’ll be comfortable returning with me to the tavern, drinking about two flagons more than what would be considered healthy, and enjoying the mundane scenery that Whitten Hall has to offer until our train arrives?”

“Consider it a deal, sir,” Luthor replied.

Simon smiled and nodded before rejoining Martelus. As he matched the chancellor’s stride, the man turned toward the Inquisitor.

“Is anything the matter?”

Simon shook his head. “My poor apothecary companion is still shaken after our last mission. He’s being overly cautious, though I’ve pointed to your obvious sincerity. I’m sure all will be fine after we see the inoperable mine.”

“Very good,” Martelus replied, his broad smile returning. “As I mentioned earlier, we have nothing to hide. You’ll see for yourself once we arrive in a few moments’ time.”

Throughout their walk, the branches of the trees to either side had interlaced above Simon’s head, forming a tunnel multitudes darker than the night sky. Slowly, Simon noticed the moon peering through the thinning leaves. The bushes and undergrowth on either side of the road thinned, as did the trees that had previous crowded the packed dirt artery. Ahead, he could see that the trees transformed to severed stumps, which eventually gave way to open grass.

A warm glow radiated from a massive pit ahead. The light reflected off the sheer walls, revealing the layers of earthy strata. Martelus moved unerringly toward the lip of the quarry, pausing only as the road turned sharply and descended around the perimeter of the pit. The closer they approached, the louder the hum of machinery grew.

Simon paused at the edge of the carved fissure, staring downward to the rocky floor a hundred feet below. Generators rumbled, coughing black smoke into the air as they powered tall floodlights mounted around the perimeter of the quarry. Water pooled along half the stony floor, lying stagnant in a small pond that shimmered under the electric lights.

Luthor and Mattie joined him near the edge and admired the amalgamation of machinery sitting in various stages of disuse. Weeds grew along the sides of the train tracks, unkempt and wild. The tracks led into the obsidian mouth of a mineshaft. Mining carts were parked near the end of the line, which concluded near the center of the stone floor below, some rusted and others overturned, no longer along the tracks. A large crane and winch was affixed to the nearest wall, serving the obvious purpose of lifting the mined ore to the top of the pit for transportation.

As Martelus had alluded, everything in regards to the mine seemed to be in a state of disrepair from a lack of use. Little below gave Simon reason to believe that the remaining residents of Whitten Hall were, in fact, still mining the iron for their own venture.

Simon caught Luthor’s eye, but the apothecary merely shook his head. Instead, the Inquisitor turned toward their host.

“Everything here appears copacetic,” he said. “I don’t believe any of my companions have any further questions or concerns.”

“None, sir,” Luthor replied begrudgingly.

“None for the moment,” Mattie said, though her words were cradled in a tone of hesitation.

“Then please forgive my brusque departure, gentlemen and lady, but my work is never done and my bed calls to me even now.”

Simon nodded. “Did I hear correctly that you will be departing again tomorrow morning?”

“Indeed you did. When you’re starting even a peaceful protest against the crown, there are many other allies to court in the region. We can’t change the king’s mind without a unified front with the other outposts in the area. To that end, I travel and plead my case during each day and sleep woefully too few hours each night before repeating the process anew with each dawning morning.”

“Sound dreadfully tiring,” the Inquisitor remarked.

Martelus smiled. “I manage well enough, though I think everyone involved will be significantly happier once this business is behind us.”

The chancellor motioned toward the road behind them. “You’re more than welcome to accompany us as far as the manor if you feel so inclined.”

“Thank you but no, Chancellor,” Simon answered. “I believe my companions and I could use some time to merely walk and discuss amongst ourselves.”

The chancellor nodded wearily and stifled a yawn. “Is your official business then concluded in Whitten Hall? Have you found all the satisfactory answers to the attacks on the trains?”

“Indeed, though I still feel terribly sorry for killing your man. Had I but known that it was all a ruse, perhaps things would have turned out quite differently.”

“It was very much our fault,” Martelus replied.

“If I may ask one last question?” Simon asked.

The chancellor paused nervously before nodding.

“When will the next passenger train be arriving in Whitten Hall? I don’t wish to take any more of your time than necessary.”

Martelus visibly sighed with relief at the simple question. “There are two trains that pass this way. The next one will arrive in two days’ time, and the next two days after that.”

Simon smiled. “Then in two days we will be forever out of your affairs.”

“It was a pleasure hosting you and your friends. We can leave you a lantern to light your way but, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to take my leave.”

“I completely understand,” Simon said, offering his hand. Martelus shook, his hands cool to the touch after being exposed to the brisk night air. “Thank you for everything, Chancellor, and, believe it or not, I wish you all the best in your troublesome business ahead.”

“You are indeed too kind, Inquisitor.

The chancellor and his guards provided Luthor a hooded lantern before turning and retreating down the dirt road. Their light bounced along the trunks of trees as they passed, but the forest quickly swallowed the dim light.

Once they were confident they were alone, Simon dropped the more formal pretenses.

“The chancellor isn’t the only one exhausted,” the Inquisitor said. “I may very well sleep until the train arrives.”

Luthor frowned and crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. “Sir, I don’t believe we’re done discussing—”

“For tonight,” Simon interrupted, “we most certainly are. The only thing we’ll do tonight is walk back to the town proper and sleep—perhaps have a flagon of alcohol if we should be lucky enough to catch the barman at his post in the tavern. Beyond alcohol and sleep, I don’t want to discuss this case any further until the morning.”

If possible, Luthor’s frown deepened. “This discussion isn’t done.”

“It is tonight.”

“You’re an insufferable bully at times, you know?”

“I do and I concur. Now, unless there’s some other vitally important discussion that involves either alcohol or sleep, I say we set off back to the town. Agreed?”

Mattie and Luthor fell into step beside Simon as they walked back toward Whitten Hall.