The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (14 page)

Near the end of the short row of buildings was a combination of pub with an inn occupying the majority of the second floor. The door swung open with a creak of age and exposure to dust and humidity. The interior was quite a bit cooler, though the humidity still clung to the air like a blanket.

Tom didn’t bother with introductions to the few men sitting haphazardly about the room. The bartender, a burly man with a long, handlebar moustache, paused briefly as he wiped the dingy bar with an equally dingy rag before going about his business.

Tom led the group up the stairs, which ended on a long, ill-lit hallway. Lanterns were mounted sporadically between closed doorways, but the meager light provided by the candles within hardly illuminated the hall.

Walking down it, their guide opened doors one after another.

“My apologies,” he said, turning toward Mattie. “We were originally only expecting two of you; we had no idea that the Inquisitor had such an entrancing traveling companion. However, as you could easily surmise, we’re not quite at our maximum occupancy. There are plenty of rooms available for your stay, though I will need to send someone up with fresh linens at once. Again, my apologies for the delay.”

“There’s no hurry,” Mattie replied. “It will do me some good to stand and walk after such a long train ride.”

Tom turned his attention back to Simon. “The chancellor is eager to meet with you upon his return and, I believe, will do his best to answer your questions. Until then, please make Whitten Hall your home. If you need anything at all, Gregory… forgive me, the bartender you passed as we entered, will be able to provide whatever you need. I do hope you enjoy your stay in our humble town.”

Simon tapped his chin with his index finger as though deep in thought. “I do have one question before you depart.”

Tom bit his lip nervously but nodded.

“How long is it until the next train departs for Callifax?”

Tom’s nervous demeanor turned to relief. “The next train will be arrive in two days. I would presume that’s the train on which you will be departing?”

“That is our intent,” Simon replied. “I would hate to take up more of your time than absolutely necessary.”

“Excellent, sir. Then I will leave you to your work and will come by later once the chancellor has returned. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. If you can’t find me here in town, my house is just outside the opposite end of the town proper. Good day, gentlemen and ma’am.”

They watched Tom depart down the stairs before turning toward one another.

“You truly can’t be done with this mission soon enough, can you, sir?” Luthor asked, irritated.

“There are a thousand things I’d rather be doing with my life than exploring the meager offerings of a backwater mining outpost. Four days to arrive, two days of waiting, and four days in return is more than enough time for the Grand Inquisitor to make a decision pertaining to our and Mattie’s predicament. That is truly why we were sent here in the first place, was it not, to provide ample time to make a difficult decision?”

“There is more to Whitten Hall than meets the eye,” Luthor responded.

“All of which a Royal Inquisitor, an apothecary, and a tribal woman from the frozen tundra are ill suited to investigate. This is, again, a task best suited for the Ministry of Trade, not the Inquisitors. Don’t take yourself too seriously, Luthor, it’s bad for the circulation.”

Luthor sighed and turned away, choosing to enter his room rather than continue the conversation. Simon smiled broadly at Mattie before entering his room as well.

His luggage was still in transit from the train, having not yet arrived with the porter. Therefore, he had little to do other than examine the small confines of his hotel room.

A narrow bed sat in the middle of the left wall with a dresser pressed against the right. A large, stone fireplace dominated the wall across from the room’s entrance and an inviting flame danced across a single piece of wood burning in its center. A candle rested upon the mantle without the benefit of a candleholder. Its red wax had run into a clump upon the surface, fusing it in place. Small fingers of wax crept over the lip of the mantle, running down toward the open maw of the fireplace beneath.

Simon sat his wooden box on the floor beside the bed and used the toe of his shoe to push it underneath the slightly raised bed frame. Satisfied, he turned from his room and walked back into the hallway.

Luthor and Mattie exited their rooms as well, clearly as equally thrilled over their accommodations as Simon. They shared equally disappointed expressions before Luthor motioned toward the stairwell.

“Shall we convene at the pub downstairs?”

“That is perhaps the best recommendation I’ve heard all day,” Simon replied. “To the pub.”

Even fewer patrons were sitting in the pub by the time the group descended the stairs. The few that remained gave them curious stares as though strangers, especially ones of their caliber, were an oddity within Whitten Hall.

The bartender hadn’t seemed to move since their arrival. He stood in the same place behind the bar, cleaning with the same dirty cloth.

They chose one of the numerous empty tables and sat. Simon glanced toward the bar but hesitated, unsure if it would even be prudent to order drinks from the surly bartender. To his surprise, a squat woman emerged from a room behind the bar and approached their table.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said cheerfully as she reached their table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Simon deferred to Mattie, allowing her to order.

“Whatever beer you have available,” she said.

“We have an amber ale, locally brewed,” the waitress replied. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as impressive as the drinks available to you in the big city, but it does all right for our kind.”

“It sounds perfect,” Mattie said.

“And for the gentlemen?”

“A scotch for me, if you please,” Simon immediately responded.

“Just a water, if it’s all the same,” Luthor added, drawing an odd glance from everyone at the table.

“Excellent. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

The waitress walked away and Simon turned toward the apothecary. “Water seems like a poor choice, Luthor. So rarely do we have a chance to relax and enjoy ourselves while on a mission. You should be taking full advantage.”

“We shouldn’t be enjoying ourselves even now, sir.”

Simon frowned. “Spoken like a true pessimist.”

Luthor sighed. “All I mean, sir, is that we are on a mission and should be focused as such. You offer such a striking dichotomy.”

“How so?” Simon replied, genuinely curious to hear the apothecary’s answer.

“You have presented a truly disinterested persona ever since before we departed Callifax. Yet, upon meeting our representative at the train station, you resumed your truly Inquisitor-like demeanor and spoke with a genuine air of professionalism.”

“It’s simple, Luthor. I have hardly concealed the fact that I find our current assignment to be utter nonsense. However, when faced with a representative of the town, I’m not representing merely myself but the entirety of the Inquisitors. My professionalism is a reflection of my training and capabilities. I would be sorely put out if I presented something less than my full potential.”

Luthor pointed enthusiastically. “That, sir, is exactly the level of interest I would like to see applied to this mission as a whole.”

Simon furrowed his brow and stroked his chin thoughtfully before finally shaking his head. “Nonsense. This mission is absolute rubbish.”

Before Luthor could offer so much as a discontented sigh, the waitress returned with their drinks. She set down three wooden flagons on the table before sliding them in front of the respective patrons. The trio glanced at their drinks before turning inquisitively toward the heavyset woman.

“Is this scotch?” Simon asked, as the identity of the fluid within the brown flagon was difficult to discern.

“Yes, sir. That is what you ordered, was it not?”

“Oh, no, madam, it most certainly was.”

Simon lifted the flagon and examined the wooden vessel. Around the periphery of the mug, intricate pictures had been carved depicting a war between armies, the names of which no one was likely to recall.

“It’s in a flagon?” Simon asked, though even Luthor struggled to discern Simon’s intent with the posed question.

“Do you like it?” the barmaid asked. “I carved it myself.”

“It’s exquisite,” Simon replied with a warm smile.

As the barmaid turned away, Simon’s smile faded. Luthor waited until the woman was out of earshot before he turned toward his mentor.

“You were being facetious.”

“Of course I was being facetious,” Simon replied, exasperated. “First and foremost, scotch is served over ice in a tumbler. At most, I drink a finger or two at a time. This flagon is nearly full. The woman is clearly attempting to send me into immediate liver failure.

“Secondly, and far more importantly,
she served me scotch in a flagon
. Flagons are meant to be filled with mead and drunk by hairy men in skirts with horns upon their helms. What am I, a barbarian?”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Not even remotely, but I will cede the floor.”

Mattie drank from her beer, licking her lips as she set her own flagon upon the table. “The beer is as I would expect, slightly flat and warm but with a good alcohol content that, somehow, makes you overlook its flaws.”

“At least someone is remaining positive about this adventure,” Luthor added.

“Misadventure,” Simon corrected.

Luthor lifted his own glass to his lips. As he drank of the water, his expression froze on his face. He pulled the wooden mug from his lips and let the water dribble from his mouth and back into his cup.

“Whatever is the matter, Luthor?” Simon asked slyly. “Is the water not to your satisfaction? You seem, oh, what’s the word, mildly pessimistic about your drink of choice.”

Luthor cleared his throat and fought the urge to scrape the offensive taste from his tongue. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “This water tastes faintly of urine.”

Simon shrugged. “You’re an apothecary. I’m sure there are some medicinal uses for urine.”

Luthor flushed with frustration. “Certainly none that I can think of that require ingestion.”

“It’s amazing how quickly one’s attitude can change when faced with the simple fact that our entire purpose in being here is utter bollocks.”

Luthor shook his head in an attempt to clear away the early onset of nausea. “Our reasons for being here still aren’t bollocks, sir, merely this drink.” He cringed at the thought of bollocks being involved in the making of his drink.

The pub door opened, and a pair of heavily laden porters entered with their luggage in tow. The two men sighed as the door swung closed behind them.

“Inquisitor Whitlock, sir,” the first porter said breathily. “Where would you like your bags?”

Simon stood, his flagon of scotch quickly and pleasantly forgotten. He approached the two men with a broad smile.

“Gentlemen, thank you kindly for your work.” He recognized the porter who spoke as the same man he had encountered upon the train platform after their arrival. “Was the other business taken care of as well?”

The porter averted his eyes at the mention of the corpse. “Indeed it was, sir. The coroner claimed it and had it removed.”

“Excellent. In that case, please deposit our luggage in our rooms upstairs.”

The porters looked to the steep bank of stairs and audibly groaned.

As the men staggered under the weight of the bags, Luthor and Mattie stood from the table and joined Simon near the door. They watched as the men struggled increasingly with each step.

“I feel as though we should assist,” Mattie offered. “It seems wrong that we merely watch.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Simon replied. “I’ve never been one to tip lightly. They’ll be well compensated for all their pains.”

When the porters had disappeared from sight and their footsteps reverberated in the hallway above the pub, Simon placed enough coins on the table to pay for the drinks before the group retired to the upstairs.

Their doors were open as they reached the top of the stairs and suitcases were being deposited within. The two porters wiped a heavy sweat from their brows as they concluded their work. As they passed by the waiting trio, Simon handed them each a gold coin. They nodded appreciatively, though in hindsight, Simon realized the absurdity of the gesture. He had just offered a gold coin in compensation for their work. The very gold coin he just offered was the center of the controversy surrounding Whitten Hall. The iron had been mined from this very town, shipped to the capital, was paid for with the same coin with the king’s face emblazoned upon it. The mere thought of it all made Simon’s head hurt.

“It’s still early afternoon,” Luthor remarked as he stared at their still-open doors.

“I should hardly think unpacking will take until evening when the chancellor returns,” Simon said, continuing Luthor’s thought.

“Perhaps not for me,” Mattie added. “Of the three of us, I clearly packed the lightest. I can’t decide if that makes me a poor example of a lady or makes you poor examples of proper gentlemen.”

“You a lady,” both men replied.

The trio laughed heartily as they walked toward their respective rooms.

“I don’t know about the two of you,” Simon began, “but I have plenty to occupy my time until we are called upon. Shall we meet for dinner prior to our appointed meeting?”

Luthor glanced over his shoulder and groaned inwardly. “I don’t assume we have many other options other than to eat at the tavern?”

“I would assume not.”

The apothecary sighed. “Then I guess we shall meet for dinner. Until then, I will be consuming reagents until I’m sure I’ve properly destroyed any toxins within that abysmal glass of water.”

“Until then,” Mattie said as she stepped into her room.

Simon walked into his room, closing the door behind him. Dim light filtered through curtained windows, accentuating the meager light provided by the single log burning in the fireplace. For a moment, he considered lighting the candle as well, but it seemed a shame to further destroy the nub of the red candle as it clung to life on the mantle.

His suitcases were placed at the foot of the bed, but he ignored them. They were full of clothing and little else, most of which he would not require until the morning. Instead, he knelt beside his bed and reached underneath the low, wooden bed frame until his fingers closed around the wooden box he had concealed there.

He pulled the box free and placed it on the mattress. From his pocket, he withdrew a key and inserted it into a concealed lock. With a twist, he heard the satisfying fall of the tumblers.

Simon lifted the lid, revealing a collapsible crossbow, wooden stakes, blessed holy water, an assortment of silver bullets, and other objects within his Inquisitor’s kit assembled specifically for slaying mystical creatures.

Despite Luthor’s insinuations to the contrary, Simon always took his job seriously when it came to reports of the supernatural.