Death Whispers 19: Mysterious Maps and Bleeding Ink

July 30, 1722. Brewed Gambit Alchemy Shop, Kingston, Jamaica. Charting the truth, even though it hurt…

Author’s Note: Death Whispers of the Etherwave is a serialized fiction story that is a part of Legends of the Privateers. Each chapter will appear weekly.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: After being questioned by the city watch about the dockside murder, Pedro retires to his alchemy shop to recover, rest, and gather his wits. While brewing up a batch of tonic for a customer, he talks through the latest snarl of trouble around the Codex and the Death Whisper golems.

Renwick, the ghost freed from the last golem, helps Pedro narrow down the details. It helps Pedro then piece together a horrifying possibility: the murders may be about to escalate!

July 30, 1722. Brewed Gambit Alchemy Shop, Kingston, Jamaica. Charting the truth, even though it hurt…

“You’ve been up to something,” Elara told me suspiciously.

The captain raised a thin eyebrow at me. A dozen other silent expressions warned that I’d better explain myself, and quick.

I raised my hands in defense.

“I’ve just been brewing a batch of tonic for a customer while talking with Renwick,” I explained. “Which, I think, helped decipher something about our current problem.”

Arms crossed, Elara leaned against a nearby window with a skeptical look on her face. Next to her, the mid-morning light slipped by her side, casting her in a warm, half-light.

From shirt to vest to boots, she looked every bit the commanding captain, with just a hint of intimidating. The short sword and flintlock at her belt completed the look. But it was her raised eyebrows that told the true story. I’d definitely roused her curiosity.

It didn’t take long to repeat the conversation I had with Renwick, along with my slightly wild theories. I did my best not to sound like a raving loon. The more I explained, the deeper she frowned. Finally, she pulled over a chair to the other side of my worktable and sat down.

“An amplifier?” Elara grimaced. “It sounds more to me like you’re talking about a sacrifice.”

I shook my head and shrugged.

“Maybe? It’s hard to ignore, querida,” I admitted. “There’s a trail of bodies already a good mile wide, and it’s growing.”

Elara sighed, then gently dragged a hand over her face.

“Well, it fits with everything else so far. Now I’m very glad I sent the others out where I did.”

“What?”

She fixed me with an even, stern stare from her jade-gold eyes. There was a flicker of unease half-hidden behind them.

“I sent the others to the hospital to check on Joshua Argall, and also run down other things we’ve been trying to chase.”

A small surge of frustration welled up inside me and I sat forward in my chair. But Elara was ready and waiting. She raised a hand to stave off my frustrated tirade before it started.

“Don’t you even start,” she ordered. “Yes, we’ve been hounded by Death Whispers, but even you have to admit they aren’t lurking behind every corner.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but closed it, then sat back with a silent, stubborn nod.

Elara narrowed her eyes at me.

“Pedro, you’ve looked like a ghost since Port Royal.” A brief flash of concern crossed her face. “If left alone, you’ll work yourself to exhaustion. I wanted to make sure you had a real chance to catch your breath.”

She waved a hand at my workshop with its brewing and alchemy apparatus.

“At least, rest in your own way, that is. We all agreed.”

This time, I raised an eyebrow at her.

“We?”

A mischievous grin flashed across her face.

“We. Lysander, Skaldi, Durner, and myself.”

The silence hit like a cannon shot, sharp and sudden, before she broke it with a sigh.

“Asa mvur, we need you whole and alive.” She pursed her lips, adding softly, “I mean that. Just like I meant what I told you aboard the Silk Duchess.”

I blew out a breath, then watched the sunlight through the window tease its way across a shelf of potions to my left. The rainbow of light cast through the enchanted liquids danced cheerfully against the wall. Renwick’s words about ‘trust your crew’ floated back to me.

Words swung through my mind like loose rigging. Phrases like thick-headed, daft, hair-brained, and egotistical loomed large. Death-wish was also tangled up in there. I don’t consider myself a brilliant man, but I certainly know when I’ve been out-maneuvered for my own good.

“All right,” I told her, holding up my hands then letting them drop into my lap.

Suddenly, I felt more tired than I realized. Had I slept, or did I dream it? It could have been a little of both.

“My captain? I surrender. So, tell me, what did everyone find?”

Elara glanced around to locate a chair, then sat across the worktable from me. The smile on her face was one of a cat with fresh cream.

“I scattered everyone out to cover as much ground as I could,” she explained. “Lysander and Skaldi went to the hospital to pay a visit with Joshua Argall. Durner? I had him keeping an eye on the Duchess, but also ask around about that fishing town Storm attacked. There might have been survivors.”

“And you?” I asked, crossing my arms.

She shrugged as if it was nothing, which meant it wasn’t.

“I tracked down Argall’s warehouse,” Elara explained, then vaguely waved a hand at me. “But let me start back with what the others found first.”

“Fair enough,” I replied.

“Lysander and Skaldi sent me a message about our lovely employer,” Elara said sardonically. “Mr. Argall was still mumbling to himself until Skaldi yelled at him. As it turns out, being accused of murdering a whole fishing town had an effect.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Skaldi isn’t known for diplomacy.”

Elara’s smile twisted into a sly grin.

“He isn’t, but that’s why Lysander was with him.” Elara interlaced her fingers in her lap. “It also worked. Our Mr. Argall had a lot to say between sobs and apologies. Turns out, he was trying to help his dying brother.”

“So he has a brother?”

Elara nodded, her grin brighter.

“Lucas Argall from San Germán. A skilled wavebinder who fell sick a year ago while working for the Trade Syndicate. No idea about the illness, but what Mr. Argall described reminded me of our dead dockworker.”

That got all of my attention. My wooden chair squeaked while I shifted position and tugged at my chin.

“That could explain the ‘wood boned man’,” I mused aloud.

“I’m sure it does,” Elara replied firmly. “I’ve a guess that our good Joshua didn’t expect his brother to attack him with Death Whispers to take the book.”

I tapped a finger against my chin while I added this to my theory.

“So Lucas Argall, dying and impatient, attacks his brother to get the Codex,” I recited slowly. “But Lucas found more than he expected, since Renwick said Lucas talks to the book constantly.”

I glanced over and met Elara’s uneasy expression. A jade-gold eyed mirror of my own thoughts.

“Driven mad by the ghost of Tristam Greenholm in the Codex,” I suggested. “It would explain some of this unholy taste for mass murder. What about Durner?”

Elara glanced at her hands, lips pulled into a complicated line of anger and sympathy.

“There were a few survivors. Ten at most. Durner found them hiding in Kingston’s pauper graveyard out of terror. They’ve been rounded up and sent to the nuns at the hospital.”

I winced from a stab of deep sympathy. A sad, dark expression clouded Elara’s eyes.

“They said a brigantine sailed in close, opened fire, then sent in the fiends. Two volleys, then slaughter. When there was nothing but bodies and burning buildings, they left. The survivors were hid in the nearby woods.”

I felt a warm fire ignite in my right hand as I made a fist. A deep, low voice whispered in the back of my thoughts. I ignored it.

“Maldita sea,” I swore low under my breath, eyes squeezed shut.

I pulled my anger under control with no small effort. Slowly, I tapped my clenched fist against my forehead. Finally, I met Elara’s pained glance with a sigh.

“And the warehouse?” I asked, voice brittle.

She inclined her head.

“Those invoices you collected did have an address. Two blocks south of the bookshop.” She let a heartbeat pass. “We met a dead man there.”

I stared, wide-eyed, as that rang a nasty bell in my mind.

“The dying dockworker? There?”

“Yes, right outside it,” she confirmed in a tight voice. “It’s mostly filled with boxes of books and trinkets. But on the east side, there’s a clear space near a locked door with some blankets and a small iron stove.”

Elara gestured to my fireplace and my brewing tools. “There’s even brewing pots and copper tubing like yours.”

“What? Brewing?”

“Brewing,” she repeated. “They looked recently used. But someone had taken pains to clear out in a hurry. There wasn’t much to look through, and someone came in while I was searching around.”

“Did they see you?” I asked, concerned. “Who were they?”

The captain shook her head, then brushed a stray strand of chestnut hair from her face.

“I’ve no idea,” she admitted. Frustration stalked behind her words. “It was just one person, but I had to leave before I could see them.”

I nodded, tugging at my chin again in thought.

“Has anyone mentioned the Rising Eel being in port?” I asked. “Storm has a reputation. People might notice.”

Elara shook her head a little.

“Not a word,” she said, then waved a hand in the vague direction of the docks. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t nearby. Heaven knows that they could be anchored out of sight, then come ashore elsewhere. Jamaica is an island.”

I grunted a little in acknowledgement.

“Then it’s likely not Lucas Argall, Captain Storm, or his crew.” I frowned at where my thoughts went. “Ignoring the city watch, that leaves… who? Joshua Argall’s assistant, Señorita Stewart? Why would she be there?”

“Other than it belongs to Mr. Argall? Possibly for this,” Elara said.

She pulled an old piece of folded parchment from inside her vest. It was a map, or a part of one. Obviously torn, it was also a little burned where it had once been part of a larger map.

“This shows the waters and islands around Jamaica.” She stood and unfolded the map across my worktable. “The map seems recent, and someone has been charting locations on it.”

She tapped her fingers next to different numbers at locations near Kingston, Port Royal, and places in between.

“Look here,” she added, tapping a finger to a spot outside Port Royal.

My blood chilled. Elara and I had been there only a few days ago.

“That’s where the sea hag’s house is,” I said, alarmed. “At least close to it, anyway.”

“Yes,” Elara ran a hand through her chestnut hair, mouth in a tight line again. “That isn’t the only marked location we’ve been to, either. Some are in Kingston, others not.”

I sat heavily back in my chair, stunned, not sure what to say.

Elara threw up her hands. “How far ahead did they plan this? This could have been quick calculations, but… was it? It isn’t like we can just look at what they wrote and tell when it was written to see what’s coming.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said slowly, with a small grin.

I picked up the piece of map, then ran to the sunlight with it. Once there, I leaned close. I didn’t care about the map or numbers, but the ink used.

“If this is iron gall ink,” I explained, “it’ll take on an oily or glossy sheen in the light if the writing’s fresh. The older it gets, the more it turns brown.”

Elara joined me, then leaned in close, squinting at the ink.

“They could’ve used another ink,” she said.

“Could,” I agreed. “But likely not. Iron gall’s very cheap, and Joshua Argall would’ve had plenty given his profession. I see four locations that could’ve been recently written.” I glanced at my potion shelves. “But there’s another way to narrow this down.”

I handed the map to Elara and rushed to the shelves. Quickly, I grabbed two potions, returned to my worktable, then pulled out the cork stoppers. Carefully, I mixed a portion of each into a new bottle. The final mix bubbled maniacally, giving off an acrid fizz.

“Dry ink is difficult to remove,” I commented idly while I stirred the mixture. “Fresh? It’s easier. A mix of watered down wood alcohol with an acid I prepared yesterday might help narrow down ‘freshness’.”

Elara smoothed the map flat on the worktable. Using a narrow wooden stir stick, I dropped a bit of the potion at the edge of each suspicious number. Then we waited.

“I’ve not been to any of those locations,” Elara admitted while my acrid potion fizzed on the parchment. “They could be anything from nothing, to a small fishing or pirate town.”

I opened the Codex page, then tapped a set of faded numbers in the margin. Ones that had appeared during the incident in Lyra Valtor’s workshop.

“Possibly, but one set of those numbers from the map matches this.”

I grabbed a pen and ink to underline the faded numbers on the page. Then I copied the various notes from the burned map, just in case my mild acid was more than mild.

But the precaution wasn’t needed. The nasty mix had done its work. Bits of ink bled away, the oily sheen easily apparent. I tapped the ones that stood out.

“So, we’ve two locations, querida. Also, I very much want to know what was being brewed at the warehouse. Maybe even see what’s behind that locked door.”

Elara crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows at me.

“So we go back tonight?”

I shook my head a little, folding the Codex page.

“There’s no time. We need to go now with someone who has the keys,” I replied. “We need to speak to Señorita Stewart.”

Then I snapped a cork into the bottle with a pop.

“Especially before anyone tries to ‘lock’ us out of that warehouse with fire instead of a key.”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.