The Rules of War Chess: The Destroyer King, #2

An Unexpected Detour

My dearest friend.

As I promised, this is the second book of the chronicles describing what happened after the fateful expedition to the Yucatan. Some of the events may be familiar, similar to what you have read in the Times or other newspapers. So, in place of the scribbles I wrote within the pages of the first book, in some chapters I have inserted transcripts of articles which appeared in newspapers of that time which was, and yet was not. The original copies are lost, of course, but my uncle swore to me these are word for word copies. I have also included a few passages from relevant books of the time for good measure.

Now, as for my situation, I... no, I swore to myself I would not burden you with my troubles and I will stay the course. I will be the stoic Ogre and ignore the ever growing number bricks heaped upon the wagon I pull.

Just know I am doing everything I can to keep you from sharing my fate...

A Legend that Proved All Too Real (Londinium Times, February 10th, 1861)

(From our Special Correspondent)

In the Grand Hall of the Explorer’s Club, a memorial was held today for those who lost their lives in the expedition to the Yucatan, specifically John Lloyd Stephens and the Eldarion, Catherwood. During the ceremony, the Mexican ambassador to the British government brought to light accusations which had previously been hinted at. Specifically, that a small unit of French soldiers took the expedition prisoner with the intention of robbing an ancient Eldarion-Maya site. The incident ended in disaster for the French, with the Mexican army retaking Campeche City and a legendary monster, the Camazotz, killing the ringleader and most of the soldiers. In the ensuing chaos, Shabaka Goldspear, the bold, ‘Black Lion of Londinium’, and the remaining brave Englishmen of the expedition, overwhelmed the French and triumphantly returned to civilization, bearing both golden artifacts and the creature’s bones. The artifacts have been loaned to the British Museum, while the bones are now displayed in the Explorer’s Club Grand Hall (and can be viewed for a nominal fee). All of the surviving members of the expedition can be seen in the photograph below, along with their half-blood Eldarion guide who traveled to England with them...

Jack (February 28th, 1861)

MAM USED TO TELL ME that when it snowed in Londinium, the flakes fell grey from the sky from all the coal smoke people burned to try and keep warm. But I reckoned most folks were now using Terramagica devices instead. Because I could see through the window of the train I was riding in, the snow swirling instead like a white mist, softening the three and four story buildings rolling by.

Then everything went dark as we passed into a tunnel. The cars farther up the train had Terramagica lamps, which the conductors immediately flipped on. But the train master at the station near Shabaka’s estate where I’d been staying, took one look at my ears and had me escorted by the half-blood Eldarion conductor to the second to last car on the train, where no Terramagica was permitted at all.

Light flared above me, and I glanced over my shoulder to where the half-blood conductor formed a glowing web of Aethyr between her hands, which became another ball of light. She motioned for it to rise while the first drifted back to the opposite end. The car was pretty much filled up with human folk too poor to ride farther up, huddled in blankets and patched coats, their breath frosty as a mother quietly scolded her whining kids.

My wooden seat and the seat facing me were the only empty ones in the car. Reckon I couldn’t blame them for not trusting a half- Eldarion Apache, half- human male, wearing a long, battered leather coat that went down to his boots. Pretty much everyone getting on had taken one look at me and found some other place to sit. Didn’t matter one way or the other I decided, putting my heels on the opposite seat before taking the black, wide brimmed hat and placing it over my face. I closed my eyes.

Jack Watson.

I gave a start. Opening my eyes, I took the hat away from my face and I placed my feet back on the floor. Sitting on the opposite seat, just to the left of where my boots had been, was a large woman wearing a Yucatecan native tunic and skirt of brownish-white wool, a red shawl wrapped about her rounded shoulder. Her deeply wrinkled face looked Maya and she had her black hair braided in plaits resembling two long, floppy ears. Beg pardon, I said, setting the hat back down beside me, but I didn’t hear you sit down. Staring at her face, I frowned. Reckon I should know you from somewhere.

Her bark brown cheeks dimpled as she smiled. Great Grandmother. I maintain the shrine of Ix-Chel, where you and I met when you were searching for Jonathan.

My eyes went wide as cenotes as the memories came galloping back. I remember. You gave us one of the best home cooked meals I’ve ever had in my life, and set us on the right path. I never did get a chance to thank you.

You didn’t have to. Knowing everything worked out in the end was thanks enough.

Settling back on the hard wooden seat, I gave her a right puzzled look. Not to be rude and all, but what in tarnation are you doing in Londinium?

The same thing that you are: seeing the sights while looking for something to occupy my time. The French have invaded Mexico as they threatened, now that the Union has joined the Republic of Texas against the Confederates, and I decided it would be an excellent time to... how do you say it, get out of town for a while?

I chuckled. Reckon I would’ve done the same, seeing as how that isn’t my circus.

And you don’t want anything to do with those monkeys, trust me. I blinked, hearing my own words tossed back all casual like as she added, I saw your picture in the Londinium Times, helping Shabaka arrange the bones of the Camazotz in the Explorer’s club. What was that place like?

I couldn’t help but give her a snort. Too highfalutin for the likes of me. After we got it set, Shabaka asked if I’d help Drog get the Goldspear estate back in order, seeing as how the gent they’d hired to run the place while they were gone gave the job, ‘a lick and a promise’, and nothing more.

What of young Jonathan?

Settling into being a university student is how he tells it. I’ve watched him play War Chess a time or two, and he’s hell-on-wheels with a shock stick weapon. The coach’s already moved him from being a pawn piece to a knight, and Naamah heard he’s gonna be tapped for team captain after the current one graduates this year.

Has he spent any time with the half-blood girl, Myste?

Me and Jon had spent last night at the main building catching up, and I smiled. They’re getting on like a house on fire, mostly through letters, but also an occasional chaperoned visit. I snorted, remembering how Jon told the story. Her pa, Ambassador Bannon, has a half-Ogre servant who growls every time he tries to even give her a hug. I shook my head. What Jon needs is someone a mite more amiable to turning a blind eye when she gets a little older, but I reckon that’s not gonna happen until Myste’s coming out party in a couple years.

Her expression turned sly. Instead of a half-ogre chaperone, why not you instead?

I hesitated, wondering how much I should say. Reckon that wouldn’t be a good idea, me being half-Eldarion like she is. Great Grandmother raised her bushy eyebrows and I said, According to Naamah, the girl’s totally on fire for Jon, and I wouldn’t want to cause a ruckus between them on account of me. I blew out my breath in a rush. Not that I’m God’s gift to females, mind you, but a madam I met in Old Town told me I’m a unicorn to all the other half-blood Eldarions.

And they all want a ride.

Reckon so. Eldarions understand but Jon being Human wouldn’t. Shoot, he thinks sixteen is too young, even though the law and Eldarion traditions say it’s normal, and Myste would think he’s using it as an excuse to leave her if he bowed out. I shook my head. Reckon I’ll never understand pure blood humans if I live to be as old as Ran-Li. Great Grandmother gave me a sly look at Ran-Li’s name, which I let lay as I added, Anyway, I’m keeping my horse out of the race so it don’t come between us.

Great Grandmother nodded. A wise choice. So, what are you doing on the South-side of Londinium?

Reaching inside the leather coat, I pulled out the pouch hung from a cord around my neck. Now that the estate’s back on the rails, I told Shabaka I wanted to look for work in the city so I could spend time with his grandson, now and then. I’m a fair hand at carving wood, and he wrote me a letter of introduction I can use to see if any of the Eldarions in the Jewish quarter-

Baker street.

-who make Artifacts, need... Wait, what?

The Maya woman fixed me with a trail boss’s glare. You need to get off at the Baker street station and look for employment there.

I gave her a right confused look. Baker street? But-

Jack, she said, laying her broad, warm hand to my face, when you and the others came to the shrine, looking for Jon and the rest of the expedition, I told you not only how to find them, but where the remainder of Cahal’s warriors had gone. Did I steer you wrong?

No, but-

Jack, trust me. Durned if I know why, but instead of chewing over the idea, I just tossed my common sense out the window and nodded, which got me a smile. Since I am in town for a time, would you mind terribly if I collected your stories, both what happened in the past as well as what you are doing now, and wrote them all down so they are not lost?

I shrugged. Reckon I don’t mind-

Next stop, Baker street, the half-blood conductor called out.

-but this isn’t the best time to do it.

Of course not, Great Grandmother replied, taking her hand away from my face. I will see you again, someday. Around us, the train began to slow as she made a shooing motion with her hands. Your station is coming up, so off you go.

I was downright bemused over the whole conversation, but durned if I didn’t grab my hat, climb to my feet, and turned towards the front of the train. As I walked towards the door, the conductor standing next to it gave me a sharp look. You said you’re taking this to the end of the line.

Change of plans, I replied, turning to motion back towards the Maya woman.

Both seats were empty.

I blinked, the dark voice in my head chuckling as I turned back around. Ah, it’s just that I’m a mite hungry, saying the first thing that popped into my head. Baker street means bakeries, right?

I knew I sounded like a durn fool, and Drog had warned me the train conductors were part of the police force, who watched rough looking strangers like hawks did rabbits. But the half-blood Eldarion merely smiled. Some of the best on the South-side. Take a left when you leave the station, and stop at the bakery next door to the Holmes Apothecary shop. Their scones are to die for.

As the train came out of the tunnel, letting in natural light through the windows again as the train continued slowing, I chuckled. Not sure I’ve ever met a food I’d be willing to die for, but I reckon I’ll take your advice.

She smiled back, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small card. My shift ends once this train reaches the end of the line, she said, handing me the card. Once your business on the South-side is finished, if you’re not needed elsewhere, I’ve got a garden flat near the train station. Her blue eyes had a hungry look. Tomorrow’s also my day off.

The train came to a stop as my eyes matched the hungry look in hers. Reckon I can’t promise anything, as my business here may be serious and I might have to start right away. But if it don’t pan out, which I’m pretty sure is more likely, then I’ll be paying you a call.

As I tucked the card in the top pocket of my flannel shirt, she gave me a wink. Then I won’t wish you good luck.

I inclined my head before putting on my hat. Ma’am, I said, touching the brim before turning and walking out the door.

Cold air swirled a few flakes of snow around me as I started down the metal stairs, buttoning up my long leather coat as I reached the platform and headed for the stone steps leading up. Baker street station sat below the rest of Londinium, covered over with a metal roof, the snow coming down something fierce on the street beyond. I strode past the bundled up people getting ready to board, separated by class, and in the case of Eldarions by race, and joined the sparse group beginning to climb up the steps.

They all moved around a small, yet stout figure a bit over four foot tall, who carried a basket durn near as big as they were. I started up the stone steps, slick from the snow swirling in from the street, and as I came abreast, realized she was female. Ma’am, can I give you a hand with that?

She was older, maybe in her fifties, wearing a long blue dress and a red shawl. Her cheeks were about the same color. Oh, that is terribly kind of you, she said, holding up the basket so I could take it. One of the boys was supposed to meet me here, but it must have slipped his mind.

As I held onto the wicker handle and we started back up the stairs, I noticed her nose was a mite longer than any human’s I’d ever seen before. No problem whatsoever. Do you live on Baker street?

I matched her stride as we carefully walked up the steps. I do indeed, 221 Baker street. She stopped and looked up at me. I have completely lost my manners. Mrs. Martha Hudson, widowed.

Taking off my hat, I inclined my head. Jack Watson. Right glad to meet you, Mrs. Hudson.

Her eyes went wide as little tea-cakes. Are you a half-blood Eldarion?

Ah, yes ma’am, I said, putting the hat back on so it covered my pointed ears. Long story, but my family originally came from Londinium. My grandfather, John Watson, was a policeman-

On the East-end; yes, we had him over for dinner a few times after his wife died. She shook her head. Terrible tragedy. We did our best to cheer him up, but poor John was inconsolable.

I blinked. You knew my grandfather?

Mrs. Hudson started up the stairs, and after a moment I followed as she said, I work for another Gnome, Saul Sherlock, who makes his living investigating cases for wealthy clients. He has contacts all over the city, and your grandfather was one of them.

I easily caught up to her. Hope you don’t mind me asking, but what was my grandfather like?

Mrs. Hudson looked up at me with a sad smile. He was gruff, yet underneath the hardness lay a good man. John knew the East-end as well as I know my kitchen, and he was always as fair to its people as a policeman could be... which is a rare trait in them, these days, she added with a righteous sniff.

I’ve been warned to watch my step around the police here.

That is good advice. By chance, did your mother come back to England with you?

I shook my head. Life’s hard in the territories and Mam didn’t make it. We reached the street, still noisy despite the snow muffling sound, and I raised my voice a mite. Which way is your home?

I caught the look of sympathy she gave me before her face went all business-like. Follow me. Mrs. Hudson took a left and started down the sidewalk, dirty snow squelching under my boots as I walked behind her, the basket bumping against my leg as we went.

Falling snow made the late afternoon seem like nightfall, the lamp-lighters in their frock coats already getting the lamps lit while folk hurried past them. In the street, horse-drawn wagons and Ogre-drawn coaches rumbled past, churning the snow into black slush as a few people picked their way across to the other side. Many of the shops had boys outside keeping the sidewalk clear, even in front of the old three and four story houses here and there down the block. The alleys we passed were piled high in snowdrifts.

Ahead of us, a lamp-lighter was poking an Artifact fire-striker into the bottom of a street lamp while a policeman in an overcoat watched, a pile of rags on a snowdrift in the alley we were passing catching my eye for a moment. But I forgot about the rags as a young man without a coat or even a hat dodged past the copper. Mrs. Hudson, he called out, the policeman turning our way with a frown as the fellow slid to a stop in front of us. I’m so sorry, he panted, but I wasn’t watching the time.

Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled up at him. No harm done, she said as I handed over the basket. This nice gentlemale offered to help and I accepted. She turned to look at me. Mr. Watson, the absolute least I can do is offer you a nice cup of tea and the chance to warm up by the fire.

I was all-fired eager to hear more about my grandpap from someone who knew him, and opened my mouth to say yes when a faint sound came from the alley behind me. Did you hear that? Both gave me puzzled looks as I turned around and high-tailed it inside the alley mouth.

The pile of rags on the snowdrift had a kid inside them. He was blond headed and pale as a ghost, around eight or nine years old, making little mewling noises as I picked him up. Hey, little fella, what’re you doing out here? He was stick-thin as a newborn calf and so light I was afraid the wind might blow him away if I dropped him. What’s your name?

Behind me, a man’s voice said, It’s moot. I turned around with the kid still in my arms. The policeman in his overcoat stood on the sidewalk in front of the alley, truncheon in his beefy hand. He used it to point at the child. That little guttersnipe is one of the thieving ragamuffins who plague our city, obviously half-starved and too far gone to save. The best thing you can do is to put him right back where you found him and let nature take its course.

Rage boiled up inside me. Nature can just shove that billy club up her corn hole and rotate, I snarled at him, holding the boy tight against my chest as I stalked forward. The policeman retreated a few steps and raised the truncheon as I moved out of the alley. I’m saving this child if it’s the last durn thing I do.

Christopher, Mrs. Hudson said as she unwrapped her red shawl, run home and warn the Irregulars that we are coming. He took off like a hoss out of the barn as I knelt down so Mrs. Hudson could wrap the kid up as best she could. He curled up against me, whimpering softly as the copper glared down at us. We ignored him. Once she got the kid wrapped up tighter than a mummy, I rose to my feet with him in my arms, and she started hurrying down the sidewalk.

I followed as the copper yelled behind us, Whatever you do is going to be moot. He will be dead before morning.

I growled under my breath as we passed by several shops and a bakery, the smell of baking bread touching my nose a moment before we hurried past, Mrs. Hudson puffing as her short legs pumped the paving bricks. I slid a couple times but didn’t lose my footing, jogging at her heels until we reached an old mansion taking up durn near most of a block. The front door was open, with Christopher frantically waving at us. The twins have put on the kettle, he called out as we slowed down, and Neil’s building up the fire in your sitting room. Here, he said to me, holding out his arms, I’ll take him. I hesitated and he added, We’re old hands at rescuing strays. Trust us.

Trust ain’t something I’d had much luck with, but against my better judgment I handed the kid over to him. Christopher didn’t pause but turned and raced away. I watched him go through the small entranceway and down a long hall, the young man barefoot for some reason.

To the right of the entranceway was a wooden door. As Mrs. Hudson, still puffing like a bellows, beckoned me inside and shut the outside door, the side door opened. A gnome four feet and some change tall stared up at me. I take it we have acquired another stray?

He had bushy eyebrows and styled hair, with a nose like a half-smoked cigar and wore a breasted suit tailored to fit him. Mrs. Hudson caught her breath and motioned up at me. Mr. Watson here found a poor boy freezing to death in the snow.

Just Jack if you please, ma’am, I said, taking off my hat. I turned towards the gnome I reckoned was Mrs. Hudson’s employer. I’m right sorry if I’ve caused a ruckus-

He waved a manicured hand, cutting me off. No apologies needed... and call me Mr. Sherlock. As a gnome of some means, I honor the cultural traditions of my ancestors by giving sanctuary to those in dire straits. A sour smile twitched at his lips. He is not the first, and I daresay he will not be the last.

Mrs. Hudson, who for some reason unknown to me had taken off her shoes and socks, was dunking her feet in a copper basin next to the long hallway and drying them with a towel. I promised Jack a cup of tea for carrying my basket up from the train station.

The gnome raised a bushy eyebrow. That explains why Christopher left in such a hurry.

It’s right nice of you to offer, I began, but-

On the contrary, the gnome said, staring up at me all intense-like, I would be remiss in my obligations not to, at the very least, offer you a cup of tea... or perhaps something stronger? When I hesitated, he added, I recently acquired a bottle of whiskey distilled from the corn grown in the Mexican state of Oaxaca.

My eyebrows shot straight up towards the ceiling. Do tell. Reckon I’d be a right churl if I didn’t take you up on the offer.

He smiled. I thought you might. Mrs. Hudson will send one of the children to let us know when our stray is out of the woods. I glanced down and she nodded, replacing the towel on the rack beside the basin before striding down the hallway at a good clip. The gnome ushered me inside and shut the door behind us.

As he headed for the sideboard, I looked around the room. It reminded me of a highfalutin lawyer’s office, with dark paneling and pictures on the walls, gaslight lamps on brass poles, and several stuffed chairs facing a large desk with a Terramagica lamp to one side. He poured us both a drink, then came over and handed a glass of golden liquid to me before motioning at the chairs. Please, take a seat.

I did so as he walked behind the desk and sat in his chair, raised up so we were at eye level. As he settled in I took a sip. Reckon I’ve never had anything this smooth.

Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, he touched the fingertips of both hands together as he regarded me. Considering you grew up in the western territories of the Union States of America before its falling out, I would not imagine so.

I was about to take another sip, but set my glass back down on my thigh as I gave him a suspicious look. How do you know that?

Elementary, my dear Mr. Watson. You have the look of an Eldarion who is native to that area, softened of course by your Human mother’s side. Your ancestry is Apache, with your mother taken in a raid and spared a settler’s normal fate. You left the tribe at a young age, falling in with either cowboys or gunmen from the Republic of Texas, then went south to Mexico where you joined with the expedition Shabaka Goldspear and his son Jonathan were part of. At its conclusion, Shabaka was so impressed that he agreed to let you accompany him back to England, where he provided you with employment. However, it is beginning to feel like charity, and you came to the South-side seeking something you believe is more honest. He raised an eyebrow. Am I correct?

I realized I was gaping at him like a durn fool and shut my mouth. How in tarnation did you figure that out? My eyes narrowed. Or did someone tell you?

Mr. Sherlock looked at me like I was nine times a fool. Deductive reasoning, I assure you. Before the Union States broke apart, all of the native North American tribes were having a rough go of it... except the Apache. According to a person I know who is familiar with the area, there have been rumors of monstrous wolves accompanying their raiding parties. Supposedly, the soldiers have been rather reluctant to confront the Apache at all.

I grimaced. Reckon I don’t know about that.

That was a durn lie and he knew it, but let it go. As for the rest, the Times had a picture of the unveiling of the Camazotz in the entry hall of the Explorer’s Club, which included you as well... wearing the hat I see beside you on the chair. I thought it odd since the rest of the gentlemales were bareheaded.

I didn’t want to be in that durn fool picture in the first place, but Jon insisted.

He nodded. You were wise to wear the hat. As for the rest, the article stated you were instrumental in rescuing the remaining members of the expedition, which tells me you are a man of action. As such, you dislike being in anyone’s debt, and anyone who earned Shabaka Goldspear’s trust would not seek employment on the East-side. Nor would you be accepted in Old Town, or the West-end, or even North-side, though you could probably find something further afield. That leaves the South-side. He held out his hand. May I see Shabaka Goldspear’s letter of introduction? I stared at him a moment like he was a snake-bit coyote.

Then shook my head and pulled the letter out of my pouch. I handed it over, and he pored over it as I unbuttoned the rest of my coat, the warmth of the room finally reaching my bones. I took another sip of the best spirit I’d ever had in my life, least up to that point, as he set the letter down and leaned back in his chair. When I saw the picture in the Times, I debated using my contacts to arrange a meeting with Shabaka Goldspear, and inquire about stealing you away from his employment.

I reared back a mite. You were thinking about hiring me on?

He touched his fingertips together again. Absolutely. While I maintain the veneer of respectability a Gnome must always present, many of my investigations involve, shall we say, people of questionable morals, and situations often fraught with peril. I am a rare Gnome in that I possess the ability to use either Aethyr or Terramagica energy, which has gotten me out of several disagreeable situations over the years. However, having a person such as yourself with me might prevent some of those situations from occurring in the first place.

I was slowly nodding. You figure if I earned Shabaka’s trust, I might be able to earn yours.

Something like that, yes. I am working on an investigation at the British museum right now, involving a pair of Eldarion statues which supposedly came to life and murdered two alleged thieves, then took the life of the museum’s director. I believe I know who the actual murderer is, and plan to confront him in the hall where the statues are displayed.

You think having me at your back will keep him from dry gulching you and pinning it on the statues.

He raised an eyebrow. An interesting way of putting it, but yes. As for payment-

The door opened, and he broke off as Christopher came inside with a tray. Sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Hudson said to make sure Jack got his cup of tea.

Usually I go in more for coffee, I said as he brought over the tray holding two steaming cups on saucers, a small ceramic pot and matching small pitcher, and put it down on the desk. But right now I reckon anything hot would be good. How’s the kid?

Awake and coherent, Christopher replied, handing the Gnome his tea cup before turning towards me. Milk or sugar? I shook my head, and he handed me the other cup as he went on. He says his name is Moot, and that he cannot remember anything else.

Mr. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Moot?

Christopher shrugged. He said the policeman named him, and it’s a better name than his old one. Anyway-

Uncle Saul, a young girl about twelve or so called out as she ran into the room, a runner just came to the back door from the Terramagica messaging office. The acting director of the British Museum’s trapped inside the building and afraid for his life!

I’ve got your back, I said.

Saul Sherlock gave me a satisfied smile as he nodded. Christopher, go tell the runner to message back that we are on the way. Ignoring his tea, the Gnome got off his chair and came around the desk as I rose, finishing off the whiskey before setting the glass down on the tray.

As I followed after him, the dark voice in my head chuckled once more. Jack, I believe this is the beginning of an interesting relationship.

Ain’t that the truth.

A Most Curious Custom

A Most Curious Custom (Londinium Times, April 25th, 1863)

{From our Special Correspondent}

The tradition of giving away an Eldarion’s half-blood child at the age of sixteen years, varies from culture to culture. In the Union States of the north, with their more Puritanical view of morality, the girl is given to an organization that will give her a good home and decent employment (though it must be noted that scandals have arisen from fraudulent groups who turn around and sell them to brothels). In the Confederate States (at least before the war now raging there), the girl is thrown a lavish party, at the end of which she chooses the man who will henceforth become her ‘guardian’. English Eldarion traditions are more transactional, while in the Olde Norse Empire, where half-bloods have no rights at all, the girls are sold