Claudian's Keys

By Krystal-Ann Melbourne

A riddle left by Emil's eccentric—and now very dead—Uncle Claudian sets him on a mission across the ocean in search of seven hidden keys. The last key promises freedom from not only Claudian's dubious reputation, but the gallows, because the solution to the riddle is the name of Claudian's killer, and without it, Emil's the most likely suspect.

The notorious—if somewhat impulsive—pirate captain, Ash, doesn't quite believe that Emil's innocent when he comes begging the use of her ship…in the dead of night…with no shoes and a more than sketchy solution to her own legal problems. It'd take more than a favour for Ash to ferry a nobleman anywhere, but she could use a hand sailing, if Emil can learn to pull his weight. Ash's own crew scattered upon her last arrest, and reuniting them is the first step to resuming her reign of terror.

Both goals are possible, if Ash and Emil cooperate to battle the ocean instead of each other. Their adventure takes a turn for the surreal, however, when they discover that each key isn't hidden in a place, but in a memory, an eerie half-history warped by Claudian's recollection of it, where the weight of the past is poised to crush them, and Claudian's aren't the only secrets to be spilt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krystal-Ann Melbourne
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777110109

Book preview

1

EMIL

G et on with it, Emil mutters, his fist held an inch before his uncle’s lacquered study door. Its glossy green is easy to clean, easy to wash away the aftermath of an unexpected result, as Claudian would call it: bits of oil and machine innards set free from the carcasses of his least successful inventions.

Would you mind fetching the rags, Emil?

Fetching my screws, Emil?

Fetching my sanity, Emil?

Emil lets out an undignified hiss. He didn’t realize he was holding the breath, like his knuckles still hovering before the door. The only unexpected result clinging to its surface now is Emil’s own reflection. Not the intended product of his uncle’s raising. Not that any respectable scholar would want to be.

The stairs at his back challenge his resolve. He could run back up them, hide in his room, and use his studies as an excuse to stay at his desk: a habit adopted from that selfsame uncle.

Emil’s fingernails dig into the palm of his raised hand.

He won’t be like Claudian. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Get on with it, he repeats, before one more summer in this madhouse leaves you as clocked as he.

But another minute passes and his hand slowly sinks.

He buries it in his pocket, where the crisp edges of an envelope prick his fingers. A birthday gift from the only socially acceptable member of their family left: Claudian’s older brother, Anthony. It’s an offer of employment, a reward for years of careful study and dedication. An escape.

Emil clenches his fingers and goes again to knock, when the tickle of cool fur grazes his bare ankle. A cat, one of many spoiled strays, sidles past him and nudges the study door open with its head.

It wasn’t even closed.

He didn’t even check.

Emil swallows. The scent of saltwater wafts from the study into the hall. Claudian must have left the deck doors open, too, then. Unless he’s out there, working on something new well past sunset. With the pads of his fingers, Emil pushes the door the rest of the way open.

Claudian? he calls into the uncommonly quiet room.

A small entrance corridor blocks his uncle’s desk and the deck beyond it from view. Claudian uses the extra space as a display case for his toys, a collection of doodads and whatsits that glitter under miniature spotlights, their purposes usually too abstract to fathom. Knowing Claudian, many of them may have no purpose at all, other than letting guests know what they’re getting into while they can still leave. If they can still leave...

Emil checks the frame of the door for any sign of gadgetry before stepping through. It wouldn’t be the first time Claudian left a trap to surprise intruders. The door frame looks clear, but a faint mechanical screech coming from the center of the study keeps Emil on edge. Like a bird being strangled over and over, a high-pitched, piercing whine.

He calls into the study again. I’ve a letter from Uncle Anthony. He’ll be here soon, to talk about—

A mew from the cat cuts Emil off, followed by the loud scamper of paws across the outside deck

After the brief pause, he finishes, My future.

An ocean breeze tussles the ends of Emil’s hair and sets a Ferris wheel music box turning on the shelf beside him. Like a windmill, the music box powers itself with the rotation, and a nursery rhyme melody reverberates through the office without anyone needing to wind it.

This is what Claudian spends his inheritance on: toys and trinkets and parts to build more of them. With the amount of time he’s spent at the bank lately, they’re probably running out of funds, too.

Emil’s the first of their line not to go to a private school. The first not to have butlers, groomsmen, and chefs waiting on his every command.

Builds character, Emil. You don’t want that kind of dependence.

He’ll have it one day, if he does right by Anthony. Constable. Lieutenant. He could be captain of the city watch, follow in Anthony’s wake.

He just needs to get through this.

Claudian?

A glint of colour reflects off one of the instruments on the shelf. Something drips in the distance, a faint but steady beat beneath the looping bird-like whine. The next burst of salty sea breeze carries more than its usual tang, and something about it slows Emil’s step as he approaches the main part of the room. Part of him knows he shouldn’t. Part of him crumples at the subconscious instinct to flee. He tries to ignore it, clamp down that fear with logic and reason and years of relative normalcy. As if in a trance, Emil rounds the corner.

Uncle?

A mess of gears and widgets litters Claudian’s desk, each one lovingly polished to a gleam that reflects perfectly the smears of red across a too-still face. Cherry splashes spill from the desk, bright as the trail of paw prints dotting the floor. Without realizing, Emil’s stepped in it. The puddle. The blood. His own footprints trail the floor now, too.

Numbly, he takes another step, reaches toward a mechanical box at the nearer edge of the desk, the source of the screeching sounds. He presses a thick red button at the top of it, and the whining cacophony abruptly ends, leaving a silence too thick to breathe in its wake.

Emil lowers his arm, clutching the edge of the desk without thinking. His palms are slick, but his shoes are sticky. They pull at the floor as Emil rounds the desk and forces himself to look at the person seated there. The body. The corpse. His uncle.

Something crunches beneath the heel of Emil’s shoe: Claudian’s glasses, on the floor with a lens loose. Well, it was loose, had been for years. He wouldn’t see the specialist to replace it. Too busy making nothing creations that no one will even see now.

It still works, Emil. No need to fuss.

What if someone comes to visit? What if your lens pops out in the middle of their tea?

Emil lifts the back of his hand to Claudian’s forehead as if checking for a fever, but that’s ridiculous. He’s not sick. He’s dead. Dead and hunched over his desk just like he was living, fingers worn with countless burns and cuts still wrapped around a pen. And bleeding. From the cracks between his knuckles, from the gaps beneath his nails. Tiny rivers of it run down his limbs, seep through the sleeves of his shirt.

Grey strands pepper his wiry hair, more than Emil realized. He seems older. Weaker. Blue-grey spots peek over the collar of his threadbare vest, stark against the paling skin of his neck. Emil rubs one with his thumb, but it doesn’t wipe away. Not a stain, a part of him.

Poison? Emil takes a step back from the body. It could be contagious. Something exotic. He could already have caught it. He frantically wipes his thumb on his shirt.

Who would...? he starts, but falters when his gaze returns to the desktop. Black ink mixes with the red splatters across its surface, soaking into the bottom of some note Claudian will never finish. Maybe it’s a clue. Maybe he had time to write the killer’s name, or a warning, an explanation. Emil’s stomach turns as he lifts his uncle’s palms off the desk, startled by their weight, their chill. He stretches one hand to hold both Claudian’s wrists, and tugs the note free with the other. The writing is shaky, as is Emil’s grip, and the first line takes a few tries to digest.

Dearest Nephew,

By the time you are holding this, I’ll be thoroughly and dramatically dead. You’ve never been one for sentimentalism, so I’ll be plain: your inheritance, and the reason for my death, are in the cube on the desk.

Emil lifts his eyes from the page long enough to scan the desktop. As promised, a polished wood cube waits for him by Claudian’s elbow. Eight or nine inches wide with no visible seams, its honey-warm shades seem out of place among Claudian’s collection of metals and glass. He reads the next line.

But alas, it’s not that easy. You must allow an old man the pleasure of one final game.

Emil can’t help but groan. Even in death...

A knock at the front door interrupts the thought.

Emil? Claudian?

Anthony...

The room comes into clearer focus as Emil glances back the way he came. Sweaty palm prints on the desk. Bloody footprints on the floor. And Anthony, captain of the city watch. What will he think? What could he assume? It’s no secret Emil would do anything to leave. Not this. Never this. But...

He sucks in a breath.

Did he even close the study door?

Another knock echoes through the house, more insistent than the last.

I can see the light on, Brother. I’m only here for Emil’s sake. No need to cower behind your desk.

A faint metallic jingle, keys scraping against the study door’s lock. Emil lets out a breath. He must have locked it behind him without thinking, the sort of careless action too common to even notice. The tumblers in the door lock take a certain finesse to line up, damaged by countless of Emil’s own attempts to break into the study. Anthony’s not used to it. There’s still time to escape.

Emil crumples Claudian’s letter and shoves it into his pocket, alongside the now useless offer of employment, before grabbing the cube. Beneath where it rested, a spot clear of blood reveals the text of a torn newspaper. Its headline shows an alley buried in snow: "Double murder, still unsolved!"

A murder case? Is that a clue?

He can’t risk staying to read it, and the blood at its edges is as good as glue sticking it to the desk. No time to coax it free, so it’s probably nothing. Claudian would have thought through this. He wouldn’t make a game Emil couldn’t solve.

A grubby skeleton key Emil hadn’t seen tumbles off the cube as he hefts it beneath his arm, bouncing across the desk with a series of hollow clangs that Anthony’s sure to hear. He whips his arm out to catch it, then walks backward toward the open deck, keeping his eyes all the while toward the rattling study door.

Ocean waves crash against the dock posts in time with Emil’s breathing. Translucent white curtains unfurl in the wind, hiding Claudian and his desk from view as Emil steps out into the evening chill. A moment later, the rattling ceases and Anthony steps into the study, his tall shadow silhouetted across the curtain fabric. The shadow lowers its top hat and freezes, and for a moment, Emil can pretend its owner’s just a mannequin, some anatomical model or statue, until a howl akin to a wounded beast’s rips the air.

Emil slips off the edge of the dock. He crouches beneath it and covers his ears, the cube wedged under one arm, until the piercing cry of a watchman’s whistle reaches the part of his mind Anthony’s scream turned to mush. He sets the cube on the damp sand next to him and wrestles off his bloody shoes, rushing so much that even his short nails scratch the skin of his ankles raw. The pain is almost welcome; the stinging grit of sand as it rubs against the sores means he’s still alive. Not dreaming, but still alive. It’s enough to straighten his thoughts.

Hidden beneath the dock’s mossy planks, Emil creeps toward the sea. He peeks between the boards to ensure Anthony isn’t watching, then whips his shoes across the water, far enough that the splash is barely a whisper. He can’t let them leave a trail, can’t let the watch find him.

They float. Specks in the distance, but still there.

He should have filled them with rocks.

Should have carried them with him.

Would anyone think to swim out for them? Surely not. They’re barely visible. They’ll probably float away before long. It’s fine. Everything will be fine. Well, except Claudian. Claudian is most definitely not fine.

Emil hiccoughs, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as a second whistle floats on the wind, further away from the house this time. Another watchman on his way.

Water washes over Emil’s trail as he dashes along the shadowy shoreline, his feet finding purchase in the roots of the creeping coastal trees without need of light or thought, as they did nearly every summer evening as a child. The memory keeps his steps steady, though the clammy cold of moss lingers where it touches his bare skin, leeching warmth from the rest of him. He pulls the letter from his pocket and reads it as he runs, Claudian’s last words the only thing to ground him as his feet fly over the sea-worn bark.

I’m sure you’re quite confused, Emil. Impatient to begin, and be done with, your final challenge. So, without further ado, the rules:

Emil swallows a mouthful of bile as he scans ahead. The rest is some sort of poem. A riddle to reveal the cause of Claudian’s death. His murderer’s name. Proof of Emil’s innocence.

Fine, Uncle, he concedes, though none but the wind is there to hear him. Let’s have your final game.

As if in response, the night clouds part, and the light of the moon glistens across the thickly inked letters. Emil’s heart stills as he reads.

Seven keys will find my treasure

The gift of my life’s work and measure

Seven keys for seven drawers

The last will lead you to what’s yours

But keys won’t work without a lock

And for that a friend must be sought

A pirate rots inside a cell

In our fair island’s royal jail

Freeing her is your first test

For Ash’s boat will start your quest

They’re not just steel, the locks and keys

They’re made of thoughts and memories

Into the past, across the sea

Each place you’ll go is part of me

The keys will hide their form ‘til found

Then twenty seconds are allowed

So, tarry not. Don’t hesitate.

An instant more, the keys won’t wait

Before they shift, become your route

And all who touch them, ferried out

I wish you the luck, courage, and skill needed to find this most uncommon inheritance.

May it be enough to support you in all your many dreams.

Your loving and most loyal uncle,

Claudian Devrai

2

ASHARA

Another pebble ricochets off the iron bars of Ash’s cell. Its tinny echo runs eerily far through the stone corridor, considering the humidity dripping from every surface in sight. Ash watches the pebble’s path hungrily. Grease and sweat cling to her eyelids, her neck, and the hollows behind her knees. Her teeth peek over the corner of her lip as she grins. Not even past the bars, you lout.

The lanky man in the cell across from hers grunts, his face shadowed by his own wall of iron bars. He rotates his shoulder, cracking it three times, and grabs another pebble from the pile by his feet. The packed layers of filth on his other arm, broken in more than one place, from what Ash can tell, camouflage it against the dusty stone grey of the floor.

S’tiring work, he says, trying to keep up a win streak like mine. He rests his head on the wall behind him as he slouches, spreading more of that same dust across his back.

Ash blows a greasy twist of hair from her face and surveys the rusty shackle hanging empty from the roof of the man’s cell, a remnant of some darker use for these prisons which she’d rather not ponder.

Think you can make a point this time, princess? the man goads her on.

Ash rubs her own pebble, gritty with salt, between her thumb and palm. I’m thinking...fifty.

The man chuckles, tossing a sharper stone and catching it without breaking her stare. Of course ya bloody are. Ten points for the piss bucket. Thirty and the pleasure of my pain for hittin’ me. But nope, wench goes for the hard score. Never ruttin’ learns.

Ash squints one eye, judging the ten or so feet of hall between them. Laugh now, but one day, your breakfast will be mine, she vows and whips the stone across the hall.

A monstrous rumble shakes the walls a moment before the pebble reaches its target. The shackle chains jangle. They swing an inch, and the pebble bounces off the cuff with a dull clang.

Ash drops both arms, previously held in anticipation, and groans. Earthquake. Doesn’t count.

Like hell, it doesn’t. Breakfast’s mine.

Oi! Not like your score was any better! Needs a re-throw, at least.

Sure, ’cept you ain’t got any more stones, Dearie.

Ash frowns and glances around her cell, bare but for a chipped, wobbly plate. And the bucket, of course, glaring at her from