A Murder of Mages (10 page)

Satrine took that as a cue to let the subject drop and walk in silence.

Jewel 817 was an unremarkable brick row house, nearly identical to the rest of the ones along the block: three stories high, iron-grated windows, gabled roof. The only thing making it stand out was the small flaming hawk painted onto the front stoop—easy enough to notice, so someone looking to hire one of their mages could
find it easily, but not so ostentatious that the locals on the block would get too riled.

Satrine couldn’t remember if there had been any Mage Circle chapterhouses around her blocks when she was a child. If there had been, it simply wasn’t part of her world at the time.

“This is the place,” Satrine said.

“So it is,” Welling said. He stood still at the bottom of the steps. Satrine gave him a moment, but realized he wasn’t going to move without action on her part. She went up to the door and pounded on it.

Silence from within.

Welling pulled his pipe out from his pocket, not moving from his spot on the street.

Satrine pounded on the door again. “Constabulary!”

“Now they’ll never answer,” Welling said. He pinched some tobacco from his pouch and put it into the bowl.

A small panel in the door opened up, just enough for Satrine to see a hint of a man’s face.

“What?” the man asked.

“We’re inspectors from the Constabulary House, investigating the death of—”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“No, we just have—”

“Go away.” The panel slammed shut.

Satrine pounded on the door. “We just have a few questions for you!”

No answer.

“If you just talk to us—”

“They don’t want to talk to us,” Welling said.

“You have a better idea?”

“I do,” Welling said. “But I don’t like it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Leaning against the wall, Welling put the pipe in his mouth and held his finger over the bowl. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then a burst of flame came out of his finger. He took a slow toke from the pipe, and blew it out in rings.

“That’s your idea?”

“Wait,” Welling said.

The door flew open, and three people—two men and one woman—came out onto the front steps, nearly barreling into Satrine. They barely glanced at her, then pounded down the stairs to Welling.

“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” one of the men said. He was much older than the other two, and was definitely not the one who answered the door before.

“Getting your attention,” Welling said. He took another puff of smoke. “We need to speak with you about a Constabulary matter.”

“We will do no such thing,” the old man said. “And why are you—”

“He’s in a constab uniform!” the woman said. Her eyes were wide, but Satrine couldn’t read her face beyond that. Dark eyes, dark hair, long and elaborately braided. She wore a blue corset, and a sheer shawl over her bare shoulders—typical for the southern archduchies, matching her accent, but near scandalous in the streets of Maradaine—so her Firewing tattoo was boldly visible over her heart.

Satrine came down the steps. “I’m Inspector Satrine Rainey, this is my partner, Inspector Minox Welling. We’re investigating.”

“Partner? Inspector?” The old man’s face filled with rage, his teeth grinding. He turned back to Welling, almost spitting in the inspector’s face. “How could you be one of them? Who would allow that?”

“No one tells me what I can’t do,” Welling said calmly, but there was a stern undercurrent of anger that Satrine heard in his voice.

“He’s Uncircled!” the young man said with a laugh. He wore just a vest and cotton pants, also showing off his Firewing tattoo. “That’s why he made such a messy noise.”

Welling’s face twitched, and Satrine also saw her partner’s hand inch toward his handstick. She moved closer to the group of mages. “We just have a few questions for you. This morning a man was—”

“Questions?” the old man said. He spun to face Satrine, and she swore the light around him dimmed as he did so. “Why should we help you with anything?”

Several people on the street were marking them all now, some coming out of shops to see what the commotion was.

“A man was murdered,” Satrine said flatly.

“And?” the young man said. “You have no arrest warrant, so why are you bothering us about it?”

“Because the dead man may be one of your Circle,” Welling said.

All three mages turned back to Welling. “What do you mean?” asked the woman.

“The body was found this morning, over at the corner of Jent and Tannen. We believe he may have been a member of your Circle.”

The old man lowered his voice, a growling whisper. “Why do you think that?”

“A partial tattoo over his chest,” Satrine said.

“Why partial?” The woman asked the question, her voice quavering. As much as Satrine hated to acknowledge it, she could read this woman was the weak link of the three, the one most likely to be of any help to them.

“Because his heart was cut out,” Satrine said. She pulled the charcoal sketch out of her pocket and handed it to the woman. The woman needed only a glance at the picture before her face melted in grief and rage, a guttural scream releasing from her throat. A wave of force came with her voice, knocking Satrine off her feet, shattering glass down the street.

“Jaelia!” the old man shouted. He grabbed her, holding her tightly. Her scream dampened to muffled tears.

“So you know the victim,” Satrine said, getting back on her feet. She felt like she had just been hit by a horse. A glance around the street showed her that most of the rest of the crowd around them were similarly affected, some of them further injured by falling or broken glass.

“His name is Hessen Tomar,” the young man said. “He was her husband.”

“Is that all you needed?” the old man asked harshly.

“No, that’s not all—” Welling started.

“Well, that’s all there will be,” the young man said.

“We need to know more about Mister Tomar,” Welling said. “Enemies he had. Who might have wanted to—”

“No!” the woman—Jaelia—shouted. “Don’t you dare talk of him.”

“Missus Tomar,” Satrine said, “I know what you must be feeling, so . . .”

“You tell me my husband’s heart has been cut out and you think you know what I’m feeling?” she shouted. “Both of you get out of here.” She sneered at Welling. “Especially that one.”

Jaelia Tomar went up the steps of the house, the other two behind her.

“Oy!” someone shouted from across the street. “You sticks gonna let her walk away?”

People were forming a crowd around the house. Some of them were holding brooms or other heavy items.

“She just wrecked the street!”

“Who’s gonna pay for my window?”

“She’s not going anywhere!”

This was getting ugly quickly. Satrine saw out the corner of her eye that the other Firewings were about to react with anger. If they did more magic on the street, the whole situation would explode into a riot.

“Back off!” she shouted. “This is a Constabulary matter.”

“Then do your blasted jobs!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Arrest her!”

Welling was at Satrine’s shoulder, his handstick out. “We’ll do our duty, people. Go about your own.”

The mages continued to go into the house, ignoring the situation behind them. Something flew out from the crowd—a rock, a beet, Satrine couldn’t tell—striking Jaelia Tomar in the head. She spun around, her hands splayed out. Green light formed around her hands, burning in a hot flash.

Satrine sprung up the steps, her handstick out, charging at the woman. Before she was able to close the distance, the light burst out of the mage’s hands.

Satrine was hit, full in the chest. It didn’t hurt her, didn’t slow her down. Two more steps and she was on Jaelia, handstick pressed against the woman’s neck. She pushed Jaelia up against the doorframe. The other two
mages stood in shocked silence, staring at Satrine in amazement.

“Rainey?” Welling asked from the bottom of the steps. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said. She turned back to Jaelia, stick hard at her throat. The woman’s face was a shifting mix of fear, shock, grief, and anger.

The crowd all cheered. They wanted to exact vengeance on Jaelia, and they were getting that through Satrine. She wasn’t happy about giving an angry mob what they wanted, but she had no other choice. “Get rid of them, Inspector.”

“You heard her, people,” Welling said to the crowd. “Disperse and be about your business.”

The crowd grumbled. Satrine heard some disturbing snippets. “Blazing mages.” “Nothing but trouble.” “Should burn the lot of them out.”

“What are you?” Jaelia asked Satrine.

Satrine didn’t know what to make of that question. “I’m arresting you, Missus Tomar. Consider yourself bound by law as of this moment,” Satrine said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, but that’s no excuse for your actions.”

Jaelia shook her head. “No, no . . . you . . . you should have been . . . you just kept coming. How?”

Satrine realized there was a warm sensation in her pocket. The spike. It must have protected her from Jaelia’s magic. She lowered her handstick and stepped away from the woman. “That’s none of your concern. Inspector, if you would be so kind as to call the lockwagon.” Welling took out his whistle and gave a series of sharp blows.

“You’re not taking her away!” the old man said.

“She’s under arrest,” Satrine said. She took Jaelia by the elbow, who made no attempt to resist. “And you better not try and stop us, sir, or we’ll have to take you in as well.”

“But if you take her from here, she . . .” The old man trailed off.

“She’ll what?” Welling asked. He came up the steps. “If you have something to tell us about all this, now is the time!”

“We have nothing to say to you,” the young man said. “But you will regret it if you take her from here.”

“Damn it!” Welling snapped. “One dead, one arrested, and you won’t help us?”

“This is our own matter,” the young man said.

“Tell us something! We’re trying to help you,” Satrine said. These mages seemed addicted to their secrets.

The young mage looked at Jaelia, and then at the two of them and sneered. “Some help.” He stormed back into the house.

The old man still stared at Satrine, shaking his head. “Please do not do this.”

“We’ve no choice,” Satrine said.

“If you find you have something to share,” Welling said, producing a small printed card from his pocket, “we can be reached at the stationhouse.”

The old man growled, and the card turned into ash in Welling’s hand. He then turned to Missus Tomar, “Jaelia, go along and give them no further reason to harry you. We’ll contact counsel and have you home in short order.” He went into the house, slamming the door behind him.

“This actually went better than I had hoped,” Welling said. He walked down to the street, calmly smoking his pipe again.

“You’ll have to explain to me how you thought this would have gone.”

“We have a name for our victim. We’re bringing in a clean arrest, even if not for our case. And neither of us is dead.”

“A clean arrest?” Satrine asked. “This is anything but—I’m really very sorry, Missus Tomar. I wish this wasn’t necessary, but you did force our hands here.”

“It’s all fair,” Jaelia whispered. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”

Welling gave Satrine a quizzical look. “How did she not—” He stopped, realization dawning on his face. He nodded, not saying another word.

Satrine sat Jaelia on the stoop. “Welling, go see if the lockwagon is coming.”

He glanced down the street. “I think I can see it.”

“Go meet up with it, would you?”

Welling hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He gave Satrine a crisp nod and jogged off.

“My husband is also Constabulary,” Satrine told Jaelia.

“How wonderful for you,” Jaelia said, her voice dull and empty.

“Two weeks ago he was ambushed on the job,” Satrine said. “Beaten within an inch of his life, and thrown in the river. By the grace of whatever saints were looking over him that night, he managed to survive, but . . .” Her voice caught. Jaelia Tomar was now focused fully on her. “He’s not the man he was. I don’t think he ever will be again.”

“But he’s not dead.”

“No,” Satrine said. “Though to be honest with you, had he just died, that would have been cleaner, you know? I’d know he was dead, and that was it. The man that my husband was is dead, but his body is still alive.”

“I’d rather have my husband alive than this, Inspector.”

“I know, Missus Tomar,” Satrine said. “I keep telling myself I should be grateful. But every day, I have to tell myself.”

Jaelia Tomar scoffed, but said nothing more.

“Anything you could tell us, Missus Tomar, about enemies your husband may have had. People he was dealing with. Anything that could lead us to his killers.”

“Killers?” Tomar asked. “More than one?”

“It’s possible. Do you know anything?”

“There had been some heated letters exchanged with a member of another Circle. I don’t know who or from where, but—”

“Oy!” A shout pierced across the street. The lockwagon was pulling up, and a few members of the earlier crowd were gathering back around. Satrine figured they wanted to make sure they were getting their full measure of justice. Or that they enjoyed seeing someone get hauled away.

“We’re ready,” Welling said, walking back over.

The wagon driver came down off the wagon, shackles in hand. “This the one?” he asked, looking at Tomar.

“That’s right,” Welling said. “Take her down to the station. We’ll meet up with you there.”

“No ride along, Jinx?” the driver asked. He shook his head. “Bad procedure, mate.” He stepped over and lowered his voice. “I’m not carrying mage shackles, just so you know.”

“Can’t be helped,” Welling said, not looking at the driver. “We’ve got further business. Isn’t that right, Inspector?”

“Right,” Satrine said. The driver came over and shackled Tomar. “We’ll be back by later to follow up on this one.”

“You’re going to have to tell me the charges at least,” the driver said.

“Assault on a Constabulary officer,” Welling said. “And disruption of the peace.”