A Murder of Mages (11 page)

“Disruption?” the driver asked, glancing over to the Firewing chapterhouse. “You really gonna go with that, Jinx?”

Minox gave a nod of his head over to the annoyed crowd. “It’s actually quite apt.”

“Take her out of here!” someone in the street yelled.

“Take the whole lot!”

“That’s enough!” Welling snapped back at the crowd. “She’s arrested, shackles on. Go about your business.”

The shackles were on, and the driver was taking her up into the wagon. The woman looked defeated, broken, staring at the street while shuffling to take her seat. Satrine felt she should say something, that this was her fault. Jaelia Tomar didn’t seem to be too interested in any comfort or connection Satrine had to offer, though.

“Best be quick about your business, Jinx,” the driver said as he locked Tomar inside the wagon. “You know the boys in the pens don’t like to wait around.”

“That’s their problem,” Welling said. “Ride off.”

“Hmph,” was all the driver offered in response. He got back up on the wagon. A few people in the crowd cheered, but for the most part they had lost interest.

“Do you still think the Circle killed their own man?” Welling asked.

“I’m not sure what to think,” Satrine said. “There’s more going on than they’re admitting.”

“That is quite obvious.”

Satrine scowled at him. “I don’t suppose you observed anything more useful you’d like to share?”

Welling screwed his face. “They were not directly responsible for Tomar’s death, they were all surprised by the news. The old man had already suspected something had happened to Tomar. They’re all afraid of something, and were before we arrived.”

“Not hard to imagine what,” Satrine said. “All their neighbors probably want to burn them out.”

“No,” Welling said. “They showed no concern over the crowd at all.” He closed his eyes. “I think they’re afraid for Missus Tomar’s safety.”

“Do they think we’ll torture her or something?”

“No,” Welling said. “If I were to hazard a guess . . .”

“Hazard, by all means.”

“They’re afraid of something we can’t protect her from.”

A thought crossed Satrine’s mind. “Mage shackles?”

“They keep a mage from using their magic. Uncommon, but the station has a couple pairs.”

“Like the spikes?”

Welling’s eyebrow went up. “No. I’ve . . . I don’t think they are the same.” His face screwed in thought, but then he shook his head, like he was dismissing the idea. “Come on, the butcher shop awaits.”

Chapter 6

M
INOX FELT NO SMALL annoyance at his earlier dismissal of the butcher shop as a source of information. It was even a strong source for a suspect. He realized he had based that decision entirely on its overt obviousness. He had already made the presumption that the alley had been chosen out of significance to the killer that was either magical or ritualistic, and had chosen to ignore the more mundane reason of proximity.

He contemplated this amateurish error on the walk over to the butcher shop, chewing on roasted nuts he had bought from a pedalcart vendor. Inspector Rainey had made an idle comment about how much of his weekly salary he must spend on food. He ignored it—he knew full well sustenance was his single greatest expense.

“It does seem too convenient, doesn’t it?” Inspector Rainey asked.

“The butcher shop?” he replied.

“Exactly.”

“I think so, but the points match a bit too well to ignore.” He didn’t say this with conviction. He wasn’t very convinced at all this was worth pursuing. The truth was there was nowhere near enough information to make anything more than educated stabs in the dark. That was not the kind of investigation he liked to run.

“Our victim seemed to have rivals in another circle. I think that’s what we need to look at.”

That was interesting. “She told you that when I stepped away?”

“She said there were letters, but she didn’t know from whom, though.”

“Unlikely.” He could explain to her how, since both Tomars were in the Firewing Circle together, the likelihood of Jaelia Tomar knowing of an enmity between her husband and another Circle, but not knowing which Circle, was so low it was not worth considering. But he had grasped enough of how Inspector Rainey thought to know she had already made the same assessment. She nodded in agreement, solidifying his deduction.

It did all line up with the theory he was formulating: this was not just a murder, but an opening volley to a larger action. Possibly not as large as a full Circle Feud, but he couldn’t dismiss it. Another amateurish error on his part. Inspector Rainey was correct. He was deliberately avoiding such obvious points of investigation, especially involving Circles. He couldn’t let that happen anymore.

The butcher shop, Minox noted upon this approach, was
Brondar & Sons Meats and Chops.
“Meats and Chops,” Minox thought, was a redundant statement. Not that it was surprising. Most signage in this part of town barely used words at all, let alone correctly.

“Hey, hey!” an older man called out as soon as they walked in the door. He stood, a huge, muscular figure at the main chopping block counter. His gray hair and long mustache drew Minox’s eye, overshadowing any other feature of the man’s face. “We got some sticks coming in here!” His tone was jovial, but it held an undercurrent of hostility Minox could easily read.

Inspector Rainey stepped forward, her arms wide, giving the man a broad smile with bared teeth. “You never get any sticks in here before or something?”

“Doesn’t happen very often,” the old man—presumably the Brondar of the signage—said with a scowl.

“Sure it doesn’t,” Rainey said. “But it’s not every day you get a dead body right next door to you.”

“Boys!” Brondar called to a back room. “Which one of you is bringing out that pork?”

“Gunther is!” a voice yelled from the back.

“Joshea is!” another yelled.

“Joshea!” the old Brondar yelled back. “Bring the blasted pork!”

“Sir,” Minox said, stepping closer to the counter. “We do have a few things to ask you.”

Mister Brondar picked up a large cleaver. “I’m sure you do. You ever serve?”

“Excuse me?”

Mister Brondar held up one of his muscled arms for the two of them to see. He had a crossed sword tattoo on his bicep, with nine hash marks underneath it. “Nine years I wore the Gray.” Druth Army colors. “Served in the war in the Islands. You look too young to have made that.”

“I was,” Minox said. “I’ve served in the streets, though.”

“Constabulary.” Mister Brondar snorted. “That’s not service.” He gave a scornful look at Rainey. “You did nothing either.”

“Four years in Gray and Green,” Rainey said. “They don’t ink us for that.” She used the uniform colors—even though she likely never actually wore an Intelligence uniform—since he would probably respect it more. Army men tended to think “service” meant to country, to Druthal. Serving the city of Maradaine didn’t mean much to them. A mindset Minox couldn’t understand, especially since it was everything to his family, serving in Constabulary, Fire Brigade, Yellowshields, River Patrol, and Hospital Wards.

The man released a huge laugh. “That’s very good, stick woman.” He slammed the cleaver onto his cutting board. “I do my time for Druthal. My boys, all of them, they do their time in the Gray. Joshea!” So it was one of those families. In some ways, just like Minox’s.

A young man—only a few years younger than Minox himself—came out from the back carrying a large side of
meat. “Got the meat here, Pop. Don’t have to yell.” Dark hair, cropped short in military style. He didn’t mimic his father’s style in facial hair, so in comparison his face was narrow and drawn.

“Always have to yell, Joshea,” the old man said. “Show these sticks your arm.”

“Constabulary?” Joshea asked, looking at the two of them for the first time. His voice cracked slightly, Minox noted, likely out of fear. The only question was, was Joshea Brondar afraid for a real reason? Minox found that a Constabulary uniform solicited far too much unfounded fear.

The old man took the meat from his son and tossed it on his block. “Yes, yes, the sticks are here to give us trouble over the dead whoever in the alley. Show them your arm.”

“Pop, I don’t think . . .”

“Sir, it isn’t necessary for him to—” Inspector Rainey started.

“Damn and blazes, boy!” the old man shouted, cutting her off. “Pull up your blasted sleeve and show the sticks you served!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Minox said, even though Joshea was rolling up his sleeve. His muscular, scarred arm had the same tattoo as his father, though only three hash marks underneath it.

“Doesn’t matter?” the old Brondar asked, picking up the cleaver and slamming it down on the cutting block again. He glowered at Minox as he positioned the meat on the block. “You stand on a blasted beach with Poasians charging at you, and then tell me it doesn’t matter.”

“Pop!” Joshea shouted. Minox felt a wave of anger come off the young man, hot and passionate.

“Don’t you snap at me, Joshea.” The old man cut a hunk of meat off—a clean, perfect cut, despite his attention being entirely on his son. Minox noted the man’s mastery with the cleaver. Another cut, and then the cleaver was being pointed at Minox and Inspector Rainey. “We Brondars have given, sticks. Given plenty. I had five sons, and three stand here with me now.”

“That’s a very pretty speech, Mister Brondar,” Inspector Rainey said. She moved in closer while he pounded out perfect chop after perfect chop. “We still have a dead body next to your shop to ask you about.”

“I’ve got nothing to say,” the old man said.

Inspector Rainey’s hand shot out, under the old man’s falling cleaver. It was already coming down hard and fast, a clean cut through her fingers. The blade stopped, though, just a breath above Rainey’s knuckles.

The old man looked at Rainey, horror in his eyes. The muscles in his arm were stiff and still, sweat dripping from his face. Minox sensed something else, though. He wasn’t sure what. “Why the blazes you do that, stick woman?”

“Get your attention,” Rainey said calmly. “Now I have it. You will answer our questions.”

“You’re crazy!” His arm was still held in the exact position, blade hovering right over her hand.

“There’s a door that goes out here into the alley, isn’t there?”

The old man moved away, his arm yanked away from its position. Minox definitely felt something. A snap, like a whip cracking. It was . . . coming from something. Someone.

“Of course there is,” the old man told Satrine. Minox wasn’t paying attention. He was looking right at the source of the feeling. The energy.

Joshea Brondar was a mage. And if he served in the army, then he was also Uncircled.

“We should question all the Brondars, Inspector Rainey,” he told Satrine. “I’ll start with young Joshea here.”

“All right,” Inspector Rainey said cautiously. “That leaves me with the old man.”

“Joshea,” Minox said as calmly as he could manage, “Why don’t we go out to the alley to talk?”

Out in the sunlight, out in the alley, Minox got a good look at Joshea Brondar. Now it was obvious, his magical
affinity. Not only in his physique, though the signs were all there. Despite his muscular build, he was very lean, especially in his face. His cheeks were sunken, his face drawn, gray circles under his eyes.

But beyond the pure visual evidence, Minox could sense it. It was a sensation that Minox couldn’t quite describe—more taste than touch. Energy bent toward Joshea Brondar. Minox realized he had felt the same sensation around Jaelia Tomar and the other Firewings, but at the time he had dismissed those feelings as irrational emotion, his own nerves playing tricks with him due to his discomfort. Now he understood what he had sensed, it was a revelation. It was not unlike when water drains out of one’s ears, and clear hearing is suddenly restored.

“What are you looking at, Inspector?” Joshea Brondar asked,

“What do you mean, Mister Brondar?”

“No offense, sir,” Brondar said with the courtesy Minox had always connected with military discipline. “But you’re looking at me like most of the customers look at the meat.”