A Murder of Mages (17 page)

“You have a correct order of events, but you’re short on details. Missus Rainey came in with a letter from the commissioner, orders to hire her at the rank of Inspector Third Class.” Saying it out loud, Inspector Rainey’s
unnamed subterfuge was suddenly clear. He tried not to let it show on his face. “While she may have not taken a traditional path to the rank, she has skill and clarity of thought.”

Corrie’s eyes went wide. “She’s your blazing partner, isn’t she?”

“And has proven herself to be the most suitable one I’ve been assigned to date.”

“I bet she’s suitable,” Corrie said. “You heading to the house?”

“Not yet,” Minox said. “Wagon escort out to Eastwood.”

“That’s a wash of blazing sewage,” Corrie said. “You going to need a ride along?”

Despite a twinge in his gut telling him otherwise, Minox shook his head. “No need to make this bigger than it needs to be.”

“Well, get it done and get home, hear? Everyone will probably want to ask you about your rutting skirt partner.” She clapped him on the shoulder once more and headed to the stables.

Minox looked out into the alley. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put a name to it.

“Bad night for a wagon escort, eh?” The voice from inside the barn echoed his own thoughts. Minox turned to see the craggy features of Inspector Mirrell.

“How’s your nose?” Minox asked, noting it was still purple and swollen.

“Been worse,” Mirrell said. He stepped out of the barn, taking out his own pipe. “Heard the City Protector was making a lot of hay out of this one.”

“I don’t know much about that,” Minox said. “He’s kicking it up to the Archduchy Court.”

“Feh,” Mirrell said. He puffed on his pipe. “She doesn’t deserve this.” He glanced over at the lockwagon, where two footmen were chaining Jaelia Tomar into the seat.

“I agree,” Minox said cautiously. He wasn’t sure what Mirrell was up to. “I’m surprised you care.”

Mirrell turned quick on Minox, his eyes hard. “What
kind of stick you take me for, Jinx? I know what justice is supposed to be, and this ain’t it. Woman’s husband was killed, you should be dragging in the man who did it, not making her life worse.”

“Is there some evidence I haven’t seen, Inspector Mirrell?” Minox asked. “Some bit of diligence I haven’t done?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Jinx.” Mirrell scowled as he took another puff from his pipe.

“Then what are you saying?”

“Just . . . something stinks here. I don’t know what.” He glanced over to the lockwagon, where Jaelia Tomar was being loaded and locked in. Minox knew there was something out of sorts about Mirrell, but he also knew well enough that he wasn’t going to get anything out of the laconic man that he didn’t want to share. Normally, he wouldn’t even engage the man, but he was curious about other matters.

“Your sewer worker case, what happened?”

“Nothing worth noting. Two men dead, each of them with a knife in their hand. Looked to us like they killed each other, and Leppin thinks it’s likely.”

“Possibly over jealousy?” Minox asked. “Or an unfaithful wife?”

“Blazes if I know.” He turned back to Jaelia in the lockwagon, scowling. “Hardly matters. Both dead by each other’s hand. Closed book.”

“You aren’t curious, though?”

Mirrell opened his mouth, but anything he was about to say was interrupted by the wagonmaster calling out that he was ready to drive. Mirrell snuffed his pipe and went to the far side of the wagon, and took his place on the runner.

“Eastwood facility, gents?” the driver asked.

“That’s right,” Minox said.

The driver nodded. “All right. Easting to Lowbridge, then Waterpath out to Eastwood.”

Mirrell offered his own navigation advice. “Fannen cuts you through East Maradaine straight across.”

“Narrows in that neighborhood, Inspector. Blazing hard on a two-horse wagon. Would take half a bell longer.”

Mirrell grumbled but said nothing audible. Minox understood Mirrell’s annoyance. At earliest, Minox could hope to be at his home by half-past seven bells. Mirrell lived out west in Gelmoor, so it might be as late as nine bells before he was home.

The lockwagon rolled out of the barn. Minox snuffed out his pipe and took his place on the side. It turned out of the alley onto Easting.

“Clear,” Minox called out, following the escort protocol.

“Clear,” Mirrell called back halfheartedly.

Most people on the street avoided looking at the lockwagon. Most of them, living or working near the stationhouse, knew how to recognize a transfer run, and also knew well enough not to cause any trouble. The few pedalcarts and wheelstands in the street were quickly scurried out of the way so the wagon could pass unobstructed.

“Easting and Silver,” Minox called as they approached the intersection. There was a small crowd to the left, in front of Saint Limarre’s. Most likely going to sunset services. Nothing to be concerned about. “Clear.”

No return call from Mirrell. This was typical of the man, if annoying. The protocol was supposed to be followed, but many officers, including Mirrell, didn’t bother.

“Inspector Mirrell,” Minox said pointedly. “Left side clear.” That should be enough to shame Mirrell into responding.

Nothing.

Minox glanced back down the street. A small crowd had formed around something lying on the ground. Something wearing Inspector Mirrell’s coat.

“Driver!” Minox shouted. He drew out his handstick and crossbow and dropped off the runner. He ran around the front of wagon, crossbow aimed ahead of him. The lockwagon door was open on the right side. Minox took two steps closer so he could see inside. Jaelia Tomar was still there, still shackled into her seat. Her head drooped to one side, eyes closed. Welt across her temple.

Dead?

Still breathing, if shallowly.

Minox turned back toward the driver. “Did you see—”

The driver fell from the seat, his body hitting the cobblestone.

Minox leaped up onto the runner, and scrambled up to the seat. Before he got his footing, someone grabbed his right wrist.

The attacker was fast, yanking Minox’s arm out in a wide arc and forcing the crossbow to go flying out of his hand. Minox responded with his handstick, off-balance as he was, knocking his assailant in the ribs with a hard jab.

He hadn’t even gotten a good look at the man attacking him. Dark clothes, hood over his face. Nothing else before a fist cracked Minox in the face. Minox stumbled back, almost falling off the wagon. He forced himself to lurch forward at the hooded figure, use his imbalance to his advantage.

The figure grabbed Minox by the front of his coat and rolled back, hurling Minox off the front of the wagon, crashing through the yoke.

Minox was dazed, head spinning, barely able to get his eyes to focus on the figure as it dropped down off the wagon. The figure leaned into the open door. Minox tried to pull himself up on his feet, focus his thoughts. Push through the pain.

The figure pulled the limp form of Jaelia Tomar out of the wagon, slung her over his shoulder. Minox was up now. In the distance, people were screaming or running away. Never any help. Minox charged at the figure to tackle him. Missus Tomar would undoubtedly be injured in the process, but that was a necessary risk. The figure reacted before Minox reached him, throwing two darts that sunk into Minox’s shoulder. Minox cried out, but he still had momentum working for him. He piled into the figure and Jaelia Tomar, and all three of them hit the ground in a hard crunch.

A fist hit Minox again and again in the sides. Woozy and dizzy, Minox was unable to block the attacks or respond. The figure pushed Minox off from on top of him, then kicked him hard in the face. Minox lost a few moments in a red, blurry haze, and when he had his senses
back the figure had run to a waiting horse, hurling Jaelia’s body over the animal before mounting it himself.

Minox’s hand found his whistle, getting it to his mouth as he struggled to draw enough breath to blow it. He managed a weak trill, followed by a sharper one. He gave a glance down the road. Mirrell was stirring, but not on his feet yet.

The man spurred his horse and was charging down Silver.

Minox pulled the darts out of his shoulder. Fortunately they had barely penetrated his coat and vest. They were the least of his worries. “You won’t outrace me,” he muttered, forcing his screaming body over to the wagon horses.

The yoke was in pieces already, and Minox summoned a burst of raw magic to crack the rest of it off one horse. Despite the aching protest every joint and muscle gave him, Minox forced himself to mount the beast.

This was not a riding horse, definitely not a racing horse, but it would do. Minox blew the whistle again, the signal to summon any regulars or officers who could hear, and kicked his horse to a gallop. He hadn’t ridden horsepatrol for five years for nothing.

Crowds had formed on the walkways along the street. People were cheering and jeering both. A part of Minox’s mind analyzed that the people really didn’t care what was happening, nor were they invested in his capturing the man, or in the man escaping from him. They just wanted the spectacle.

His horse pounded down the cobblestone. It was giving good chase, he had to credit the beast. The man’s horse was a stronger, faster breed, but it carried two people. In a few seconds, Minox had closed the distance. He had to take out the figure, and quickly, though, as his horse could not maintain this pace for long. No crossbow. He’d have to use magic.

He gave a quick, hard blast at the figure. To his surprise, the green energy bounced off the man’s back, no apparent effect.

Another blast. Nothing.

Minox’s vision blurred. He could barely breathe. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

Last chance. Last shot, poorly aimed. The magic was as weak as he was, splashing over the limp body of Jaelia Tomar like water.

That was too much for Minox. His head spun, his whole body went limp. He nearly fainted, barely managing to pull his horse to a stop before falling off it. His whole world went dark before he hit the ground.

“Minox!”

His face was being slapped. Consciousness came back into sharp focus.

He put up his hand to block another slap before it connected with his face. “I’m awake, Inspector Mirrell.”

Mirrell hovered over Minox, his face a mix of anger and concern. “The blazes happened, Jinx?” Minox noted the switch that Inspector Mirrell made from his given name to his assigned epithet, as soon as he realized he wasn’t dead.

“Our wagon was attacked, clearly.” Minox extended a hand to Mirrell, hoping the other inspector would help him to his feet. Mirrell took his hand and pulled him up abruptly. Minox’s whole body was hurting, especially the sharp pains in his right shoulder and hip. He must have landed on them when he fell off the horse.

“A breakout of the prisoner?” Mirrell asked.

“That’s one possibility,” Minox said. He glanced around the street. He had given chase almost to the corner of Silver and Nole. The horse stood a half a block away. It was too well trained to run off on its own. Minox started limping over to it.

Mirrell kept up with him, though it was clear by how he walked that his leg was injured. “One possibility? A constable lockwagon is attacked, and the prisoner is taken!”

Minox grabbed the horse’s rein. “‘Taken’ being the important word here, Inspector.”

“Oh, blasted saints, Jinx, what are you on about?”

“What did you see happen, Inspector?”

“Not much. We were rolling along, and next thing I knew, I was yanked off the carriage, and lying on the street.”

“Hmm.” Minox noted the streets were now empty of people to serve as potential witnesses of the event. “We should be making pursuit. I blew for footpatrol, and they clearly haven’t arrived. Have you tried yet?”

“Not yet,” Mirrell said. “I was still dazed, and then saw you on the ground.” He glanced down Silver, to the clock tower over Saint Limarre’s. “Six bells eighteen. How much lead do you figure he’s gotten since we’ve been out?”

Minox reached into his pocket. No whistle. He must have dropped it earlier. “Seven minutes. Have you seen my whistle?”

“No.” Mirrell took out his own and blew a call signal.

“At this point, it’s only procedure,” Minox said. He didn’t think anything useful would be gained from calling in regulars, other than getting the lockwagon back to the barn. “Our attacker was well prepared, and with seven minutes to get away, I’m sure he has enacted a spectacular escape. Have you checked on the driver?”

“Not yet,” Mirrell said. “Was he hurt?”

“I think so,” Minox said, leading the horse back toward the wagon. “The attacker was cleanly methodical. He attacked you first, quickly and efficiently.”

“Quite,” Mirrell said harshly.

“Then he . . .” Minox trailed off, thoughts racing.

“He what?” Mirrell asked.

“Incapacitated Missus Tomar,” Minox said. That was important.

“How do you mean?” They had reached the intersection, where the lockwagon sat, half broken. The driver was awake and kneeling, but clearly not in his full senses yet.

“Driver, are you well?”

“Do I look blazing well, tosser?” the driver snapped back.