A Murder of Mages (20 page)

He took two steps down the alley, letting the sensation guide him. The alley was nearly pitch dark, and Minox had no reason to believe it uninhabited. There was also no reason to be foolhardy, especially given his condition. He went back out to the street and reached for his whistle.

Not in his pocket. He had lost it in the scuffle earlier.

He briefly considered the possibility that, since he had lost it a block from here, he might find it in the street nearby. He then dismissed it as absurd to count on such serendipity.

A glance around the vicinity showed no patrolmen in sight.

He didn’t want to go back to the stationhouse, or even search nearby for a patrolman. The idea that he might lose the current crossed his mind, and he could not shake the belief, irrational though it was, that this current was leading him in the direction of Jaelia Tomar.

If he could find no backup to pursue this possibility, he’d at least need light. He dismissed the idea of making
some light magically. He had never had any success in the past with that, and he felt that any attempt to use magic right now could be catastrophic to his health.

A lantern hung over the door of a pub right next to the alley. Minox couldn’t bring himself to justify theft, even in the name of pursuing justice. He called out to a young man exiting the pub.

“You there,” he said. “Tell the pub owner that I would buy his lantern hanging there.”

The young man raised an eyebrow. “You been taking the
’fitte
, friend?”

“I’m well in my right mind, sir, though it is good of you to express such concern, given my unusual request. But I’m in need of light, and I am in some haste.”

The man opened the door. “Hey, Garren. There’s a stick who wants to buy your lamp.”

A beefy, sweaty man came out of the pub, wiping his hands on his apron. “What’s the word, stick?”

Minox took a few coins from his pocket. “Your lamp there, good sir. A crown and twelve is more than fair.”

The pub owner screwed his face. “I ain’t seen you before, stick.”

Minox held open his coat. “Inspector, sir. I don’t do walking patrol.”

The man nodded. “Right, I get it. I just . . . it’s usually not the sticks offering money to me, if you get my meaning. Little confused.”

Minox knew, from his own walking days, many patrol took bribes, or worse, shook citizens for “donations.” He found such acts loathsome. “I assure you, I simply have urgent need of a lamp and I would find it distasteful to take it from you without fair recompense.”

“All right,” the man said, taking the lamp down. “Crown and twelve.” He gave it to Minox and took the money. He gave Minox an appraising look. “Though, if you don’t mind, Inspector, come back when you have the chance. I wouldn’t mind talking to you about your fellows who have a different opinion of ‘fair recompense.’”

“Absolutely. Though it may take me a day or two.”
Minox paused. “Quickly, though. These fellows. Night or day? Foot or horse?”

“It varies. But mostly night. And horsepatrol.”

“I’ll look into it.” He handed the man a calling card. “If you don’t hear from me in reasonable time, ask for me at the stationhouse.”

“I understand,” said the man, and he went back in the pub. Minox held up the lamp, drew out his handstick, and went into the alley.

Satrine sipped at the brandy in the dull lamplight. Caribet had gone to bed. Rian continued to study, pointedly ignoring her mother. She seemed to turn each page in annoyance, as if Satrine’s mere presence in her own sitting room was disturbing her.

She was welcome to feel that way. Satrine wasn’t in any hurry to go into the bedroom.

She sipped again. Glass was empty. She tilted it back as far as she could, trying to drain those few stubborn drops at the bottom.

That was it. No more left.

Was there any wine in the pantry? There might be some. Or some cider.

No, she finished the cider last night.

“Blazes.”

“What, Mother?”

Blazes, Rian was still in here.

“Nothing,” Satrine said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten bells, I figure,” Rian said. “Don’t you have to work in the morning?”

“Don’t you have school?”

Rian came over to the couch and picked up the brandy glass. She gave it a light sniff and took it into the kitchen. “You barely slept last night. If you’re going to work this job, you need to rest.”

“I know, I know,” Satrine said, getting to her feet.

“I can do my part, you know.”

“Rian, I told you—”

“When you were my age—”

“My mother had already run off. That isn’t something you have to worry about, is it?”

“But—”

“I don’t even want to talk about it.”

Truth was, when she was Rian’s age, she was hidden in a secret room on a slow ship to Waisholm, getting etiquette, accent, and manners crammed into her skull. Learning to become a Waish
quia,
turning a street rat into a noblewoman.

Had she really been the same age as Rian when that happened? It seemed impossible. Satrine couldn’t even contemplate Rian being able to handle anything like that. Being able to handle any of the things she had had to do.

But Rian hadn’t had to grow up on the streets of Inemar. Things were harder then. Children were harder then. Her mother had vanished, probably presuming that Satrine could take care of herself.

Rian would never have to worry about things like that.

“Focus on your studies,” Satrine said, after she realized she had been in silent reverie for several seconds.

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“Fine.” Satrine got off the couch and went to the bedroom door. “Go to bed soon, all right?”

“Yes, Mother.” Rian sounded hostile, Satrine thought. Then she mused that when she was the same age, she would have broken the teeth of anyone who told her the same thing. In comparison, Rian was a diplomat.

Satrine put her hand on the knob. Nothing left to drink to steel herself with. Time to face it.

She opened the door.

There were no signs of life in the alley, at least none that stepped out when an armed constable came down. If anyone other than Missus Tomar and her abductor were hiding back here, Minox was not concerned with them unless they interrupted him.

The current led him all the way to the end of the alley. The abductor had come this way with Missus Tomar. The signs were so obvious that Minox was overwhelmed with excitement. Hoof prints in the dirt. Boot prints as well, leading to the sewer grate leftover from the abandoned backhouses. The grate itself sat slightly askew. Minox would have preferred to have an obvious explanation as to where the horse went, or something tangible like Missus Tomar’s shackles, but there was more than enough here to justify continuing along the path.

Minox pulled off the grate, as the current beckoned him to descend. There was a rope hanging from the edge of the grate. That increased the likelihood that the abductor and the killer were the same person, and the killer used underground passages to move about the city.

The main question left unresolved was whether Jaelia Tomar was the killer’s next victim or his accomplice. Minox’s inclination was it was the former, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility of the latter. It was not impossible that this entire business was an extraordinarily elaborate marital dispute.

Minox holstered his handstick, hung the lantern in the crook of his arm, and lowered himself into the sewer. Here the odor was atrocious, but not unbearable. He reached the stone floor with a half inch of fetid water flowing along. That wasn’t the current he was following, though.

Walking through the sewer tunnel was fascinating, as it was far more elaborate than Minox had expected it to be. The construction was solid, and as Minox followed along the magic current’s path, he saw several side passages, large chambers, and even doors. Minox made a mental note to give the area under the city further research. He wondered if there were maps anywhere, or if its cartography was long lost.

Eventually, after tracing through what must have been several blocks, the path led to another rope leading back up to street level. As Minox climbed up, he sensed something familiar about the area, which was confirmed when he emerged: he was in the same alley that Hessen Tomar was killed in that morning. Minox drew out his
handstick again, prepared to find the worst at the mouth of the alley.

There was nothing. No one. That was the good news.

The bad news was the current had vanished. Minox walked back down, trying to find it again. It still existed at the sewer grate, but as he went out toward the street, it dissipated. He took each step meticulously, trying to sense where he lost it, where it fell apart. It was no use. He couldn’t figure it out.

“Blast it!” he shouted to no one in particular. “Blast it to blazes!”

The back door of the butcher shop opened. “Who’s there? I’m armed.”

“Constabulary,” Minox responded. “No need to be alarmed.”

The door opened further, and the elder Brondar stepped out. “You again, stick? Why are you swearing in our alley?”

“I was . . . I was following a lead on something, and . . . it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You aren’t here to hassle me again?”

“No, sir,” Minox said. An idea crossed his mind. “But, if possible, I would like to speak to your youngest son.”

“Youngest living son,” the old man said. “Why you need to talk to him, eh?”

“Is there a problem?” Minox asked. “Is he not here?”

“I asked you a question, stick. Why you need to talk to him?”

“You are aware there was a murder right over there just this morning, sir? You should know I have more than enough cause to have the City Protector’s Office issue a Writ of Justice to give us warrant to enter and search this home, as well as detain you and your whole family.”

“So why don’t you do that?”

“Simply put, Mister Brondar, that would be a lot of work and hassle—which I’m willing to do, mind you—when an easier solution would be to let me come in and have a few words with Joshea. That way no one’s life gets disrupted.”

“No one gets disrupted.” Old Mister Brondar
chuckled. “That is a good joke, stick. Yes, come in. But you will eat some meat, yes?”

This surprised Minox, but after what he went through, eating some meat, any kind of food at all, would be quite agreeable. “Yes, of course.”

Brondar stepped back, allowing Minox to enter. He led Minox up through the back stairway. The apartment upstairs was cramped, with low ceilings and a larger table in the center of the room than there was adequate space for. The three Brondar sons sat around the table, in shirtsleeves and suspenders. The table was overcrowded with plates of meats, as well as bread, bottles of wine, and various other foods.

“Hey!” the eldest son—Jonner, if Minox remembered correctly—yelled when Minox walked in. “The stick came back!”

Joshea Brondar looked at Minox with surprise, suspicion. His eyes darted to his brothers, his father, and back to Minox. Minox had to admit, Joshea looked like a guilty man hiding a secret—but the secret he carried wasn’t a crime. Not unless he had another one. The fact that the trail died right outside the butcher shop’s back door was something Minox couldn’t ignore.

“The stick wants to talk to Joshea!” the father announced, squeezing into the room and taking a chair at the table. “Sit, stick, and talk!”

“You’re eating supper at ten bells?” Minox asked. “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s when we eat, stick,” Jonner said. “This meat needs a long time to cook properly.”

“Very long, or very quick,” Old Mister Brondar said. “Never in between. Sit!”

Minox took the chair closest to the door. The middle Brondar son—Gunther—reached out for a piece of meat, but his father’s hand swatted it away. “New man at the table!”

“But, Pop!”

“We do it right, boy.” He lit a taper off one of the candles on the table, and then snuffed all of the candles with his fingers.

“Blessings of each saint rain down on this table,” he said, lighting one candle. “Bring warmth and joy and prosperity to all who sit and enjoy our bounty.”

“May we be blessed,” all three Brondar sons said in unison.