A Murder of Mages (22 page)

The night clerk took little notice of Minox as he entered the station. It was highly unlikely that either Leppin or Corrie had told anyone that he shouldn’t be returning this evening. It was not quite after midnight, so he was breaking his promise to Leppin. However, the opportunity to save the life of Jaelia Tomar had to take precedence over that.

Conventional means of tracking Missus Tomar and her abductor had failed. This was not a surprise, as the trail was quite cold. There had been a handful of boot tracks in the street outside the alley that had the right mix of mud and waste, and those were accompanied with the wheel marks of a handcart. Unfortunately, a few steps into the street, they became completely enmeshed with every other footprint and wheel mark that crossed through Jent and Tannen. Useful for clarifying how the abductor brought Missus Tomar out of the alley without causing a stir—few would bother questioning a tarp-covered handcart—but unhelpful in finding where they had gone.

He slipped up the back stairs, taking a stop in the commissary for a cup of tea before going to his desk on the inspectors’ floor. He put the tea on the desk and lit a
few lamps. A pile of fresh newsprints from Inemar, Dentonhill, Aventil, East Maradaine, and Colton sat on his chair. Nyla had, as always, got her usual supply and left it for him to comb through.

He was at a loss. There were no reasonable suspects, at least none that he could determine with the information at hand. Research was his only possible ally at this point. There were the newsprints of the day, of course. They might yield an unknown connection that would clear up the entire matter. But that was a long shot. He had to simply go through the information he had again and hope he would gain new insight.

Jaelia herself, or any of the other Firewings, seemed unlikely, given the unique nature of the spikes. At least, they would have to have a non-magical accomplice. That was worth considering.

For that matter, it could involve a rival Circle, also using a non-magical accomplice. Blue Hand Circle had ties to Fenmere’s trafficking operations. It was also worth going down to the file rooms and reading up on the other Circles that had dealings in this and nearby neighborhoods. Especially those involved in the Circle Feuds of 1212. He loathed the idea of reading through all that, but Inspector Rainey was correct on that particular point this morning: he was deliberately trying to avoid the subject of Mage Circles. He couldn’t afford to do that, not anymore.

A thought crossed his mind. The spikes, and mage shackles. Were they the same thing, or was there more to the spikes? Another point of ignorance he couldn’t afford. There was still a pair of mage shackles somewhere in the stationhouse. He needed to get a hold of them and research them as well. He had known for the past three years that there were two pairs in the stationhouse, but had never investigated what they were, or what they would do to him. He didn’t even know why they had two pairs. Was that typical for every stationhouse in the city? Or were Inemar’s two pairs twice as many as anyone else’s?

He had already been shown that there were elements
of magical understanding that were relevant to the case. He couldn’t ignore them. The various Circles in the city—even just the ones that had chapterhouses in the neighborhood—could provide a wealth of other suspects.

Other suspects. Neither the Brondars nor the folk in the barbershop were reasonable. The barbers were half-wits and dullards, not one of them had any spark of cleverness. The Brondars had that spark, for certain, but they weren’t the type to do it in such gruesome spectacle. Minox could easily believe that Joshea’s father would murder a mage like Hessen Tomar, but he’d do it in an efficient, straightforward matter. No ritual or candles. He’d more likely just hack his victims up and grind them into sausage.

Minox shuddered at allowing himself that thought.

He let it pass. File room first. Then the mage shackles. Research the problem, until Jaelia Tomar was safe. There was no other choice in the matter.

Chapter 14

S
OMEONE POUNDED ON THE DOOR. Satrine woke, startled. She hadn’t realized she had fallen asleep in the chair, her head tilted to one side. Her neck was stiff with pain. She stretched it to the other side, releasing a series of pops. That gave some relief.

The lamp had dwindled down to the barest ember. It was enough light to see that Loren was asleep.

Pounding again.

It was far too early for anyone to be pounding on her door. Satrine didn’t have a clock in her house, but instinct told her it was around five bells, still twenty minutes or so until sunrise. She stumbled from the chair, grabbing a dressing gown as she passed it hanging on the wall. She wrapped it around herself quickly, hurrying to get to the door before the caller began another round of pounding. The girls, hopefully, were still sleeping, and didn’t need to be roused.

Her Constabulary belt hung near the door. She took the handstick out of its holder and placed her other hand on the door latch.

“Oy,” she said. “Who the blazes is pounding at this hour?”

“Is this Inspector Rainey?” a young voice returned.

“Who’s asking?”

“It’s Phillen,” the voice said. “Phillen Hace.”

“Who?”

“I’m one of the station pages. I counted the clock for you and Inspector Welling this morning, remember? You know, when you were . . .”

Satrine rolled her eyes. Was this something she was really going to have to deal with? A lust-struck page pounding on her door in the wee hours because he saw her in her underthings. “Phillen, you shouldn’t be coming here in the middle of the night like this. I’m sure there are better places for you to . . .”

“But . . . Inspector Welling sent me, ma’am.”

Despite her better judgment, Satrine unlatched the door. There was the boy, standing respectfully a few steps away from the door, hat in hand. “He . . . Inspector Welling told you to come here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“I don’t rightly know, ma’am,” Phillen said. “He told me that he needed you at the stationhouse as soon as you could arrive properly. Oh, and there was an incident with Missus Tomar’s transfer.”

“What kind of incident?” Satrine asked.

“He didn’t tell me, ma’am. Though word among pages is she broke out from her lockwagon.”

“All right,” Satrine said. She had to trust that Welling wasn’t about to send a page to her house to collect her for spurious reasons. If there was an actual, legitimate issue at hand with their case, she should get on it. “Run back. Tell Inspector Welling that I’ll be ten minutes behind you. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phillen said. He gave a weak salute to her and ran off. Satrine latched the door shut and went to the water closet.

Face washed, hair pulled back, dressed in slacks and linen pullover, Satrine made her way into the kitchen by the light of a single candle while carrying her boots in the other hand. She remembered several times Loren had made similar early morning exits. As well as late
nights. This was going to have to be a normal part of her life now.

She cut some bread left over from last night, and took out some soft cheese and salted lamb from the icebox. It wasn’t much of a breakfast, but it would do. She mused to herself as she spread the cheese on the bread, that if there was one thing her day probably would not be lacking, it was food. Partnership with Minox Welling would see that through for certain.

Had Welling been there all night? Should she have been? What did he have to go home to? She didn’t know. He had no marriage bracelet, nor did he speak of any sort of intended.

She took a bite of bread, cheese, and lamb, put it down on the table, and pulled on her boots. No time for tea. There would probably be tea at the stationhouse, if Miss Pyle was there. If not, would they expect her to make it?

“You up already, Mama?” Caribet wandered into the kitchen in her gown, rubbing at her eyes.

“Back to bed, sweetheart,” Satrine said absently. She took another bite of her breakfast.

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t know,” Satrine said. “They sent a page to get me, though. ‘Something’ happened.”

Caribet nodded. “You need anything, Mama?”

“No, dear. Get a couple more hours of sleep before you have to go to school.” Satrine went to the door hooks for her belt, vest, and coat. Caribet shuffled back to her bedroom. She stopped at her doorway, looking back at Satrine.

“Let me see you, Mama.”

Satrine had the coat half on. “What do you mean?”

Caribet gestured vaguely at her. “Like that. Coat on.” Satrine finished dressing. “You look like a real inspector, Mama.”

“I am a real inspector, honey,” Satrine said. She went back to the table to grab her breakfast.

“I know, Mama,” Caribet said sleepily. “It looks right on you.” She went back into her bedroom.

Satrine couldn’t help but smile as she took the last couple bites of her breakfast. She checked her crossbow and handstick, and went out the door.

The streets were nearly empty, the haze of predawn barely lighting Satrine’s way to the bridges, across the river, and back into Inemar.

A handful of boys were gathered in a cluster near the base of the bridge steps. Satrine heard shouts and jeers coming from their circle. They all had matching caps. Satrine didn’t need to see anymore to guess what was going on.

“You rats got a flop to race to?” she called out. All heads turned to her, opening up their circle enough to see they had another boy on the ground.

A boy in a Constabulary page coat.

One of the gang rats gave the page another kick. “What’s it to you, dox?”

“She’s no dox!” another jeered. “She’s too old to charge for it!”

“She could get a pence or two,” said another. “If I had enough ale in me.”

“Doubt a sprout like you could hold your ale, rat,” Satrine returned. Her right hand went down to her belt slowly.

“You want to see what I hold, dox?” he said, walking closer to her with a cocky strut. He stopped cold a few steps in. “Holy saints, she’s a stick!”

“She’s no stick,” one of the other boys said. He had the bearing of a leader. He kicked the page again, as if to punctuate his point. The page groaned and rolled over. It was Phillen.

Satrine didn’t hesitate another second. She drew the crossbow and shot the boy who kicked Phillen. Her arrow hit him in the shoulder; he squealed in pain and dropped.

“Saints!” the one closest to her shouted. That was all he got out before she was on him, handstick drawn. Two hits, chest and head, and he crumpled to the ground.

“Get the dox!” the one she shot yelled. The other boys—three of them—hesitated for a moment, but then
charged at her. As soon as they stepped away, Phillen savagely kicked the leader in the knee.

Satrine dropped her crossbow, freeing her right hand for a hard punch at the first of the three who reached her. He stumbled at the blow, while the second boy of the trio swung a sloppy punch at her. She blocked it easily with the handstick, spinning it around and under his arm. Before he could react, she had his arm behind his back, and forced him around to block the third boy’s attack. She gave the boy a shove at his friend, sending them tumbling onto the cobblestone.

She got punched in the side. Two more fast hits on her right arm, which she barely had a chance to react to. The first boy of the trio—a weasel-faced tosser with black teeth—was on her, and he knew how to scrap. She lashed out with her right arm, a wild swing that he easily dodged. He grinned with those nasty teeth. “Stick or dox, don’t matter,” he said.

She didn’t talk back to him. She switched the handstick to her right hand, and drove it hard into his ribs. He swung at her, but this time she could block his punches. She hit him again, center of the chest. He gasped for breath. She knocked him across the jaw. Two of those black teeth flew out of his mouth. She swept up the handstick and drummed it down across his temple. He went down.

A glint of iron out the corner of her eye. One of the other two had a knife, and he was moving in to slide it between her ribs. Satrine spun on her heel and knocked the blade with the handstick, followed with a sharp left hook. Before he could recover, she grabbed his head by his greasy hair and pulled down, smashing his face with her knee.