A Murder of Mages (38 page)

She took two steps before the office door opened and the captain came out. “Miss Pyle, be so kind as to fetch three pages. Specifically Hace, Painter, and Quint.”

“Hace, Painter, and Quint,” Miss Pyle said, getting to her feet. “I presume this is . . .” She let it hang. The captain nodded, and she dashed off.

Cinellan sighed deeply and said, “Rainey, join us in here, would you?” He walked back in, leaving the door open.

Satrine entered the crowded office, where Kellman and Mirrell were leaning against the wall, and Welling sat in the chair, coolly tapping his fingers on the arm.

“Shut the door,” the captain said. Satrine did so, trying her best to ignore the sudden cold sweat that was breaking on her brow. They were all acting strange, being secretive, talking in code. This couldn’t be good.

“What’s going on?” she asked, forcing her voice to be as calm as she could manage.

“You’ve been a stick’s wife for a long time,” Cinellan said. “So I’m presuming you’ve got a sense how some things work.”

“Some.” Guarded tone.

“Have you heard of a Quiet Call?”

She had. Quiet Call was when they gathered up a bunch of sticks, the ones they knew they could trust, without letting the word get out to the rest of the stationhouse.

It was what they did to handle corrupt sticks. Someone who had forged orders to become an inspector would do just as well.

“So that’s what this is about?” No emotion in her voice, but her head was racing. None of them were making a move on her, not yet. They were probably waiting until the boys Nyla was fetching could block the door. No windows or other way out of here. Her hand inched closer to her belt, ready to draw her handstick, ready to beat her way out once any one of them made their move.

“I wouldn’t normally bring someone brand-new in on
one,” Cinellan said. “But we’re going to need every hand we can pull together, and Welling vouches for you.”

“He . . . he does?” She almost jerked her hand away from her stick.

“Stop gibbering, Tricky,” Kellman said. “This is what Hennie and I do.”

Hennie? “You two are watchdog inspectors.” It made perfect sense. The first case she heard about them on was the murder of two horsepatrol.

Mirrell nodded. “We’ve been putting together some pieces, long-term work. Some of our more . . . morally questionable boys, the ones we’ve been building a long case on, we hear they’re meeting some of their connections at a warehouse this morning. Something large is happening at nine bells, and we’re going to crack it as hard as we can muster.”

Welling’s head was down, scrawling a list of names. “Kelsey and Prandt. Night shift horse. You have your eye on them?”

“Had a whisper,” Mirrell said. “You have something harder?”

“Just more whispers,” Welling said. “But ones I trust.”

“Maybe we’ll be lucky,” Kellman said. “They’ll be on the scene now.”

Satrine let herself breathe. This had nothing to do with her at all.

“You have that list ready, Welling?” Cinellan asked.

Welling handed over the paper. “These men are solid for the Quiet Call. Seventeen was the best I could do.”

“It’ll have to be good enough,” Cinellan said.

A knock came on the door, and Miss Pyle entered. “I have the pages. And Mister Hilsom is here with a writ of search.”

“Perfect,” the captain said. “All right, you four. Heavy coats and caps will be on the wagon. Let’s crack some skulls.”

Minox checked the straps on his leather cap. He always hated wearing one when he was horsepatrol. It made his
hair soak with sweat, and the straps always bit into his ear. As uncomfortable as it was, though, it was surely more comfortable than an unshielded blow to the head.

Inspector Rainey looked out of place with her cap and heavy coat. Her long red hair spilled out the sides, which then puffed out in a ridiculous manner.

“Tie it back,” Minox offered. “That’s what Corrie does.”

“Tie what back?”

“Your hair,” Minox said. He glanced out the alley, half a block from the warehouse they were about to target. They, as well as Kellman and Mirrell, were in the forward positions, ready to move when the bells of Saint Limarre’s struck nine. Other men, out of uniform, moved through the street like merchants or beggars.

On some level, the whole subterfuge struck Minox as absurd. Any Constabulary worth his badge would recognize a Quiet Call in motion if he saw what was happening in the street. It would be more plausible if they recruited from another stationhouse. The last two times he had been involved in this with Mirrell, he had suggested having one of his uncles put together a team from their stationhouses, but the captain wouldn’t hear of it. This time he made no such attempt, instead opting to argue for having Rainey at his side. The past two days had been especially trying, and were only tolerable due to her presence. He looked back to her. Her hair was now tied back, one of the leather cords of the heavy coat sacrificed to the cause. “Are you ready?”

“Is anyone really ever?” She drew out her crossbow, checking its readiness. “I’ve never really done anything quite like this before.”

That was surprising. “You have shown yourself to be a capable combatant.”

“Street scrapper, Welling. I can hold my own in a brawl, but an organized raid? We never did anything like that on my corner. Or in Intelligence.”

“Stay alert,” Minox said. “This is Mirrell’s engagement, so give him deference. We’re here as support.” He pointed to the warehouse, notably the large wagon doors
on the south wall. “At the first chime, we all make our move. South doors are ours.” He pointed to two footpatrol, dressed as streetsweeps. “They’re our lampmen. They’ll be right behind us.”

“What are we going after, exactly?”

“Not sure,” Minox said. “Mirrell was deliberately obtuse on the matter. Whether that was out of ignorance or a desire to hold knowledge over me, I am not sure.”

“What’s your guess?”

“I haven’t been studying this case—”

“Welling,” Rainey said, touching his shoulder. “What’s your guess?”

Minox repressed the grin. “Warehouse is two blocks away from the riverfront, which makes a pure smuggling operation less likely. Large building, almost half a block. Solid brick walls, few windows. A fair amount of noise could come from inside with little notice.” He took a deep sniff of the air. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“The stench of human and animal waste is noticeably stronger here than, say, a block away. But closer to a kennel than a stable or a backhouse.”

“Dogfights?” Inspector Rainey asked.

“Sensible deduction, Inspector. Though puzzling, as dogfight rings would hardly bother in bribing multiple constabulary officers to cover their operations. Such establishments thrive on being an open secret.”

Rainey bit her lip in thought. “Maybe the dogs are the cover.”

The idea clicked in his thoughts. “Scent of the dogs covering a different odor? Intriguing. But covering what?”

Rainey was about to answer when the first bell rang. She closed her mouth and held up her crossbow. Minox drew out his own. They moved out into the street. Kellman and Mirrell were already charging at the western doors. Rainey ran out ahead toward theirs, and Minox chased on her heels.

All the scattered footmen in disguise moved at once, converging on the three sets of warehouse doors. Rainey
reached the barn doors a full forty feet before he did. She didn’t stop, ramming her shoulder at the door at full speed. The door splintered and cracked, but didn’t yield.

At the same moment, Mirrell and Kellman kicked open their door, shouting out, “Hold fast! You are all bound by law!”

Rainey stepped back, waiting for Minox to reach the door. Out of pride, he couldn’t allow himself to not make the same attempt to knock open the door that Rainey had. He charged at it with full strength, and she hit it again in the same moment. This time, the doors flew open.

At least a score of men were in the warehouse, knocking down lamps and snuffing candles. Minox’s eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness fast enough to see more.

“Hold fast!” Rainey shouted, crossbow up. The two lampmen took a place right behind them, holding their lanterns high. Soft beams illuminated the dark corners of the warehouse, while several bodies scrambled and darted for the shadows like the rats they were.

The twangs of crossbow fire came quickly. The lamp over Minox’s head shattered. Rainey fired into the darkness. A man cried out, so in all likelihood she shot true.

Minox stepped ahead of her as she bent down, one foot in her cocking stirrup. Another shot flew past, taking out the other lantern.

There were definitely Constabulary inside, making a point of taking out the light instead of the man. They didn’t want to hurt fellow officers if they could help it, but they didn’t want to get spotted either.

Snarls and barks rushed at them, and Minox barely had a chance to shoot before he saw three sets of jaws flying at him. One dog dropped with a sharp squeal. The other two were on him, clamping hard on the sleeves of his coat.

Rainey dropped her crossbow and pummeled one dog with her handstick. The lampmen tackled the other. Minox wormed his arms out of the coat and pushed forward, staying close to the ground. He couldn’t see anything. More light was needed.

He focused his concentration on creating a ball of light in his hand.

Nothing happened.

More crossbow shots whistled past him. One brushed the top of his cap. No time to mess around with magic, or do anything that might make him an attractive target.

He lifted up his hand to shoot back. No crossbow. He must have dropped it.

Men with lamps came streaming in the other door, behind Kellman and Mirrell, where at least ten officers held up their weapons. “Cease fire now!” Kellman’s voice boomed. The light hit several men, who were in the process of loading the bows or opening dog cages. On Kellman’s voice, they all dropped what they were doing and put their hands up.

“Goddamn bastards,” Rainey said. Minox looked over to the cages and saw why. Not all the cages had dogs in them.

Some cages had children. Two or three per cage, covered in rags and filth.

Minox started to get to his feet when a man—someone in the shadows he hadn’t seen—burst past him and knocked him down. He slammed hard onto the ground. Flat on his back, he was barely able to see the man barrel through the lampmen into the open street.

“Bastard!” Rainey screamed again, and ran out after him.

Chapter 25

T
HE BASTARD WAS RUNNING NOW, out in the open street. The lampmen had been useless in stopping him, so all he had to do was get out of sight and he’d be free as a lark.

Satrine would be damned if she let that happen.

She pounded after the man. He had a strong lead, but she would close that distance once she got her feet under her. He stumbled as he ran. Drops of blood on the ground. He must have been the one she hit with her crossbow. Despite that, he had good speed, but he wasn’t fast enough to beat her.

Only a few feet separated them when he crossed around a shopkeeper’s table, kicking its leg out as he passed it. Brass trinkets and glass careened onto the ground, forcing Satrine to jump out of the way, losing her stride. By the time she found her footing, he was down the next alley.

She turned the corner. The alley was a dead end, but he was beating on a door, his only possible escape. He looked back at her. Despite the bleeding wound in his shoulder, he grinned at her.

“I thought the Jinx was chasing me,” he said. “Not the skirt.”

Satrine didn’t bother with a response, other than charging at him. For a moment, his grin was about to become laughter, and then his face froze, melting into fear.

She had him.

He kicked at the door again. This time some fool opened it to yell at whoever was hitting the door. The bastard knocked him down and ran into the building.

Satrine tried to go right after him, but the fool who had let him in grabbed at her legs, dragging her down to the ground with him.

“How dare you!” the man shouted.

“Constabulary!” was all Satrine responded with, wrenching herself away from his hands. She reined in the urge to kick the man in the face.