A Murder of Mages (43 page)

Minox’s memory did not fail him. “Your grandfather was instrumental in Missus Rainey starting an education.”

“Exactly. He threw a book at her. Did she tell you about that book?” He giggled slightly and went to another bookshelf. The man’s spindly fingers danced along the shelf, even as his feet shuffled idly along the row.

“I’m afraid not, Mister Plum.” Minox was shocked that this slight, scholarly man had ever lasted in the army. “What drove you to—”

“It’s a very interesting book, you see. Most people don’t realize, the poet didn’t actually write the poems.”

“Very interesting, I’m sure. You were in the army for three years?”

“Yes,” Plum said. He came out from the shelves, a
thick metal-spined book in his hands. “I enlisted shortly after the death of my wife.”

“My cond—”

“Did you know how she died, Inspector Welling?”

Minox wasn’t sure how this was relevant. “I am afraid I didn’t even know . . .”

“Of course you didn’t. That’s not your fault. You had no reason to know.”

“If I may continue my questions—”

“No more questions,” Plum said. He threw the book at Minox, with surprising speed.

Minox raised his hand and instinctively drew on magic to deflect the book flying at his head.

There was no magic to draw on. Nothing happened.

The book cracked across his head. He dropped to his knees, dazed and spinning.

Plum was already on him, any sign of stoop or hunch now gone. He slammed a hard boot into Minox’s face.

Blackness encroached Minox’s mind; he couldn’t force himself back up. He couldn’t make his body react.

He was vaguely aware of Plum flipping his inert form over, quick hands binding him with a rope. “You are not at fault, Inspector. But you are exactly what I need.”

Then it all went dark.

Satrine didn’t walk or trudge back to Inemar; she ran. She ran like Intelligence had trained her, years ago. Slow breathing, steady pace. Scanning ten steps ahead, dodging or leaping anything in her way. Get as far as she can, as fast as she can, without wearing herself out.

If she was reading the poem right, if she wasn’t crazy, the killer—Plum, Nerrish Plum, damn it all—would kill an Uncircled mage by sunset. And Plum knew Welling was one. The pieces lined up.

The usual hawkers and buskers at the Inemar bank of the bridge must have seen her coming; no one got in her face or tried to sell her any blasted thing. She leaped down the stairs and hit the cobblestone running.

Her knees were really going to hate her for this later.

She raced, weaving through people and horses and pedalcarts and stacked crates. She didn’t slow down one bit as she approached the stationhouse. Her eyes moved past the outer gate, focused on the door, so she didn’t notice until it was too late that the patrolmen at the gate had grabbed her by the crooks of her arms.

“What do you think you’re doing, Missus?” one of them asked.

“Let go!” Satrine yanked her arms free. They didn’t give her any fight, but moved in front of her. She stepped toward the door, but they blocked her, hands resting on their sticks. “I need to get in there.”

“Oh, I don’t think you do, Missus.”

“I do, I’m—”

“We know who you are, Missus Rainey,” the blond one on the left said. Iorrett, by his badge. “We know what you’ve done.”

Satrine didn’t have time for their petty junk. “You don’t understand.”

His partner, a doughy, meat-faced stick with Leckly on his badge, gave an ugly smile. “She prob’ly thinks, what with us being just footpatrol, we don’t understand much.”

“We understand plenty, we do,” Iorrett said. “Lieutenant Haimen is one of ours, you know.”

Leckly nodded. “He’s a good man, wife and family. Not that you’d care.”

“He was dirty—”

“We understand dirty, Missus Rainey. You’re a cheat and a fake,” Iorrett said. “Thinks she’s too good to work as a clerk.”

“My sister clerks the front at the Gelmoor house,” Leckly said. He shoved Satrine’s shoulder. “You think you better than my sister?”

Satrine beat down the urge to smash her fist into Leckly’s face. “No, I—”

“Course she does.” Iorrett stepped in close, nose almost touching Satrine’s. She made a point of not cringing away from his hot onion breath. “Fake thinks she should skip the street and get specked right away.”

“I didn’t skip the street,” Satrine muttered.

“Right, Tricky. Being a rat gang’s doxy don’t really count.”

Satrine let her old accent flow through. “I ain’t never doxied. But you’ll want to get your nose out of my face.”

“Make me,” Iorrett said in a hot whisper. “And we’ll have an excuse to iron you for the night.”

Satrine took a step back. “I just need to talk to Inspector Welling. Then I’ll go.”

“You don’t get nothing you need,” Leckly said.

“What about Inspector Welling?” she asked. “He needs to know what I’ve got to tell him.”

Leckly laughed. “Whatever you got to say, Jinx has probably figured out already. He’s a stick who’s earned his specks.”

“Look, I just . . .”

“Really simple, Trick,” Iorrett said. “You’re only getting in one way. Ironed and heading in the box.”

Briefly Satrine considered the merits. She could make enough of a ruckus that Welling would hear that she’d been put into holding. Or Captain Cinellan. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but at least she’d be able to get them to hear her out. And it would be very satisfying to give these two street sticks a real reason to throw irons on her.

That was assuming it wasn’t already too late. She couldn’t risk it. She took two more steps back. “Iorrett. Leckly. I’ll remember that.”

“Remember well,” Iorrett said.

She turned back to the street. Blazes.

Missus Wolman was in her fast wrap stand across the street. The woman glanced over at Satrine, and with a flick of her cooking tool, waved her over. Skeptical, Satrine took a step closer. Missus Wolman gestured more stridently. Satrine approached the cooking shack.

“Can I help you?” Satrine asked.

“Doubt it,” Missus Wolman said. She pointed to the ground. “But I’ve got this one hanging about my skirts here.”

Satrine leaned over the counter. A Constabulary page crouched at Missus Wolman’s legs.

“Phillen.” Satrine put on her voice of bemused chastisement. “What are you doing down there?”

“Can’t let them see me talking to you, Missus Rainey,” Phillen said. “They’ll give me the haze if they do.”

“I understand, Phillen,” Satrine whispered. She already knew she had a black mark on her name; even though Phillen had to be exaggerating its severity. Still, if he was willing to help her, she’d take it however he could give it. “I need to talk to Inspector Welling. Can you get him out here?”

“I think so,” he said. He slipped out through the back of the shack.

“He’s a good sort,” Satrine told Missus Wolman after an uncomfortable quiet moment.

“Mmm,” Missus Wolman grunted. “It ain’t kidneys.”

“Pardon?”

“The meat. It ain’t kidneys. Or rancid for that matter.”

“Then what is it?” Satrine asked.

“That’s my secret.”

Satrine leaned in. “So it’s horse, then.”

“Don’t you insult me, lady,” Missus Wolman added a mutter. “Horse ain’t cheap, you know.”

Phillen returned, sliding out of sight under the counter again. “Inspector Welling ain’t inside.”

“Are you sure?”

“Miss Pyle said he went out on a lead a while ago. She’s actually surprised he’s not back.”

“A lead on what? The mage killer?”

“I think so,” Phillen said.

Blazes. Welling might have already walked into it. Welling might already be dead.

“All right, Phillen, this is what I need you to do. Get back in there, and give word to whoever. The captain, Miss Pyle, Mirrell, or Kellman. Whoever you can. Tell them that I figured it out.”

“But if I—”

“I know, Phillen, but Welling’s life and reputation are on the line here. You’ve got to risk it.”

“Fair enough,” Phillen said. “So what do I tell them you figured out?”

“Two things. One, I think the killer is Nerrish Plum,
the bookshop owner. Two, I think that Inspector Welling is the next intended victim.”

Phillen’s eyes went wide. “I’ll do whatever I can. Count on me, Inspector.” He ran off.

Satrine was surprised at how much her heart swelled at being called inspector again. Even if it was a mistake.

She did count on Phillen, but she couldn’t imagine getting much help from any of the other inspectors. She had to figure out where Plum would be, where he would take Minox, in the hope of stopping him. She thanked Missus Wolman for her help and left the stand.

There had to be a logic to the locations: alley, chapterhouse, church. It had to be a set, if it only made sense to Plum. Like the poem, a pattern laid out in the ancient text.

Perhaps there was a different poem, one that explained the where of the murders as much as the first revealed the murderer and the victims. She started walking to the store, thumbing through the book, hoping to find some secret treasure in the ancient verses.

She didn’t notice the meaty fist until it connected with her face.

She fell onto her back, the book dropping onto the ground.

Satrine’s vision was blurred for a moment, until it came into focus on the pudgy face of Idre Hoffer.

“Hello there, Tricky,” she said. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

Chapter 29

S
ATRINE GOT BACK ON her feet as quick as possible, as Idre picked up the poetry book.

“Still got your nose in this, after all these years?” Idre asked.

“I’m busy, Idre.”

“With what? I’ve been on you for two blocks now. The sticks don’t want anything to do with you. Took your vest away.”

Satrine lashed out for the book, and Idre tried to pull it away, hold it out of reach. However, Idre was no longer an older girl with speed and muscle over Satrine. Satrine grabbed the woman’s wrist and held her fast, plucking the book out of her grasp.

“I don’t have time for you.” Satrine shoved Idre away, but the large woman did not move easily.

“You don’t have time?” Idre spoke with an exaggerated North Maradaine accent, unsubtle in her mockery. She swung a heavy punch at Satrine’s face, but Satrine was more than ready this time. She blocked the punch and countered, square in Idre’s face.

That felt good.

Idre barely blinked.

“Must have thought it was so funny, lecturing me about my boy. Thought I wouldn’t place you, Trick? You think I’m that dumb?” She swung several more punches—
surprisingly fast for such a large woman—Satrine could only block and dodge, unable to get her own shot in.

“Didn’t think you cared that much.” Satrine shoved the book into the waistline of her pants, and dove under Idre’s arm. She didn’t have time for this, she should just run the blazes out of there. The sun would set in an hour at most, and if she couldn’t find Welling—

She snapped out of her reverie as Idre’s heavy boot nearly connected with her chest.

“Cared about those six months,” Idre snarled.

Satrine couldn’t run. She couldn’t hunt down Minox while looking over her shoulder for Idre.

“Six months?” she said. “You mean your little trip to Quarrygate when we were kids?”

“Yes!” Idre snapped. She leaped onto Satrine, hands going for the neck.

Satrine landed a solid punch across Idre’s head, but the woman’s momentum took them both down into the street. Satrine was vaguely aware of a horse braying, the crunching noise of cart wheels coming to an abrupt stop. Shouts rose up from a crowd circling around them.

Satrine was on her back, Idre straddled over her. She couldn’t get any leverage to force the large woman off her, though her arms were free enough to stave off her attacks.

“You got me pinched, you rat!” Idre shouted, swinging wildly. “You ruined my life!”

Satrine landed a hard punch in Idre’s chest, followed by another to her chin. This was enough to knock Idre off balance. Satrine rolled to the side to force her off.

“Damn blazes I did!” Satrine shouted, getting to her feet. There was a wall of people circled around them, cheering and hollering.