“And then there’s the new case. Cases.”
“The children?”
“No, that one is on Mirrell and Kellman.”
“I thought you and Minox were working it.”
Satrine sighed. Minox had pushed the idea that a series of missing children—mostly street rat kids like she and Sister Alana had been when they were Tricky Trini and Lannie Coar—were part of a larger case that warranted deeper investigation. Evidence had connected those missing children to a handful of other cases involving children from working-class families, and even a few from minor nobility. Minox had put the pieces together—notably the similar witness reports from all over the city—to show that there was some sort of larger conspiracy to kidnap children. Though for what, he still had no idea. Satrine suspected another fighting ring, or something even more disturbing.
Once Minox had presented his evidence to Captain Cinellan, the case got a lot more notice. That meant it wasn’t going to be handled by the inspectors who handled “the strange ones.” Not by Satrine Rainey, who was still loathed throughout the city Constabulary for faking her way to an Inspector’s rank with forged orders, or by Minox Welling, the Uncircled mage who still had the threat of Inquiry hovering over his head. So the pile of files for the missing children went to Mirrell and Kellman. Satrine didn’t understand why—they weren’t very inquisitive or investigative. A delicate case that involved a lot of moving parts, that was not their forte.
“No, we’re working the Gearbox Murders. That’s what the gaudier newssheets are calling it.”
“Yes,” Sister Alana said. “I rather like the gaudy newssheets. There’s something honest about the level of viscera they commit to.”
“You’re talking about the ones with the drawings.” Satrine picked up a pastry. She was going to need something in her system for this.
“I really have to ask,” Alana said, picking up one of the newssheets she had stacked next to the steps. “These contraptions you find the victims in. They aren’t actually this elaborate, are they?”
Satrine took the paper from her. The sketch showed a monstrosity of machinery, with gears and blades and some poor woman caught in the thing while bits of her were being sliced off. As gruesome as it was, there was also an almost comical aspect to it, as the machinery also had strings, candles, mice in wheels, and a whole assortment of elements that were purely the artist’s imagination.
“Nothing like that,” Satrine said. “Most of the time we never even saw the machine. . . . I’ll spare you the gore. There were five deaths—that we know of—before we realized they were connected. Now seven.”
“Who are they?”
“Victims from every part of the city, each found in a different part of the city. No rhyme or reason behind it. Men, women, old, young, rich, poor.”
“Noble?”
“Not yet. But . . .” She hesitated to voice her thoughts.
“Go ahead.”
“Whoever is doing this, they’ve got resources. They’ve got time. And they want attention. If it isn’t nobility, or at least someone with money and influence, I’ll eat my vest.”
“And this theory of yours has met with resistance?”
Sister Alana hit on the point. “Minox doesn’t think so. He thinks this is someone with a message. There’s a grand scheme to it.”
“A grand scheme for what?”
“He’s not sure. He can’t figure out the message.”
“And so his theory holds more credence than yours why? After all, the theories don’t exclude each other.”
“It doesn’t, just . . .” Satrine sighed, taking a bite of the pastry. “When he gets his hunches, he just digs into them like a crab on the beach.”
“Did he spend the night in the stationhouse?”
“Probably,” Satrine said. “If I were to predict—”
Before Satrine could finish that thought, the back doors of the church burst open, and a young blond woman in nightclothes stormed out, swinging a great candlestick like a sword. “Betrayal! Beware the betrayal and escape the darkness!”
Satrine was on her feet, instinctively grabbing her handstick, but Sister Alana had already reacted. In swift motion, she ducked the swinging candlestick, popped back up, and knocked the blond woman in the face with a perfect punch.
The blond woman dropped to the ground, and then looked around rather confused.
“Sister Alana,” she said curtly. “Why am I in the back garden in my sleeping attire?”
“You were having one of your spells again, Sister Myriem,” Sister Alana said. “Go inside and clean yourself off. I’ll come to check on you shortly.”
Sister Myriem stood up and dusted herself off, giving Satrine a polite nod before returning inside the church.
“She’s still a problem?”
“Not for long,” Alana said with a heavy sigh. “Or at least, not mine. She’s going to be transferred to Saint Bridget’s. Not my doing. The other cloistresses here are terrified of her.”
“Really?”
“This fit was a sedate one for her,” Alana said. “In a few weeks, she’ll be gone. May the saints forgive me, but I will sleep easier.”
“I wish I could.” Sleep hadn’t been easy . . . all summer, frankly. Between the rigors of the job and the strain of caring for her husband, it had already been hard enough. The words a Lyranan spy had whispered in her ear had set her thoughts spinning every night. “You’re working with a traitor.”
Sister Myriem screaming “Betrayal” in her fit didn’t help. Something about that young woman was just unnerving. She didn’t blame Alana for wanting to be rid of her.
Alana guessed her thoughts. “Do you honestly suspect Minox is a traitor of some sort? In collusion with corruption?”
“Not at all,” Satrine said. “But I can’t shake the feeling. Pra Yikenj spoke with . . . conviction. And she had proven insightful before.” Satrine’s first encounter with Pra Yikenj had been a little over fifteen years before, when the spy had noticed Satrine was pregnant before Satrine had.
“She wanted to rattle you.” Alana glanced about furtively. “And your other masters? What do they think?”
“Druth Intelligence isn’t telling me anything new, other than to remind me that there’s some sort of corruption in the Constabulary that they worry about. Which . . . isn’t useful to tell me.”
“So what will you do today?”
Satrine was about to answer, when she heard the pounding of feet and a wheezing breath that was oddly familiar. “I think I’m about to get summoned to the stationhouse.”
And then Phillen Hace, newly minted Senior Page in the Constabulary, raced into the churchyard. “Inspector Rainey.”
“Phillen,” Satrine said calmly, picking up her tea and sipping it. “Did Inspector Welling send you in search of me?”
“Yes,” Phillen said.
“And did he presume to tell you to find me here?”
Phillen looked guilty for a moment. “Yes.”
“Has he been there all night?”
“Near as I can tell, ma’am. I mean, I slept.”
“Fine. Be with you in a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a bit of a salute. He gave a nod to Alana. “Begging your pardon for interruption, your glory.”
“Always, son.” As Phillen went to the street, Alana sighed and looked at Satrine. “Never the time we need.”
“Come to the house sometime,” Satrine said. “I would love you to meet the girls.”
“I’ll try. I don’t get much chance to cross the river.”
Satrine let Sister Alana embrace her one more time and went off to where Phillen was waiting patiently for her.
A thought crossed her mind. “You do go home sometimes, yes?” She had never thought to ask the boy that. He always seemed available when Wellin
g sent him, at any hour.
“No point, ma’am. Ain’t had a home for a year, save the stationhouse. And that’s the best year I’ve had.”
“What about your mother?” Satrine asked. “You’ve mentioned her before.”
“I have, indeed,” he said. “That year I brought up? It’s been the year she’s been in the Quarry for theft and grift.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. She knew he had no fondness for his mother—she understood that all too well—but she also understood it wasn’t easy to feel nothing for one’s mother.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I’m the one who got her nabbed and ironed.”
“How long does she have left to serve?”
“Five days,” Phillen said as they approached the stationhouse. “It should be interesting.”
“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” Satrine said. Phillen nodded and dashed off. She steeled herself and went into the stationhouse. There was surely about to be some form of aggression or difficulty facing her, from the patrolmen or the desk sergeants, or most likely Miss Nyla Pyle, the floor clerk for the GIU who hated Satrine with cold fire. All that she was used to.
That was part of her every day.
* * *
Sleep had not been a priority for Minox Welling for the past few days, catching only a few hours in the stationhouse bunk to refresh his mind before returning to his analysis of the “Gearbox Killer” murders.
He had to confess, it was possibly the most singularly troubling case he had ever encountered in his time as an Inspector Third Class in the Maradaine Constabulary. He had never before seen a case where the murderer had no apparent motive beyond the thrill of killing. That, and the message Minox theorized was hidden within the murders.
“There is no thrill to killing,” Joshea Brondar said. “I spent three years in the army trying to avoid it if I could.”
“That’s you,” Minox said quietly. “Men like you and me are fundamentally decent. But to the deranged mind—which is clearly what we’re dealing with—there is.”
Joshea picked up one of the charcoal sketches of the crime scene. “Is it all right if I look closer at this?”
Joshea was not a member of the Constabulary, but when the Grand Inspection Unit had been formed, Captain Cinellan called for an adjacent force of specially trained patrolmen to use in extreme situations. That had involved Joshea—a military veteran—being brought in as a trainer and consultant. Minox had wondered who had suggested Joshea, as he hadn’t. Not that he minded having Joshea in proximity, especially in moments like this when he needed to talk through his ideas and get a different perspective.
Ideally Minox would consult with Inspector Rainey, but he respected that her time away from the stationhouse was not his to monopolize. Her family situation was one that required her attention, which was radically different from his own. The Welling household operated just fine in his absence, save his mother’s worry that he was not taking care of himself.
Joshea was an excellent substitute in these moments, especially since he was one of the few people in this city—beyond family or fellow Constabulary—who Minox enjoyed talking to. And Joshea seemed to enjoy it as well, making a point of coming to the stationhouse in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps because it gave him a legitimate excuse to visit with Minox. Joshea’s family were no fans of the Constabulary, and surely did not approve of his current employment.
They definitely would not approve of the true connection between Joshea and Minox: they were both Uncircled mages.
“It should be fine,” Minox said. “You’ve been cleared for a certain level of access to active cases. There’s nothing here that isn’t also in the newssheets.”
“Saint Hesprin preserve me,” Joshea whispered, kissing his knuckle and touching it to his chest. “This is really what the body was like when you found it?”
“The latest,” Minox said. “The tragedy is this one was definitively preventable. And for whoever our killer is, I think that was part of his design.”
“How was it preventable?”
“The crate arrived in Talon Circle sometime between six bells and seven bells in the morning. It sat there, ignored, for at least four hours until it became active, in the full sight of a sizable crowd. The victim—”
“Nantel Emmarik?” Joshea raised an eyebrow. “That’s an Eastern Druth name. Oblune or Monim.”
“You think that’s relevant?”
“It stands out. Do you know anything about the victim?”
“Very little at this point. But he was alive in the crate for those four hours. Alive! If anyone had gone up to that crate and examined it, called a constable to investigate it . . . Mister Emmarik could have been saved.”
“Possibly,” Joshea said, looking at the sketches. “The device activated, the crate opened, and this happened?”
He handed the sketch back to Minox. This was an official sketch from Leppin’s charcoal artist—a young boy who didn’t balk at the gore, but lacked the artistic craft Minox would have preferred the sketches to have. Despite that, it accurately depicted the state the body was in when the GIU arrived on the scene. Arms and legs twisted at impossible angles, rib cage ripped open, and the poor man’s head—which had a metal cage screwed onto it—had been forced to spin two full circles.
The witnesses had described it all happening in front of them. They had described Emmarik’s screams.
Those people would never be the same again.
Joshea didn’t flinch from the depictions, though. “It’s just—you see those hooks in his wrists and ankles? The way the cage is bolted to his skull? I imagine that if he had been discovered before the box went off, it would have been impossible to extract him without killing him.”
Minox sighed and looked at the charcoal sketch again. It was likely Joshea was right about that, and Leppin—the stationhouse’s examinarian and expert on causes of death—had made the same assessment. Mister Emmarik was probably doomed from the start. “I would argue that there would still have been a chance for him. If I had been there—”
“No,” Joshea said. “You can’t go thinking you can solve anything with magic, especially something like that.”
“I’m not saying—”
“In fact, I don’t know why you stopped taking the rijetzh to help keep it under control. I thought we were figuring out the ideal dosage.”
Minox nodded. “I’m afraid for me it isn’t as simple as merely dampening my ability.” He held up his left hand, currently gloved despite the sweltering heat of the stationhouse. “While using the rijetzh, I have no control over my altered hand.”
“I understand how that might be frustrating—”
“My condition with my hand is more than frustrating.”
Minox had spent the last few months adapting to how his hand had changed. It was no longer flesh, that was certain, though to the touch it still had the same texture and pliability. But it was now black, with an almost metallic shine, and he had almost no direct sensation through it. He could still use his hand indirectly—controlling it by focusing magic through it. The rijetzh—the Poasian spice Joshea introduced him to—hampered his magical ability, and with that the functionality of his hand. Joshea liked dosing himself with rijetzh, keeping his magical ability under tight control, but for Minox it was no longer an option.
Adding to the frustration was that he truly was at a loss regarding his hand. With no access to Circled mages or their knowledge, he didn’t know what his hand even was now, or why it had changed.
There were several possible factors to craft theories with. That arm was the one that had been broken by the strange, magic-draining spike that Nerrish Plum had used in his ritual mage killings when he had attempted to make Minox his fourth victim. It was impossible to determine what effect the exposure to that may have caused, especially since the spikes had gone miss
ing from the evidence lockup, including all record of them. Minox found that deeply troubling, on many levels. Leppin told him he was taking further precautions now to protect evidence and records. Right now the only ones who knew the spikes were missing, and with that the breach in security at the stationhouse, were the two of them, Inspector Rainey, and Captain Cinellan.
Minox had also been exposed to the Tsouljan flower pollen that became volatile when magically activated. That, in all likelihood, was what had put him into a sickened state, and thrown his magical abilities out of alignment at the time his hand changed. Minox was certain that the change in his hand was already underway, and the sickness merely accelerated it. He also wondered if the rijetzh was a contributing factor.
There were too many potential factors.
“If you can’t control it—” Joshea started.
“Then someone else can,” Minox said. He had already had that troubling experience a few weeks ago, in his encounter with the Aventil street vigilante the Thorn. The Thorn, who was also a mage, was capable of exerting control over his altered hand. “That is unacceptable.”
Strangely enough, Minox learned that he could, through the hand, exert control over the Thorn’s mystical tools. He and the Thorn eventually reached an understanding, even a tenuous kinship—but Minox couldn’t overlook the fact that if the Thorn could control his hand, some other mage might as well. Especially a highly trained Circle mage.
And Circled mages did not like Uncircled mages. Nor did they care for Constabulary. So Minox was one of their least liked people in Maradaine.
“You’re just nervous about what’s hanging over your head. Today is the eightieth day, yes?”
“That doesn’t give me comfort,” Minox said.
His position as an inspector in the Maradaine Constabulary was at risk, due to being an Uncircled mage. He would not have been allowed to serve in the Constabulary as a Circled mage, even if he had had the opportunity to train and become Circled. But now he faced an official question of his fitness to serve. His magic—raw and untrained and out of control in his sickness—had caused damage and chaos. Questioning his fitness was completely just.
A Parliament of Bodies Page 2
