Enbrain nodded. “Welling is . . . examining the situation. I’m not entirely sure. But he’s alone up there.”
“What about the Tarian?”
“He’s organizing something on Minox’s instructions. And I’m going to get our people to take charge of the building, secure all entrances and locations.”
“Sweep the whole building,” Satrine said. “It’s entirely possible there are more victims secreted away somewhere, or the killer with whatever infrastructure he used to set this up.”
Enbrain nodded grimly. “I can’t imagine someone perverse enough to concoct all this wouldn’t want to watch his performance.”
A point so simple Satrine wanted to kick herself for not thinking about it. “Get our patrol people on identification. We need to know everyone who is here, and everyone who should be here but isn’t.”
Enbrain gave her a slight smirk.
“Sir,” she added.
“Giving orders suits you, Satrine,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll put people on it. Go to your partner.”
Satrine went back up to the gallery, the slaughterhouse. This time the scent hit her even harder.
Now the gallery was empty, save Welling and Miss Morad. He was perched on the gallery ledge, watching everything below with the intent he usually reserved for studying his slateboards. Miss Morad had taken a seat in the back of the gallery, scribbling in a journal and keeping one eye on him.
“What do we know?” she asked, joining him on the ledge.
“Failed rescue attempts will be fatal,” Welling said. “Our killer had planned for that.”
“Whoever he is, he either has connections in the marshals or the Parliament to achieve this level of infiltration,” Satrine said. “This is—”
“A massive security failure, yes,” Welling said. “Which—”
“Suggestions collusion or collaboration.” If he could finish her sentences, she could do the same with his. “Now that this is under our jurisdiction—”
“That is probably a temporary thing. I imagine Chief Quoyell is planning something to embarrass us and reclaim control.”
“He can try,” Satrine said. “But I’ve asked the commissioner to have footpatrol sweep the whole building. There may be other victims, other devices—”
“Or our killer watching all this somehow. I presumed.”
“And we’re working on getting identification on every person in this building. I suppose that includes our Tarian friends. Do we know what Heldrin’s exact job or authority is?”
Welling shrugged. “It seems to be nebulous. I haven’t fully questioned him—that will have to wait until after we’ve finished rescuing these people and examining the machinery. But I like him.”
Minox Welling flat out declaring he liked someone was rare. And his judgment of character was something Satrine tended to trust. He liked her, after all, when no one else did.
“So how are we rescuing these people?” she asked. Eleven trapped people were still down there, bound and gagged and swirling about like toy tops. They must be devastated with fear right now. And the killer left them their eyes. They could see everything, but never scream. And all eleven could see two constables looking down, and were probably wondering why they weren’t doing anything to save them.
“Right now?” Welling’s focus never left the whirling machinery on the floor. “Learning.”
* * *
Dayne had spent the last half hour gaining authority over the situation in the Parliament—giving instructions to the constables as Commissioner Enbrain authorized them to secure the building. Normally, Dayne had found the Constabulary to be as obstructionist as the King’s Marshals when it came to giving respect to a member of the Tarian Order. Maybe it was the gravity of the situation, maybe it was Enbrain’s own shock at having his nephew be one of the victims, but the commissioner had been nothing but courteous.
Dayne found Jerinne outside one of the doorways, at watchful attention.
“What’s the word?” he asked her.
“Still looking for the folks Inspector Welling asked for. What’s the mood in there?”
“Tense. Horrified.”
“About right,” Jerinne said. “What’s the plan?”
“Now the marshals have yielded the investigation—and the rescue—to the Constabulary.”
“The rescue? How’s that going?”
“The first attempt by the marshals was disastrous. But we need to do something.”
“I could send word to the chapterhouse . . .”
“We don’t have anyone there who is an expert. We need—” He glanced over to the clock on Saint Fenson’s church across Parliament Square. It was almost the top of the hour. If the machine kept to form, someone else would die shortly. “I need to get back inside, quickly.”
“But—” Jerinne said.
“Later,” Dayne promised, going back inside.
Dayne raced up the stairs to the gallery, to find Inspector Rainey watching her partner, who was sitting on the balcony ledge, looking down on the machine below. Kendra Morad, the strange woman who seemed to only be here to observe Welling, stayed a respectful distance away.
“What’s he doing?” Dayne asked Inspector Rainey.
“He’s studying the machine. He feels it’s all he can do right now.”
“And you?”
“Waiting for local Fire Brigade to come with rescue armor, Yellowshields at the ready. Commissioner Enbrain is discussing the plan with them.”
“There is a plan?”
“No one is too keen to drop down there after the marshal was killed.” She glanced around. “I saw Quoyell skulking about a few minutes ago with a few of his men, but he’s gone for the moment. I think he’s got his own plan. How well do you know him?”
“Quoyell? Not very. He’s pretty new in the position of Parliament Security.”
“New people under him, too? Or old guard who may resent him?”
Dayne shrugged. “A bit of both. Why?”
“This is a massive failure at his feet, and I’ve got a sense in my gut about it. He’s the type to do something to reclaim control.”
“You might be right.”
She mused, looking off in the distance, sounding out the man’s name. “Coy-yell,” she said, slowly. “That’s how he pronounces it?”
“Yes,” Dayne said, slightly confused. “Why?”
“Just an unusual name is all,” she said.
“Inspector Rainey,” Welling said from his perch.
She approached, and Dayne stayed with them. “What’s going on?”
Welling didn’t take his eyes off the machine below, still clicking and whirring as the victims were spun around the floor.
“I’ve worked out some of the obvious patterns of the movements, the victims, and the dangerous elements. It is all in clockwork precision.”
“How does that help us?” she asked.
“I think—and I stress think—I know who will die next, and how. We may be able to use that knowledge to save him, if nothing else, until we can properly disarm and rescue all parties. Do we have a timeline on that, yet?”
“Enbrain is putting people together. I could go check.”
A particularly loud click on the floor took Minox’s attention. “I’m afraid we’re at a critical juncture. The question is, how can we interfere without triggering a punitive cascade like the one that killed the marshal and the woman?”
Dayne felt his blood raise. “We need to save whoever is next, no matter what. Who is it, and when?”
“Seconds now,” Inspector Welling said. He pointed to a young blond-haired man. “The axe on that arm—the one that’s winding back!”
Dayne saw it. “It’ll crash down, cracking open his skull.” He instinctively jumped up on the ledge.
&
nbsp; “Stand firm, Mister Heldrin,” Welling said. “On my mark, throw your shield at his head.”
“So I kill him first?” Dayne asked.
“Trust me,” Welling said. The axe kept creaking back, as the arm it was housed on moved into position and locked in front of the blond man bound to his chair. Welling tapped his fingers in a count.
“Inspector—” Dayne said, holding up his shield, ready to throw.
“Just—now!”
The axe released, and Dayne hurled the shield. Right before either made contact with the young man’s head, the shield spun off course, rocketing past the man’s face by inches. The axe crashed into the shield, imbedding itself into the metal. The crunching sound it made was sickening, but then the axe started to wind back again, now with the shield attached to it.
The young man’s head was unmolested.
“How?” Dayne asked.
Inspector Welling was holding out his gloved hand, which was glowing bright green. The glow subsided, and Welling dropped back, his breath heaving.
“Not quite as clean as I wanted,” Welling said. “I wanted to get the shield back up here, but I didn’t realize how much force that axe struck with. Amazing.”
“You all right?” Rainey asked. She handed him something from her belt pouch, which he took and ate without question. The exchange was automatic between them, an instinct they shared.
“Nothing a few minutes’ rest and something to eat wouldn’t cure,” Welling said.
Dayne raised an eyebrow. “A mage in the Constabulary?”
“Uncircled,” Welling said. “That’s part of why she’s here.” He indicated Miss Morad, who silently observed the goings-on.
“I understand,” Dayne said. He knew something about being second-guessed by petty bureaucrats. A reason why he was likely not to be promoted beyond his Candidacy. He looked down to the machine. “Still eleven alive down there.”
“If my estimates are correct,” Welling said, moving to one of gallery seats, “we’ve bought ourselves about an hour before the next death. But I haven’t figured out the entirety of the patterns. And there’s more going on that can be accounted for by spring tension or clockwork winding. It’s genius. Mad, ugly genius, but genius nonetheless.”
Dayne nodded. That’s exactly what Sholiar was. “I know about the man behind this. I’ve faced him before, in Lacanja.”
Welling looked to Rainey, and she nodded. “We will want to interview you properly on the matter,” she said. “But first—”
“Eleven souls to be saved,” Dayne said. Absolutely, that was the first priority. Dayne would not—could not—let another person die when he could prevent it. And certainly he wouldn’t let Sholiar further desecrate this august hall with his atrocity.
Dayne would give his own life before that would happen.
* * *
Corrie wasn’t prepared for the madhouse around the Parliament. Marshals and sheriffs had blockaded off the street in a three-block perimeter, seizing up traffic for half a mile in every direction. Judicious use of her whistle moved people out of her way, and more than once she guided her horse up onto the walkways. Jilly, clutching her waist, seemed bemused by Corrie’s methods and choice of words when people didn’t move away.
They let her through the initial blockade easily enough—just saying that an inspector had called for a charcoal sketcher seemed to be enough credibility to get through the first blockade.
As they got to the Parliament building itself, that changed.
“Oy, you can’t bring your horse up through here,” some marshal or sheriff said to her. “You got to leave this road clear for the Yellowshields.”
“Fine,” Corrie said, sliding off the horse. As Jilly dropped down, Corrie handed the reins to the guy. “I’ve got to escort her inside, so you can tie her off over there.”
“Listen, girl—”
“That’s ‘Listen, Sergeant,’” she said. “I don’t have rutting time for your sewage. The inspectors in there asked me to bring this charcoal artist inside, and they want her rutting now, so why are you holding up the matter? Tie off the blazing horse.”
She marched off before he could say anything else.
“Is that all true?” Jilly asked as they went up the steps.
“True enough,” Corrie said. “I mean, for all I know, Minox and Tricky got shut out once they got here. I mean, who rutting has authority here?”
“Tricky?”
“His partner—you don’t know. She’s—don’t tell her I said this, but she’s all right. But most folks at the stationhouse hate her. Including Nyla.”
“Nyla hates someone? I didn’t think she had it in her.”
“She’s got a rutting streak of anger like you’ve never seen. She had a gentleman caller the other day—”
The story was going to have to wait, as that chippy in the Tarian uniform came up to them.
“Hey, you—you’re the sister, right? And you’re the one she’s bringing?”
“Good eyes, kid,” Corrie said. “They have you running all over, huh?”
“It’s what I do. This way.” She led them through the main doors, passing by the marshals and other folks who were in the lobby.
“Saints, this really is the Parliament, ain’t it?” Jilly said.
“Someone was killed in here?” Corrie asked, but she already could tell it was worse than that. It wasn’t just the size of the crowd, but the caliber. Even Commissioner Enbrain was here, as well as a whole mess of swells in fine suits with silk ascots.
“Brace yourself,” the Tarian girl said.
They were led up to a gallery overlooking the Parliament floor, where Corrie saw the most horrible thing she’d ever seen in her life.
A clock-click later, she was emptying out her stomach all over the Tarian’s boots.
Jilly, on the other hand, wasn’t very affected.
“Well, this is quite a thing,” she said, going over to Minox.
“Jillian,” he said calmly. “You’re wearing a lot of eyelining.”
“Learned it from your mother.”
He nodded. “Can you capture sketches of all this?”
While Corrie sat down on the floor, Jilly looked over the horror. “It’s a lot. It’ll take some time.”
“Then I appreciate you getting to work.”
Jilly pulled out her sketch paper and charcoal pencils and got to work on it.
Tricky came over to Corrie. “You can sit out or go back if you need to. Don’t torture yourself with this horror.”
“I can handle it,” Corrie said. “I just—”
“No one should have to handle this,” Tricky said.
“You all are,” Corrie said, getting to her feet. Her rutting stomach still wanted to rebel, though. “Sorry about your boots, kid.”
“Not the worst thing I’ve been hit with,” the Tarian said.
Corrie looked up at Tricky. “Why ain’t, like, all the rutting sticks, sparks, and Yellowshields, and everyone else in here, getting these folks the blazes out of here? Why are folks just standing around out there?”
“Partly a pissing match over who should do what,” Tricky said. “Right now, though, this is on our lap, and Minox doesn’t think too many people should be in here until we figure out what’s what with this atrocity. Too many people could set something off—.”
“What do you rutting mean, figure it out?” Corrie pointed down to the floor, resisting her stomach’s urge to rebel again. “You confused about saving those tossers down there? That’s what we do!”
“I’d love to,” Minox said, not looking away. “But this is filled with tricks within tricks, including spiderwires to the doors. I think too many bodies in here could trigger another consequence.”
“We already lost one marshal,” the big Tarian said. Corrie hadn’t even re
alized this guy was here, though she didn’t know how she could have missed him. If she stood on her toes, she might come up to his chest. And, saints, did he have a chest. And arms that looked like most men’s legs.
“We’ve got all sorts of backup out there,” Tricky said. “Once we’re ready for them, we call them in.”
A young patrolman walked in, and in a moment he swore and threw up as well. He, at least, didn’t hit anyone.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right,” Tricky said. “Do you have a report or news or something?”
“Which one of you is Satrine Rainey?” he asked.
“That’s me,” Tricky said.
“You’re needed in the lower levels.”
That sounded blazing suspicious, and Tricky clearly thought so as well. “By whom?”
The patrolman looked troubled. “By a guy who said to tell you ‘Don’t cry louder than your six sisters.’”
That sounded like rutting nonsense, but it perked Tricky up. “Take me to him.”
Chapter 6
THE PATROLMAN LED Satrine down several rounds of spiral staircase, going so far down they must be underground. She didn’t know this officer, and instinct drove her to hold on to her handstick as they went down. There was no real reason to believe she was being led into a trap, or not to trust this patrolman, but being led to strange underground passages did nothing to calm her already frayed nerves.
But no random patrolman would have known proper code phrase to pull her away.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“I think part of it are offices for the marshals, but supposedly it’s tied to old catacombs and such. I’ve heard stories—”
“Right,” she said. Everyone had heard stories of the lost and forgotten tunnels beneath the city, and she was sure half of them were true. But this did mean there was a whole new set of security weak points that she hadn’t even considered.
The patrolman led her to an alcove where two men were waiting. One was dressed in a fancy suit, but had a burlap sack over his head and shackles on his wrists.
A Parliament of Bodies Page 8
