A Parliament of Bodies

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  She was on her feet at the same time as Hatchets, and he just looked annoyed. Satrine was already bruised and winded, a gash on her arm that she only now noticed, one leg aching and the other one with a bare foot.

  He came at her with arms like windmills, hatchets spinning, screaming like he was on fire. It would be bad business for Satrine, but he brought the hatchets down in a predictable rhythm that was easy to block. He was swinging too wide, so Face Scar and Short Hair were stuck behind him. Satrine knocked his hatchet blows away as she stumbled back. Quickly he caught on to what she was doing, and tried to switch up his method. He did a fancy spin that looked impressive, but left his back unguarded. She slammed her handstick into his spine, grabbed his shoulder and hurled him into the wall. Both his hatchets got stuck in the wall.

  She wasted no more time getting to the stairs, even though she she could only hobble on her uneven feet.

  “Someone get that lousy stick!” she heard screamed from behind. As she tried to catch up to Yetter, she could hear plenty of bruisers giving chase, and even more brawling below her.

  * * *

  Olivant stood dumbstruck for a long while, staring at Minox’s hand. The rest of the room was silent, save for Nyla’s quiet sobs. Minox understood that. She had known that something had happened to his hand, but she had no idea the extent of it. His reveal was surely something of a shock.

  Eventually Kendra Morad broke the silence. “Mister Olivant, I’m waiting for you.”

  “I just—” was all the man could say, though he started to move from behind the table, slowly drifting toward Minox as if pulled by a river current. Minox stayed with his hand outstretched, hoping that it would spur the man to a definitive response.

  “If there isn’t an answer, or an action, then I am closing the file on this entire charade,” Captain Cinellan said. “And you will have to file petitions with the commissioner and the entire Table of Commandants, Miss Morad. I will not care—”

  “Everyone should leave this room,” Olivant said quietly.

  “Don’t you dare tell me my job or my authority, Captain,” Miss Morad said.

  “Minox?” Nyla said, her voice quavering, ignoring the rising argument between the captain and Miss Morad. “How is that—is it even flesh?”

  “I don’t know,” Minox told her.

  “Is it even human?”

  “I really think everyone—” Olivant said again.

  “No one is going to—” Protector Hilsom was putting himself between Cinellan and Morad.

  “Saints almighty!” Olivant shouted. “Please! Everyone leave except myself and Inspector Welling.”

  “I don’t think I can agree to that,” Mister Cheever said.

  “Please,” Olivant said, his voice quieter, though he clearly was anything but calm. “This is—I need to—I need some quiet and sense before I can address this.”

  Miss Morad stepped over. “Mister Olivant, I will confess that I don’t even remotely understand what I’m seeing here or what it means. But it’s clearly a dangerous secret that Inspector Welling kept to himself.”

  “Not true,” Cinellan said. “Welling showed it to me when this happened. And Inspector Rainey is fully aware.”

  “But you don’t understand what . . . this is, any more than I do. Or Inspector Welling!”

  “I need a moment with the inspector,” Olivant said. “I really must . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Minox said. “Everyone else can go.”

  “I would prefer not to leave you,” Cheever said. “I’m not afraid of . . . whatever it is Mister Olivant is afraid of.”

  Nyla moved over to Minox, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing. “I’ll stay as well, if you need.”

  “It’s not necessary. I would like the best answer from Mister Olivant he can give. If that means leaving me alone with him, that’s fine. Same to you, Mister Cheever.”

  “Let’s leave them,” Cinellan said, ushering Hilsom and the clerks out. “But we’ll be watching from the next room.”

  “Fine,” Olivant said. They all left—Nyla giving one last affectionate touch to Minox’s arm—and Olivant stared hard at the hand. Miss Morad lingered for a moment, watching Olivant, her face unreadable. Even after they were alone in the room, Olivant didn’t speak for some time.

  “So what do you think, Mister Olivant?”

  “I’m out of my element, here,” he said. “Did Professor Alimen see this?”

  “He did not explicitly,” Minox said. “And I assume he did not mention it to you.”

  “He told me . . .” Olivant trailed off. “That there were chaotic and impossible swirls of magic around you. Like you were out of control. He assumed that was because of your untrained status, but clearly . . . more is at play here.”

  “What is it?”

  “This happened to you recently?” Olivant asked. “You had a normal, human hand months ago?”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Please, Mister Welling, be calm.” Olivant peered hard at his hand. “Tell me how this happened.”

  “Do you remember the murders of the Firewings and the fellow from Light and Stone a few months back? You represented Jaelia Tomar.”

  “Yes. And you lost control of your magic during the interview.”

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “You don’t even know what you—” Olivant looked down at Minox’s hand again and stepped back. “It doesn’t matter. Continue.”

  “The murderer also targeted me. He captured me and started his killing ritual before he was thwarted.”

  “I recall reading about that.”

  Minox wasn’t entirely sure if he should reveal these details, but if he was going to learn anything, he needed to be as open as possible. “Part of his ritual involved using mysterious spikes of an unidentified metal, which sapped magical energy.”

  “Like dalmatium?” Minox must have made a confused face, because Olivant added, “It’s the metal in mage shackles.”

  “No, very different from mage shackles,” Minox said. “I compared them, and we also brought a spike to a Major Dresser, who was unable to identify it.”

  Olivant made a face that made it hard to tell if he was familiar with Dresser, or what his opinion of him was. “And where are these spikes now?”

  “I don’t know,” Minox said. The full truth was that they were somehow stolen from evidence, along with any documentation about them.

  “And you were exposed to it?”

  “It was driven into this arm, right at the wrist.”

  “Dear saints,” Olivant said.

  “It did not heal properly, causing discomfort and occasional disruption to my magical ability, but not until I became sick did it change into this.”

  “And the sickness?”

  “Was the result of exposure to a Tsouljan pollen that becomes a poison when magically activated.”

  “This is absurdly complicated, to the point of sounding fanciful.”

  “I am telling you the truth, sir!” Minox’s anger hit him sudden and strong, flexing his hand instinctively.

  “Calm down!” Olivant shouted. He had turned suddenly pale, and then gingerly stepped closer. “You probably don’t even see the way the numina swirls around and within this thing.”

  “Numina?” Minox had heard that word in passing before.

  “Magical energy,” Olivant said. “Really, you are . . . it’s actually somewhat remarkable. Perhaps your magical senses aren’t very keen, and perhaps you just don’t have the training. But to me it’s rather clear. And the numina around it gets stronger when you are agitated.”

  “Magic is how I move my hand,” Minox said, flexing the fingers.

  “Saint Benton, that’s troubling,” Olivant said. “You have been keeping it still during this proceeding, haven’t you?”


  “I’ve now practiced enough that it’s largely natural and instinctive.”

  “Son,” Olivant said quietly. “I’m trying to respect that you largely did not have the opportunity to get the education you desperately need about this, but . . .” He muttered to himself, pacing away. “That is our mandate to Lord Preston, isn’t it? To teach? Saints and sinners, Quentin, you are not built for this.”

  “Mister Olivant?”

  “How’s your appetite, since this happened?”

  “Ravenous most of the time,” Minox said. “But that’s no change.”

  Olivant shook his head and sat down. “Let me try to explain the gravity of what I see, looking at your hand. The forces you have contained in there are . . . beyond my capacity to describe. The amount of numinic flow you generated flexing your fingers could flatten this building. I should . . .”

  “I don’t think I have a greater amount of magical power, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “You don’t think—” Olivant stammered. “You don’t even comprehend the sort of—I’m out of my depth. This is not—”

  “Mister Olivant, please,” Minox said. “I need guidance.”

  “I’m not qualified for this,” Olivant said. “I’m not a magical theorist, Inspector. I barely made passing marks in those classes, and that was thirty years ago. I’m a paltry mage who also studied law so I could be useful to my fellows.”

  “Then find me someone who can help! Bring in experts from the university!”

  “Help? I will definitely be reaching out to the academic community, but I imagine that anyone I speak to would certainly say the same thing that I am thinking. You should be locked up with as many mage shackles as we can find, and even then I fear it wouldn’t be enough. It’s not just that you’re untrained and unskilled in your magic, sir.” Olivant pointed at the hand, as if he was afraid to come in contact with it. “What you’ve become, whatever that is. . . . I fear it could command enough magical power to destroy this entire city.”

  “Surely—”

  “You ask if I think you’re fit to serve as a constable? That’s irrelevant minutia to me. I think you’re a menace beyond the scope of my comprehension. I will likely spend the rest of my nights lying awake terrified, praying you don’t lose control of the unholy power you use to wiggle your fingers.”

  * * *

  The whistle call shot through the air, and Corrie charged her horse like the sinners were chasing her. After all this sewage with Minox and the Gearbox Killer, she was more than ready to crack some skulls, especially ganger wastes in Aventil. Jace had told her enough stories about the Kickers and their main rivals, the Toothless Dogs, to make her hate every last one of these bastards. The fact they were holding some kid hostage made them even worse.

  As she pounded toward the tenement, she realized everyone at the stationhouse had Tricky all wrong. Especially Nyla. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would walk into a gang flop and then blow her whistle for backup. That took steel, for damn sure.

  Almost no one else. Minox would. And Pop would have. Pop would always stay out there beyond his shift, no matter how much Mom would cry and fuss over it. And it wasn’t for extra crowns. He’d always say, “There’s always one more ride you can take before you go home.”

  Then he had taken one more ride, and it was his last.

  Corrie charged into the intersection outside of the tenement, and it already was a war zone. Arrows were raining down from the upper windows, and Jace and Saitle were pinned under their salt bread cart. Benvin and the rest of his people were under fire half a block away. Which meant Tricky was alone in there.

  Arrows struck her horse, and Corrie almost went flying as it collapsed from under her. She managed to roll with the fall, banging her arm up as she went down. More arrows came at her—saints and bastards, they were armed like a fortress up there—and she was in the open. People were screaming and scurrying in all directions, and the panic in the street was holding up the rest of her squad.

  She drew out her crossbow, looking up to those top floor windows. Arrows were raining down on her, but she might still get one shot off before they took her down.

  Sorry, Mama.

  Then a shadow passed over her, and those arrows became a series of metallic drumbeats.

  Nothing had hit her.

  Instead she was pulled to her feet. That Tarian girl was in front her, shield high. “Can you run?”

  Corrie didn’t even realize what had happened. “Blazes, yes,” she said.

  “Then stay with me.” Jerinne drew out her sword and tore forward to the tenement, keeping her shield overhead. The storm of arrows didn’t touch her, didn’t slow her down as they pummeled her shield. Corrie stayed right with her—under that shield was the only safe spot on the street. They got to the front of the tenement, and Corrie and Jerinne pressed flat against the brick wall.

  “At least nine shooters, third and fourth floors,” Jerinne said.

  “And Tricky’s on her own in there.”

  “Probably on the fourth floor. The lieutenant and his folks aren’t going to make it in until we stop that barrage of arrows,” Jerinne said. She noted Jace and Saitle, behind their cart fifty feet away. “They might make a dash if I cover them.”

  “That’s still only four of us,” Corrie said.

  “They won’t stand a chance,” Jerinne sent back with a wink. Before Corrie could say anything else, the girl whistled to Jace and Saitle, dashing out to them. More arrows came at her, which she blocked. While Jerinne brought the boys over, Corrie stepped out a bit and took a shot at one of the archers. She heard someone cry out as she pressed back up against the wall, now with Jace next to her.

  “Blazes of a first day, eh, sis?”

  Rutting idiot was grinning.

  “When we get in, we’ve got to go for the stairs,” Corrie said, reloading her crossbow. “That lobby is probably full of Kickers, and whoever can get through, pound your boots up to the top.”

  Jerinne raised her sword. “I’ll make a path for you.” She charged the door.

  “Saint Ilmer, what a woman,” Jace said, going after her.

  Corrie followed right behind. No way was she going to let her little brother show her up.

  Jerinne was tearing a swath through the dozen or so Kickers in the lobby—a brutal dance with her sword, and those gang rats had no clue what their steps were. They came at her with knives and tetchbats and other improvised weapons, and none of them could touch her, while she clobbered them with the flat of her blade. Jace was in a tussle with one Kicker—holding his own, but not making any headway.

  Two Kickers were standing firm at the bottom of the stairs, sporting cudgels and knucklestuffers. Both bruisers who towered over Corrie by a good head and a half.

  “Rutting saints,” Corrie muttered, taking a shot at the one on the left. The bolt stuck in his thick muscled arm, and he did little more than grunt in annoyance.

  Jerinne burst out of her scrum and slammed into one of them with her shield, knocking him into his buddy. She looked to Corrie.

  “Go!”

  Corrie sprinted up the stairs. “Tricky!” she shouted as she reached the second floor. She cocked a new bolt into the crossbow and took aim down the hallway. Clear. She went halfway up the stairs to the next floor when she nearly collided into the kid.

  “Oh saints and sinners!” the kid shouted.

  “Hey, hey,” Corrie said, looking him over. He seemed dirty and too skinny, but all right. “Is there a stick up there with Waishen hair?”

  “She said to run!” the kid said. “But—” This was the kid they came to rescue. Corrie should bring him down the stairs, get him out. That was the job.

  But that meant Tricky was up there alone.

  “Go,” Corrie said. “Find a constable. Or the girl with a shield.”

 
The kid ran, and Corrie went up to the third floor. Blood was smeared on the floor here, leading to the hallway. Corrie went in, crossbow raised. A few feet in front of her, a fat man in his skivs was limping ahead, hatchet in his hand. Just beyond him, Tricky was grappling with some short-haired skirt. It wasn’t much of a grapple—Tricky had the girl in a headlock and was clobbering her. But that had her full attention; she didn’t see the fat man with the hatchet coming.

  Tricky dropped the slan to the ground, and the fat man was moving in.

  “Stand and be held!” Corrie shouted. “You are bound by law!”

  He turned, like he was about to come at her, but he saw the crossbow aimed for his heart. “You come in to my house, rotten sticks, and think you can—”

  “She said stand and be held,” Tricky said. Looking at Corrie she added, “Took you long enough.”

  “Streets are a mess,” Corrie said, tossing her irons over to Tricky. “This guy the boss?”

  “Musky,” she said. “Drop the hatchet, because she doesn’t miss.”

  He let it fall to the floor. Tricky limped over—one of her feet was with just the stocking—and ironed him up.

  Corrie leaned in closer while taking the boss by the irons. “We’ve got archers on this floor, peppering the rutting streets. Keeping the rest of our boys from getting in here. We need to take them out and get back to the lobby.”

  “Hey, archers!” Tricky shouted. “We got your boss in irons, so lay them down and come out quiet. We’ve got plenty of search and arrest writs, so don’t give us an excuse.”

  A couple doors opened, and some Kickers stuck their heads out.

  “Hands on heads,” Corrie said, aiming her crossbow at them. “And march to the stairs nice and blazing civil.”

  They did as they were told, and Corrie only hoped the situation in the lobby was under control. If it was still a fight, bringing these guys down only made it harder. She let them lead, walking behind them with her crossbow trained on their backs. Tricky took Musky behind her.