“That isn’t necessary,” Satrine said.
“Of course it is,” she said. “You’re our guest.” She then pointed an accusing finger at some of the other older folks. “You all were more civil to that woman last night who was trying to end his career. Whatever else you think of this one, she’s had his back and saved his life. Shame.”
The one in the captain’s uniform looked cowed at that, and on his nod, the rest all stopped their angry glares. Minox got to his feet, and led her to the couch of the sitting room.
“So what is it?” he asked her as he sat down.
“Something a bit too odd to be a coincidence,” she said. “My husband, when he was attacked, was found on the West Hetrick Docks, the same set where HTC Imports is.”
“Right, the business that you and Kellman are going to investigate,” he said. “So you think your husband’s attack was connected to the missing children?”
“Maybe,” Satrine said. “But something else jumped out at me. HTC Imports. Who owns it?”
“I have no idea,” Welling said. “I would hazard a guess that it’s three businessmen in partnership, and the letters represent their three family names. That’s not uncommon.”
“Right,” she said. “Three family names like Hunsen, Tenning, and Cole?”
That startled him.
“That is . . . I hesitate to use a word like ‘coincidence,’ and while that’s certainly intriguing, but I’m not entirely sure how it connects.”
“The atrocity in the Parliament,” Satrine said, letting the ideas flow in her head. She wasn’t even sure where she was going with it, but the connections were coming together. “What was it, ultimately? We thought it might have been some sort of message to Enbrain, including Niall in it. But that was just a piece of it, and maybe an intentional mislead. I think the whole thing was just a giant distraction.”
“A dozen dead and a massive breach of the security of the Parliament, a distraction?”
“And just about every constable, Yellowshield, marshal, and journalist focused on the Parliament. An enterprising thief could have emptied out a goldsmith house and carted its wares out without notice.”
“You think it was a goldsmith house robbery?”
“I don’t know what it was, but my point is that if you needed law enforcement distracted, you could hardly come up with a better way.”
The older woman came out with a tray of tea and small cakes. “Thank you, Mother,” Welling said, confirming Satrine’s theory.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” she said to Satrine. “He admires you so much.”
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, even more pointedly.
“It’s very kind,” Satrine said. “You have a lovely home, Missus Welling.”
“Amalia,” she said. After Welling glared at her for a moment, she said, “I’ll leave you.” She went back to the dining room.
“Presuming you’re right, then what do you think it all is? What’s the distraction from?”
“What, I don’t know,” Satrine said. “Let me break down what I think happened. We know that it has to have been organized with a plan, someone from the inside. If we take what Sholiar said at face value—”
“A dubious proposition.”
“He spoke with passion that felt—”
“Veracious?” Welling said.
“Exactly. Someone else executed his plan, and that annoyed him. If I’m right, that was spearheaded by Hunsen, Tenning, and Cole, who pretended to be victims and then were ‘allowed’ to go free once the eighteen chairs were filled.”
“Sholiar said he put them in the boiler room.”
“Exactly. He caught them and put them there; that wasn’t part of their original plan.”
“And they give false names to the Constabulary, slip their Tarian protection, and go about their business, the supposed business they organized the distraction for in the first place?”
“I think,” she said with an unconfident air. No, she was confident in what she was saying, she believed it was right. She was also aware how odd an idea it was. “I think there’s more to it all, but we don’t have the information to see it.”
“That’s very true.”
She swallowed hard, nervous. “My gut tells me it’s the docks. And . . . this might be even crazier.”
“I’ve entertained lunacy, and it’s been correct on occasion,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“Loren has been trying to tell me something.”
“Your husband speaks?”
“He makes noises. But it’s been the same noises lately. And I think he’s been saying ‘Saint Day shipments.’ I think . . . I think someone, maybe with or through HTC, is doing clandestine shipments, smuggling things in or out of Maradaine, usually using the quiet of a Saint Day as cover.”
He looked to the side for a moment. “Then perhaps . . . Thom!”
One of his relatives—a burly, handsome young man—came into the room. He wore a River Patrol uniform. Thomsen, a cousin, middle child of the nurse aunt, if Satrine remembered the various extended Welling clan correctly. “What’s on?”
“You said there were dead calms out on the ocean. Ships were late?”
“Oh, yeah. Winds picked up, though. All sorts of ships that were supposed to come in all last week arrived yesterday.”
Welling snapped his fingers in excitement. “And thus whatever was supposed to happen on the Saint Day—”
“Couldn’t happen until yesterday,” Satrine said.
He jumped to his feet. “I think no time should be wasted. It’s late, but you can get a Writ of Search from Mister Hilsom, just send a page—”
“Me?” Satrine said. “We should go . . .”
His face fell a little. “I’m off active cases, Inspector,” he said. “Fortunately, your partner, Inspector Kellman, is dozing at the stationhouse now. You’ll just have to—”
He was interrupted by a pounding on the door. Thomsen ran over to answer it.
“It seems everyone is knocking on your door tonight,” Satrine said. “I don’t care about any of that. Or Kellman. I want you at my back, no matter what.”
He smiled, ever so slightly—such a rare sight from him. “That matters, Inspector. But—”
“Sweet saints, no!” Thomsen screamed from the door. “What the rutting blazes?”
Welling ran over to the door, and Satrine instinctively followed, hand going to her crossbow.
Nyla was standing at the door, tears streaming down her ashen face.
Her neck, arms and body were encased in a mechanism of ticking gears and springs.
“Please help me,” she whispered. “Dear saints, please help me.”
* * *
“What happened?” Minox said, pushing past Thomsen. This was Sholiar’s work, surely. “How did—”
“Minox, you have to step back,” Nyla said, almost panicked. As he reached out to her, a bell started to ring, and the gears turned faster. “Step back!”
Inspector Rainey grabbed him and pulled him back. The ringing bell stopped. “Let’s do nothing rash,” she said.
Thomsen reached out and took Nyla’s hand. No bell, no speeding up of the gears. “I got you, Ny,” he said.
Everyone else came into the foyer, and screams and panic filled the room. Uncle Cole pushed to the front.
“What the saints and sinners?” he said. “Nyla, who did this to you?”
“I have . . .” she said, trying to force words through her sobs. “I have a message to deliver. To Minox. But you can’t come closer to me, Mine. You can’t.”
“What is this, Minox?” Uncle Cole demanded. “What happened to my daughter?”
“A madman named Sholiar,” Minox said. He charged his hand up with magical energy. The bell started again.
“Bring it down,” Rainey h
issed at him. He released it, and the bell stopped. “I don’t know how, but there’s some sort of magical sensor on this machine.”
“He was ready for me,” Minox said.
“Who? What is all this?” Cole was in his face.
“Sir,” Rainey said, interceding between Minox and Cole. “That doesn’t help.”
“This is our family,” Cole shouted. “You shouldn’t—”
“Stop shouting!” Nyla yelled out. “You have to listen to me.”
Corrie had pushed forward, taking Nyla’s other hand. “Let her rutting speak,” she said. “What’s the message?” Aunt Emma had come through as well, taking Thomsen’s place.
“Minox,” Nyla said, looking at him. “I have to say this exactly right. He made me memorize it, word for word.”
“Who?” Cole asked again.
“Joshea Brondar and Jerinne Fendall are currently guests at the Kittrick Hotel, at the corner of Holmes and Mudgett. They will not survive the night unless Minox Welling and Dayne Heldrin, and only them, come to the hotel to rescue their companions by nine bells.”
Minox went over to his coat to fetch his notebook. “Where is that, Holmes and Mudgett?”
“This is madness, what?” Timmothen said. “Let’s bring everyone we know in. All-Eyes, All-Hands.”
Nyla continued, raising her voice. “If any other member of the Constabulary or the Tarian Order, or any other law enforcement entity comes to the Kittrick, Joshea Brondar and Jerinne Fendall will die, as will . . .” she choked on the words for a minute, “as will Nyla Pyle.”
“Saints, this is stupid,” Edard said, coming over to Nyla with a hammer. “Let’s get this sewage off her.”
Corrie leaped up and tackled him to the floor.
“Are you a rutting idiot?” she shouted. “You know what this is? You roll this up, she dies!”
Rainey stepped forward. “What else, Nyla?” she asked. “He made you memorize that, what else?”
Nyla nodded, as best she could. “If any member of this household other than Minox Welling leaves this house, Nyla Pyle will die.”
“That’s rubbish,” said Timmothen, heading to the door. “I’m calling in all my squads. I’m going to—”
As soon as he opened the front door, the bell on Nyla’s collar started to ring, and gears moved faster again.
“Close the door, Tim!” Cole shouted. Timmothen did, and the ringing stopped.
“How—how is that possible?” Davis asked. He put on his spectacles and peered at the absurd machinery Nyla was wearing.
“There’s gotta be a way to get this off, Davey,” Edard said. “You can figure it out.”
Davis looked up at his brother, and shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. And I doubt any of you do.”
“Minox, magic it off,” Oren said. This brought the room silent, save for the ticking gears on Nyla, and a shocked gasp from Aunt Zura.
“I can’t,” Minox said, even though he was feeling his power bleed and burn through his hand. He was losing control again, out of his anger and helplessness. “The madman thought of that. He thought of everything.”
“We have to do something!” Aunt Emma said.
“Nyla,” Rainey said calmly again, locking her eyes onto her. “You’re sure those are the exact words? Exactly the conditions?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” Nyla said.
Minox stalked over to the table and absently picked up one of Mother’s cakes, eating it in one bite. It did nothing to satiate him, to stem the burning hunger from the bleeding magic. He ate another, still felt empty. Rainey came over to him, taking a paper bag out of her pocket. She took a pastry out of the bag and handed it to him. He chuckled as he took it—she had reached the point where being ready to support him like this was automatic. He was going to deeply miss her partnership in the days to come. He ate the pastry gladly—it was actually excellent—but noticed that she was focused on the bakery bag.
Everyone was arguing, crying, demanding that someone do something.
“He had a wife and a bakery,” Rainey whispered.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
Rainey grabbed his arm. “Minox,” Rainey said. “There’s a loophole, and I know what to do.”
Chapter 23
“A LOOPHOLE?” UNCLE Cole asked. “What the rutting blazes is she talking about?”
Minox ran over Nyla’s speech in his mind. “No member of the household but me can leave,” he said. “I can get someone, perhaps, who could—”
“No, no, you won’t have time,” she said. On everyone’s immediate reaction, she shouted down the room. “Minox has to play the game, save Joshea and Jerinne—”
“Who the rutting blazes is Jerinne?” Oren asked.
“She’s the Tarian girl!” Jace said.
“But I could—” Minox started.
“Holmes and Mudgett are on the north side of the city,” Rainey said. “In Fenton. You’ll barely have time to get Dayne and get there by nine bells.”
“You have to,” Nyla whimpered. “Please.”
“So what’s this rutting loophole?” Corrie asked.
“No member of the household can leave,” she said, going to the door. “That means I can.”
She opened the door. The bells didn’t start this time.
Minox came over to her. “But what can you do? I have to go, and go alone—”
She held up the bag the pastry came in, lowering her voice a bit. “This might be crazy, or a sign from the saints, but . . . I think I know where to find that trapmaster who helped at the Parliament.”
He saw it in her eyes. Whatever it was, whatever leap of intuition she had made, it made perfect sense to her. He told her the only thing she needed to hear.
“I trust you.”
Corrie came over, her place by Nyla taken over by Mother. “What’s the rutting plan?”
“Plan is, we go,” Minox said. “I’ll play Sholiar’s twisted game.”
“And I’m going for someone who can get Nyla out of that,” Rainey said. “I will be back as soon as I can.”
Corrie nodded. “Then I got one rutting job. Keep them all from doing something stupid.”
“I don’t envy you,” Rainey said, and she went out the door.
“Stay safe,” Corrie told Minox.
“Always,” he said, and followed Rainey. “Wait!” he called after her. “Where are you going?”
“Junk Avenue, over in Seleth,” she said. “You have to hurry.”
“We both do,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you have a pair of horses in that barn,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Not horses. But about as fast.”
* * *
Satrine needed a bit of practice to get the hang of Welling’s crazy two-wheeled cartless pedalcart, but once she got herself into a rhythm, she was flying down the streets of Keller Cove, across the creek bridge and into North Seleth. It wasn’t until she turned onto Junk Avenue that she realized she had no idea how she was supposed to stop the thing. She elected to jump off it—aggravating her bad leg and irritating her oddly booted foot—and let the pedalcart just sail riderless into the alley wall.
It made a frightful noise when it crashed, but didn’t appear to be obviously damaged.
“Shut it!” someone yelled from across the street.
North Seleth was a neighborhood filled with run-down buildings, shops with broken windows and doors that looked like they were about to fall off their frames. But the Junk Avenue Bakery was a solid brick building, everything neat and tidy. It also had a sign reading “CLOSED” and looked dark inside. But there were lamps burning in the upstairs window.
Satrine pounded on the door. “Constabulary! Open up!”
She heard some scrambling upstairs, and a window opened up. A woman
stuck her head out.
“We’re closed! Come back in the morning!”
“Constabulary,” Satrine yelled up. “Grand Inspection Unit.”
“What the blazes does that mean?”
“It means—are you the proprietor of this bakery?”
“I am,” the woman said. “What of it?”
“And are you married?”
“I am, though I don’t see what business it is of yours.” A cry pierced the air. “You’ve woken the baby.”
“I apologize,” Satrine said. This whole thing might just be a complete waste of time, a lark she went on because of a pastry wrapper. “But I need to speak—”
A man stuck his head out. “You need to stop shouting in the street.”
Even in the dim of the evening, she recognized the face and voice.
“Come down and I’ll stop, sir,” she said.
“You’ll—” He peered at her for a moment. “Saints above, how did—stupid question. What are you—I don’t even want to know.” He went back inside.
“I need your help!” Satrine called out.
Through the bakery window, Satrine saw the woman from upstairs storm over with a wailing toddler in one hand and a lit lamp in the other. She threw open the latch and the door flew open. She immediately laid into Satrine.
“Do you have a writ of some sort? A summons or a search? Or are you just here to harass perfectly decent folk on the west side? Are you even from here?”
“No, ma’am,” Satrine said. “I’m from the Grand Inspection Unit, and we have a—”
“You have what? We already know you don’t have a writ, so you can’t question us or arrest us. So what is your problem?”
“I need your husband’s—” Satrine tried to say over the child’s screams.
“Pick your next word very carefully, miss.”
“Help.”
A suspicious eyebrow went up. “Help with what?”
A Parliament of Bodies Page 30
