An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “They haven’t talked to us,” Rainey said. “Probably because we haven’t asked the right questions.”

  “Which are?” Mirrell asked.

  “For one, how do we know the dead man is Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz?” Rainey remembered the Fuergan name perfectly. “Does he have his Papers of Transit on him or something?”

  Mirrell smirked. “Blazes, do any of these tyzos have their papers on them, I wonder.”

  Rainey continued, “And why was he even here?”

  The gardening Tsouljan, still close to them, made a small noise. When Rainey looked at him, his attention appeared to be fully on his work.

  Mirrell’s face turned smug. “That I can tell you. One of the few things we got out of Burekuti over there. He had an appointment to meet someone else here.”

  “Near as we understood,” Kellman said, gesturing at the various huts, “that happens a lot in these things. People meet each other here because it’s neutral ground. Supposed to be safer, I suppose.”

  “Supposed to,” Mirrell said. “So Heejib shows up for his meeting . . .”

  “Hieljam,” Rainey corrected.

  “He shows up,” Mirrell continued unabated, “and goes in the hut at the time he had scheduled. Two bells in the afternoon. An hour later Berubuti or whoever goes to clean up, and finds the guy dead.”

  Minox took this in. “Who was he meeting? And did they even come?”

  Mirrell scowled and looked to Cinellan. “Cap, what’s going on? Do we have this, or are you giving it to Jinx and Tricky?”

  “It’s theirs,” Cinellan said. Mirrell and Kellman both looked like they wanted to shout or storm off, and Mirrell shoved his scratch pad into his pocket. “But I need you two on point here as well. There’s a lot of questions to ask, a lot of . . .” He gestured at the other Tsouljans working in the gardens. “People. The situation needs delicate handling. I need all my best people on it.”

  “Fine,” Mirrell said. “Bukupi didn’t know who he was meeting or if they came.” Off a glare from the captain he added, “But Derrick and I will ask some more questions. Not that anyone here speaks much Trade.”

  “His is perfect,” Rainey said, pointing to the young gardener. “You, boy, what’s your name?”

  “Nuf Rup-Sed,” the boy said with a bow.

  “Go with these officers, Nuf,” Rainey said. “They’re going to interview other people in the enclave, and you will translate to the best of your ability.”

  “That is not my place,” Nuf Rup-Sed said. He pointed to his hair, as if that was all the answer needed. “Perhaps Bur Rek-Uti, or one of the other Rek would be more suitable.”

  “No, no,” Mirrell said. “Hearing you talk, Nuffy, you are the man for the job. Come on.”

  The boy made a face as if he were in physical pain, but he went with them.

  Minox looked around the compound again, noting the different Tsouljans with their different dyed hair colors. Reds were at the thresholds, greens were cleaning and working the grounds. Three yellows were in discussion with each other, and a single blue-haired woman sat in quiet solitude next to one of the pools. “A class system of some sort,” he said idly.

  Rainey nodded. “And we just made a green-haired one do a yellow-haired’s job, I think, which is probably against custom.”

  Minox bristled at that. It was against custom for him, an Uncircled mage, to be serving in the Constabulary. Even if he could join a Circle at this point, no Circle would want to cooperate with Constabulary. The fact that he never chose to be a mage would be irrelevant.

  “There is more to the scene, Welling,” the captain said, urging them along. “Come take a look.”

  They were led over to the hut in question, where Leppin was standing at the door. “How’d I beat you two here?”

  “We had a thing with a bear,” Rainey said. “That was our last killer.”

  “Bear. Makes sense,” Leppin said, chuckling ruefully. “Well, this one is just as fun, I think.”

  He pushed open the door and let them in.

  The interior of the hut was lit with sickly sweet–smelling candles in sconces built into the walls. A low table—not even knee high—dominated the room, and not only because of the dead body on it. There was almost no space to walk around it.

  The dead man was definitely Fuergan, with the deep olive skin and long mustache. His ears were richly adorned with interlocking chains of bejeweled gold. He was wearing a long, woven vest that went down to his knees, and tight pants lined with leather, not dissimilar to the kind Constabulary horsepatrol wore. His shirt had been torn open, and a knife was plunged to the hilt into his chest.

  Two things drew Minox’s gaze, beyond the body. First were the symbols written on the dead man’s arm, as well as the table itself, and on the walls. Twelve symbols, in a box of four across and three down. Second was a cup of some half-drunk liquid.

  “We can rule out a robbery,” Rainey said. “A thief would have taken those earrings.”

  “Indeed,” Minox said. “There’s something almost . . . respectful about this murder.”

  “Clarify that,” Rainey said. She then snapped her fingers. “I see it. Only one blow. No multiple stab wounds.”

  Minox nodded, crouching down to get a closer look at the symbols. “Whoever did this was not acting out of anger. Or, as you noted, theft or despair.”

  “So a cold, calculated murder,” Rainey said. She glanced around the hut. “That door is the only way in, right?”

  “Not exactly,” Leppin said. He pointed to the table. “That actually opens, leading to the basements below here.”

  “Basements?” Minox asked. “So someone could have been down there and snuck up here.”

  “But not leave that way,” Leppin said. “There’s no way to open the trapdoor table with his body here.” He pointed to the pools of blood. “At least, not without making a smeared mess of that.”

  “I’ll trust your expertise,” Minox said. “What about the symbols?”

  “It’s eastern writing,” Rainey said. “But . . . it doesn’t look Tsouljan.”

  “You sure?” Leppin asked.

  She shook her head. “I could be wrong, but it doesn’t look quite the same as the signs outside. Something else from that part of the world?” She suddenly seemed distracted, like she was lost in a memory for a moment. “Lyranan. I think it’s Lyranan.”

  “Sounds like you know better than most,” Leppin said.

  “Stranger and stranger, indeed,” Minox said. He picked up the cup and sniffed at it. Sweetly floral. There were even the same purple flowers from the trees outside floating in it. “Take this back with you, Leppin, and test it thoroughly.”

  “You’re thinking poison.” It wasn’t a question, as Rainey nodded and followed the train of thought. “Incapacitate him, move him onto the table, and then finish with the knife.”

  Minox nodded in agreement. He looked at the knife again, noting something wrong about the hilt. “Leppin, could you remove the knife, please?”

  “I’d really prefer to do that in my examinarium.”

  “I’m certain you would, but it might be crucial. Please?”

  Moving like a cat, Leppin climbed up on the table and over the body. He gently wrapped one gloved hand around the hilt, while placing the other on the body’s chest, and slowly slid the knife out.

  The knife was curved, with the blade split into two parts. Minox had never seen anything like it. “Is that a Tsouljan knife of some sort?”

  “Nah,” Leppin said, eyeing it with one of the lenses on his cap. “Oh, it’s a strange beauty, though. But not Tsouljan. If I were to guess, this here is an Imach blade.”

  Rainey started to laugh.

  “Are you all right, Inspector?” Minox asked. He had noticed she occasionally had these fits of humor in serious moments, especially over a dea
d body. Reminding her of her rank usually brought her back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, though she still laughed. “It’s just . . . the whole thing is . . .” She took a deep breath, and composed herself. “My life is ridiculous. We were fighting a bear earlier today.”

  “I find your sense of humor quite perplexing.”

  “As do I.”

  Satrine wasn’t sure what had come over her. The entire situation was dire. The Fuergans may well decide to make an incident of this murder—at least the Hieljam family likely would. She shuddered to think what it could lead to.

  Blazes, her whole initiation into Druth Intelligence was to cover up the death of a Waish quia, and that had been an accident.

  This was murder, and the Tsouljans made sure the Constabulary were involved before anyone else was. She imagined that the Sheriffs of the Archduchy, King’s Marshals, and Druth Intelligence were all going to drop on their heads any moment now. Especially since it didn’t just involve the Fuergan Lavark. The Tsouljans were somehow involved, and possibly Lyranans and Imachs as well.

  Something about the Lyranan letters—if it was Lyranan, though she was near certain it was—threw her off balance, and she couldn’t place why. Something familiar, on the edge of her memory.

  Or maybe just the candles were making her head swim.

  “I’ll have the blade properly identified,” Leppin said. “I’m guessing you want my sketchboy to get the symbols.”

  “Indeed,” Welling said. He glanced around one more time. “I see no reason why you can’t take the body to the examinarium at this juncture as well.”

  “Good,” Leppin said.

  Welling went to the dome’s doorway. “This murder appears intentionally overcomplicated.”

  Satrine nodded as they went out. “Fuergan victim in a Tsouljan enclave with an Imach weapon and Lyranan writing. My guess is someone wanted to force us to cast a wide net.”

  “Hide in plain sight amongst many possible suspects. And given that we don’t have any specific suspects at this juncture.”

  “Save the residents of this enclave, who should all be interviewed.”

  “Which Inspectors Mirrell and Kellman will be handling. I’ll want to review their notes once they’ve completed it, but I’m confident in their ability to ask the proper preliminary questions. In the meantime, we should probably focus our interviews on those closest to the victim.”

  “So we’re going to see the Hieljam family, while Mirrell and Kellman stay here. They’ll be thrilled.”

  “I really couldn’t care about their happiness, as long as they do the work.”

  They emerged back out into the open-air garden. Satrine looked around, noting several of the Tsouljan residents were still going about their business. They all stayed clear of the crime scene hut, but otherwise appeared to be acting as if nothing had changed. Satrine realized that couldn’t continue.

  “I’m having a terrible thought,” Satrine said. “We’re going to have to put this whole place under lockdown.”

  “I concur, regrettably.”

  The captain was talking to a yellow-haired Tsouljan—possibly the same Bur Rek-Uti as before. Satrine went over to them both.

  “Pardon me, Captain,” she said, giving a slight bow of her head to the Tsouljan, which he returned. “We’ve seen the situation, and for the foreseeable future, we’re going to have to secure this facility and all its residents.”

  “Secure?” the Tsouljan asked haltingly. “Meaning?”

  “My apologies, sir,” she said. “I’m Inspector Rainey. My partner, Inspector Welling, and I will be handling the investigation of this murder.”

  “No, sir,” the Tsouljan said, though Satrine couldn’t quite tell if he was offended. “Bur Rek-Uti.”

  “Mister Uti—”

  “Rek-Uti!”

  “Mister Rek-Uti . . .” She paused, awaiting additional correction, but received none. “Right now, we have to treat you and everyone else who is in this enclave . . .”

  “Rev Tak Mel,” he told her.

  “Yes. We have to treat everyone here as a suspect in the murder until we’ve gathered more information.”

  Rek-Uti nodded, and spoke again in halting Trade. “You do not know who we are. You must seek answers. You must do as you are guided.”

  “That means everyone in here has to stay in here,” the captain said. “And I can’t tell you right now how long that will be.”

  “Duration will be endured.” There was something about Rek-Uti’s tone that Satrine couldn’t quite figure out; it gave her no read on his emotions. He seemed to be agreeing with them, indicating he understood, but at the same time there was a sense that he was barely tolerating their presence.

  The captain continued. “I’m going to put my patrolmen at the entrances to enforce that, sir, while my people continue their investigation.”

  “As you must. Now I as I must.” He started to wander off.

  “One more thing,” Satrine said. “No one other than Constabulary can enter that hut.”

  “As it must be,” Rek-Uti said. He wandered off.

  Welling came over to Satrine and the captain, but his attention was fixed elsewhere as he approached.

  “Something wrong, Welling?” Satrine asked.

  “That woman,” he said, pointing to a blue-haired Tsouljan standing in one of the ponds. She was staring at Welling with fiery intensity. “She’s . . . disturbing.”

  “Leave it,” Satrine said. “She’s a problem for Kellman and Mirrell. We should get over to the Hieljam household before much longer.”

  The Tsouljan woman stepped out of the pool and crossed over to them, so quickly that Satrine thought she was about to attack. Satrine went for her handstick, but the woman stopped short, staring at Welling in something resembling disbelief.

  “Do you have something to say, miss?” Welling asked. For his part he looked stricken, even pale.

  Her head turned to one side, and then she started to speak in Tsouljan, a rapidly paced rant that grew in volume and intensity, until she was all but shouting at Welling. The she held up a hand as if to block him from replying, and stalked off to one of the huts.

  “What was that?” Satrine asked him. “I know most people don’t like you, Welling, but even that . . .”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. He stared off at the hut for a moment, and then broke out of his reverie. “You’re right. We need to speak to the victim’s family. Captain, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be off.”

  Welling had composed himself for the most part, but Satrine noticed that his left hand was twitching rather significantly. Even stranger, Welling himself didn’t seem to notice it.

  Chapter 4

  WELLING CLAIMED SOME FAMILIARITY with the Little East, and took point as he led them up Peston through the Kieran blocks—“Dexilari” on paper, “Pirie City” in practice. They had left their horses with the patrolmen and went on foot.

  “So are you familiar with the Hieljam family?” Satrine asked.

  “Not specifically,” Welling said. “But I do have some contacts here which should help us in locating them.”

  He brought them to a shop on the far north side of the Little East, the Fuergan enclave called “Srenijam” by the inhabitants and “Feektown” by much of the rest of the city. They went through an open doorway, blocked only by a series of thin ropes hanging like a curtain, where they were assaulted by hazy, sweet-smelling air.

  “Your tobacco shop, Welling?” Satrine asked when they entered.

  “I’m a regular and well-regarded customer,” he said as they approached the counter. “Ushetit sam,” he said to the proprietor.

  “Ushetit sam,” the man replied. “I didn’t expect you today, Inspector. You’ve gone through your pouch quicker than usual.”

  “Today I’m here on my business, sadly,
” Welling said. “My partner, Inspector Rainey.”

  “Ushetai sam,” the man said to her. “I am not facing trouble, Inspector? There are no crimes here.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Welling said. “There’s been—”

  Satrine coughed hard to interrupt Welling. There was no need to give this shop proprietor too much information.

  Welling looked at her askance.

  “My apologies,” Satrine said. “We’re looking for the household of the Hieljams. Do you know where that is?”

  “Hieljam?” the proprietor asked, uncomfortably adjusting his short vest. “Why would you be looking for them?”

  “A private matter,” Satrine said before Welling could respond. “Concerning their family.”

  “Of course, of course,” the proprietor said. “The address of their home will be one crown three.”

  “Pardon?” Welling asked. “That’s outrageous, sir. You cannot expect us to—”

  Satrine cut Welling off before he continued. “You cannot expect us to pay anything more than four ticks for that.” She knew Welling was offended on principle, that Constabulary shouldn’t have to pay for basic information. But at the same time she wondered how much Welling really understood about Fuergan culture, or if he just liked to smoke their tobacco.

  “Let us say I take your offer of four ticks,” the proprietor said. “Then it will be known how cheaply my word is for sale.”

  “Cheaply?” Satrine let just a little bit of her South Maradaine accent come in. “You can’t be serious. I could get the address out of five blokes in here for two ticks. I’d be doing you a favor.”

  “Those folk would have nothing to lose. I run a business. Let us say that giving the address upsets the Hieljams, and it comes back to me.”

  “It wouldn’t,” Welling said.

  “Wouldn’t upset them or wouldn’t come back to me?”

  “Either.”

  “You can’t guarantee that. But if I could say I was paid a crown, then they would understand why I did it.”

  He had gone down now. Satrine took that. “So it’s less about the money in and of itself, but protecting your reputation as a respectful man of the community.”