An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “And you haven’t experienced the same aftereffects of the rijetzh?”

  “Not to the degree you report.” Joshea shook his head. “I’m sorry, continue.”

  “Like I said, like I was putting my own hands on it, but as if I had extended them. Larger and stronger than my hands could be.”

  Joshea held up his hands, like he was about to attempt it. “Probably here isn’t the best place to try that.”

  “No.”

  Joshea looked out the back window to the barn. “It’s a shame your cousin has already laid claim out there. That would be a good place to practice.”

  Minox’s cousin Evoy, one of the few in the family not to be in city service, used to report news for the South Maradaine Gazette. He was good, with a keener eye for cracking the truth than Minox ever had. He would have made a great inspector, if that had been his path.

  Evoy hadn’t worked for the Gazette in over a year, and hadn’t stepped foot in the house for five months. Instead he was in the barn, reading through newsprints, writing his ideas all over the wall. Every time Minox went out to see him, he seemed to have slipped even further into madness. The same madness that had claimed their grandfather years before.

  The scariest thing was how much of Evoy’s madness, his lunatic leaps of logic to astounding connections, made perfect sense to Minox. He could never see the whole picture that Evoy was painting, but he could get glimpses of the images.

  “We should find something, though,” Minox said. “I think we’ve both gotten a strong sense of how to keep control over our . . . abilities. But if we’re going to progress, teach ourselves . . .”

  “Be as good as any damn Circled mage . . .” Joshea said, glancing around furtively. “I can’t ask around too much.”

  “We’ll take our time,” Minox said. “We’ll find something.”

  “I know,” Joshea said. “Look, I’d stay and talk more, but I have to be up before the sun. Auction at the pighouse, you know . . .”

  “I know.” Joshea and his family ran a butcher shop in Inemar, and a damn fine one. As troubling as Minox found the elder Brondars, he had to admit their dedication to their work in meat was equivalent to Wellings in the city service.

  Joshea took his hand, and then went to the back door. “See you soon, Minox.”

  Minox finished the meal and rinsed things off at the kitchen well pump. Blowing out most of the oil lamps in the kitchen, he set off to find his cousin Thomsen. He was probably going to owe him quite a large favor.

  Satrine had nearly dozed off in the cab. It felt like no time had passed when the driver whistled at her to pay up and shove off. She gave him the coin and stepped down to her home street.

  She was almost disoriented for a moment by how normal and plain the streets were. The stores, the people, the clothing—everything was purely Druth again. It was hard to believe that other world existed, tucked away in a few blocks across the river.

  She went to her building and down the steps to her door. She had barely started to turn the key when the door flew open to reveal Missus Abernand.

  “You’re very late!” she snapped. “It’s half past eight.”

  “Very sorry, Missus Abernand. We got a late call, and had to start—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Just try to be here. I do have my own concerns beyond taking care of you and yours.”

  “I know,” Satrine said, pressing past Missus Abernand to come into the hallway. “You mention it on a regular basis.”

  “You seem to forget,” Missus Abernand said, taking Satrine’s vest and weapon belt from her and hanging them on the wall. She leaned in and whispered, “There is a visitor.”

  “It’s not that boy again?” Poul Tullen had been a source of recurring heartache for Satrine’s eldest daughter, constantly trying to come back in her life, and then flitting off again like the spoiled rich boy that he was.

  “No, it’s . . .”

  Satrine had already come out of the hallway into her sitting room to see.

  Commissioner Enbrain, the head of the entire Maradaine Constabulary Force, was sitting on her couch, chatting with her daughters.

  “Inspector,” he said, getting on his feet. “I didn’t realize you’d be this late.”

  She hadn’t seen Commissioner Enbrain since he had showed up at the Inemar Stationhouse, furious that she had tricked and forged her way into an inspector position. He hadn’t commented or overruled when Captain Cinellan allowed her to continue. He hadn’t done anything at all.

  And now, here he was, in her sitting room.

  “Girls, could you give us the room?” he asked sweetly.

  “Of course, Uncle Wendt,” Rian said. She and Caribet both gave Satrine a quick kiss hello and slipped off into their quarters. He was still “Uncle Wendt” to them.

  “I’ll be up there,” Missus Abernand said, going up the back stairs to her own apartment. “If you need—”

  “Thank you, Missus Abernand,” Satrine said. As she vanished upstairs, Satrine took a seat at the table, leaving the couch to Enbrain. He sat down, frowning.

  “You’ve been doing well, Satrine. I’ve been keeping track.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’m actually amazed you didn’t have me drummed out.”

  He looked down to the floor, looking somewhat ashamed. “I did initially consider it, but I trusted Brace’s opinion. And everything I’ve seen from the reports I’ve received indicates he was right.”

  “That I was right,” Satrine said sharply. “I didn’t deserve some five-crown clerkship.”

  “I’m not here to argue with you, Satrine,” he said. “I was wrong.”

  That didn’t make Satrine feel any better.

  “So why are you here?”

  “Your new case. The Fuergan lavan.”

  “Lavark,” she corrected him.

  “As you can imagine, it’s been getting some attention. My afternoon was spent with King’s Marshals and Druth Intelligence breathing down my neck.”

  “Really?” Satrine scoffed. “Mine was no better. I killed a bear.”

  “A what?”

  “Long story,” Satrine said. She looked around, noting the cleared table and kitchen. “Did the girls have dinner?”

  “I believe so,” Enbrain said. “Did you eat?”

  “The Fuergans fed us,” she said absently. “Welling seemed to like it. Well, he ate it, and with him, that says nothing about liking it.” She went over to the cupboards and found a half a loaf of bread that hadn’t gotten too hard. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine. But I did bring you some wine.” He picked the bottle up off the couch, which she hadn’t noticed before, and put it on the table.

  She brought the bread over to the table, grabbing two cups as well. “That’s something.”

  He popped the cork and poured for them both.

  She watched him as she picked up her cup. “So is this what you’re doing now? You’re suddenly a friend of the family again?”

  He sat down. “I always was, Satrine. I . . . I had no idea what you were capable of. Who you really were.”

  “I’ve maintained a good act,” she said. She took a sip. It was a good wine. Probably cost half her weekly salary.

  “A man named Major Grieson was in from Intelligence. Did you know him?”

  Like blazes she knew him, but she didn’t show that on her face. She shook her head and lied. “No. Frankly, I was kept . . . I shouldn’t talk too much about what I did or didn’t do. But I wasn’t exactly walked through the central halls, nor did I have traditional training. It wasn’t exactly a boarding school dorm.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Well, he knows you. When I said who was handling the case, he backed down.”

  Satrine didn’t know what to make of that. “It’s a blazes of a case. No one would want it, fra
nkly. It’s a mess, and intentionally so.”

  “I do believe in you and Welling,” Enbrain said. “You enjoy working with him?”

  “He’s brilliant,” she said.

  “Good. Because . . . a lot is riding on this case being solved quickly and with minimal embarrassment to the Constabulary, and Druthal as a whole.”

  “No pressure there,” Satrine said, finishing her cup. “Any other miracles you need?”

  “Not right now,” he said. He voice shifted, becoming warmer. “I took the liberty of checking in on Loren. He’s . . . better than I feared he’d be.”

  There was faint praise. “He’s pretty blazing bad.”

  “I still have hope that someday—”

  “He’ll never serve again, Wendt. You know that.”

  “No, of course. But that he could, you know, be a man again. Be a person instead of a burden.”

  Satrine refilled her wine cup. “May the saints hear you.” She raised it to Enbrain, and he returned the gesture.

  He put it down and stood back up. “I’ve been here later that intended. My wife will start to ask questions.”

  “Good for her,” Satrine said.

  “Oh,” Enbrain said absently, pointing back to the bedroom door Loren was behind. “Are you going to vote this week?”

  “I can’t vote,” Satrine said. She knew the Parliamentarian elections, as well as ones for the open seats in the city Aldermen, were approaching, but that hardly concerned her. Blazes, there had been a whole business with the Parliament and riots and a few murders just a few weeks ago, and she barely took notice. Not that it was her business. She worked south side. North of the river stuff wasn’t her problem. “And I don’t have the time to join in with the Suffragists.”

  “Well, no, of course,” Enbrain said. “But Loren is still entitled to his.”

  “He can’t vote either. Not like that.”

  “No, but his entitlement still holds. A proxy can take claim.”

  She shook her head. “Now you sound like a Suffragist.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not insensitive to their point.”

  “I’ve got enough problems right now, Commissioner.”

  “Think about it, Satrine,” he said. “Keep the bottle.”

  “Blazing right I’ll keep the bottle,” she said.

  He gave her a small salute and went to the door. Once he was out, she made sure it was latched and went back to the table. She picked up her cup and finished the wine, and then the wine from Enbrain’s cup that he had left.

  Then she went into the bedroom.

  “Gaa-ee!”

  In the past month, Loren had improved, in the sense that he wasn’t in a half-dead state anymore. He used to be in bed, eyes open, but never really awake. Never anything but an empty stare.

  Now he spoke.

  Or more correctly, he made noise. He couldn’t stand up or move his arms, for which Satrine was grateful. If he could move his arms like he spoke, he would flail and pummel her when she got close.

  Nothing worked except eyes and mouth, and all mouth did was babble nonsense. All the time.

  “Hello, love,” she said to him.

  “Aaa faa a eeempph!”

  “I heard you had a visitor,” she said. “Hope he didn’t bother you too much.”

  “Aaa ehh baa moh!”

  She touched his face. “You’re all right,” she said. He continued to make noise, while she stared into his eyes. Now it was so much harder than before. Before those eyes may as well have been glass. Now they had life, they had fire. But only in the briefest, most fleeting moments did she see her husband in those eyes.

  But those moments let her hope, which was the cruelest thing they could do.

  “I’m going to go wash up, and then change you out, all right?” Her evening rituals with him were locked in. Missus Abernand deserved a sainting for all that she did with him during the day, but Satrine was determined to do a small part of taking care of Loren in the few hours she was here and awake.

  Every night she’d give him water and medicines, for all the good they’d do. Then she’d strip him down and clean his whole body with a wet cloth. She checked him for sores or injuries, then dusted his skin with the apothecary powder.

  Some nights she’d allow herself to lie in the bed, resting on her husband’s body, just for a few minutes.

  Then she would dress him again, give him more water. During this process, every time, she’d tell him about the day. Today she talked about the bear, about Gregor Henk and his uncle, about the Tsouljan enclave and the Fuergan household.

  She prayed that he knew what she was doing, what she was saying. That he understood.

  She kissed his forehead, while he continued to babble, and blew out the lamps.

  Then she went back into the sitting room to sleep on the couch.

  Rian was waiting for her. Satrine noticed the wine had been put away, which had gone against her intended plans for the remainder of the evening.

  “Long day?” Rian asked. “Something about a bear?”

  “You shouldn’t be spying,” Satrine said. She sat on the couch and took her boots off. “Why are you out here?”

  “Caribet’s asleep, and I didn’t want to sit in the dark.”

  “You should be asleep.”

  Rian raised an eyebrow at her. “You know school is off for the summer, right?”

  Satrine had forgotten that. “Of course I know that. But you shouldn’t be falling into bad habits.”

  “Your bad habits.”

  “Exactly. I’m a terrible role model.”

  Rian sat down. There were moments when Satrine would look at her oldest daughter and see hints of the girl she had once been. Rian had her coloring, her hair, her eyes . . . but none of her hardness. “Mama, I could be the one here with Pop while you work. You’re giving nearly half your salary to Missus Abernand—”

  “She earns every tick, too.”

  “Let me help.”

  “No, no, you should be . . . doing . . .” Satrine’s brain went blank. “Whatever the other girls at the Bridgemont do for the summer.”

  Rian put on a poor noble accent, probably mimicking her classmates. “Summer on the Lacanjan shore?” She laughed, and then said normally, “I’d love that, but it isn’t remotely an option. Girls like me go home, work in shops, and generally be useful. Besides, I’ve only a year left, anyway. Maybe I should start working.”

  “No, after you’re done at Bridgemont, so help me, you’ll go to RCM or the University of Maradaine—”

  She did the accent again, “Not the University of Maradaine, Mother. I couldn’t bear having to encounter those south side ruffians!” She laughed even harder, then stopped short. “Sorry. I know that . . . that’s what you . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Satrine said.

  “I want to help, Mama. Either saving money or making money. Please.”

  Satrine gave her a little smile. “And how would you make money?”

  “I heard there’s a grand store opening in Gelmin shortly. They’ll need shopgirls.”

  “Really?”

  “Especially ones who know how to talk to noble ladies, but will work for shopgirl wages.”

  Satrine wanted to say no, but practicality won over pride. Plus it would be good to let Rian have a bit of her own pride. “All right, try to apply. We’ll see what happens.”

  Rian wrapped her arms around Satrine’s neck. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Now go to bed so you can look your best when you go.”

  “All right,” Rian said, getting to her feet. “You too, all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Satrine said, lying down on the couch. “Blow out the lamp as you go.”

  Chapter 6

  BLAZING DRUNKS AND RUTTING MADMEN, that was what horsepatrol dut
y meant in the dull dark hours before the sun came up. Even on a quiet night like this one, there were a few who needed to be hauled in. Corrie Welling worked every shift praying to whatever saint would blazing well listen that it would be the last. Some days she even wished she’d just become a clerk or some sewage like that, just so she could work the days.

  “They’re bringing it!” the drunk shouted from the alley, his pants around his ankles. “No one is even stopping them!”

  “Oy!” Corrie called from on top of her horse. “I’m gonna bring it if you don’t get those britches up.”

  “You haven’t even seen it, missy!”

  “What do we do?” Higgins asked. Higgins was such a tadpole on this job, she was amazed he even knew how to ride his horse. She had no rutting idea whose boots she had pissed on to get saddled with him for tonight’s ride. He couldn’t be older than her youngest brother Jace, and Jace was still a cadet.

  “Butchers! That’s what they are!”

  “We’ve warned him,” Corrie said, dismounting. “Now we put some irons on the bastard and drag him back to the rutting stationhouse.”

  “On what charge, though?”

  Corrie pulled out her handstick. “You mean besides making me look at his wrinkled pisswhistle?”

  “That’s a crime?”

  “It’s blazing well enough of a one for me.” She approached the drunk, who really smelled like he had been dead for three days and got back up to start drinking. It may have been dark, but she swore she even saw maggots in his beard. “How hard you gonna make this, buddy?”

  “They’ll bring blood, they will! Blood and twisted flesh. You will see it!” With that last rant, he punctuated each word with a stern poke on Corrie’s chest.

  That was rutting well enough of that.

  Corrie brought down the handstick on his arm. He cried out and crumpled.